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LIFE, STORIES, AND POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
LIFE, STORIES, AND POEMS 
 
 OP 
 
 JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 COMPRISING : 
 
 « 
 
 L His Autobiography — a Fragment. 
 
 II. A Supplementary Memoir. 
 
 III. Sketch of his Club Life. 
 
 IV. Selections from his Miscellaneous Writings. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 7 a ^ 
 
 BOSTON: 
 JAMES E. OSGOOD AND COMPANY. 
 
 i88r. 
 
•51 A- 
 
 
 Copyright, 1880, 
 Bt James R. Osgood and Company. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Univebsitt Press : 
 John Wilson asd Son, Cameribge. 
 
»!< 
 
 THIS MEMORIAL OF JOHN BROUGHAM 
 
 IS DEDICATED, 
 
 WITH CORDIAL SYMPATHY AND FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 TO 
 
 ()ifi; (Bra Comrato of tj^e lotog Clufc: 
 
 IN WHOSE SOCIETY 
 
 THE CHEERIEST MOMENTS OF HIS LATTER YEARS WERE PASSED, 
 
 AND TO WHOM HIS MEMORY, 
 
 ENDEARED BY ASSOCIATIONS OF KINDNESS, 
 
 WILL ALWAYS BE PRECIOUS. 
 
 * 
 
^ 
 
 " To all my friends I leave kind thoughts!'* 
 
 John Brougham's Will. 
 
 " The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, 
 
 The best conditioned and unwearied spirit 
 
 In doing courtesies?"* 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 '■^ For thou wert still the poor man's stay, 
 
 The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand; 
 
 And all the oppressed, who wanted strength, 
 
 Had thine at their command," 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 *' First our pleasures die, and then 
 
 Our hopes, and then our fears, and when 
 
 These are dead, th* debt is due. 
 
 Dust claims dust — and we die too!"" 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 ^ 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 nnHE suggestion that Mr. Brougham should write his 
 Autobiography was made to him, more than ten years 
 ago, hy the editor of this volume, and it was received with 
 favor. It was not, however, till within a short time of 
 his death that he actually began the work. He had talked 
 of it, often ; he liked the idea of it, — although unaf- 
 fectedly amused at the thought of talking so much about 
 himself ; and the fragment of it that he left, and that is 
 here presented, affords ample evidence that he would have 
 told the story of his life in an interesting manner. It was 
 a life of much and varied activity, and its pathway — 
 though not always smooth nor altogether unclouded — ran 
 mostly through scenes of pleasure and of fame. Many 
 of the famous men and women who have lived within the 
 last forty years were personally known to him, and he 
 had observed with a lively interest the great social experi- 
 ences of his time. The mine of his recollections, accord- 
 ingly, would have proved rich in portraitures of character, 
 biographical facts, striking and humorous anecdotes, and 
 philosophical reflection. To that treasure-house of the 
 past he alone possessed the key. There is no one who can 
 say for him what he would have said for himself; and no 
 endeavor has here been made to finish the ivork that he 
 began. This volume is a memorial — and nothing more; 
 and perhaps its chief value will be found to consist less in 
 what it contains than in what it suggests. Its contents^ 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 though^ are representative of the man whom it commemo- 
 rates. Its outline of his life is complete and distirict, — 
 the narrative being mostly in his own language ; and its 
 exhibition of his mind^ imagination, tenderness of feeling^ 
 mental activity, versatile talents, and command of the 
 resources of literary art — being made through the medium 
 of his best stories and poems — is obviously direct and 
 truthful. His best faculty as an author was that <f 
 dramatic expression: his finest personal quality was his 
 humanity. The latter is felt in all that he wrote: the 
 former, of course, must be sought in his plays. These are 
 numerous, and there is not room even for specimens of 
 them ill this volume. His stories and poems have been 
 selected from two volumes of miscellaneous writings that he 
 published a long time ago ; from his comic paper, the 
 Lantern ; and from various other sources. They are old- 
 fashioned, but they have the chimney-corner qualities of 
 comfort and kindness. He had himself begun the revision 
 of his works, with a view to their republication in a com- 
 plete form. Had he lived a few years longer, he might 
 have made, in his completed Autobiography, a valuable 
 addition to the history of the stage of his time: he certainly 
 would have made his own choice of the writings that he 
 wished to preserve. To some slight extent this book is the 
 fulfilment of his wish. For his friends it is a relic ; and 
 they, at least, ivill rejoice that the memory of a man so gen- 
 tle and so much beloved is neither tossed away upon the 
 cold winds of time, nor left to moulder among the dead 
 
 leaves of the past. 
 
 W. W. 
 
 Fort Hill, Neio Brighton, Stat en Island, 
 October 8th, 1880. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. Autobiography of John BpvOugham. A Fragment. 
 
 Chapter First. — Earliest Recollections 15 
 
 Chapter Second. — Boyhood and School 28 
 
 Chapter Third. — Youthful Days 42 
 
 Chapter Fourth. — First Theatrical Experiences ... 52 
 
 Synopsis of Brougham's Career. By Himself . ... 63 
 
 A TaUc about the Past 67 
 
 Extracts from Brougham's Diaries 80 
 
 Brougham's Will 93 
 
 II. Supplementary Memoir : By the Editor. 
 
 Sketch of Brougham's Career 97 
 
 Honor to Brougham 107 
 
 Character and "Works of Brougham 110 
 
 Farewell to Brougham 115 
 
 Recollections and Relics . 119 
 
 III. Brougham in his Club Life : By Noah Brooks . . 145 
 
 IV. Brougham's Selected Writings. 
 
 Terry Magra's Leprechaun # . . 157 
 
 O'Bryan's Luck 201 
 
 Romance and Reality 243 
 
 Kit Cobb, the Cabman 263 
 
 The Morning Dream 282 
 
 ■ The Test of Blood 298 
 
 Fatality 312 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Blarney Stone 327 
 
 Ned Geraghty 340 
 
 The Fairies' Warning 353 
 
 O'Dearmid's Ride 362 
 
 Jasper Leech 370 
 
 A Night with the Spirits 379 
 
 V. Poems. 
 
 St. Patrick 391 
 
 The Sword of Fontenoy 399 
 
 Polly O'Connor 403 
 
 La Fille du Regiment, done into English 405 
 
 The Age of Gold : including the Hymn of Princes . . 411 
 
 Rosalie 420 
 
 Macswiney's Feast 422 
 
 Peace and War 426 
 
 Nebulse 427 
 
 Summer Friends • 430 
 
 Love's Mission 431 
 
 Pauline 431 
 
 Honest Men 443 
 
 Madrigal 445 
 
 Sylvia 445 
 
 The Rival Archers 448 
 
 Steam vs. Time 449 
 
 Ristori 453 
 
 An Opening Address 454 
 
 My Ain Donald 456 
 
 The Fidget's Send-off 458 
 
 The Vision of Columbus 458 
 
 Falling Leaves 460 
 
►!< 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Heliotypes, from Photographs, and rRo:M Drawings 
 
 BY THE LATE JOHN McLeNAN. 
 
 / 
 
 Brougham in Youth. 
 Fac-Simile of his Manuscript. 
 Brougham's Lyceum. / ^ 
 
 Terry Magra. - _ _ ~ / , 
 
 Irish Echoes. • i ^ 1 
 
 Ned Geraghty. ^ ^ 
 
 Caricature by Brougham. 
 Brougham in Age. 
 
 J;^ 
 y^^ 
 
 Character Portrait op Brougham. t 3 ^ 
 
I. 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 OP 
 
 JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER FIRST. 
 
 EARLIEST EECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 I make my *' First Appearance upon any Stage." — What I remem- 
 ber of my Eelatives. — My two Grandfathers, and their Char- 
 acteristics. — My Father's Artistic Tastes and early Death. — A 
 Recollection of my Mother. — Uncle William and his Compan- 
 ions, — =His Religious Opinions, Public and Private. — The Stut- 
 tering Major. — Precocious Imitations. — A Monkey Rival, and 
 how I got even with the Brute. 
 
 ALTHOUGH I have not the slightest personal recol- 
 lection of the occurrence, yet, according to the 
 register in our family Bible, backed up bj credible con- 
 current testimony, in which I have always had implicit 
 confidence, my very first appearance on the stage of life 
 took place on the 9tli of May, 1810. 
 
 What the individual characteristics were of those who 
 immediately preceded me would scarcely interest any one 
 to know ; but, believing as I do in the hereditary trans- 
 mission of certain innate qualities, I may be permitted to 
 indulge the vanity of saying, that, through the accident of 
 birth, I happened to spring from a tolerably well-blooded 
 stock, especially upon the female side. 
 
16 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 The paternal branch of our fomily tree was respectable 
 enough, as far as the bearing of golden fruit could make, 
 it so ; but, indeed, I knew very little about it, as the then 
 representative was furiously enraged with my father for 
 marrying against his inclination ; having, moreover, aggra- 
 vated the crime by choosing a wife whose dower consisted 
 in the wealth, of womanly virtue only, — one of the gen- 
 tlest, kindest, and most lovable souls that Heaven ever 
 lent to earth for a while, — my mother. 
 
 The consequence of that prolitless act was, that our poor 
 bough was lopped off from the ancestral trunk and flour- 
 ished in its pride of place no more. It must be admitted, 
 however, at many critical periods of my life, when the 
 hand of death had shaken its branches, a vague hope would 
 cross my mind that some slight portion of the auriferous 
 fruit might drop on my pathway; — but it never did. 
 
 I saw the amiable old sinner but once, — an awe-inspir- 
 ing, pompous individual, fat, florid, and gouty. Very little 
 cause have I to honor his memory ; for gout was the only 
 legacy he left to me. He did n't leave his son even that. 
 He would, I have no doubt, had it been a physical possi- 
 bility ; but podagra is one of " the iUs that flesh is heir to " 
 which does not follow in the direct line. Let me here 
 remark, parenthetically, that it seems somewhat unreasona- 
 ble for a man's dietetic sins to be visited upon the grand- 
 children of the original transgressor, skipping, as this par- 
 ticular and painful malady does, the intermediary link ; but 
 as there is no mention made of a second generation in the 
 decalogue, I suppose it is all right. 
 
 My maternal grandfather was a fugitive from one of the 
 periodical French revolutions, — which of them I cannot 
 pretend to say. Perhaps it will be as well for me to avow 
 at once that I am no respecter of dates, neither am I me- 
 
EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS. 17 
 
 thodical enoiigh to be consecutive in my story. Circum- 
 stances as they present themselves to my memory shall 
 be placed faithfully upon record, without regard to the 
 almanac. 
 
 My grandfather, with his wife and two daughters, ren- 
 dered nearly destitute by the condition of things in his 
 own country, only too glad to escape with life, sought 
 refuge in England, where he fortunately had sufficient 
 interest to obtain a position in the Dublin custom-house. 
 It was not a very lucrative one, I fancy, but, as his was 
 a singularly philosophic nature, he was entirely content ; 
 and he held this office during the remainder of his long 
 existence. That brave old gentleman is among the very 
 earliest of my recollections. Even now, while I pause for 
 a moment, he rises before my mental vision as distinctly 
 as when I last saw him, — a tall, dignified, and command- 
 ing figure, healthy, vigorous, and upright as a lance, not- 
 withstanding that he carried on his. broad shoulders the 
 weight of ninety-one years. I can see him in the dress he 
 usually wore, — a blue, square-cut coat with gilt buttons, 
 buff waistcoat with large lapels, immense w^hite cravat, 
 black knee-breeches fastened by small silver buckles, his 
 scant hair powdered, and a carefully cherished "pigtail" 
 hidden beneath the coat-collar. In disposition he was 
 amiable, patient, and unambitious, floating quietly along 
 the current of circumstance, thoroughly satisfied with his 
 position, and never — for he was a man of curious passivity 
 — making the remotest effort to improve it. 
 
 Of my father I have no recollection whatever, as, un- 
 happily for me, he died before I was old enough to retain 
 the impression of passing events ; but of his ability as an 
 amateur artist, both in modelling and painting, I had abun- 
 dant evidence in after years, as there were many creditable 
 
 2 
 
18 AUTOBIOGEAPHY OF JOHN BEOUGHAM. 
 
 specimens of his work in the house, consisting of clay- 
 statuettes and water-color landscapes, giving, perhaps, more 
 promise of future excellence than evidence of present force ; 
 nevertheless most affectionately cared for, — it being a tra- 
 dition amongst us that they were altogether incomparable. 
 There was, also, a portrait of himself, done in oil, — one 
 of his first efforts, — which was highly prized by my 
 mother, though I always thought there was something 
 strange about the eyes ; and upon one occasion, having 
 incautiously asked her if my father had a squint, I got 
 such a whack on the ear as made me see domestic fireworks 
 for an instant : it was the only time the dear soul ever laid 
 her hand on me in anger, and the tears that followed the 
 cuff assured me she felt it more than I did myself; so 
 we»kissed and made it up. I was as obstinate as Galileo, 
 however, for I insisted that, if my father did not squint, 
 the picture did ; and with that compromise my offence was 
 condoned, and the matter amicably disposed of. 
 
 If my father had lived, it is more than probable my pur- 
 suits in life would have been of a different character ; yet 
 I very much doubt if any other avocation than that into 
 which I ultimately drifted could be so nicely adapted to my 
 tastes and inclinations, or enable me to enjoy a pleasanter 
 experience, made sunny by congenial association, and those 
 valued friendships, few but heart-welcome, which have en- 
 dured through all its vicissitudes. Fortunate, also, have 
 I been in having my status confined to the safe plane of 
 mediocrity, — not high enough to provoke envy or jeal- 
 ousy, and sufficiently low to prevent me from entertaining 
 too exalted an idea of my own importance in the world. 
 
 The remembrance of my maternal grandmother when 
 close upon her eightieth year, recalls a quiet, easy-tem- 
 pered old lady, clad in some dark-colored dress, a black 
 
EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS. 19 
 
 lace cap on her head, with her white hair in stiff curls, 
 and her pale, much-wrinkled face lighted up by a pair of 
 brilliant eyes. She was a Eousselle, pure blood, wonder- 
 fully proud of her Huguenot descent, — a voracious reader, 
 strongly suspected, moreover, of writing anonymous stan- 
 zas for the " poet's corner " in the modish Delia Cruscan 
 vein. And yet, in spite of that malicious imputation, a 
 worthy, reputable, inoffensive, darling old lady, whose 
 uneventful life dawdled onward to the end, sustained by 
 cheerfulness of spirit and a prodigious quantity of snuff. 
 
 I come now to what is indeed a labor of love, as I 
 endeavor to describe one more figure in the family group, 
 
 — the relative who, of all the others save one, clings closest 
 to my memory ; for, supplying a father's place, he was the 
 trainer, guide, and companion of my juvenile days, and, 
 when heavy misfortune fell upon us, my mother's main- 
 stay, counsellor, and steadfast friend, — my quick-tempered 
 but warm-hearted Uncle William. Although possibly 
 somewhat stand-offish and independent among his equals, 
 
 — superiors he had none, — he was always considerately 
 kind to all who were not as well positioned as himself ; 
 and yet, when a fault was committed by any of the do- 
 mestics, he would stun the ears of the offender Mdth a 
 tornado of strange oriental epithets, appalling enough to 
 new-comers, but the older ones knew from experience that 
 those storms of simulated anger were as harmless as stage 
 thunder. The fact of his having passed the greater part 
 of his early life at Calcutta, in the civil department of the 
 East India Company's service, where he learned the British 
 method of conciliating the natives, together with the irri^ 
 tating effect of a torrid climate upon his liver, fully account 
 for those temporary gurgitations of bile. 
 
 It was at his hospitable home I spent the most of my 
 
20 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 time, for he and his second wife, my mother's sister, — 
 (never, until memory lapses into the final sleep, can I forget 
 thee, dear, generous, indulgent, beautiful Aunt Mary !) — 
 had recently lost their first-born boy in childhood; and 
 as T, his namesake, was on the spot, they naturally trans- 
 ferred as much of their afi'ection to me as served to fill, in 
 some measure, the void within their hearts. I am very 
 much afraid I did not then appreciate the advantages by 
 which I was surrounded, and must have given the worthy, 
 well-meaning couple a mighty heap of trouble ; for that I 
 was a mischievous and intractable imp there is not a doubt 
 upon my mind. Suffered to do whatever I liked, without 
 reproof, as a matter of course I very soon arrived at the 
 thorough consciousness of my immunity, and played the 
 deuce, in a small way, with the greatest perseverance. I 
 ought to have known better, too, for I had emerged from 
 the spoilt-child era, and was gradually approaching toward 
 what are supposed to be "years of discretion," — an epoch, 
 I regret to say, never reached by me. I had been long 
 enough at a boys' school to have the inevitable fight with 
 the reigning bully ; in which encounter being ingloriously 
 " knocked out of time," and ultimately carried home, not 
 on a shield, but on a shutter, Uncle William resented this 
 introduction of the " manly art " as an extra in my studies, 
 by exercising his oriental vocabulary upon all the parties 
 concerned, and swearing by some Brahminical deity that I 
 should never return to such a murderous place ; whereat 
 his nephew, though sorely hurt, was not unhappy. 
 
 It is at the period of existence to which I had then 
 arrived that the human animal generally exhibits decided 
 traces of his simian predecessors in the Darwinian chain, by 
 a natural proneness for imitation ; and this monkey-like 
 faculty began to develop itself in me at an early date, 
 
EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS. 21 
 
 chiefly for the reason that I had few companions of my 
 own age, but especially because Uncle William and his 
 immediate friends were persons of strongly marked pecu- 
 liarities, — one of them remarkably so, a certain Major 
 Stackpole, also a retired officer of the E. I. C. S. He was 
 a gaunt, saffron-faced veteran, short-sighted in one eye, the 
 other being glass, so that whenever he turned his head the 
 stationary optic would glare rigidly in a fixed direction, 
 while the other circulated in the liveliest manner. He 
 was afflicted, too, with a curious kind of impedirdent or 
 gasp in his speech, — a vocal obstacle in his conversation 
 that he was compelled to jump over before he could get 
 on. This he managed to do by introducing the words 
 " you know " when he came to the difficulty. I very soon 
 made him my victim, and got many a laugh by mimicking 
 his obliquity of vision, which he did not see, and his halt- 
 ing phraseology, which he did not recognize. I was a little 
 startled, however, upon one occasion, when the formidable 
 Major twisted me suddenly round before the company, and, 
 staring at me with his glittering eye, said, in a savage tone, 
 " See here, young fif-fif-fellow, what the did — you know 
 
 — devil do you mean by making gig — you know — game 
 of me 1 If I kick — you know — catch you at it, I '11 bib 
 
 — you know — box your ears." A sudden impulse seized 
 me, and, putting on an amazed expression, I replied, 
 " Why, my did — you know — dear Major, you don't sup 
 
 — you know — pose that I would be gig — you know — 
 guilty of such conduct ! " and the hilarity was great when, 
 relaxing his iron grip, he turned away, saying mildly, 
 "Well, my bib-bib — you know — bov, I did not think 
 it was pip — you know — possible." 
 
 It is a remarkable fact, that few persons can recognize an 
 imitation of themselves, in voice and manner of enuncia- 
 
22 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 tioD, however evident it may "be to all others. Charles 
 Young, the tragedian, who had a pronounced lisp, went to 
 hear Frederick Yates deliver his wonderful imitations of 
 the celebrated actors of the day, in which he spoke Ham- 
 let's advice to the players, giving passages applicable to 
 each, in his peculiar style, and thereby convincing every- 
 body but themselves that they had, severally, gone directly 
 opposite to the rules laid down by Shakespeare. For in- 
 stance, he gave the first lines precisely in the manner of 
 Young : " Thpeak the thpeech, I pray you, ath I pro 
 nounth it to you, thrippingly on the tongue ; but if you 
 mouth it, ath many of our playerth do, I had ath lief the 
 town-crier thpoke my lineth." Meeting Yates a few days 
 afterwards. Young said to him, with the greatest serious- 
 ness, " Yateth, my boy, your imitathions are ecthellent, but 
 you make one thingular mithtake : I don't lithp." 
 
 'No one enjoyed the scene with the Major more than 
 Uncle William, though he only understood the panto- 
 mimic part, as he was uncommonly deaf, and had to be 
 spoken to very loudly before he could hear at all. Ah ! 
 poor, dear old hqj ! he little knew what a shameful advan- 
 tage I took of his infirmity, incorrigible scamp that I was ! 
 Let me here premise, in mitigation of my offence, that it 
 did not take away from his gratification, but on the con- 
 trary enhanced it, inasmuch as considerable amusement was 
 created thereby ; and to see everybody happy about him 
 was the delight of his benevolent heart. 
 
 Now Uncle William's topics of discourse, after the 
 feminine part of the company had retired, were limited, 
 and consisted invariably, either in very free expressions of 
 his religious notions, which were heterodox, or in recitals 
 of sundry highly colored personal adventures, which were 
 mythical ; and both were repeated so often, and in the 
 
EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS. ■ 23 
 
 same language, that it was not long before I knew every 
 word and sentence, eA''en to the strong epithets and rather 
 questionable episodes. Upon religious matters he was 
 aggressive and promiscuous, thoroughly imbued with the 
 Asiatic and Grecian philosophies, — a result consequent up- 
 on his Indian experience, — and yet a firm stickler for the 
 conservation of present ordinances. Ostensibly a member 
 of the English Church, he fulfilled all its public obligations, 
 had his own pew, attended divine worship with regularity, 
 and contributed liberally to its pecuniary requirements ; 
 " for," he was wont to say, " by Jove, sir, we must have 
 some moral law to keep the rascals of the human family 
 in order ; aside from that, it is incumbent upon every 
 gentleman to keep his word, particularly when he has no 
 discretion in the matter, but is simply bound in honor to 
 redeem the promise made for him at his baptism ; and, by 
 George, sir, the individual who does not is a disturber, a 
 social disturber, sir, and nothing else." But after the 
 decanter had circulated a few times, he would open his 
 batteries and discharge the real sentiments of his mind 
 with the confidence and volubility resulting from a fre- 
 quent repetition of them. 
 
 As may be imagined, the frank expression of these pan- 
 theistic opinions gave rise to numerous discussions of a 
 more or less acrimonious nature, the details of which were 
 beyond my comprehension; neither could I account for 
 the violent language the disputants used while arguing 
 about universal charity and brotherly love. During these 
 my first lessons in polemics, I remained judiciously silent ; 
 but when my uncle began to tell his regular series of after- 
 dinner anecdotes, from that instant he was at my mercy, 
 and I would anticipate, in an undertone, every sentence, 
 using his exact words without at all understanding? their 
 
24 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BEOUGHAM. 
 
 sense, to the intense amusement of tlie listeners, wlio could 
 hear me, and quite as much so to the dear old fellow who 
 could not ; for, attributing the uproarious mirth to his ex- 
 traordinary success as a story-teller, he would laugh and 
 splutter until the tears rolled down over his wine-colored 
 nose. 
 
 The house we lived in was a perfect museum of hideous- 
 ness in the way of Indian so-called curiosities, in the 
 shape of josses, quaint and indescribable carvings, pot- 
 pourri jars, perspectiveless paintings, and the usual agglom- 
 eration of rubbish collectors. Among other monstrosities, 
 there was a mangy-looking old monkey, of the ringtail per- 
 suasion, a pet of uncle's, and an incurable demon of mis- 
 chief ; indeed, it was a toss-up which of us was the more 
 successful disturber of domestic peace. He did much vica- 
 rious service, though, in the mean time ; for whenever 
 dishes were broken, cupboards rifled, or glass demolished, 
 one of us had to bear the blame. The full name of this 
 villanous brute was The Eight Hon. William Pitt, be- 
 stowed from some unfriendly feeling, personal or political ; 
 but his familiar appellation was " Billy." I rather liked 
 Billy at first, and he, on his part, condescended to be on 
 friendly terms with me ; but as we were both favorites 
 with the reigning powers it naturally followed that a 
 fierce and courtier-like jealousy sprang up between us. So, 
 not being compelled to raise men or war material, hos- 
 tilities began without diplomatic delay, and, like most 
 family contentions, lasted long, carried on with as much 
 cunning as persistence on both sides. To be sure, I had 
 an unfair advantage in one particular ; for, during the early 
 part of the day, my antagonist was confined to his residence 
 in the garden, secured by a long chain, — an opportunity 
 for strategic operation I availed myself of by luring Billy 
 
EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS. . 25 
 
 to the end of his tether with an apple, holding a pitcher 
 of water, an element he detested, behind my back, and, 
 when he got within biting distance, dashing the water 
 into his face, which caused the enemy to fly, screaming, 
 back to his citadel. I must confess, however, as a candid 
 military historian, that the victory did not always rest, 
 upon my side ; for the beast was cat-like in watchfulness 
 and fertile in resource. Viciously savage, too, when pro- 
 voked, he would hurl all sorts of available missiles with 
 the skill of a practised marksman, — a dangerous faculty, 
 that induced Dan, the gardener, to say, after I had just 
 dodged a first-rate shot : " Faix, and it 's a crack in the 
 gob you '11 be gettin' one of these fine days, Masther John ; 
 for that murtherin' baste is mighty handy with his fut." 
 
 But the most sanguinary of civil wars must come to an 
 end in time, and ours ended with a veritable catastrophe. 
 Thus it happened. There was a large dinner-party one 
 winter evening, and as, after the manner of most boys, my 
 leisure time was mainly devoted to experimenting in fire- 
 works, fabricating small volcanoes and other amateur py- 
 rotechnics, I on this occasion conceived a brilliant idea, 
 and forthwith prepared to put it into execution, its sole 
 purpose being the discomfiture of Master Billy, no further 
 damaging consequence having entered my mind. I took 
 the precaution to secure a confederate in the person of a 
 neighbor's son, a youth of corresponding tastes, who en- 
 tered into the new gunpowder plot with emphatic delight. 
 While the substantial part of the meal was in progress, 
 we obtained a large-sized squib, a kind of fire-cracker that 
 burns noiselessly until the detonating point is reached, 
 when it explodes with considerable energy. To this was 
 attached a long fuse, to be ignited by my accomplice at 
 the proper moment. When the dessert was served, I saun- 
 
26 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BEOUGHAM. 
 
 tered in with, it, as usual, leaving the folcling-doors that 
 separated the two apartments slightly open, and while 
 Billy, occupying his accustomed place on the back of 
 Uncle's chair, had his whole attention directed to the 
 cracking of filberts, and a lively conversation was going 
 on, I managed to tie the squib to his tail, giving the pre- 
 concerted signal to my fellow-conspirator. Immediately a 
 faint spark crept slowly through the door and along the 
 carpet, fading nearly out every now and then, so that I 
 was apprehensive of total failure, and by and by crawling 
 on again, occasionally emitting faint sj)utters that threat- 
 ened discovery and made me perspire with fright. After 
 a few moments of intolerable suspense it reached the chair, 
 and, mounting rapidly, at last ignited the infernal machine, 
 when — phit ! — phizz ! — bang ! — pshee-shee ! shee ! — 
 off it went, amid showers of sparks and screams of con- 
 sternation, for the inconsiderate brute had jumped into 
 the very centre of the table, knocking doAvn candelabra, 
 upsetting flower-vases, and dancing a wild four-handed jig 
 among plates, dishes, decanters, and wine-glasses. The 
 panic was total. Women fainted, mfen were bewildered, 
 and Uncle William thundered out the fiercest of his ori- 
 ental expletives. As for me, utterly confounded at the 
 unexpected result, and trembling at the consequences to 
 myself that must ensue, I fled from the scene of terror and 
 took refuge in my aunt's room, — the safe sanctuary on 
 perilous occasions. My fears, however, were not realized ; 
 for, as an instance of the untrustworthy nature of circum- 
 stantial evidence, it was the innocent small boy I had 
 persuaded into complicity, who, captured in the act of 
 running away with the compromising match in his pos- 
 session, received punishment, and not the real culprit. 
 How I obtained immunity I cannot call to mind. 
 
EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS. 27 
 
 At all events, the further consideration of the subject as 
 concerned me was prevented by an opportune but exceed- 
 ingly severe attack of quinsy, to which, and the savagery 
 of the then medical system, as one physician after another 
 experimented on my unhappy larynx, I had nearly fallen 
 a sacrifice ; but, contrary to all expectation, nature finally 
 triumphed over both doctors and disease. 
 
 By the way, that disease is now called diphtheria; Greek 
 being the prevalent language of the pharmacopoeia, out of 
 compliment, I presume, to the great masters of the healing 
 art, to whom Greece paid divine honors. Eome, whose 
 altars were principally raised to life-takers, never deified 
 a doctor. 
 
28 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER SECOKB. 
 BOYHOOD AND SCHOOL. 
 
 Fondness for the Fine Arts. — First Attempt in Drawing. — Per- 
 sonal Characteristics. — My First School. — Trim, in the County 
 of Meath. — Picturesque Ruins. — Interesting Associations. — 
 "Wellington. — Swift. — A Bad System of Training the Young. 
 — An Adventure with Robbers. — My Brother George. — A Ruf- 
 fian Schoolmaster. — Revolt. 
 
 AT the commencement of my sickness I was removed 
 to our own house, where, at a very early age, I ex- 
 hibited destructive proofs of a tendency toward the fine 
 arts, as the disfigured pages of many a book could testify. 
 But my over-partial mother forgave the vandalism, seeing 
 only in the impossible horses, dogs, and houses I had 
 scribbled on every blank space what to her were unmis- 
 takable evidence of latent genius. Therefore, a drawing- 
 master was provided, with a view to the induction of 
 myself, my brother George, and sister Essie — both of 
 whom died young, of consumption — into the rudiments 
 of the beautiful art by means of which, as my mother 
 supposed, we were each and all destined to equal, if not 
 surpass, the whole Eoyal Academy. For about two months 
 I labored assiduously, copying geometrical figures, squares, 
 circles, and triangles, — occasionally, by way of encourage- 
 ment, indulged in the more advanced studies of a barn- 
 door or a rustic bridge. It was in vain that I implored 
 our instructor to let me have a dash at water-color : he 
 was inexorable. At length I became impatient, and de- 
 
BOYHOOD AND SCHOOL. 29 
 
 termined to make the effort without his permission ; so, 
 taking into my room a sheet of drawing-paper and a box 
 of I^ewman's colors, I went to work at once, and without 
 allowing any one to see or know what I was employed 
 at, meaning to produce a startling effect when my picture 
 was completed. 
 
 I chose for the study a landscape of my father's, a 
 composition of strong contrasts in light and shade, feel- 
 ing satisfied that I should find it easy enough to repro- 
 duce. Tor several days, I devoted nearly all the time to 
 this fascinating employment, scarcely caring to stop for 
 food, while the hope of success stimulated exertion. At 
 length, after sundry alterations and repeated efforts, the 
 great work was accomplished, and my heart bounded with 
 joy as I gazed upon the result of my intuitive genius. 
 While I was thus wrapped in pleasurable thought, who 
 should walk into the room but Uncle William ; and never 
 had exalted anticipations such a sudden collapse ! The 
 moment his eyes rested on it, "Why, John," said he, 
 " where on earth did that miserable daub come from ? " 
 The joy died out of my heart upon the instant. Divin- 
 ing the truth from my changed expression, and seeing 
 a paint-box on the table, he continued, " Surely, you 
 did n't do this yourself? " Upon my faltering out a timid 
 " Yes," — " Oho ! " he said, " that 's a different affair alto- 
 gether. For the short time you have been learning, it is 
 not so bad an effort." This good-natured but qualified 
 praise humiliated me still more. " And pray what are you 
 going to do with it 1 " he inquired. " To show it to 
 mamma," I whispered. "I would advise you not to do 
 anything of the kind," he said, in a gentle tone, laying 
 his hand upon my shoulder ; " wait until you can let her 
 see something worth looking at. You will be able to do 
 
30 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 so in time : if you show her this, she will only do vio- 
 lence to her judgment, for, of course, she '11 praise it at 
 the expense of the truth." 
 
 The result of this snub was salutary, for I never could 
 have attained satisfactory proficiency in that direction, and 
 mediocrity in the artist line is insuiferable. Although I 
 have since, from time to time, when the fancy carried me 
 away from my legitimate avocation into the seductive but 
 unprofitable amusement of palette and pencil, wasted valu- 
 able hours coquetting with both, I have never pretended 
 to be an artist. 
 
 I may as well make the confession at once, that I very 
 soon became conscious of the organic defects in my indi- 
 viduality which have seriously damaged my interests, on 
 many occasions. The governing principles that dominated 
 my life and directed all its actions were not of my own 
 choosing : had they been^ so, I should, most assuredly, 
 have selected stronger types of character. In the first 
 place, I never could get over a lack of confidence in my- 
 self, or in any effort I should make. However hopeful I 
 might be about the work I was engaged at, a slighting 
 word would put me out of conceit with it altogether; 
 neither did I possess the useful bump of concentrativeness 
 sufficiently developed to make me stick to one road long 
 enough to be successful, without switching off to some side 
 speculation, or being persuaded into hazardous theatrical 
 ventures by unprincipled rascals. 
 
 " Everything by turns, and nothing long," I have been, 
 — a little of a painter, a little of a doctor, a little of a play- 
 wright, a little of a rliym ester, a little of a musician, and 
 indulged for a brief period in the insane dash at comic 
 journalism, — and all without a scintillation of business 
 capacity, but Avith unbounded confidence in everybody 
 
BOYHOOD AND SCHOOL. 31 
 
 who made pleasant promises. A somewhat antagonistic 
 and wholly unproductive combination ! 
 
 In process of time, it was determined that my brother 
 and I should endeavor to digest the amount of " cram " 
 needed to carry us through a college examination, and for 
 this purpose we were consigned to the care of Dr. Hamil- 
 ton, who was the head of a preparatory academy at the 
 flourishing town of Trim, in the county Meath, about 
 twenty miles from Dublin ; said town consisting of a long, 
 improvised street, the houses mostly fashioned out of the 
 primitive mud, save here and there an ambitious brick 
 edifice, inhabited either by a lawyer or a doctor. It pos- 
 sessed a small, modest-looking court of justice, town-hall, 
 and market combined ; also an enormous jail, well popu- 
 lated generally, for it was the hanging era in Ireland, when 
 capital punishment ran through the whole gamut of crime, 
 from murder down to mutton-stealing. 
 
 Dr. Hamilton's establishment was delightfully situated, 
 close to the river Boyne, a most noble and picturesque ruin, 
 — the royal stronghold of the De Lacys^ to whom Henry II., 
 with kingly generosity, presented an entire province, after 
 having rendered its ruler incapable of continuing in posses- 
 sion, being in the vicinity, — together with another frag- 
 ment of antiquity, known as the Yellow Tower. The former 
 is admitted to be the finest specimen of early Gothic in the 
 three kingdoms, — occupying an area of some ten or twelve 
 acres, in the centre of which stood the keep or citadel, an 
 immense square building, its external double walls nearly 
 intact. Open spaces, time-worn and irregular, showed where 
 doors and windows once had been, while the interior, a 
 desolate void, was roofed only by the sky. At the top, four 
 double walls were arched over, forming originally a castel- 
 lated walk all around, wdiere, centuries ago, the armed sen- 
 
32 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 tinel kept watch and ward. ISTow, partly destroyed, the 
 protecting parapet gone and the narrow surface ruggedly 
 uneven from accumulation of rubbish, — considering, also, 
 the tendency to vertigo that so great a height induces, — 
 an attempt to scale it would be very hazardous. The wind- 
 ing stone stairway that led to this dangerous eminence, 
 dilapidated throughout, was, of course, the favorite scene 
 of emulation among the scholars, — in spite of the Doctor's 
 positive interdiction, many accidents having occurred there, 
 — and he who mounted highest was victor for the day ; 
 but the daring youngster who succeeded in reaching the 
 summit became the hero of a term. The inner castle was 
 surrounded by a wall of still more solid construction, with 
 a number of flanking towers of Cyclopean strength, and the 
 whole was clad in an evergreen mantle of ivy. Indeed, the 
 entire county of Meath abounded in places of interest. The 
 Castle of Daugan was but a 'few miles distant, — famous as 
 being, in popular belief, the birthplace of the " Iron Duke." 
 That, however, is doubtful ; but there is no doubt about 
 his having spent the best part of his youth there, when 
 the estate belonged to his father, the music-loving Earl of 
 Mornington, composer of " Foresters sound the cheerful 
 horn," " Here in cool grot," and many other pieces which 
 have become classic. His fighting son did not inherit 
 that placable disposition. Not far from Daugan lay the 
 rustic village of Laracor, the spire of its Liliputian church 
 half hidden in a mass of greenery. It was there Jonathan 
 Swift fretted many years of his " wild, tearing " life away, 
 between ministering sulkily to the sparsest and most un- 
 congenial of congregations, and debating in his volcanic 
 mind which of his two erratic loves he would take to wife, 
 solving the question ultimately by living with both and 
 marrying neither. It was at this diminutive place of wor- 
 
BOYHOOD AND SCHOOL. 33 
 
 ship, the story is told, that he, as it was compulsory, had 
 frequently to go through the prescribed service without a 
 single listener except the parish clerk ; when he would 
 vary the rubric thus : "Dearly beloved Dennis, the Scrip- 
 ture moveth you and me, in sundry places, to acknowl- 
 edge," and so forth, reducing the ritual to a very personal 
 affair. It was a daring innovation upon reverent custom, 
 but exactly what such an impulsive, reckless, miserably 
 disappointed man of genius, smarting from neglect and 
 isolated from literary companionship, would do. There 
 were many ancient and romantic memorials of former vio- 
 lence scattered through the county; but as this is not 
 intended for a guide-book I can only recommend those 
 who are curious about such matters just to run over, and 
 read, in the vast number of desolated castles, religious 
 foundations, and lowly homesteads, one of the saddest na- 
 tional histories that ever were recorded in the unmistakable 
 characters of ruin. 
 
 As our preceptor's scholastic family was limited to twelve, 
 the institution was always full, with generally several ap- 
 plications to fill vacancies on its books. A most unruly 
 dozen it was, of which I made a component cipher, — the 
 only exception being my brother George. He had been in 
 very delicate health from infancy. He was amiable in 
 disposition and of almost feminine gentleness, and I loved 
 him dearly, as he did me, so that we were nearly always 
 inseparable ; for though after a short time the twelve seg- 
 regated into congenial groups, , we never were identified 
 with any particular one. Our educational routine did not 
 call for an overpowering amount of mental exertion, but 
 it exacted much from the body. The principal, having 
 been a noted gymnast in his early prime, looked upon calis- 
 thenics as of the first importance in the curriculum ; and, 
 
 3 
 
34 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 judiciously directed, it unquestionably is, — health being 
 as necessary to the growth of the perceptive faculties as to 
 the development of muscle ; but he fell into the error of 
 most theorists, who, when they are mounted on their espe- 
 cial hobbies, care not whom or what they ride over. He 
 left discretion and common sense far behind him. We 
 had all to go through the same order and amount of exer- 
 cise, without the slightest consideration for differences in 
 health or constitution, — a strange inconsistency that, in 
 time, led to a serious result. The same penitentiary sys- 
 tem was the rule with regard to our dietary, no allowances 
 being made for personal likes or dislikes. It did not 
 matter whether the food was wholesome or injurious, con- 
 sumed with a relish or wholly repugnant to the palate ; 
 day by day followed with the same gastronomic impar- 
 tiality. ISTeither was it of any avail to declare one's in- 
 ability to breakfast or dine upon such or such viands. 
 The answer was, " Go without it until you can." This 
 exasperating state of things resulted from the absence of 
 a feminine housekeeper, the internal economy of the house 
 being under the supervision of the head usher, Macadam, 
 a Scotch-Irishman from Londonderry, who had the faculty 
 of extracting profit from very strange elements. 
 
 George and I, however, plodded on uncomplainingly in 
 the monotonous mill-horse round for several months. The 
 only welcome sunshine in our clouded existence was when 
 we got letters from home, inasmuch as they always brought 
 us pocket-money, half a guinea each, hidden under the 
 seals j and while that lasted. Macadam added considerably 
 to his store of broken victual. He gave out that it was 
 distributed in charity, but my impression now is that he 
 must furtively have kept a small eating-house. With re- 
 spect to the educational process, it differed very little, I 
 
BOYHOOD AND SCHOOL. 35 
 
 suppose, from all similar brain-mills, where every variety 
 of grain is flung into the hopper, the value of the result 
 depending altogether upon the capacity to sift the material. 
 The twelve neophytes were divided into three classes : the 
 first, consisting of the most advanced, had the place of 
 honor, at the head ; the second, next to them ; and the 
 third, new-comers and incapables, bringing up the rear, — 
 the ambition of each pupil being to displace the one above 
 him, until he reached the top. An excellent way it was to 
 stimulate exertion and incite to study ; moreover, it varied 
 the formality of examination, and occasionally led, in exer- 
 cise hours, to personal encounters arising from real or ima- 
 ginary favoritism on the part of the catechist. The Dean 
 himself, placid in temper, gracious of speech, and dignified 
 in demeanor, never entered the school-room without his 
 academicals, — proud as a medalled warrior of his well-worn 
 trencher cap and tattered gown. He was above suspicion ; 
 but of the huckstering usher's partiality I was entirely con- 
 vinced. It might have been wrongfully, for I hated the 
 fellow from the bottom of my heart, — mainly, I presume, 
 because on him devolved the duty of punishing all infrac- 
 tions of school discipline ; and as that discipline was strict, 
 and those infractions many, such occasions were frequent. 
 The brutal, indecent, and humiliating indignity of flogging 
 being at this time prevalent, of course we came in for 
 our share. The instrument of castigation was a num- 
 ber of thin willow saplings, tough and pliable, tied to- 
 gether at one end for the convenience of handling, and the 
 other spread out for the purpose of covering the widest 
 possible space, — an invention, no doubt, of Macadam's. 
 The number of strokes varied, according to the degrees 
 of transgression. The ill-concealed satisfaction that rufiian 
 felt in his hangman's task caused me to regard him with 
 
36 AUTOBIOGEAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 abhorrence, and it was not very long before I took an 
 opportunity to demonstrate my disgust in a remarkably 
 striking manner. 
 
 I had now just passed my fourteenth year, my brother 
 being thirteen months younger. It was intended that we 
 should remain at school for three years, and we had luckily 
 worried through the first without being Macadamized to 
 any abject degree, when we stumbled into an adventure 
 that brought us an infinite deal of tribulation. 
 
 One morning, as he and I had gone out of the house 
 together, according to custom, for the purpose of obtaining 
 a supply of fresh air, we had not proceeded many yards 
 from the entrance gate when we saw, lying in the middle, 
 of the road, — one very little frequented, — a good-sized 
 leathern bag. I lifted it : it was heavy. "Open it," said 
 George, " and let us see what 's in it." I did so, and 
 found that it contained a quantity of gold and silver. 
 " What had we better do with it 1 " said I. " Give it to 
 the Dean," replied sensible George. There happened to be 
 a sort of private jaunting-car some distance ahead, in which 
 two men were riding. Some demon suggested to me that 
 they must have dropped the bag. On the impulse of 
 the moment I hurried after the car, and, when within 
 hailing distance, cried out to them to stop. They did so. 
 When I got there, I gasped out, with all the breath I had 
 left, " Did you drop this 1 " " What is it 1 " inquired one. 
 Even that did n't open my eyes. " Money," said I. "Why, 
 of course we did," said the scoundrel. " Hom'- did it come 
 open 1 I hope you have n't been making free with any of 
 our cash ! " This combination of indignity and ingrati- 
 tude made me so angry, that, without another word, I 
 walked away in one direction while they drove off in an- 
 other. Continuing our walk, we thought no more of the 
 
BOYHOOD AND SCHOOL. 37 
 
 circumstance, until, about a fortnight after, while at dinner, 
 a casual remark plunged us both into a perfect fever of 
 apprehension. It was simply an inquiry, addressed to one 
 of the party, if he had seen the reward offered for the re- 
 covery of a large amount of money, — notice of which was 
 wafered on the court-house door. This startling intelli- 
 gence so paralyzed our stomachs that eating was out of 
 the question, and, as soon as it was possible to leave the 
 table, we hurried off, anxious to know the worst. When 
 we reached the place, sure enough there was the precious 
 document, printed in frightfully conspicuous type : — 
 
 " Fifty Guineas Eeward will be paid for the recovery 
 of a Leather Bag, containing money in gold, silver, and 
 bank-notes, supposed to have dropped from a dog-cart on the 
 road between Trim and Navan. All information upon the 
 subject may be addressed to Sir Marcus Somerville, High 
 Sheriff of the County.''^ 
 
 This was sufficiently appalling ; but as the high sheriff 
 was in some collateral way related to our family, there was 
 just a possible hope that, by telling him the whole story, 
 he might get us out of the scrape. Accordingly, we started 
 off at once for his residence, a few miles distant, only to 
 find, when we arrived there hot and fatigued, that he was 
 in London, attending to his Parliamentary duties. Crest- 
 fallen and altogether miserable, we had no alternative but 
 to return, frankly avow our predicament, and make a con- 
 fidant of the good Dean. On reaching the academy, we 
 found everybody in a state of evident excitement. In a 
 place so barren of events, the least disturbance of its stag- 
 nant surface is sufficient to make a nine days' wonder, and 
 the recent loss was now the town talk. They must have 
 heard something, thought I, as my heart seemed to drop 
 like a lump of lead, and poor George's pale, frightened 
 
38 AUTOBIOGEAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 face told me too truly that he shared the impression, — 
 it was all discovered, beyond a doubt. When, like a 
 couple of convicted malefactors, we sneaked into the 
 school-room, half a dozen voices cried out at the same 
 instant, " Have you heard the news ] " " Have you seen 
 the paper 1 " " It 's all- found out," — and such like ex- 
 clamations. This confirmation of our fears was the crown- 
 ing blow, a never to be forgotten moment of terror ; but, 
 luckily, only momentary, for the daily newspaper from 
 Dublin, received during our absence, announced the to 
 us blissful intelligence that nearly all the missing funds 
 were restored to their owner, and the swindlers in the 
 hands of justice. Eace-course gamblers of the lowest 
 grade, they had quarrelled over the distribution of the 
 spoil ; and one of them, discovering that he had been 
 cheated out of his fair share, informed against the others, 
 whereupon the two were arrested and held for trial at the 
 autumn assizes, while the third was detained as king's evi- 
 dence. The sudden revulsion of feeling had a severe effect 
 upon my brother, who, weaker in constitution and more 
 impressible than I, gave way under the strain, and kept 
 his bed for several weeks. 
 
 Shortly after he had sufficiently recovered to resume his 
 studies, an incident took place that put a sudden termi- 
 nation to our novitiate. It occurred on one of the ex- 
 amination days, conducted, in consequence of the Dean's 
 temporary illness, by Macadam. Well knowing the con- 
 tempt in which I held him, — for I never took the trouble 
 to conceal it, — he was insolently aggressive in manner ; 
 but, as I was well up in my task, he had no excuse for the 
 gratification of his savage nature. The villain knew, how- 
 ever, that he possessed the power to wound me very keenly 
 by harsh treatment of my brother. Many a time before 
 
BOYHOOD AND SCHOOL. 39 
 
 had he exercised that pitiful means of inflicting pain upon 
 both of ns, when it was as much as I could do to control 
 my temper ; but on this occasion he pushed his vindictive- 
 ness beyond all endurance. The poor boy, slow to learn 
 and deficient in memory at all times, now rendered addi- 
 tionally nervous from recent illness, irritated also by the 
 fellow's sneering tone and reiterated questioning, quitted 
 his class, Avhich was the second, and, bursting into tears, 
 threw himself almost fainting into my arms. Trying to 
 comfort him as well as I could, we were slowly leaving the 
 room, when I was startled at hearing the usher yell out, 
 " Stop ! such negligence and insubordination cannot be 
 too severely punished. You shall be flogged, sir, before 
 the whole school." 
 
 I could hardly believe my senses. "What," I cried, 
 while the hot blood was surging in my veins, " flog him, 
 — flog any one in his condition of health ! You dare not 
 do it ! " It was an impulse, — an unwise one, — but I 
 could not help it. 
 
 The white rage froze in his face as he hissed through 
 his clenched teeth, " You '11 soon see whether I dare or 
 not ! " Then sending for '■'■ Collins," name of dread, — 
 he was a huge, brawny porter, whose duty it was to ofli- 
 ciate as assistant executioner, by holding the victim on 
 his back during flagellation, — " Get to your work, sir ! " 
 shouted the dastardly tyrant. 
 
 The man, with evident reluctance, endeavored to sepa- 
 rate us, but the terribly frightened boy only clung closer 
 to me. At length, a sudden jerk unloosed his arms, and 
 with a piteously appealing look, but never a word, he 
 turned aside as passively as a lamb beneath the butcher's 
 knife. 
 
 His very quietness, and the slow, deliberate way in 
 
40 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 which that heartless ruffian made his preparations, so 
 fired my brain, that, with the brief madness of ungov- 
 ernable auger, regardless of all consequence, I exclaimed 
 wildly, " You shall not do this atrocious thing ! " — " In- 
 deed, and, pray, who is to prevent me 1 " he replied, 
 with a malicious grin, proceeding to strip the poor boy 
 down to his loins. But when I saw him about to strike 
 the first blow, I clutched a heavy slate from the desk 
 alongside, and, with a fierce cry, hurled it at his head. 
 My aim was a good one, for he dropped as though he 
 had been shot ; and, taking advantage of the confusion, 
 we escaped to the dormitory, silent and awe-stricken, for 
 we knew not what mischief had been done. After a few 
 moments of dreadful suspense, we were told that Macadam 
 was in a fearful rage and very sick at his stomach, swear- 
 ing that he would visit us with terrible retribution in 
 the morning. When we were left alone, after looking 
 regretfully at each other for a little while, I could see 
 that we both were thinking of the same thing. "How 
 much cash have you in your pocket ? " I asked. — " Not a 
 half-penny," said he. — " And I have very little. Do you 
 think you are strong enough to take a long walk ? " — 
 " Home 1 " whispered George, with a glad look. — I nod- 
 ded. — "0 yes," he replied ; " once away from that cruel 
 man I should gain strength, I know." — "Very good; 
 say nothing to any one, and to-night, as soon as they are 
 all asleep, we will creep down stairs, undo the chain on 
 the door, and we will get home again, — home, George, 
 boy ! " ^ 
 
 It was now near dinner-time. We had determined not 
 to go down to table ; but having heard that the disordered 
 state of the usher's internal economy would compel his 
 absence, we changed our plan, and prepared for the com- 
 
BOYHOOD AND SCHOOL. 41 
 
 ing risk by putting away a substantial meal. After collect- 
 ing all that was portable of our im2Jedimejita, it may be 
 imagined that tha intervening time was nervously exciting. 
 We made a feint of undressing, but lay down in our clothes, 
 and, when all was quiet, made our way out and started. 
 The details of that momentous exodus I cannot recall 
 without a shudder. 
 
 *^ j^ 4^ j^ 
 
 TT TV* Tf ^P 
 
 There is a break in the narrative here. — Ed. 
 
42 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER THIRD. 
 
 YOUTHFUL DAYS. 
 
 Entered at Trinity College, Dublin. — Thoughtless Choice of Com- 
 panions. — Practical Jokes. — The Discomfited Tutor. — Sketch 
 of Lord Norbury, "the Hanging Judge." — Caught napping on 
 the Bench. 
 
 IK the mean time, it was necessary that I should un- 
 dergo the usual amount of "cram," to enable me 
 to pass an examination for college ; and most dyspeptic 
 provender it was. But, bearing in mind the sage phi- 
 losopher's axiom, that "of mental food as well as ma- 
 terial it is not healthy to swallow more than you can 
 digest," I lunched very lightly upon Homer and Horace, 
 while Scott and Byron, then in the zenith of their popu- 
 larity, I devoured with prodigious appetite, especially the 
 former, frequently sitting up all night long rather than 
 relinquish the fascinating volume. 
 
 At length, after two or three humiliating failures, I 
 managed by some strange accident to scramble through 
 the preliminaries, and entered the " College of the Holy 
 and Undivided Trinity," — so denominated by Queen Eliza- 
 beth, its founder, — assumed the trencher cap and academic 
 toga, took possession of a gloomy den in the Botany Bay 
 quarter, bought a few prescribed books and a prodigious 
 quantity of foolscap, with the stern determination to make 
 up for wasted time by devoting myself to the most unre- 
 mitting description of " grind." That I was in dead ear- 
 nest then I have no doubt ; but many a strong resolution 
 
YOUTHFUL DAYS. 43 
 
 formed in the course of my experience has been rendered 
 nugatory by my unfortunate tendency to let circumstances 
 control the action of the moment. If, by chance, acci- 
 dent, or destiny, I had become associated, in the first in- 
 stance, with reading men, perhaps the after results would 
 have been different. But it is useless to speculate upon 
 what might have been ; the truest philosophy consists in 
 making the best of what is, — and, as my disposition is 
 optimistic, it has enabled me to look on the bright side 
 of things very often w^hen there was but Httle brightness 
 visible. 
 
 I very soon found out that my impulses were the reverse 
 of studious j and being naturally indolent, except in the 
 pursuit of amusement, as a matter of course I segregated 
 with " birds of a feather," — individuals as wild, reckless, 
 and unreflecting as myself, — from whom I learned how 
 absurd it was to pore over themes and exercises which 
 would be forgotten long before examination day, when, 
 by judicious " coaching " immediately preceding it, one's 
 memory would be fresh and serviceable. Unfortunately 
 those arguments were so much in harmony with my own 
 inclinations that my little stock of stationery remained in- 
 tact, while, through the magnetism of congenial association 
 rather than from premeditated effort upon my part, I 
 was attracted to a companionship more delightful than 
 disciplinary. This state of things, however, suited me ex- 
 actly ; for, possessing, as I then supposed, an assured pro- 
 vision for the future, I had not the slightest ambition to 
 go for honors, and consequently ran no risk of being in 
 the unfeathered condition of " Plato's man." 
 
 The members of our set with whom I was most intimate 
 were Hercules St. George, who ultimately gave his undi- 
 vided attention to the race-course, and was a high authority 
 
44 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 on the horse question ; Cornelius O'Callaghan, who, to- 
 gether with Dillon Brown and Eichard Martin, son of 
 the humane and eccentric Dick Martin of Galway, author 
 of the first " Cruelty to Animals Act," developed into Par- 
 liament men ; Collier and Poe, of whose after record I 
 know nothing ; Luke Dillon, nephew to the Earl of Ros- 
 common ; and two or three others whose names I have 
 forgotten. Some of those fellows, notwithstanding their 
 scholastic remissness, became persons of note ; and one — 
 the last named — of disgraceful notoriety, from what cause 
 it would do no good now to revive the recollection. Suf- 
 fice it to say, we were all sworn friends, pledged to take 
 each other's part through thick and thin, whether in hum- 
 hugging college clons inside the walls, or pitching into 
 combative coal-heavers without. 
 
 That most reprehensible of all juvenile propensities, 
 practical joking, was carried to a merciless extent about 
 this time, and we exercised all our ingenuity in playing 
 tricks, more or less mischievous, upon obnoxious digni- 
 taries. It would be impossible to give an idea of their 
 number or variety, but one instance may serve to indicate 
 their nature. 
 
 There was a certain cross-eyed, red-nosed class tutor 
 named Haggerty, who provoked our extreme displeasure 
 by being so ridiculously particular as to insist upon the 
 cessation of convivialities in our chambers after the closing 
 hour. His predecessors having been humanely lax about 
 enforcing the rule made old Haggerty's conduct the more 
 unpardonable ; therefore we resolved that he should be 
 victimized, which he accordingly was, in the following 
 manner. It is pretty generally known that for a female, 
 whether a relative or not, to be discovered in any of the 
 college rooms after '* gating " is a crime of the most hei- 
 
YOUTHFUL DAYS. 45 
 
 nous character, entailing expulsion, not only on the prin- 
 cipal offender, but on all concerned in the enormity. Well ! 
 The scene is Collier's quarters ; in the centre a round table, 
 plentifully supplied with " Sneyd, French, and Barton's " 
 claret ; surrounding it a group of festive youngsters and a 
 lady, apparently, who did not let the bottle pass without 
 replenishing. This was Collier himself, in one of his sister's 
 dresses ; and, being a handsome, smooth-faced youth, with 
 the embellisliment of some borrowed ringlets and an amaz- 
 ing head-gear of the period, which looked like an inverted 
 coal-scuttle, he might pass easily enough, in the dim candle- 
 light, for a favorable specimen of the incomparable sex. 
 
 When all was prepared, a suborned scout was despatched 
 to notify Haggerty of the irregular symposium, — a most 
 welcome message for the deliverer, inasmuch as domestic 
 treason was always liberally rewarded. Meanwhile, the 
 oak was sported, that is to say, both outer and inner doors 
 were locked, and we patiently awaited the coming of our 
 victim. It was not long before we heard him puffing and 
 wheezing up the stairs, for they were long and steep, and 
 he was short and asthmatic. A thundering rap was the 
 signal for us to get up a confused movement, one or two 
 wine-glasses were broken to give local color, and Collier 
 was hustled rather noisily into a closet, while Haggerty 
 shouted outside, as well as he could between snorts and 
 fatty suspirations, " It 's no use, gentlemen. I know — 
 all about your — nice goings on, — so you may as well — 
 admit me at once." The doors were opened, and in he 
 waddled, a ludicrous expression of importance on his lying 
 face. I say a lying face, for if ever a speaking countenance 
 bore false witness against its owner his did; those dull, 
 watery eyes, with their heavy swollen lids, and those 
 tallowy cheeks, to which that mulberry-colored nose was 
 
46 AUTOBIOGEAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 in vivid contrast, would have proclaimed him, before any 
 bacchanalian jury at least, a " three-bottle man," whereas 
 in reality it was nothing but a cutaneous libel, a scorbu- 
 tic accusation, altogether false, as he happened to be one 
 of the most abstemious of men. " Well, young sirs," 
 said he, after he had gained sufficient breath to articu- 
 late without much difficulty, "Will you be kind enough 
 to introduce your fair companion 1 It is useless for you 
 to deny that you have one here. I have been informed of 
 your outrageous conduct." 
 
 " Devil take the informer ! " cried O'Callaghan, angrily. 
 
 " Where is she 1 " inquired Haggerty. 
 
 Still no one spoke, but all bowed their heads as if in 
 mortal shame. 
 
 " Ah ! I see I must be my own master of ceremonies," 
 said the old intruder, with grim facetiousness ; " therefore, 
 miss, or madam, or whatevet you are, be pleased to honor 
 me with your society only for an instant," — opening the 
 closet-door and revealing Collier, who, with a handkerchief 
 to his face, got up a respectable faint, and fell into a chair. 
 "Very fine, sirs, ve-ry fine," grunted Haggerty, his scurvy 
 nose glowing with a lovelier purple. " Of course you all 
 know the penalty you will have to pay for this scandalous 
 orgie. Such disreputable affairs have been too frequent, 
 and examples must be made. Do not imagine that you 
 can get rid of your delectable visitor, for I shall take the 
 liberty of locking you all in until I return." Having given 
 utterance to these portentous words as impressively as his 
 apoplectic breathing apparatus would allow, he was about to 
 quit the room, when he was astounded at hearing one of the 
 roisterers yell out, " Hurrah for ould Hag in three times 
 three ! " which were given with a will. Gasping out some 
 incoherent words, he shook his fist at the crowd, and made 
 
YOUTHFUL DAYS. 47 
 
 his exit, accompanied by a roar of laughter and the chorus 
 of " He 's a jolly good fellow." 
 
 The moment we heard the key turn in the lock, Collier 
 rapidly divested himself of his borrowed plumage, which 
 was carefully concealed, all bibitory appurtenances were 
 cleared away, and in their place the table strewn with 
 classic text-books; each man seized a volume, so that, 
 when the two inquisitors entered, the indignation in their 
 faces changed to blank surprise as they beheld, instead 
 of a scene of dissipation, a group of students so intent 
 upon their work that they were unconscious of the inter- 
 ru]3tion. 
 
 " Why, Haggerty," said the proctor, "what does all this 
 mean 1 " 
 
 " Mean ! " replied the other, almost inarticulate from 
 rage ; " it means that they have hidden the woman some- 
 where j but I '11 ferret her out." 
 
 " A woman in my chambers ? " said Collier, in a tone of 
 consternation. 
 
 Meanwhile, Haggerty had entered the closet. As he did 
 so, the graceless delinquents looked compassionately after 
 him, intimating, by suggestive pantomime, that the poor 
 fellow was weak in the upper story; and, indeed, when 
 he emerged from his unsuccessful search, "Well, sir," in- 
 quired the proctor, " what have you found 1 " 
 
 " Nothing," replied the puzzled tutor, " I do not know 
 how they could have spirited her away, but that there 
 was a woman here a quarter of an hour ago I '11 take my 
 oath." 
 
 " Mr. Collier, what answer do you make to this serious 
 charge 1 " asked the proctor. 
 
 "A very simple one, sir," responded Collier, casting a 
 pitying glance upon this accuser. " We all know our 
 
48 AUTOBIOGEAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 unfortunate friend's weakness : it was only an after-dinner 
 hallucination." 
 
 Perfectly furious at the insinuation, Haggerty screamed 
 out, " What, sir, have you the daring effrontery to tell me 
 to my face that I did not find a woman here 1 " 
 
 Instead of answering him. Collier simply shook his head 
 mournfully, and addressed the proctor. " Sir," said he, 
 " the thing is not only preposterous, but impossible. Mr. 
 Haggerty certainly did break in upon our studies some- 
 what unexpectedly, a short time ago, astonishing us very 
 much both in speech and action ; when, after some inco- 
 herent remarks, which we could not understand, he went 
 away as abruptly as he came. If there had been a female 
 in the room, how could she have vanished 1 The windows 
 are fifty feet from the ground, and he took the key of the 
 door away with him." 
 
 The proctor was perplexed. He looked steadily for a 
 moment or two at the accused and the accuser. The 
 former returned his gaze with the calm, resolute expression 
 of conscious innocence, while the latter, indignant at hav- 
 ing his veracity doubted even by a look, utterly bewil- 
 dered also by the audacious denial, glared open-mouthed 
 into vacancy. 
 
 It was very evident that his embarrassed manner made 
 an unfavorable impression upon the proctor, for it was 
 in a sterner accent that he next addressed him, saying, 
 "Are you quite sure, Mr. Haggerty, of what you assert? 
 'No possibility that you could be mistaken "? " 
 
 " Mistaken ! " cried the exasperated man. " How could 
 I be mistaken 1 " 
 
 " You saw a woman in this room ? " 
 
 " If I can believe the evidence of my own senses." 
 
 "It is to be regretted, Mr. Haggerty, that in your case 
 
YOUTHFUL DAYS. 49 
 
 such testimony is occasionally undependable," said Collier, 
 in the most aggravating manner. 
 
 " Do you mean to insinuate that I am lying ^ " splut- 
 tered out the other, nearly choking with anger. 
 
 " By no means. I only assert very plainly that you 
 have been laboring under some extraordinary optical illu- 
 sion," responded Collier. "Mr. Proctor," he continued, in 
 an earnest voice, " I solemnly assure you, sir, upon my 
 honor, there has been no one here the whole evening 
 except the persons you now see. I call upon them to 
 substantiate my words," — which of course they did, most 
 emphatically. 
 
 This settled the case as far as Haggerty was concerned, 
 whose mortification was completed when the proctor ob- 
 served, with a reproving head-shake, "Ah, Haggerty! 
 Haggerty ! I would advise you in the future to limit your 
 potations." 
 
 Dublin at that period contained a number of eccentric 
 individuals. First on the list was the notorious Lord Nor- 
 bury, who achieved the peerage through his alacrity in 
 thinning out the superabundant Irish population, but who 
 was more generally known by his popular title of " the 
 hanging judge." Many a time have I seen the sanguinary 
 old rufiftan jogging along through the streets astride of a 
 fat cob, his eyes bleared and crimson- veined, as though he 
 had been literally swimming in " the reservoir of innocent 
 blood " alluded to in Eobert Emmet's terrible denuncia- 
 tion ; his great flabby cheeks distended to their utmost at 
 every expiration, whence the nickname of " Bladderchaps," 
 shouted at him by the juveniles, from aV corners ; his arms 
 wagging by his sides ; and an umbrella in his whip-hand, 
 with which he whacked the flanks of his lazy steed with 
 evident relish. 
 
 4 
 
60 AUTOBIOGEAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 It was not a very difficult matter to' diminish the num- 
 hers of the proletariat. In those times capital punishment 
 quickly followed the commission of the pettiest offence, 
 from sheep-stealing up to the gravest and most unpardon- 
 able of all in IS'orhury's eyes, suspicion of compHcity in the 
 " rising of '98." When trying such cases, he set both law 
 and justice at defiance. Instances are on record where 
 some unhappy, foredoomed victims were condemned to 
 death upon the testimony of a single witness, whereas the 
 English code required its confirmation by at least one more. 
 There could be no question of his having carried out the 
 depopulating programme with untiring perseverance. It 
 was his wont, moreover, to vary the judicial atrocities 
 with a ghastly kind of humor, which, however amusing 
 to the briefless barristets, always ready to laugh at a judge's 
 witicisms, were but little appreciated by the poor wretches 
 waiting the inevitable result. He also had a habit of drop- 
 ping his head upon the cushion before him in apparent 
 sleep, but was instantly alert when a legal point was in 
 dispute or the chance of making a jocular remark presented 
 itself. Once, while he seemed to be in that somnolent 
 state, and the gifted advocate Curran was pleading, a don- 
 key happened to bray loudly in the street. Up started 
 iJiTorbury. " One at a time, gentlemen," said he, to the 
 intense hilarity of his learned brethren. But the great 
 pleader, who seldom failed at a rejoinder, turned the laugh 
 against the jiidge by quietly replying, " Your lordship is 
 laboring under a misapprehension ; it was only the echo 
 of the court." 
 
 Upon another occasion he reaUy was caught napping, 
 and with a singular consequence. The accused being only 
 a rebel, he naturally anticipated the usual routine, and 
 therefore settled himself to enjoy an interval of repose, 
 
YOUTHFUL DAYS. 51 
 
 waking up only when everything was over and the verdict 
 rendered. Eising slowly and placing the fatal black cap 
 on his head, to the astonishment and alarm of the pris- 
 oner, who too well knew what that signified, he began the 
 formula he had so often repeated before. Eeferring to his 
 notes, " Michael Fogarty," said he, in solemn tones, " you 
 have been fairly tried by an intelligent jury of your coun- 
 trymen, and convicted upon the clearest evidence — " 
 
 " But, my lord — " cried the trembling man. 
 
 " Silence in the court ! " shouted his counsel. " Don't 
 interrupt his lordship," — who continued : — 
 
 " ]!^ot withstanding the praiseworthy efforts of the elo- 
 quent gentleman who defended you, your case is too 
 flagrant, — examples are imperative, — the sentence of the 
 court is — " 
 
 " Hem ! May I be allowed to interpose a few re- 
 marks?" inquired the counsellor, amidst the suppressed 
 merriment of the crowd. 
 
 " They will be entirely superfluous, sir," responded the 
 judge, severely. 
 
 " I am thoroughly aware that the course I am pursuing 
 is contrary to all precedent," said the other, blandly, " but 
 I really think I have a plea in mitigation to offer." 
 
 " What possible plea can you have 1 " demanded the 
 judge ; to which the lawyer quietly replied : — 
 
 " I acknowledge that it is very seldom, if ever, that your 
 lordship commits a legal irregularity ; but it certainly 
 appears to me a strange solecism in jurisprudence, the sen- 
 tencing a man to death who has been acquitted." 
 
 " What ! Acquitted ! " thundered Norbury, looking 
 savagely at the jury. " Then they are a pack of rebel- 
 lious vagabonds themselves, and I hope I shall yet have 
 the satisfaction of hanging the whole rascally lot." 
 
52 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 CHAPTEE FOUETH. 
 
 FIRST THEATRICAL EXPERIENCES. 
 
 The Theatre Royal, Dublin. — Habits of the Gallery Gods, — A 
 Convivial Musician. — Mr. Calcraft, the Manager. — John Balls, 
 the Comedian. — Liston. — Garrick. — Kean. — Booth. — Bur- 
 ton. — Mistaken Estimates of their Powers. — Amateur The- 
 atricals. — Counsellor Plunkett. — Early Efforts in Acting. — A 
 Local Celebrity. — Monkey Tuthill. — Suppers after the Play. 
 — Introduced to Madam Vestris. 
 
 THE Theatre Eoyal in Hawkins Street was, at that 
 time, the almost constant resort of our set ; scarcely 
 an evening passed that some of us could not be found 
 patronizing the shilling gallery, as much from the certainty 
 of enjoying some adventitious fun as for prudential reasons. 
 On certain special nights, when vice-royalty attended in 
 state, it was necessary to exhibit our loyalty in the dress 
 circle, — dull but decorous. High times we used to have, 
 too, among the " Gods " of that unsavory Olympus, as we 
 listened to, and occasionally joined in, the fire of jokes, 
 sometimes rather sharp, which were directed against any 
 well-known or peculiar-looking individual. The perspir- 
 ing deities — for it was as hot as Lucifer's kitchen in those 
 upper regions — conducted themselves with reasonable 
 propriety until the lights were raised through the house, a 
 proceeding usually hailed with applause, shouts, and clap- 
 ping of hands. Some fellow would cry out, "Hurrah, 
 boys ! now we can see who 's who." And woe betide 
 the luckless persons who were unpopular with the crowd, 
 
FIRST THEATRICAL EXPERIENCES. 53 
 
 or whose appearance gave the slightest chance for ridi- 
 cule ! 
 
 With this agreeable kind of enjoyment, — agreeable to all 
 but its victims, — the high-toned upper class would amuse 
 itself, until the members of the band entered and took their 
 seats. Then came a thundering cheer as Jemmy Barton, 
 the leader, appeared, his face one genial smile as he ac- 
 knowledged the compliment paid him, which would change 
 to a supplicating expression as he glanced at his tormen- 
 tors above, for he well knew what he was to expect. 
 Jemmy was a prime favorite with the audiences, but he 
 had his failings, and they were unfortunately exhibited so 
 openly that there was no concealing the facts. Nobody 
 presumed to dispute his standing as a musician, but whis- 
 key-punch interfered with his standing as a man upon 
 numerous occasions. Moreover, it was currently reported 
 that his violin, a very costly one, was frequently instru- 
 mental in procuring from his " uncle " the means where- 
 with to gratify his rather Hibernian propensity, a pledge 
 of affection accepted right willingly by his interesting 
 relative. 
 
 Then some such colloquy would ensue as this : " Say, 
 Jimmy, have ye got the ould cremorne out once more 1 " 
 And Barton, who thought it best to conciliate the ruf- 
 fians, would hold up the violin, upon which another 
 gallery boy would cry out, " l^one of your thricks, you 
 thief of the world ! Look at his nose ! how it 's blushing 
 for the lies he 's tellin' ! Tune up, you spalpeen, an' let 's 
 see if it 's the real article, or one you borra'd from Andy 
 Magra ! " If it so happened that the v^eritable instrument 
 was not in temporary duress. Jemmy would play a few 
 bars with such brilliancy as to elicit the hearty applause of 
 the whole house. I once heard an enthusiastic neighbor 
 
54 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF, JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 exclaim, after a similar demonstration, "A' thin, more 
 power to yer elbow, Jemmy avic ; but drunk or sober it 's 
 yerself can make good use of that convaynient jint in all 
 sorts of wonderful ways, from rattlin' off a jig to empty in' 
 a jug." 
 
 The company performing in the theatre, although in my 
 maturer years I might possibly consider it mediocre, was to 
 me, as well as to my companions, a combination of histri- 
 onic perfection. As a matter of course, there were some 
 among the actors who were more highly favored by the 
 audiences than the rest, upon whom they would lavish 
 their plaudits with Celtic effusion, while the less fortunate 
 ones were either listened to with indifference, or pelted 
 with ironical compliments, likings and dislikings being ex- 
 pressed with equal frankness. 
 
 The lessee and manager, Mr. Calcraft, was first favorite 
 by virtue of his position, together with the typographic 
 opportunities it afforded to imprint his talent upon the 
 public mind in big letters, and therefore was very natu- 
 rally looked upon as a capital actor ; for persistency in self- 
 assertion goes a great way toward manufacturing celebri- 
 ties of every profession. He, the manager, as a matter 
 of precedent, monopolized all the heroic characters ; and 
 although physically scarcely suited to represent them^ 
 being short and corpulent, he amply made up for these 
 slight defects, and established the fact of his marvellous 
 a\)ility, by his voice, which was sonorous, and his deport- 
 ment, which was majestic, his costumes, which were inde- 
 scribable, and the opinion of the press, which was unani- 
 mous. 
 
 A few among the company, however, justified our early 
 predilections, maintaining their reputations in other coun- 
 tries and before less impulsive critics. !N"otably, the light 
 
FIRST THEATRICAL EXPERIENCES. 55 
 
 comedian, John Balls, who afterwards achieved reputation 
 both iu England and America.* How well I remember 
 him ! — young, well-featured, and prepossessing ; a form 
 of perfect symmetry; eyes beaming with intelligence; a 
 clear, ringing voice, infectious with merriment; and an 
 inexhaustible wealth of animal spirits. He was vivacity 
 personified, lacking, to be sure, the refinement that made 
 his predecessor, Eichard Jones, so pre-eminent in the higher 
 walks of comedy ; but in personations of a more farcical 
 nature, requiring dash, sprightliness, and audacity, he was 
 inimitable. It is not astonishing that the possessor of so 
 congenial a temperament captured the heart with Caesarian 
 rapidity; and yet in private I have heard that man, so 
 exactly fitted in every respect for the line of business in 
 which he could have no competitor, so f^ted and followed 
 by high and low, deplore the blind obstinacy of the man- 
 agers, who would not give him an opportunity to electrify 
 the town with his tragic powers. On his benefit nights, 
 when he had the privilege of choosing the entertainment, 
 he invariably gratified his ambition by appearing as the 
 hero of some lugubrious play or tearing melodrama, to the 
 serious detriment of his reputation ; for, while easy and 
 
 * Oct. 15, 1835. — Mr. J. S. Balls made his first appearance in 
 America [at the old Park Theatre], as Vapid, in "The Dramatist," 
 and Singles, in "Three and the Deuce." He will be remembered as 
 a very excellent light comedian, of good personal appearance and mer- 
 curial temperament, — giving great effect to saucy footmen, eccentric 
 fops, and shuffling spendthrifts. Like his forerunner, Abbott, he 
 would have proved a desirable acquisition to the stock company, 
 although not of sufficient weight to prove an attractive star. Mr. 
 Balls was a native of England, born in 1799, appeared in London in 
 1829, last appeared in New York in 1840, returned to his native 
 country, and died at Dublin in 1844. — J. N. Ireland's Records of 
 the New York Stage, Vol. II. p. 130. 
 
56 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 graceful in characters adapted to his own individuality, in 
 the others he was awkward, vociferous, and stagy. This 
 was no temporary impulse, or the experiment of a beginner 
 anxious to find out the true direction of his power, but a 
 fixed belief, to which he was faithful during the whole 
 of his theatrical life. 
 
 In the pursuit of every avocation, a certain probationary 
 time has to pass before the beginner can find out whether 
 or not his natural abilities are consistent with his inclin- 
 ing, and the chances of success are greatly dependent upon 
 their assimilation. In many instances they are directly 
 opposed, when the task is hard to reconcile the antagonism. 
 At the commencement of a theatrical career the same con- 
 trariety frequently exists. John Liston, whose countenance 
 was studded all over with dimples of fun, to which his 
 deep voice and solemnity of manner formed a whimsical 
 contrast, was so thoroughly satisfied of his capability to 
 represent high tragedy that, ignoring the evidence of his 
 looking-glass, and despising the laughter of the unapprecia- 
 tive crowd, he persisted in obtruding his comical-tragical 
 efforts upon the provincial public, until that convincing 
 argument, empty benches, compelled him to sacrifice pre- 
 dilection to prudence, and the disappointed tragedian be- 
 came the greatest comedian of his time. That Garrick 
 displayed a similar feeling is exemplified in the fact that 
 he preferred Abel Drugger to King Lear. 
 
 Edmund Kean and the elder Booth were in the habit 
 of playing farces at their benefits. Burton never was so 
 happy as when indulging in some sentimental episode, and 
 J. B. himself does not mind confessing to having had a 
 decided preference for the buskin in his early days. 
 
 " What they are not is what men fain would be : 
 Few men are that, but what they are you see." 
 
riKST THEATRICAL EXPERIENCES. 57 
 
 Private theatricals were mucli in vogue, and with one 
 group of amateurs a few of our set became affiliated. The 
 performances, ostensibly for a charitable purpose, but act- 
 ually to show how easy the whole thing is, and how supe- 
 rior we were to the regulars, took place at a shabby old 
 temple of the promiscuous drama, in Tattersall Street, 
 mercifully dark, but unmercifully dirty. As is usually the 
 case, we flew at the highest kind of game. No mousing 
 owls were we ! the eagle's flight or nothing ! 
 
 Inasmuch as we had a superfluity of Hamlets, and no 
 Laertes, to prevent jealousy or invidious distinction, the 
 names of the characters were written on pieces of paper 
 which were folded and thrown into a hat, and, when well 
 shaken up, each of the aspirants drew out a slip, and what- 
 ever part fell to him he had to accept without a word. 
 It was as good a way as any ; for it would have been 
 difficult to decide who was the worst of the lot. At all 
 events, it had this advantage over the professional method, 
 that, no matter how the subordinates might rail at the 
 injustice of the fate that compelled them to appear in 
 parts so far beneath their ability, the management escaped 
 vituperation. 
 
 There was an individual then living whom all who can 
 recall that period cannot but remember, Counsellor Plun- 
 kett, a man of excellent family, eminent in his profession, 
 possessing ample means, and as rational as the majority of 
 human beings upon all other subjects, but a monomaniac 
 upon that of acting. Although beyond middle age, he had an 
 enormous chest, ruddy face, bull neck, and Herculean limbs, 
 — contrasting ridiculously with a thiii, squeaky voice and 
 strong Hibernian accent. He was under the hallucination 
 that he possessed the united powers of Kean and Kemble. 
 " What is there, I 'd like to know, in this Masther Kane, 
 
68 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 that everybody 's makin' such a fuss about, — a poor, 
 wizen-faced, bandy-legged pygmy of a creature ! ITow, sir, 
 I am two inches and a half taller than that solemn jackass, 
 Kemble, and have some brains in my head, while he 's 
 nothing but an idjit. I '11 take my oath that he does n't 
 know the meaning of half the words that 's crammed into 
 him. ISTow I do, — the sense as well as the sound, — 
 which is more than any of the consated parrots can brag 
 of." I have no doubt there was not an aspiring youth 
 among us who did not entertain an exalted opinion of his 
 own theatrical talents ; but we had sufficient prudence to 
 keep it to ourselves. Matters went on peaceably enough 
 until the time arrived to prepare our next representa- 
 tion, the play chosen being " Eichard III.," — rather a 
 modest selection for youngsters utterly ignorant of stage 
 tradition. As we were proceeding, in our usual way, to 
 allot the several parts, Plunkett, who had just stalked in, 
 inquired what hocus-pocus we were up to. " Finding out 
 who is to play Richard" said one. " Who 1 " squealed the 
 Counsellor, drawing himself up and pounding his brawny 
 chest. " Why, who but the only man in the three king- 
 doms at this moment who has the requisite qualifications, 
 both physically and intellectually, — and here he stands. 
 Settle the rest of them among yourselves, but / shall enact 
 Richard ! Yes, and by the Lord, sir, I '11 show them the 
 true Gloster, the last and greatest of the Plantagenets, 
 symmetrical in figure," (casting a complacent glance at his 
 goodly proportions,) " not the wretched Lancastrian libel 
 Shakespeare, degrading his genius and perverting history, 
 drew from his imagination simply to curry favor with the 
 vixenish, red-headed granddaughter of Richmond, the son 
 of a poor Welsh farmer, and one of the meanest and most 
 treacherous of kings." Upon somebody venturing to sug- 
 
FIRST THEATRICAL EXPERIENCES. 59 
 
 gest that it was one of our rules, he became furious. 
 " Eules ! " he screamed out ; " what are your confounded 
 rules to me ? Can you determine the degrees of mental 
 capacity by throwing dice, or point out the brightest star 
 in the firmament with your eyes shut ; and am I, Coun- 
 sellor Plunkett, to be dictated to by a litter of pup mon- 
 keys 1 To the devil with you and your rules ! Genius 
 breaks the fetters and emancipates itself. I am free. Go 
 your own way and I '11 go mine. Stick to your dirty Tat- 
 tersall Street nursery. Wait till you see me coming out 
 at the Eoyal, and cramming it too from the cellar to the 
 cock-loft ; then, maybe, you '11 treat me with respect. But 
 it serves me right for wasting my time with such a beg- 
 garly crew of Thrinity sizars." And so, with a petrifying 
 look and contemptuous snap of his fingers, the learned 
 Counsellor dismissed the society, And, strange to say, 
 that daring prediction was, to a certain extent, verified ; 
 for many a time I have seen the mad lawyer, as he was 
 called, upon charitable benefit nights fill the theatre to its 
 utmost capacity, — appearing always in his favorite part, 
 and although peal upon peal of laughter accompanied 
 every word and gesture, culminating in a perfect tornado 
 of ironical applause at one of the most astonishing single 
 combats ever witnessed, and an indescribable death which 
 was many times recalled. Yet such was his egregious 
 vanity that he accepted the demonstration as a tribute 
 to his superior talent, and, gracefully rising from the 
 field of the dead, would acknowledge the compliment and 
 the renewed acclamations, and go through his moribund 
 contortions once more. In order to give the people an 
 idea of his versatility he would sing, between the play 
 and farce, "Scots wha hae" in character, — which con- 
 sisted in going on in his shirt-sleeves with his j^antaloons 
 
60 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 tucked 1123 to the knees, a Scotch scarf twisted round his 
 waist, and a tremendous bludgeon in his hands. The fun 
 of this part of the entertainment lay between him and the 
 band, as, not understanding a note of music and totally 
 independent of time or tune, with his violent gesticulation, 
 and thin, but high and penetrating voice, the singer was 
 in constant discord with the musicians. You may be sure 
 Jemmy Barton improved the opportunity ; and the further 
 the Counsellor strayed from the proper key, the more lus- 
 tily Jemmy rattled away against him, making altogether 
 a combination of ear-distracting sounds to which saw-filing 
 would be seraphic ; and yet this chaos of discord had to 
 be repeated over and over again, until some merciful hand 
 would send down the green curtain. 
 
 With regard to my own share in these performances, I 
 must acknowledge that I felt no particular desire to incur 
 much responsibility in the way of study; therefore, the 
 smallest parts suited me best, and whenever chance as- 
 signed me a prominent character, I found it an easy mat- 
 ter to exchange it with some more ambitious tyro, thereby 
 securing safety in my insignificance, and escaping the 
 penalty consequent upon the treachery of an untrained 
 memory, which, undisciplined by time and experience, is 
 very apt to fly at the most critical moment. It was so, at 
 all events, in my^ase, as the endeavor to give utterance, 
 before an audience, to the few lines I had learned, invaria- 
 bly filled me with such trepidation and positive misery that 
 I very soon concluded the greatest amount of success could 
 not compensate for the indescribable horror of what is 
 called " stage fright." 
 
 We had a frequent visitor, one Henry Tuthill by name. 
 This singular person was then a noted celebrity in Dublin, 
 being generally known as Monkey Tuthill, in allusion to 
 
FIRST THEATRICAL EXPERIENCES. 61 
 
 the extravagant nature of his street garments, of which he 
 had a wonderful variety, of every imaginable shade and 
 color. A proud, generous, kind-hearted fellow he was, 
 beyond question, the only weak spot in his composition 
 being that of semi-insanity. He did not belong to our 
 society, — indeed, rather looked upon its humble efforts 
 with the smiling complacency of a proficient in art ; for 
 had he not also seen his name in big type on the bills of 
 the Royal at sundry benefits 1 — with a different result, 
 truly, from that experienced by the Counsellor, — the 
 laughter in his case being real, as he represented certain 
 characters with much cleverness. Harry was always wel- 
 come to us, for the reason that he usually was accompanied 
 by some notable member of the theatre stock, or, more 
 gratifying still, some London exotic, upon whom we looked 
 with the reverential awe such superior creatures seemed to 
 expect from commonplace humanity. But those meteoric 
 visitors, however brilliant, never could outshine the fixed 
 stars of our dramatic firmament in the estimation of the 
 Dublin people, proverbially loyal to their favorites. Henry 
 Tuthill, moreover, was a man to be cultivated, for the 
 reason that he gave the pleasantest kind of suppers three 
 or four evenings in the week, after the performances, and 
 which invariably consisted of a prodigious quantity of red- 
 bank oysters, — an incomparable bivalve, plump, firm, and 
 rich in flavor, a convenient mouthful in size, too, midway 
 between the London native and the American saddle- 
 rock. These were washed down with draughts of Dublin 
 stout, from the pewter, and, after the repast, for the gen- 
 tlemen unlimited tumblers of whiskey-punch, unacquainted 
 with lemon except the thinnest possible peeling of the 
 outer rind, containing sufiicient of the citric oil to give 
 it the epicurean flavor, and, for the ladies, a bowl of hot 
 
62 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 spiced claret, on which floated a roasted lemon stuck full 
 "of cloves. 
 
 At these suppers we were certain to meet the professional 
 celebrities of the moment, both local and foreign. These 
 agreeable symposia were presided over by Mr. Tuthill's 
 mother, a delightful old lady, and as fond of theatricals as 
 her son. 
 
 It was at one of her entertainments that I was favored 
 with an introduction to a couple of individuals who after- 
 wards, at an important turning-point in my life, were- the 
 means of determining its onward course. One was Madam 
 Vestris, then in the zenith of her fame ; the other, a charm- 
 ing young fellow and an excellent singer, named Melrose. 
 # * * * * 
 
 [The fragment of Brougham's Autobiography ends here j 
 but the following synopsis of his career — written by him- 
 self, at my request, and given to me by him in 1868 — 
 serves to piece out still further the authentic record of 
 his life. It will be observed that he states his claim to 
 a joint authorship with Dion Boucicault of " London As- 
 surance " j and the reader will also find, in this off-hand 
 summary, several characteristic touches of his ingenuous 
 simplicity and kindly humor. — Ed.] 
 
SYNOPSIS OF BEOUGHAM'S CAEEER 
 
 WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. 
 
 T "R born in Dublin, 1810. Had decent opportunity 
 for a liberal education. Obtained a tolerable 
 amount of knowledge. Does n't himself know how. More 
 probably by absorption than by application. Intended for 
 the surgical persuasion — very much against his organiza- 
 tion and impulses. "Walked "the Peter Street hospital 
 for about eight months. Would very likely have been a 
 lazy, worthless, and unendurable nuisance, if a severe fam- 
 ily and pecuniary misfortune had not electrified him into 
 personal exertion. Drifted accidentally into the histrionic. 
 Made his debut at the Tottenham Theatre, London, in 
 1830, — his first effort being the representation of some 
 twelve or fourteen parts in "Tom and Jerry," then the 
 sensation of the day. 
 
 Went with Madam Yestris to the Olympic, forming in 
 process of time one of her famous stock company. Took 
 vacation trips to the provinces, for practice, — playing 
 everything, from "grave to gay." His first attempt at 
 composition a burlesque for W. E. Burton, then an actor 
 at the Pavilion Theatre, London; crude, undigested, in 
 fact very bad, but by consequence curiously successful. 
 Wrote numberless forgotten nothings. Migrated with 
 Madam Y. to Covent Garden, remaining there all the time 
 she and C. Mathews had the direction. Wrote " London 
 Assurance," in conjunction with Boucicault, who claimed 
 the entire authorship, according to his usual ungenerous- 
 
64 SYNOPSIS OF BROUGHAM'S CAREER. 
 
 ness. Had to bring an action against D. B., whose legal 
 adviser suggested payment of half the purchase money 
 rather than conduct so damaging a case. 
 
 Managed the Lyceum. Wrote "Life in the Clouds," 
 "Love's Livery," "Enthusiasm," "Tom Thumb the Sec- 
 ond," and, in connection with Mark Lemon, " The Demon 
 Gift." 
 
 Came to America, October, 1842. Opened at Park The- 
 atre, in the palmy days of light houses and heavy gas- 
 bills. Took a starring trip through the country. Made 
 considerable money. Expended it, on a Mississippi steam- 
 boat, in the endeavor to master the intricacies of " draw 
 poker." Arrived at ISTew York a " wiser " and a poorer 
 man. Attached himself to the Burton dynasty. Wrote 
 for his place " Dombey and Son," " Bunsby's Wedding," 
 " The Confidence Man," " Don Csesar de Bassoon," " Van- 
 ity Eair," " The Irish Yankee," " Benjamin Eranklin," 
 "All's Fair in Love," "Irish Emigrant," " Haunted Man," 
 and other " unconsidered trifles." 
 
 Managed Niblo's Garden. Wrote " Home," a domestic 
 fairy tale, and "Ambrose Germaine," for Mile. Blangy. 
 Opened Brougham's Lyceum, Dec. 23, 1850. After a 
 brilliant commencement, the demolition of the building 
 next to the theatre gave it an unsafe appearance, which 
 frightened away the audiences ; and finally a very dear 
 friend, by an adroit but perfectly legal proceeding, got 
 possession of his lease, leaving him with a load of indebt- 
 edness which mortgaged many years of his life-work. He 
 had the satisfaction, however, of paying every dollar, and, 
 as soon as that task was accomplished, thought he was en- 
 titled to take a holiday : so visited Europe, intending only 
 to be absent a few months ; but, the war occurring in the 
 mean time, he determined to remain away as long as it 
 
SYNOPSIS OF brougham's CAREER. 65 
 
 lasted, not wishing to be a witness to the fratricidal strife. 
 Advocated the integrity of the Union throughout, and 
 opposed strenuously the madness of the projected dis- 
 memberment. 
 
 While at his Lyceum wrote " David Copperfield," " The 
 World's Fair," "Faustus," "Spirit of Air," "Eow at the 
 Lyceum," " Actress of Padua," for Miss Cushman. When 
 he was ejected from Broadway, tried the Bowery, but was 
 a little too refined for that lax latitude. Presented the pea- 
 nutters with a magnificent Shakespearian revival, — mount- 
 ing " King John " as it has scarcely ever been given, — Mr. 
 and Mrs. Davenport, Wm. Wheatley, J. B. Howe, and 
 Miss Eeignolds being in the cast, together with one hun- 
 dred and fifty auxiliaries ; scenery by Hilliard, in his best 
 style. No go. Descended to the sensational, with better 
 results. Wrote " The Pirates of the Mississippi," which 
 knocked " the divine Williams " silly. Followed, in quick 
 succession, by " The Gun-maker of Moscow," " The Eed 
 Mask," " Orion the Gold-beater," " Tom and Jerry in 
 America," "The Miller of New Jersey," and such like 
 sops to Cerberus. Singular results of a season of unexam- 
 pled prosperity ! — to the manager, 7iil ; to a neighboring 
 locality, an accession of brown-stone houses. 
 
 Accepted the position, and philosophically enlisted under 
 the "Wallack banner. Wrote, during his servitude, "The 
 Game of Love," " Bleak House," " My Cousin German," 
 "A Decided Case," "The Game of Life," "Pocahontas," 
 " Neptune's Defeat," " Love and Murder," " Romance and 
 Reality," " The Ruling Passion," " Playing With Fire," etc. 
 
 Again joined Burton, at the Metropolitan (Tripler Hall). 
 Wrote for this establishment, " Columbus," " The Musard 
 Ball," "Great Tragic Revival," "This House to be Sold." 
 Burton parted with him rather than advance his salary to 
 
 5 
 
66 SYNOPSIS OF brougham's CAREER. 
 
 $75 a week. Wrote, while in England, "The Duke's 
 Motto," and "Bel Demonio," for Fechter; "The Mystery 
 of Audley Court," and " Only a Clod," for Miss Herbert ; 
 " While there 's Life there 's Hope," played at the Strand 
 Theatre ; " The Might of Eight," at Astley's j " The Golden 
 Dream," at Manchester : also, the words of three ope- 
 ras, — " Blanche de Severs," " The Demon Lovers," and 
 "The Brides- of Yenice"; bushels of songs and miscel- 
 laneous rhymes, together with ambitious endeavors at 
 polkas, waltzes, galops, — notably " The Bobolink," the 
 especial favorite of its season in London. Inflicted society 
 with a couple of volumes, — "A Basket of Chips" and 
 "The Bunsby Papers." 
 
 Is of an indolent nature, and would like to be lazy, if he 
 only had the time and patience to do nothing ; yielding as 
 water under small provocation, but somewhat granity if 
 collided with roughly. Would rather be everybody's friend 
 than anybody's enemy, from sheer selfishness, inasmuch as 
 bearing malice weighs, down the spirits and disturbs diges- 
 tion. Stands five feet eight in his moccasins, and depresses 
 the scale at one hundred and eighty. 
 
A TALK ABOUT THE PAST. 
 
 An account of an interview with Brougham, written in the New 
 York Herald by his friend Mr. Felix G. DeFontaine, gives addi- 
 tional particulars of his life, as taken from the lips, of the veteran 
 himself, and an extract from that bright and truthful narrative may, 
 accordingly, be here incorporated into Brougham's Autobiography. 
 The actor spoke as follows : — 
 
 MY American career, dramatically, commenced in 1842, 
 on the stage of the old Park Theatre, opposite the 
 Astor House, a site now occupied by stores. The Ameri- 
 can stage, at that early day, was in a lamentable condition. 
 I bad remained at Covent Garden during the career of 
 Mme. Vestris. She played some of my early productions. 
 When sbe relinquished the place, I happened to meet Mr. 
 Stephen Price, the manager of the Park, and under an 
 arrangement witb him came to America. We started from 
 Southampton in September. The voyage was pleasant 
 enough, until, one evening, my attention was attracted to 
 the peculiar condition of the sea. You could see the wake 
 of the vessel almost to the edge of the borizon. The 
 weather was calm, the clouds beautiful. It grew darker 
 and darker, however, until there was a fearful husb on the 
 water. I did n't understand it at all, and said, in my inno- 
 cent way, to the second officer, " What a magnificent even- 
 ing ! " His answer, accompanied by a shrug which I 
 afterward recalled, was, " Don't put too much dependence 
 on the night." Sure enough, in a few bours the ship was 
 knocked about like a cbip. We had steamed into a hurri- 
 cane. For ten bours tbe tossing of the sea was terrific, 
 
QS A TALK ABOUT THE PAST. 
 
 and when the moon occasionally rushed across the clouds 
 and disappeared, it seemed as if their great, black mouths 
 had opened to swallow her. I recall the fact that, during 
 all the commotion which occurred, I had no fear. Among 
 the passengers was one who stuttered. In the midst of 
 the turmoil nobody seemed to see him, but he turned up 
 afterward, when people were congratulating themselves, 
 with tears in. their eyes, on their fortunate escape. On 
 being questioned as to his whereabouts during the hurri- 
 cane, he said he was " M-m-m-mostly asleep." — " Did n't 
 you hear the storm*?" — "W-w-was there a storm V — 
 " Of course there was." — " Th-th-that 's very st-t-t-trange." 
 When the others went away, he turned to me and said : 
 " The f-f-fact of it was, J-J-Jack, I heard it all and got 
 sc-c-cared, b-b-but I was in my b-b-b-berth hedging like 
 the d-d-d-devil. I wanted to win on the right s-s-s-side, 
 you see." 
 
 On arriving in this country, I lived at the Astor House, 
 which was then kept by the elder Stetson, and he and his 
 sons ever after were among my dearest friends. The city 
 was, of course, entirely new to me, in climate, people, and 
 surroundings. I particularly remember the fire-flies, which 
 I thought were the result of an atmosphere surcharged 
 with electricity. Somebody told me that they were 
 charged with flashes of lightning. At that time, too, the 
 barbarous custom was prevalent of beating a gong to tell 
 the animals that the feed was ready. 
 
 One of our earliest visits was to the Park Theatre, the 
 company of which was one of the best ever gathered in 
 America, consisting of the two Placides ; Peter Eichings ; 
 young Wheatleigh, then in the vigor of his youth, — an 
 excellent light comedian; John Fisher, the brother of 
 Clara Fisher; James Brown, one of the most versatile 
 
A TALK ABOUT THE PAST. 69 
 
 actors the stage has ever known ; and John Povey, a use- 
 ful man and everybody's friend. With the exception of 
 Brown, I think they were all Americans. Among the 
 ladies were Mrs. Wheatleigh, an admirable " old woman " ; 
 Miss Buloid, afterward Mrs. Abbott ; and Mrs. Knight. 
 The play was "The School for Scandal," and when v/e 
 entered we found an audience of but six people besides 
 ourselves. The arrangements were similar to those which 
 exist now, only that, instead of a parquette, there was a 
 " pit." All told, there might have been a dozen or fifteen 
 present ; but, to make up for the scarcity of spectators, 
 there was an inordinate number of rats, so admirably 
 domesticated that they sat on the ledge of the boxes and 
 looked yoU' squarely in the face without moving a muscle. 
 This was a bad prospect for one who had come to 
 America, and expected an engagement in the following 
 week. Meanwhile, however, I had made the acquaintance 
 of N. P. Willis and General Morris, of the JSTew York 
 Mirror, and through their efforts succeeded in stirring up 
 a little curiosity concerning our presence, so that we opened 
 to a large and friendly house. I remember the play was 
 " Love's Sacrifice," in which my wife played Margaret 
 Elmore, and I played the light comedy part. I didn't 
 make much of an impression at first, but my turn came 
 afterward, in the farce " His Last Legs." In those days 
 the interlude consisted of songs, dancing, &c. The success 
 of the farce seemed to have the effect of making the per- 
 formance at least not a failure, and our first engagement was 
 renewed. It was a moment of supreme delight, I assure 
 you, when, at the end, the treasurer handed me a parcel 
 of bank-bills about the size of a brick. I congratulated 
 myself on the possession of so much filthy lucre, though 
 filthy enough it looked j but when I went to have it ex- 
 
70 - A TALK ABOUT THE PAST. 
 
 changed, it melted away, like my expectations, in tlie most 
 marvellous manner. It was at that time called " wild-cat " 
 money, and I had more of the feline commodity than was 
 conducive to my convenience. Some of us had to pay 
 seventy-five per cent discount ; but enough was left to 
 carry us on, and so we had to be satisfied. 
 
 IsTew York at this time contained only the Bowery 
 Theatre, then under Hamblin, and the Chatham. Mblo's 
 Garden was supposed to be out of town; in fact, Mr. 
 ISTiblo employed a private omnibus to convey people from 
 the Astor House. Think of the distance now ! I remem- 
 ber Mrs. Niblo well. Both husband and wife were models 
 of host and hostess. 
 
 As viewed from the Astor House, N"ew York was 
 bounded on the north by Union Square. The latter was 
 simply a great pile of dirt, with one or two dwellings in 
 the vicinity, and a few farms near by. Greenwich village 
 was in the neighborhood of Eighth Avenue. I used to 
 shoot birds where the Fifth Avenue Hotel now stands. 
 Our cricket ground was in a field somewhere near Thirty- 
 fifth Street, and our suburban drive around the reservoir 
 at Forty-second Street. Third Avenue was then a trotting 
 ground, and a favorite place of resort was " Cato's," who 
 kept, among other things, a popular " shuffle-board." The 
 great peculiarity of the time was the versatility of the 
 drinking. It was my first experience, but, as I have gen- 
 erally managed to economize my tastes and enjoyments 
 through life, I never had a craving for the festive glass, 
 and used it chiefly for the sake of association. With 
 regard to this matter of appetite, you might as well find 
 fault with the color of a man's hair as with this disease, — 
 for it is nothing more, — and the well or virtuous man 
 who is not afflicted deserves no credit. 
 
A TALK ABOUT THE PAST. 71 
 
 From Xew York my wife and I went to Albany. It 
 was in December, and we had no premonition of a sudden 
 change until some time during the night, when the boat, 
 with a sudden shock, ran into a field of ice, and stuck 
 fast. The passengers walked ashore at Yerplanck's ferry, 
 where I secured a sleigh, and with the thermometer 
 twenty degrees below zero started for Albany. 
 
 We managed to reach the city just haK an hour before 
 we went on the stage, and we played '' London Assurance " 
 that night. The manager was then John B. Eice, after- 
 ward the Mayor of Chicago, an honest, independent gen- 
 tleman. At this time the interval from engagement to 
 engagement was like a long jump, and our next experience 
 was in Chicago, and then in St. Louis, where the eccentric 
 Sol Smith was managing. The Western stage was very 
 rough. Everything, in fact, was in its infancy. As I 
 recall the Chicago of those days, it was a dirty place, and 
 consisted principally of Lake Street. Indians were sun- 
 ning themselves on the corners, with here and there a 
 soldier belonging to Fort Dearborn among the loungers. 
 
 The city is familiar to me in all of its phases; — the 
 muddy stage, when mule teams were fished out of the 
 depths with long poles ; the hybrid stage, when the town 
 and many of its edifices were raised six or eight feet with- 
 out displacing a brick ; and finally that which exists at 
 present. While there, it was a question whether I should 
 insure my life or buy some property. After consultation 
 with my wife, — who was always a trustworthy adviser, — 
 I determined to do the latter, and accordingly bought 
 twenty acres of land from a certain Dr. Eagan at the rate 
 of $600 an acre. Pretty hard scratching I had to meet my 
 notes, but eventually they were all paid. Then it was dis- 
 covered that this man had forged his wife's name to the 
 
72 A TALK ABOUT THE PAST. 
 
 warranty deed, so that my purchase was absolutely void. 
 Here was trouble, but fortunately the matter was subse- 
 quently adjusted, and I came into the possession of the 
 property. Then followed the inevitable taxes, assessments, 
 et cetera, and I became "kind of disgusted." Awhile 
 afterward — it was during the war — I went to England, 
 leaving a friend of mine in Chicago, in whom I had every 
 confidence, to represent my interests. He wrote that the 
 country was in a desperate condition, real estate not im- 
 proving, and advised the acceptance of $20,000 for the 
 property. I agreed to the sale, and it took place. On my 
 I'eturn to America in 1868, en route to San Francisco, I 
 stopped at the Sherman House in Chicago, then kept by 
 the Gage Brothers, one of whom asked me incidentally 
 about the property. 
 
 " Why, I sold it eight years ago. Sir." — " The devil ! " 
 said he, looking astonished ; '' for how much ]" — " Twenty 
 thousand dollars." — " Why, man, it 's worth two hundred 
 thousand to-day, and in five years it will be worth half a 
 million." Sure enough, when I drove out with him in the 
 afternoon I found the property laid out in squares, and 
 people buying villa lots at so much a foot where I had 
 purchased by the acre. And so you see how near I came 
 to being a millionnaire. Ah me ! if I had quarrelled with 
 misfortune, I should have been dead long ago. 
 
 Becoming tired of travel, and being of a domestic na- 
 ture, I came to JSTew York to stay, and here produced at 
 the Broadway Theatre, then under Colonel Mann, (on the 
 corner of Leonard Street,) a five-act comedy, entitled, 
 " Eomance and Eeality," which had been offered in Lon- 
 don and refused. It had a very gratifying success, and 
 you may imagine how much more gratified I was when I 
 subsequently played it in London, at the theatre where it 
 
A TALK ABOUT THE PAST. 73 
 
 had been refused by the manager, Mr. Buckstone, and 
 heard him express astonishment at his oversight. On 
 another occasion I oiffered an extravaganza called " Life in 
 the Clouds " to Mme. Vestris, whose specialty was such 
 pieces. Later she sat in the private box of a theatre 
 the night it was played, and sent for me, for I was always 
 a favorite with her. She said, " Why did n't you let me 
 have that piece for my theatre, Mr. Brougham ] " I replied, 
 ^' My dear madam, you had it in your possession for three 
 months." Sometimes, therefore, you see that an error of 
 judgment on the part of a manager is costly. I have 
 no doubt that many a golden opportunity is lost. After 
 all, play-writing is like a lottery, — there are more blanks 
 than prizes. Managers are not inclined to permit those 
 who have not won their spurs to come to the front. 
 
 I then joined Burton's Theatre in Chambers Street as 
 stage manager, at $50 per week, where I produced "Dom- 
 bey and Son," in which Burton made such a great success 
 as Captain Cuttle. He paid me for it a small sum, — I 
 think about $10 a night, — and after three or four weeks 
 said he thought he had done about enough. I answered, 
 "Very well, if you are satisfied, I don't want any more." The 
 play was taken from the stage for a week, but at the end 
 of that time it was reproduced, and held the boards for two 
 seasons, and laid the foundation of Mr. Burton's fortune. 
 Then came " The Serious Family." In this was developed 
 that quality which I seemed to possess of extemporaneous 
 talking to an audience. It occurred in this manner. At 
 the end of the piece the audience invariably called me out for 
 a speech. Sometimes it was one thing, sometimes another, 
 but always a lot of nonsense, born of the moment, until I 
 came to regard it as an intolerable nuisance. I don't know 
 whether Burton liked it or not, but, at any rate, on one 
 
74 A TALK ABOUT THE PAST. 
 
 occasion he rushed on the stage while I was speaking, and, 
 assuming to be very much anno3^ed, exclaimed, " Don't 
 believe a word that comes out of his Irish mouth j he 's so, 
 and so, and so." I don't remember what he did say, but I 
 answered him on the spot, and a war of words followed. 
 The audience fairly yelled with delight, and after that they 
 looked for and demanded that quarrel as a part of the 
 business of the evening. 
 
 I remained at Burton's two seasons, and at the end of 
 that time friends aided me in securing a theatre of my 
 own, in Broadway near Broome, which became known 
 as Brougham's Lyceum. I put all the money I could 
 raise into the enterprise, and borrowed some from E. P. 
 Christy, the old minstrel, for which he required a heavy 
 interest. During the first season it was a brilliant success, 
 but subsequently, owing to architectural changes in the 
 neighborhood, it became necessary for me to assume new 
 obligations. In making a certain loan I signed a paper 
 which I supposed gave me the sole lease of the premises 
 for a series of years. Instead of that, one of the parties 
 took advantage of his legal rights, and, because on the 
 instant I did not furnish $15,000, the amount of his 
 demand, — although a few hours later, my friend. Col. H. J. 
 Stebbins, offered to supply double the sum, — the sheriff 
 entered and took possession of the theatre. I was dum- 
 founded, knocked off my perch ; but it was of no use to 
 cry. I had the satisfaction, however, of knowing that the 
 property passed into the hands of the elder WaUack, who 
 was an experienced manager. I became one of his com- 
 pany, and remained with him as long as I stayed in 
 New York. He gave me a good salary, and in time I was 
 enabled to pay all the indebtedness that had accrued. It 
 mortgaged my exertions for nine years ; but when I finished, 
 
A TALK ABOUT THE PAST. 75 
 
 I felt like a liberated slave, — threw up my hat, and went 
 abroad. There I played at the Haymarket and through 
 the provinces, in my own and other pieces. 
 
 While at Wallack's I had a severe surgical operation 
 performed, which for some time kept me on my back. It 
 was in this interval, with nothing to do but think, that 
 I conceived and wrote " Pocahontas." It did n't make 
 much of a sensation at first, for it was one of those things 
 which had, as it were, to grow upon an audience. Still, 
 it was nicely played, Charles Walcot being Captain John 
 Smith, Peters the Dutchman, Miss Hodson Pocahontas, 
 and so on. The piece was gradually rising in the public 
 estimation, until one evening Mr. Lester Wallack came 
 into the dressing-room, where Walcot and myself were 
 preparing for the performance, with the announcement that 
 Pocahontas was missing, and could not be found anywhere 
 in the city. 
 
 What was to be done under the circumstances we 
 could n't conceive. All sorts of plans were projected, but 
 none would work. At last, in desperation, I said to Wal- 
 cot, '' Suppose we do it without Pocahontas." " Agreed ! " 
 said Charley, who was always bright, quick, and witty ; 
 " we '11 do it anyhow ! " Mr. Wallack went on the stage 
 and made the announcement that, " owing to the absence 
 of Miss Hodson," (the truth is she had eloped with 
 somebody,) "the play would be produced without her, 
 Messrs. Walcot and Brougham having kindly consented to 
 fill her part," &c. For a moment a dead silence reigned ; 
 but, directly, the fia.n of the thing was taken in, and the 
 people fairly screamed. We wenr on. First, Charley 
 would say, " This is what Miss Pocahontas would remark 
 if she were present," and then he would talk to himself. 
 "Where is Pokey?" he would exclaim, to which I would 
 
76 A TALK ABOUT THE PAST. 
 
 reply, " Lost among the icebergs on Broadway. — [Broad- 
 way was then a mass of refrigeration.] — Ah ! but if she 
 were here I know she would answer you in this way," — 
 and then I gave her speech. At the end, when it became 
 necessary to join their hands in matrimony, we didn't 
 know exactly what to do, but, looking around the stage, I 
 saw a broom, and seizing it I boldly advanced to the front, 
 saying as I handed it to Charley, "Take her, my boy, and 
 be happy." It brought the house down, but it was a 
 frightfully dangerous experiment. 
 
 The public, however, wanted it repeated, and it shows 
 what a good-natured body a New York audience is when 
 its sympathetic humor is fairly touched. It is one of the 
 pleasant recollections of that piece that there was scarcely 
 a camp in the army during the war, as I have been told, 
 in which officers and men did not rehearse and enjoy 
 " Pocahontas." 
 
 "Columbus" was produced by Burton, and drew tre- 
 mendous houses. When we shook hands together as 
 John Bull and Brother Jonathan, the applause was won- 
 derful. He was a clever actor, but a close manager. Yet, 
 after all, what good did it do him 1 He made $200,000, 
 and not a twentieth part of it reached his children, — all 
 devoured by lawyers and litigation. I remained at Wal- 
 lack's until I left for Europe, producing a new piece almost 
 every season. 
 
 In fact, I 'm never idle, and always want to be at work. 
 I think my greatest infirmity is that I never have taken 
 sufficient pains with my literary work. . I know my short- 
 comings as well as anybody, and there is no use in conceal- 
 ing them. They are due in a measure to a great facility in 
 composition. I don't have to consult books in order to 
 obtain the groundwork or to fill in the patchwork of a 
 play, or to spur myself up to it. 
 
A TALK ABOUT THE PAST. 77 
 
 The brightest part of my artist life was passed in Wal- 
 lack's Theatre. The management was generous, and the 
 companionship congenial. The pleasantest of my recol- 
 lections are associated with the " Old Shop." 
 
 On my return to America, in 1865, I played a star 
 engagement which proved very remunerative, and would 
 have continued but for the fact that inducements were 
 presented to remain in JSTew York and take control of a 
 theatre which I was assured Mr. Fisk would build for me. 
 When the building was completed, however, I found that 
 I was not my own master ; that capital, not art — that a 
 taste with which I did not sympathize, proposed to take pos- 
 session. The attempt was made to force certain people on 
 me, and make me bear the brunt of a French company, 
 then under the patronage of Mr. Fisk, all of which I 
 believed would be detrimental in a business and moral 
 point of view. I accordingly wished the principal good 
 night, and went away, sustaining a loss of upward of 
 $20,000. But I have n't regretted that. I returned to 
 "Wallack's and wrote " John Garth," so admirably played 
 by Mr. Lester Wallack, because adapted to his lights and 
 shades of character. Mr. Charles Fisher also made a point 
 in it. After this I drifted into the hands of Mr. Daly, who 
 wanted me to disport myself in the character of King 
 Carrot ; but the Grand Opera House, after a costly and 
 disastrous season, closed. Then I went to the Fifth 
 Avenue, where I expected to produce some new plays; 
 but inasmuch as Mr. Daly is a clever dramatist I missed 
 an opportunity there. 
 
 Finally, I came to the conclusion that I was lingering 
 rather long around the footlights, and that it was better 
 for me, while I was yet in health and had not altogether 
 lost my ability to afford gratification to an audience, to 
 
78 A TALK ABOUT THE PAST. 
 
 take leave of the stage, in a series of plays of my own. I 
 have just finished the first act of an original and allegoric 
 fairy tale, in the Pocahontas vein, for which Mr. E. E. Eice, 
 the composer of '' Evangeline," has written the music. 
 
 I have passed through the worst and the best portions 
 of the history of the American drama. When I began, I 
 found the stage in a bad condition, not from the lack of 
 good actors and actresses, for there was plenty of them, 
 but from a want of public attendance and popular appre- 
 ciation. The appetite had not been stimulated by adven- 
 titious means. Formerly a mere advertisement was the 
 only notification of a theatrical performance. Now We 
 are in the era of posters, — of Brobdingnagian type, pic- 
 tures and pictorial efi'ects, — fences covered with acres of 
 ink, — and they seem to have become a necessity of the 
 profession. No matter who the celebrity may be, amateur 
 or veteran, it 's a part of the abominable outlay. It 's an 
 ill wind, however, that, blows nobody good. The wood- 
 engravers have made a fortune, and the printers have come 
 in for a share that would make their brethren of the last 
 generation envious. Artists of real ability have striven 
 against this influence, but at last they have had to swim 
 with the current. 
 
 Circuses taught us that lesson first. In the time of 
 Eichardson's show in England, everything was outside — 
 on canvas ; nothing within. It was simply a swindling 
 superficiality, on paper, of fat women, monsters, snakes, 
 and abnormal beasts. But it drew the crowd. The crowd 
 saw a cheap collection of curiosities, and in half an hour 
 gave place to another. So our theatre bill boards have 
 become almost like a show at a fair. 
 
 Many other influences have affected the stage. The 
 war, for instance, let loose all sorts of people who never 
 
A TALK ABOUT THE PAST. 79 
 
 thoiiglit of being actors before. Some of them acquired their 
 first dramatic experience through recitations around the 
 camp-fire. Others, half starved, drifted into local theatres, 
 and there caught a smattering of the confidence and art 
 that belong to the boards. Then again the variety business 
 has had its effect. Men and women have double-shuffled 
 into places on the stage, where twenty years ago they 
 never would have been heard of. Making a little pecu- 
 niary headway, some ingenious body may have written a 
 play for them that has hit the popular fancy, and it is 
 astonishing to observe the success with which they have 
 been received. Of course there are exceptions to the rule. 
 But where there is one who wins, hundreds fail. In part, 
 the public is to blame for this condition of affairs. It 
 has been so highly stimulated by cheap champagne, that it 
 fails to recognize the real article. It has almost lost the 
 patience to sit and see performed throughout a first-class 
 artistic drama. When Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble 
 were at the zenith of their fame, they were obliged to 
 produce " Blue Beard," and bring an elephant on the stage. 
 That's the trouble with us now. We have too much 
 elephant, and, intelligent as this generation has become, it 
 seems to me that it should give its best praise to higher 
 things. We pay high prices for small matters. 
 
 It is a custom to decry the theatrical profession ; but, if 
 you win take the pains to investigate, you will find fewer 
 crimes rightfully laid at its door than elsewhere. People 
 behind the footlights have little time to be vicious. It is a 
 strong light which blazes on the throne ; it is a stronger 
 light which blazes upon actors ; but taking the thousands 
 of instances of iniquity which may be drawn from social 
 life, where diabolism reigns so boldly, I think that our 
 profession wiU stand the test of the comparison. As a 
 
80 EXTEACTS FKOM BROUGHAM'S DIARIES. 
 
 class, "we are laborious. Our mornings are devoted to study 
 and rehearsals, our evenings to acting, and we have n't the 
 time to be very wicked. In fact, speaking generally, the 
 vices of the theatrical profession end where the crimes of 
 some of the ministers begin. 
 
 EXTEACTS FEOM EEOUGHAM'S DIAEIES. 
 
 [During many years of his active professional career, 
 as author and actor, Brougham kept a memorandum diary. 
 The greater part of it, however, would seem to have been 
 destroyed by him, — as the record covering the period 
 from January 1, 1855, to December 31, 1877, although 
 known to have existed, has not been found. From the 
 fragment that remains a few Extracts have been selected, 
 for use in this place. The entries are disjointed, sketchy, 
 and barren of thought ; but they have a flavor of the 
 "writer's character, and perhaps they help to suggest the 
 picture of what manner of man he was, and what sort of 
 life he lived. — Ed.] 
 
 1853. 
 
 Five-act Comedy : " Game of Life " (successful). 
 
 Farce : " Love and Murder." 
 
 Irish stories : " Ned Geraghty " ; " The Fairy Circle " ; 
 "The Warning"; "Temptation"; "Elopement"; "Le- 
 gend of St. Patrick." 
 
 Host of small articles. 
 
 Four-act piece : " Bleak House " (successful). 
 ' Five-act play : " All 's Fair in Love," — altered from 
 "The Page." 
 
EXTRACTS FROM BROUGHAM'S DIARIES. 81 
 
 Wrote, during the Dianian interregnum : — JN'ot much, 
 theatrically, being mainly busy at the devilish Lantern, — 
 a mistake into which I entered con amove. 
 
 The Lantern, after being kept alive for eighteen months, 
 exploded, June, 1853, costing the unfortunate subscriber 
 about $4,000 ! 
 
 * * # * * # 
 
 Kept no diary since 1852, when, after a disastrous 
 season, had to surrender the Lyceum to my friend Major 
 Eodgers, who will, probably, be induced to do me justice 
 at the arrival of the Greek Kalends. Mr. Wallack took 
 the theatre, and opened it in October, 1852, since when 
 I have lived a quiet, laborious life, up to my under lip in 
 debt, but getting out by degrees, — " Bent, but not broken," 
 — waiting, like Micawber, for *' something to turn up." 
 
 *^ •^ ^£. ^ K 
 
 tT -TP TtT TV" 
 
 1854. — January. 
 
 January \st, Sunday. — Saw old year out, as usual, 
 with Annette and sundry friends. Hope for better luck 
 this year, with the blessing and help of Heaven. 
 
 2d. — Sent five act play, " All 's Fair in Love," to 
 New Orleans. To receive third of benefit. 
 
 Note : Never heard a word about it. 
 
 February. 
 ^th, Monday. — Stevens killed, — sTcylarhing, 
 9th, Thursday. — Began new comedietta for Blake and 
 Lester. German subject. 
 11^^. — Mr. Hunt died. 
 12th. — Stevens and Hunt buried at Greenwood. 
 
 April. 
 5th, Wednesday. — Barry left for Europe to obtain 
 novelty to open the new Boston theatre. 
 
 6 
 
82 EXTRACTS FROM BROUGHAM'S DIARIES. 
 
 Qth. — Mrs. Blake's benefit. Busy about Fund dinner. 
 
 8if/i. — Took a drive with Annette to Crystal Palace. 
 Wrote article for Fund. 
 
 ^th. — Wrote part of "Cousin German." 
 
 10th. — Sixth anniversary dinner of the American 
 Dramatic Fund, at Astor House. Can't go ; have to act. 
 " Penelope's Web," first time. !N"ot very bright. 
 
 11th. — Pinished "Cousin German." 
 
 l^th. — Mrs. Conway's benefit. A severe snow-storm. 
 Settled to take house in Broome Street, — three years' 
 lease. 
 
 IQth, Sunday. — At home, writing " Eed Mask." Great 
 snow-storm. Dr. Mackenzie spemt the evening ; did n't 
 get off his pins till two o'clock. 
 
 11th. — Snowing still. Eehearsed " I^o. 1. Pound the 
 Corner." 
 
 ld>th. — "]!!^o. 1. Pound the Corner," first night; suc- 
 cessful. Pine weather. 
 
 21st. — Annette's benefit. "Game of Life," 22d time. 
 " Immediate Satisfaction" : successful, but not liked by 
 the manager. Pine house ; $700 (nearly). 
 
 22d. — Wrote Ode for Crystal Palace opening, by 
 Barnum. 
 
 23c?. — Wrote second Ode for opening of Crystal Palace. 
 
 2 6 if A. — Great fire in Broadway; many firemen killed, 
 by falling of wall. 
 
 21th. — " Hearts at Pault," first time ; pretty good. 
 Very bad storm. 
 
 May. 
 
 1st, Monday. — Moved to 502 Broome Street. 
 10th. — Arranged to go to Philadelphia, with Blake; 
 ^share after |125 and half benefit. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM BROUGHAM'S DIARIES. 83 
 
 I8th. — " A Mce Firm," — failure. 
 
 24^A. — Charles Wallack's benefit. "The Scholar," 
 "Eent-Day." 
 
 30fh. — Blake's benefit. " Old Heads and Young 
 Hearts," "Last Man." Bad rain-storm, — spoiled the 
 house. 
 
 June. 
 
 19tk, Monday/. — Last night of season. 
 20th. — Retrospect : — 
 
 Eeceived $5,934.39 
 
 Expended 5,582.00 
 
 $ 352.39 
 
 Paying off debts on old Lyceum, and doing up new 
 house, &c., gives me a poor show at the end of the season. 
 Travelled to Philadelphia. Terribly hot. 
 
 2l5^, Wednesday. — At Philadelphia. " Eivals." Bad 
 house j weather fearfully hot. Shared nix. 
 
 22d. — " Poor Gentleman." StiU excruciatingly hot. 
 Small share. 
 
 25th. — Dined with John Drew. 
 26th. — " Game of Life." Pair. 
 
 28?^^. — Benefit. " Game of Life," " Sketches in India." 
 $ 1 88, — great for here / 
 
 July. 
 
 4:th, Tuesday. — Independence day. About twenty 
 people in all ! 
 
 18^/i. — Settled with Wallack for next season: $100 a 
 week ; one half benefit and one third ; pieces as before. 
 
 23c?, Sunday. — Lysander Thompson died. 
 
 27i^A.— Finished "Black Mask." 
 
 ZOtJi. — Sam Mchols, Burdick, and Burton to dinner. 
 
84 EXTRACTS FROM BROUGHAM'S DIARIES. 
 
 August. 
 
 9th. — Began version of " Actress of Padua," for Ma- 
 tilda Heron. 
 
 12th. — Sold copy of " Eomance and Eeality " to Drew 
 for $50. 
 
 15th. — "A Bachelor of Arts " : a hit. 
 
 23d, Wednesday. — Sent second act of " Mother's Gift " 
 to Xew York. 
 
 26th. — Last night of engagement. 
 
 3l5^. — At home. Eeceived at Philadelphia, $1,359. 
 
 September. 
 
 5th. — Very hot. Went to the Broadway Theatre 
 with Annette. Saw Camille, by Miss Davenport : well 
 acted. 
 
 lith. — "She Stoops to Conquer": To7i^ Lumpkin,, 
 first time ; did n't please myself. 
 
 26th. — Played at Castle Garden, for Irish orphans. 
 About 9,000 people, — 3,000 turned away. 
 
 October. 
 
 11th. — Heard of total loss of Arctic, with several hun- 
 dred souls. City wrapped in gloom. 
 
 13iJ^. — Pinished f'Tisbe." 
 
 Idth. — " London Assurance." Behd of Miss Eosa Ben- 
 nett. Eosa made a hit. JSir Harcourt, first time; did 
 well. 
 
 2^th. — Began " Bride of Lammermoor," for Mrs. Alex- 
 ina Baker. 
 
 J^ovember. 
 
 Zd, Friday. — Finished version of " Bride of Lammer- 
 moor." 
 
 5th. — Home, working on " Jane Eyre." 
 
EXTRACTS FROM BROUGHAM'S DIARIES. 85 
 
 d)th. — Dined at Astor House j settled the business of 
 Mrs. Thompson's benefit. 
 
 16^^. — Eeceived |300 from Baker for "Bride of Lam- 
 mermoor." 
 
 2lst. — First night of "Weeds among the Flowers": 
 not very successful. 
 
 2*1 th. — Made a sensation in Andrew Wiley. 
 
 December. 
 
 2d, Saturday. — First meeting of the Garrick Club : 
 Col. Joe Alston in chair. 
 
 4:th. — Goldfinch, first time ; fair. 
 
 Wi. — Meeting of Shakespeare Club. 
 
 Wih. — " Gentleman from Ireland." A hit. 
 
 \Zth. — Began "Night and Morning." Extremely dif- 
 ficult to dramatize. 
 
 21th. — Finished "JSTight and Morning." Written in 
 about eight days. 
 
 Zlst. — Last day of the year. In good health, tolerable 
 spirits, sincerely grateful for all the comforts and blessings 
 we have both received ; patient under the privations, and 
 hopeful for the future. 
 
 Wrote this year: "Old Time and New"; "Love and 
 Murder"; "Cousin German"; "Ode for Opening of C. P."; 
 "Red Mask"; "Mother's Gift"; Weeds and Flowers" 
 (altered); "Bride of Lammermoor"; "Night and Morn- 
 ing"; " Jane Eyre " (altered). 
 
 'I*' ^ ^ 33P 9|? 
 
 1878. — January. 
 \st, Tuesday. — 1877 is dead and buried, thank God! 
 It stole away my money, my watch, my health, and very 
 nearly my life. I begin the new year more hopefully 
 
86 EXTEACTS FROM BROUGHAM'S DIARIES. 
 
 through the very generous assistance of my good friends, 
 with improving health and a brighter prospect. 
 
 17th. — The "Grand Testimonial Benefit" for J. B. 
 Afternoon and evening : Academy of Music. A brilliant 
 occasion ; all the theatrical celebrities volunteered. 
 
 February. 
 
 4:th, Monday/. — Rehearsed " Money " at "Wallack's. 
 Heartily glad to be at the old shop once more, 
 
 9 th. — Was to have dined at the McCullough dinner, at 
 the Lotos, but too ill to go. 
 
 lith. — Matinee benefit at Wallack's ; $1,000 return. 
 
 18fh. — Made my re-entrance as Jfr. Stout, and had an 
 overwhelming welcome from a large audience. Got through 
 much better than I expected. 
 
 19th. — Second night of "Money." Another fine wel- 
 come. 
 
 21st. — Heard about the distribution of the benefit 
 money. I am to have an annuity of $1,400 a year, which 
 gives me $28 a week. 
 
 March. 
 
 2d, Saturday. — G. F. Eowe's version, " The Exiles," 
 makes a success. Bravo, George ! 
 
 3d. — • Feeling better. Letter from me in Herald ex- 
 plaining things : hope my duns will take the hint. 
 
 8th. — Drove in Central Park with Boucicault. 
 
 18^^. — " London Assurance." Hit, as Max Harhaway. 
 Dion called ; told me he would have a part for me in the 
 play for next season. Contracted with E. E. Eice to have 
 "Lotos" ready by 1st of May. Terms, $150 a week, of 
 eight performances. 
 
 30^A. — " London Assurance." Concluded my engage- 
 
EXTRACTS FROM BROUGHAM'S DIARIES. 87 
 
 ment, which I thought was for the season, and I am dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 April. 
 
 1st. — " Diplomacy " produced at Wallack's ; a brilliant 
 success. Annual meeting of the Lotos Club ; I am elected 
 a life-member. 
 
 2d. — Received my annuity papers, $340 a quarter, from 
 1st of July, proximo. No fear of the almshouse, when I 
 get to be ninety or a hundred ! 
 
 3d. — Saw "Diplomacy" at Wallack's. Avery inter- 
 esting play. 
 
 6th. — Dinner to Bayard Taylor. Did not go; too 
 miserable. 
 
 Sth. — Yery down in the mouth ; in bad form to write 
 comic songs. Lord forgive me, I went in the evening to 
 see " Uncle Tom's Cabin," a religious black burlesque, 
 
 1 Sth. — Went out to get some air j got too much ; caught 
 cold from change of temperature. 
 
 15th. — Yisited the armory of the 22d Eegiment, with 
 Cols. Porter and Lomas ; saw a very efficient drill ; was 
 cordially received by the boys, and made a speech. 
 
 May. 
 
 9th, Thursday. — My birthday ! Sick and sicksty-eight. 
 Finished "The Princess of Cashmere." Bad title. Not 
 mine, however. 
 
 ****** 
 
 1879. — Januaet. 
 
 1st — Saw beastly old 1878 out, at the Westmoreland, 
 with Mac, Col. Porter, and Hill. God grant we may have 
 better luck this one ! 
 
88 EXTRACTS FROM BROUGHAM'S DIARIES. 
 
 2d. — Saw Miss Claxton in Eeade's " Double Marriage." 
 A very interesting play. 
 
 15th. — Health, better. Kever give up the ship while 
 there 's a shot in the locker ! 
 
 Idth. — Spent the evening at Wallack's : George Free- 
 man, Dr. Kenny, Old Tom and cigars. 
 
 22d. — Very much better, which is fortunate, as I have 
 to enact Sir Lucucs, at Il^iblo's, to-morrow afternoon, for 
 tbe benefit of the murdered policeman's family. 
 
 23d. — Benefit for family of the murdered policeman, at 
 Mblo's. One act of " Eivals," by our company. An enor- 
 mous house. 
 
 30th. — Getting better. Went to see George Edgar in 
 Lear. A wonderful performance for an amateur, or, in- 
 deed, for anybody ! 
 
 FEBRTJiART, 
 
 2c?. — Note from Dion, asking me to play the Qf Grady 
 in " Arrah-na-Pogue," at the Boucicault reunion. 
 
 Uh. — Eestudying O" Grady: rather a pill, but must 
 be swallowed. 
 
 Wth. — Played the G* Grady in " Arrah-na-Pogue," with. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Boucicault, and had a brilliant reception, — 
 which the next day's Sun gave to John Gilbert. 
 
 2Uh. — Saw " Spellbound," with. Col. Lomas. An un- 
 mistakable failure, I regret to say. 
 
 March. 
 
 l5^, Saturday. — Travelled to Boston. Left 11 a. m., 
 arrived at 6.15, at Adams House. 
 
 2d. — Dined (with Dion), in company with Mr. Whit- 
 tier and friends, — a glorious gathering of clever cusses. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM BROUGHAM'S DIARIES. 89 
 
 M. — " Arrah-na-Pogue," at the Boston. Eather tired, 
 but did well for a veteran of the Old Guard. 
 
 Ath. — A fine house at the Boston ; had another fine 
 reception. Invited to supper at the Somerset Club, with 
 Dion ; he went, but discretion kept me away. Could not 
 get a single morning paper, — all bought up by the " Pina- 
 fore " people. 
 
 Sth. —Started for ^w York. 
 
 Uth. — Saw " Through the Dark," at the Pifth Avenue, 
 — an attack of dramatic lunacy in five fits, utterly beyond 
 my poor comprehension. 
 
 4» April. 
 
 5th. — Settled to migrate, this day week. 
 
 Sth, Tuesday. — Sick, dull, and stupid. Made up the 
 little mind I have to retire quietly from the stage. Have 
 had many humiliating indications that I have become a 
 superfluous lagger. 
 
 12th. — Told Wallack it was my intention to stop act- 
 ing, and devote my time to writing. He kindly said that, 
 if he should want me in any play, he would give me an 
 opportunity to revisit the glimpses of the foot-lights. 
 
 20th. — Eeading French plays, — " Le Parvenu," " Les 
 Pays des Amour," and " Les Sceptiques " : no good, any of 
 them. 
 
 Mat. 
 7th, Wednesday. — Moved to 17 East 15th Street. 
 
 August. 
 
 6th. — Must be ready for the meeting of Boucicault's 
 company at Booth's, on the 14th inst. 
 
 11^^, Monday. — Wrote to Mr. , who is in mor- 
 tal fear of losing the royalty on my plays. He deserves 
 
&0 EXTRACTS FROM BROUGHAM'S DIARIES. 
 
 but little consideration from me ; nevertheless, I shall not 
 interfere, though I am as badly off as he is. 
 
 14:th. — Reading and rehearsal of Boucicault's new play, 
 — one act of it. I fear it is of too quiet an order to sat- 
 isfy the New York audience. 
 
 1 7th. — Studying Felix, after a fashion ; cannot con- 
 centrate my mind on the work. 
 
 ^Ist. — More rehearsal. My capacity for study is very 
 much deteriorated, — the consequence of a year of sickness 
 and ill-luck. Took a long ride, in three horse-cars. 
 
 30^A. — Mght rehearsal. Play very loose and disjointed j 
 a very doubtful venture. 
 
 September. 
 
 ^th. — First night of Boucicault's play, " Rescued." The 
 audience did not forget the old man ; had a most cordial 
 welcome. 
 
 \Wi. — "Rescued," ninth time. The sensation scene 
 went properly, for the first time. 
 
 14:th. — Dion dined his entire company ; had a delight- 
 ful time. The company to give him a return dinner next 
 Sunday. 
 
 20^A. — " Rescued " twice, 17th and 18th times. The 
 best audience yet, and best performance. 
 
 21s^. — Dion told me he intended to revive " The Duke's 
 Motto." 
 
 2ith. — "Rescued," 21st time. Had what might have 
 been a serious accident, by stepping into a plug-hole for 
 watering the horse of a 23d Street car, it being very 
 dark, and no light to give warning of danger. It was 
 merciful that I did not break my leg. — John Gilbert sick 
 with typhoid fever. 
 
 2^th. — Studying Coitier in " Louis XL" 
 
EXTRACTS FEOM BROUGHAM'S DIARIES. 91 
 
 October. 
 
 1st J Wednesday. — Studying GoitieTf — lie 's a pill of the 
 blank verse order. 
 
 2d. — Eehearsed 1st and 2d acts of "Louis XI." 
 
 bth. — Hammering away at Coitier ; think I have coiled 
 round, but not quite swallowed, the cuss. 
 
 ll^A. — Production of " Louis XI." Brilliant reception 
 of *''Dot" Boucicault. Irish intonation — in fact, brogue 
 — very prominent. 
 
 Ibth. — Dion sick of the part, and of the public's non- 
 appreciation of the theatre. Play changed to " Kescued," 
 38th time. 
 
 1 ^th, Thursday. — Eeceived the pleasant intimation that 
 the season wiU be terminated the 22d of next month. 
 
 2\sty Tuesday. — "Eescued," 44th time. Eose Coghlan 
 left. 
 
 22c?, Wednesday. — " Eescued," 45th. Wretched house ; 
 Dion very ill. 
 
 25^A, Saturday. — " Eescued," 48th. Matinee. Ghast- 
 liest 1 ! ! — Evening. Finished the brief and most disas- 
 trous season, with a house about half-full, — manifestly 
 dead-heads. Seven weeks and two days. The whole 
 company left to shift for themselves at the beginning of 
 winter, with all opportunities for employment filled. What 
 I shall do, God knows. 
 
 26^A, Sunday. — Suffering from great mental depres- 
 sion. 
 
 November. 
 
 M, Monday. — MoYed to 81 West 12th. Thanks to 
 Dion's houses, have come down to hard-pan, but am higher 
 up in the world than ever. 
 
92 EXTRACTS FROM BROUGHAM'S DIARIES. 
 
 1880. — January. 
 
 Is^, Thursday. — Had very jolly Il^ew Year's dinner, — 
 with !N'an and Laura, — hoping we shall have better luck 
 this year. 
 
 hih, Monday. — Finished the renovation of four plays : 
 *'The Witch of Domremi," "A Wilful Woman," ''The 
 Iron Cross," " The Irish Brigade." 
 
 8^/i, Thursday. — Had talk with French, about my fare- 
 well of the stage ; heartily tired, as I am, of the surround- 
 ings. 
 
 ^th, Friday. — Sent the four plays to French, to be 
 type-written. I wonder if I shall have a slice of luck out 
 of any of them. I sincerely hope so, for I need it wo- 
 fuUy. 
 
 19^A, Monday. — Began writing " Home Eule." A great 
 deal depends upon its success. That 's so ! 
 
 April. 
 29^A, Thursday. — Took lodging at 60 East 9th Street. 
 
BROUGHAM'S WILL. 
 
 I John Brougham, of the city, countj, and State of 
 'New York, actor and playwright, do make, publish, 
 and declare this to be my last will and testament. I 
 give, devise, and bequeath to my faithful friend, James A. 
 Ship, all my wardrobe, private and theatrical. I give, de- 
 vise, and bequeath all the rest and residue of my property, 
 both real and personal, together with all my right, title, 
 and interest in and to my plays, and the copyrights per- 
 taining thereto, to Annie D eland Finegan (whose maiden 
 name was Annie Deland), and I declare that said property 
 shall be for her sole and separate use and benefit, and that 
 her receipt, notwithstanding her present or any future 
 marriage, shall be a valid and effectual discharge of the 
 same. To all my friends I leave kind thoughts. I ap- 
 point Annie Deland Finegan and Laura Phillips the 
 executrixes of this will. 
 
 In witness whereof, I, John Brougham, have, to this, 
 my last will and testament, subscribed my hand, this 28th 
 day of May, 1880. 
 
 John Brougham. 
 Witness : 
 
11. 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 [THE SKETCHES HEEE REPRINTED, WITH A FEW EMENDATIONS, 
 FROM THE NEW FORK TRIBUNE AND HARPERS WEEKLY, AND 
 THE TWO POEMS, ENTITLED "HONOR TO BROUGHAM" AND 
 "FAREWELL TO BROUGHAM," WERE WRITTEN BY THE EDITOR 
 OF THIS VOLUME, WHO ALSO CONTRIBUTES THE CHAPTER OF 
 '' RECOLLECTIONS AND RELICS."] 
 
SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 SKETCH OF BEOUGHAM'S CAEEER. 
 
 [From the New York Tribune, Jwie 8, 1880.] 
 
 THOSE who have known and loved John Brougham — 
 and of him truly it may he said " none knew him 
 but to love him " — should he grateful that his earthly 
 pilgrimage is over. Eor a long time he had been in sick- 
 ness and sorrow. The malady from which he suffered was 
 very painful, and it was incurable. He was more than 
 seventy years of age ; he had seen many of his friends 
 drop away ; he had outlived his once brilliant popularity 
 with the public ; he was, without being aware of it, losing 
 his intellectual vigor ; and the circumstances of his fortune 
 Were such as constantly preyed upon his mind. He still 
 labored with his pen, and he still cherished plans for the 
 future ; but these labors were mostly frustrated by the 
 weakness of age, and these plans were mostly of an im- 
 practicable character, and destined to disappointment. 
 There seemed to be nothing left for him but trouble ; 
 and therefore the hearts to whom he was endeared should 
 find their comfort in the thought that his toil-worn, sensi- 
 tive, suffering spirit is now beyond the reach of earthly 
 care and pain. 
 
 ** Alive, we would have changed his lot, — 
 We would not change it now." 
 7 
 
98 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 The life of John Brougham, notable for many things, 
 has been especially remarkable for two qualities, — its 
 brilliancy and its goodness, Fifty years of it he passed 
 upon the stage ; and, both as actor and author, his influ- 
 ence always tended to gladden and sweeten the human 
 experience of which he was a part. The reason of this 
 was, that back of the actor and author there was a true 
 man. His heart was large, warm, and charitable ; his mind 
 was eager, hopeful, cheerful, and actively creative ; his 
 instincts were virtuous and kindly ; his temperament was 
 gentle ; and his consideration for others, — which extended 
 to the humblest of living creatures, was thoughtful of the 
 most minute point of delicacy, found excuse for every fault, 
 and gave forgiveness for almost every wrong, — sprang 
 from the spontaneous desire that everybody should be 
 happy. His thoughts, and very often his talk, dwelt upon 
 the great disparity of conditions in society, the struggles 
 and sufferings of the poor, and the relation of evil to the 
 infirmities of human nature. He did not live for himself 
 alone, but he was profoundly and practically interested in 
 others ; and this feeling, as potent as it was genuine, ani- 
 mated all his life, colored all his work, and so commended 
 him to the responsive sympathy and good-will of his gen- 
 eration that his name, on every lip, was the name of a 
 friend. 
 
 In his writings as in his acting the characteristic quality 
 was a sort of off-hand dash and glittering merriment, a 
 commingling of bluff, breezy humor with winning man- 
 liness. The atmosphere of his works was always that 
 of sincerity, but it never had the insipidity of strenuous 
 goodness. He was highly intellectual, and at times poetic 
 and romantic ; but he was human, and he was gay, and he 
 loved to saturate life with the Celtic sparkle. His rich, 
 
SKETCH OF BROUGHAM'S CAREER. 99 
 
 rolling voice, with a touch of the brogue in it, sounds in 
 all he wrote, and his happy, infectious laughter, fur all 
 who recall his acting, will ring on in memory as long as 
 they shall live. The scope and variety of his labors was 
 great. He threw himself with the keenest zest into the 
 passing moment; he dreaded no task; he shunned no 
 emergency ; he attempted all sorts of composition to 
 which either his agile fancy impelled him, or which the 
 need of the hour exacted ; and, while he was not equally 
 successful in every line of literature or every walk of the 
 stage, he produced a surprising quantity of sterling dra- 
 matic work, and he acted many and diversified parts in 
 an admirable manner. During the first twenty years of 
 his life, — which were passed in and around the city of 
 Dublin, where he was born. May 9, 1810, — he was pro- 
 vided with opjDortunities of liberal education ; and these 
 he improved, acquiring knowledge, however, as he has said 
 of himself, rather by absorption than application ; and all 
 his life he was a reader and a student ; so that his labors 
 were based on a solid foundation of good mental discipline. 
 In other words, he was a scholar; and the operations of 
 his mind, however impulsive and erratic they sometimes 
 may have been, were usually guided and restrained by that 
 knowledge of the intellectual field, and that sense of pro- 
 portion and harmony, of fitness and of taste, which only 
 scholarship can give. 
 
 He began life as a student of surgery, and for several 
 months walked the Peter Street Hospital, Dublin ; but a 
 sudden stroke of adversity deprived him of the prospect of 
 fortune, and threw him upon his own resources, and he 
 thereupon went up to London, and by chance became an 
 actor. This was an accident ; for, when quite destitute 
 of money, he had offered himself as a cadet in the East 
 
100 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 India Company's service, and had only been restrained 
 from enlisting by the recruiting officer, — a stranger, but 
 a kind old man, — who gave him a guinea, and urged him 
 to seek some other and fitter employment. A chance en- 
 counter with an old acquaintance, within an hour or two 
 after this incident occurred, led to his engagement at what 
 was then the Tottenham Street Theatre, afterward the 
 Prince of Wales's ; and there, in July, 1 830, acting six 
 characters in the old play of " Tom and Jerry," he began 
 that sparkling professional career which death has closed, 
 and which now is only a memory. In 1831, he was a 
 member of the company organized by Madam Yestris 
 for the London Olympic, and his name appears in the 
 cast of " Olympic Revels," ("Mars, Mr. Brougham,") in 
 the first full bill issued by that once famous manager. 
 From the Olympic he made professional trips into the 
 provinces, and played all sorts of parts. His first play 
 was written at this time, and was a burlesque, prepared 
 for William E. Burton, who then was acting in London, 
 at the Pavilion Theatre. When Vestris removed from 
 the Olj^mpic to Covent Garden, Brougham followed her 
 thither, and there he remained as long as Yestris and 
 Charles Mathews were at the head of the theatre ; and 
 it was while there that he cooperated with Dion Bouci- 
 cault in writing the comedy of " London Assurance." In 
 1840, he became manager of the London Lyceum, which 
 he conducted during summer seasons, and he wrote for 
 production at this time, ''Life in the Clouds," "Love's 
 Livery," "Enthusiasm," "Tom Thumb the Second," and, 
 in conjunction with Mark Lemon, " The Demon Gift." 
 
 His American career began in 1842, when, as O'Calla- 
 ghan, in " His Last Legs," he came forward at the old Park 
 Theatre in New York. Those days, he said, were "the 
 
SKETCH OF BBOUGHAM'S CAREER. 101 
 
 palmy days of light houses and heavy gas-bills." A star- 
 ring tour of the country followed, and, incidentally, the 
 comedian lost all his earnings while endeavoring, aboard 
 a Mississippi Eiver steamboat, to learn our national game 
 of " draw-poker." A little later he was employed in Bur- 
 ton's company, in E'ew York, and for Burton he wrote 
 "Bunsby's Wedding," "The Confidence Man," "Don 
 Csesar de Bassoon," "Vanity Fair," "The Irish Yankee," 
 " Benjamin Franklin," " All 's Fair in Love," " The Irish 
 Emigrant," and a play on " Dombey and Son." Still later 
 he managed Mblo's Garden, producing there his fairy tale 
 called " Home," and the play of " Ambrose Germain," 
 written for Mile. Blangy. On December 23, 1850, he 
 opened Brougham's Lyceum, in Broadway, near the south- 
 west corner of Broome Street ; and while there he wrote 
 "The World's Fair," "Faustus," "The Spirit of Air," 
 "Eow at the Lyceum," a dramatization of "David Cop- 
 perfield," and a new version of " The Actress of Padua," — 
 the latter for Charlotte Cushman. The demolition of the 
 building next to his theatre, however, made it appear to 
 be unsafe, and so his business, which had begun well, was 
 seriously injured : and he always said that the misdealing 
 of a false friend took that property out of his hands and 
 left him burdened with debt, — aU of which, however, he 
 subsequently paid. In theatrical management he was al- 
 ways unfortunate; partly because he always acted from 
 principle and never from expediency, partly because he 
 would not consider the caprices of public taste, and partly 
 because he was gentle and yielding in nature. 
 
 From the Lyceum — which afterwards became Wallack's 
 Theatre, and so remained till 1860 — he went to the Bow- 
 ery (July 7, 1856), where he revived "King John," with 
 superb scenery by Hilliard, and with a cast that included 
 
102 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 Edwin L. Davenport, Mrs. Davenport, William Wheatley, 
 J. B. Howe, and Kate Eeignolds ; but this did not suc- 
 ceed ; and he then wrote and produced a large number of 
 Bowery dramas, among which were "The Pirates of the 
 Mississippi," " The Eed Mask " (based on a current tale 
 called " The Gun-maker of Moscow "), " Orion, the Gold- 
 beater," " Tom and Jerry in America," and " The Miller 
 of New Jersey." He then accepted employment in 
 Wallack's company, and for "the veteran's" theatre 
 wrote " The Game of Love," a version of " Bleak House," 
 "My Cousin German," "A Decided Case," "The Game 
 of Life," the famous burlesque of " Pocahontas," "Nep- 
 tune's Defeat," " Love and Murder," " Eomance and Re- 
 ality," " The Puling Passion," and " Playing with Fire." 
 After several seasons at Wallack's, he rejoined Burton, — 
 then at the Metropolitan Theatre, formerly Tripler Hall, 
 and latterly the Winter Garden, in Broadway, nearly oppo- 
 site to Bond Street, — and there he produced his burlesque 
 of " Columbus," " This House to be Sold," and several other 
 plays. In September, 1860, he went to England, where 
 he remained five years. While there, he adapted from 
 the French, for Mr. Eechter, " The Duke's Motto " and 
 "Bel Demonio," and wrote, for Miss Herbert, dramatic 
 versions of "Lady Audley's Secret " and "Only a Clod." 
 He also wrote " While there 's Life there 's Hope," acted 
 at the Strand ; " The Might of Eight," acted at Astley's ; 
 " The Golden Dream," produced at Manchester; the words 
 of three operas, — " Blanche de Nevers," " The Demon 
 Lovers," and " The Bride of Venice," — several songs and 
 poems, and several pieces of music, one of which, "The 
 Bobolink Polka," subsequently became popular. His 
 comedy of " Playing with Fire " was produced at the 
 Princess's Theatre, and he himself acted there, and also 
 
SKETCH OF BKOUGHAM'S CAREER. 103 
 
 at the Lyceum. His reappearance in America was effected 
 on October 30, 1865, at the Winter Garden Theatre, and 
 he never afterwards left this land. He acted in a round of 
 parts at tliat time, beginning with Br. Savage, and con- 
 tinuing with Foxglove in his own " Flies in the "Web," 
 Powhatan, Columbus, and McShane in "The J^ervous 
 Man and the Man of Nerve " ; and he wound up the 
 engagement, which lasted three months, with his drama 
 of " O'Donnell's Mission," in which he acted Roderick 
 O'Donnell. 
 
 In February, 1867, a new piece by Brougham, entitled 
 " The Christian Martyrs," was produced at Earnum's Mu- 
 seum, and in May of the same year he filled a brief en- 
 gagement at the Olympic, appearing as G'Donnell, Captain 
 Guttle, Micawher, and Powhatan. In the following Au- 
 gust he again played there, and at the same time his 
 drama of " Little Nell and the Marchioness," written for 
 Lotta (Miss Charlotte Crabtree) was brought out at Wal- 
 lack's Theatre (August 14, 1867). In the summer of 1868 
 he produced, at the Walnut, in Philadelphia, " Hearts, or 
 the Serpents of Society," and on June 8 in that year he 
 brought forward, at Wallack's Theatre, his melodrama of 
 " The Lottery of Life," and himself acted the chief part. 
 This had a run of nine weeks. In December, that year, 
 his play of " The Emerald Eing," written for Barney Wil- 
 liams, was produced at the Broadway Theatre, — Wallack's 
 old house, — which W^illiams then managed. On January 
 25, 1869, he opened Brougham's Theatre, on the site of 
 what is now the Madison Square Theatre, with a comedy 
 by himself, called " Better Late than Never," — in which 
 he acted Major Fergus GShaughnessy, — and the " Dra- 
 matic Eeview for 1868." He subsequently produced an 
 adaptation called " Irish Stew," and his capital burlesque. 
 
104 SUPPLEMENTAEY MEMOIR. 
 
 in which he enacted Shyloch, entitled "Much Ado ahout 
 a Merchant of Venice." This theatre was taken out of 
 his hands by the owner, the notorious James Fisk, Jr., 
 who behaved in a dishonest, tyrannical, and brutal manner, 
 and, on April 3d, Brougham closed his season, with a per- 
 formance of " His Last Legs." On the 4th, a banquet in 
 his honor was given at the Astor House, and on May 18th 
 he received a farewell benefit, — performances being given 
 at the theatre which is now Haverly's, in Fourteenth 
 Street, and at Niblo's Garden. The attempt to establish 
 Brougham's Theatre was his final effort in management. 
 Since that time he has been connected with various stock 
 companies, but chiefly with Daly's Theatre and with Wal- 
 lack's. Among his later works may be mentioned " The 
 Eed Light," in which he acted at Wallack's Theatre, June 
 6th, 1870 ; "Minnie's Luck," produced at the same house ; 
 "John Garth," given at Wallack's, December 12th, 1871 ; 
 "The Lily of France," brought out, December 16th, 1872, 
 at Booth's Theatre, by Miss Helen Temple, who enacted 
 Joan of Arc ; and "Slander," and " Good Bye," in which 
 he made his last professional tour of the country, in the fall 
 of 1877. In 1852 Brougham edited a bright comic paper 
 in Xew York, called The Lantern, and he published two 
 collections of his miscellaneous writings, entitled " A Bas- 
 ket of Chips," and "The Bunsby Papers." On January 
 1 7th, 1878, he received a testimonial benefit, at the Academy 
 of Music, at which the sum of |10,278.56 was received; 
 and this fund, after payment of the incidental expenses, 
 was settled on him in an annuity, which expired at his 
 death. It was thought that he would live for many years, 
 and the desire and design of his friends, in the arrangement 
 then made, was to insure his protection from want in his 
 old age. He began, years ago, the composition of an " Au- 
 
SKETCH OF BROUGHAM'S CAEEER. 105 
 
 tobiography," at the earnest solicitation of a friend, but 
 this remains unfinished. His last work was a drama, 
 entitled " Home Eule," in which he treated the aspects of 
 political and social affairs in Ireland. His last appearance 
 on the stage was made, as Felix O'Reilley, the detective, 
 in Mr. Boucicault's play of " Eescued," at Booth's Theatre, 
 New York, October 25th, 1879. 
 
 The recital of these facts is indicative of the current of 
 his career, the great vitality and industry by which it 
 was marked, and the variable success with which it was 
 crowned. Actors, more than most of the persons who live 
 by their labor in the realms of art, are necessarily affected 
 by the immediate influences of their time. Their charac- 
 ters, in other words, are to a considerable extent bent 
 and moulded by public opinion and caprice. They feel 
 the necessity of the instant response ; and, accordingly, 
 they are not slow to make that direct appeal in which 
 very often there is more of impulse than of judgment, the 
 tinsel of artifice rather than the pure gold of art. Brougham, 
 like many of his contemporaries, recognized this necessity ; 
 but his sincerity of feeling, his sturdiness of character, his 
 scholar-like taste, and his intense loyalty to the higher 
 principles and best ideals of art were all combined in an- 
 tagonism to worldly prudence and expediency ; and all 
 through the story of his life it is easy to trace, not merely 
 a roving, drifting, careless disposition, — the light-hearted 
 heedlessness and yielding amiability of Goldsmith, whom 
 in some ways he resembled, — but the resolute bent of a 
 mind that spontaneously insisted on going its own way and 
 fulfilling its own laws. There was, indeed, in his intel- 
 lectual existence, no continuity of movement toward a defi- 
 nite goal, clearly seen afar off. But he was born to be a 
 man of letters, a poetic artist, and a wit, and he could 
 
106 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 not, except in a fitful manner, take his cue from his cir- 
 cumstances. His experience, therefore, was often that of 
 conflict with prevailing notions, and, toward the last, of 
 considerable spiritual discontent. 
 
 The fact that fortune always, sooner or later, slipped 
 through his Angers, was doubtless chiefly ascribable to his 
 buoyant Hibernian recklessness of the ordinary precautions 
 of prudence, and to his heedless trust in everybody. He 
 adapted " The Duke's Motto " for Fechter, for instance, and 
 it had a prosperous career in London, but all that he ever 
 received for his work upon it was a box of cigars ; and 
 with transactions of this kind his whole business career 
 was spangled. But, even with a harder temperament, he 
 would still have been at odds with the practical spirit of 
 his time. He had originality as a man, even more than 
 as a writer, and he was often a dreamer in the midst of 
 the battle. Those of his dramatic works in which he him- 
 self took the most pleasure, and in which the student will 
 hereafter discern the most of the man, are tlie burlesque 
 of " Columbus," the blank-verse drama of " The Lily of 
 France," and the comedy of " Playing with Fire." They 
 contain delicate thought, poetic suggestion, sweet-tempered 
 satire, contemplative philosophy, and pathos. He often 
 chose to appear to be, in a mild and elegant way, " the 
 rantin', roarin' Irishman"; he was in fact nothing of the 
 kind, but a pensive moralist, a poetic dreamer, a delicate, 
 sensitive gentleman, as frank and honest as a child, and 
 as gentle as a woman. 
 
 His rank among actors it is difficult to assign. He 
 excelled in humor rather than in pathos or sentiment, and 
 was at his best in the expression of comically eccentric 
 character. Among the parts that will live in memory, as 
 associated with his name, are Stout, in " Money " ; Dennis 
 

 
 ^ 
 
 Na 
 
 ^M4^^l7^ i|<-^^i v^w 
 
 -^ 
 
HONOR TO BROUGHAM. 107 
 
 Brulgruddery, in ''John Bull"; Sir Lucius 0^ Trigger, in 
 '' The Rivals"; Cuttle; Micaivher ; Bagstoch ; O' Grady, 
 in "Arrah-na-Pogue " ; Dazzle, in *' London Assurance " ; 
 Captain Murphy Maguire,iYi "The Serious Family"; and 
 CCallaghan, in " His Last Legs." His animal spirits, 
 dash, vigor, and brilliancy, in these parts, vrere great; he 
 entered deeply into their spirit ; he could be consciously 
 joyous or unconsciously droll; he was never for an in- 
 stant out of the stage picture ; and he spoke the lan- 
 guage with delicious purity. He has given an immense 
 amount of pleasure ; he has done no harm ; he has gone 
 to his grave in the fulness of years and honors ; his best 
 works live after him, in the usage of the stage and 
 the admiration of the public ; he is honestly and deeply 
 mourned ; and it will be a long time before any one who 
 ever knew him can speak, without a sigh, the name of 
 John Brougham. 
 
 HONOE TO BEOUGHAM. 
 
 l^The following tribute to Brougham was read, by Us author, at a 
 banquet in his honor, given at the Astor House, New York, April 
 4, 1869, just after his Theatre in Twenty fourth Street had been 
 unjustly taken from his hands.'\ 
 
 Oi^CE, where the Alpine hills arise, 
 In glad desire to meet the day, 
 There wandered, under summer skies, 
 A youth as glad and free as they. 
 
108 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 Serenely sweet, his gentle face 
 
 Could charm, and comfort,- and subdue ; 
 
 And friends he found in every place. 
 And every friend he found was true. 
 
 At noonday, resting in the shade, 
 
 At eve, beside the cottage door. 
 His songs he sang, his flute he played, 
 
 And laughed, and talked his wanderings o'er. 
 
 The birds made music round his way, 
 In music spake the answering streams, 
 
 And all the world was lapped in May, 
 And peopled from a land of dreams. 
 
 He scattered pearls whej'e'er he trod, — 
 Sweet fancy to pure thought allied : 
 
 And they who sow these pearls of God — 
 They are not gone, although they died ! 
 
 He passed away, his work complete, — 
 A book of gold, to keep his fame, 
 
 A stainless fame, forever sweet, — 
 And Goldsmith 's an immortal name ! 
 
 II. 
 
 The same green isle that gave him birth, 
 
 In after-time, inspired anew. 
 Sends forth a soul of kindred worth, 
 
 A mind as sweet, a heart as true. 
 
 He walks the world for threescore years, 
 In trouble, as in triumph, gay ; 
 
HONOK TO BROUGHAM. 109 
 
 He "wakes our laughter, wins our tears, 
 And liglitly charms our cares away. 
 
 In him conjoined, once more we view 
 
 High powers to conquer and command, — 
 
 The heart to feel, the hand to do, — 
 The Irish heart, the Irish hand. 
 
 Too proud a man to cringe and fawn. 
 
 Too plain a man for craft to claim ; 
 Too great to put his soul in pawn 
 
 And thrive upon the fruits of shame ; — 
 
 Haply he misses golden gain, 
 
 But wins a wealth that 's prized above, — 
 Precious forever, without stain, — 
 
 Honor, and dear and faithful love ! 
 
 Our manly love is not the least 
 
 Of all the laurel that he wears : 
 To-night he sits with us, at feast, — 
 
 John Brougham is the name he hears ! 
 
 God bless that name, and keep it bright ! 
 
 A beacon-flame, in evil days. 
 Of one who kept his conscience white, 
 
 Through troublous scenes and devious ways. 
 
 And when at last (far hence the day !) 
 
 His work is done, his story told. 
 Be that dear name inscribed, for aye, 
 
 In Fame's immortal book of gold ! 
 
110 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 CHARACTER AND WORKS OF BROUGHAM. 
 [From Harper's Weekly, June 26, 1880.] 
 
 THE bereavement which the stage has suffered in the 
 death of John Brougham is also the bereavement 
 of society ; for Brougham was one of those exceptional men 
 who, while leading an intellectual life, devoted to art and 
 its ambitious and engrossing labors, are at the same time 
 able to win the heart of their generation, and make them- 
 selves the chosen comrades and cherished friends of the 
 public. He was widely known ; he was much and sin- 
 cerely beloved ; and at many a hearthstone throughout the 
 land the news of bis death, has been felt with a sense of 
 personal loss. There was great force of character, singular 
 beauty of spirit, and versatile, engaging, sustained industry, 
 to cause this feeling and to justify it. In life John Brougham 
 deserved his fame ; in death he merits every tear that has 
 been shed for him, and every kind and honoring word that 
 can be spoken for his memory. 
 
 In the life of a man of letters, who is also an actor and 
 a theatrical manager, there is room for much vicissitude. 
 Brougham was each of these ; and as he possessed prodi- 
 gious vigor, much eccentricity of character, and a sunshiny, 
 yielding, drifting temperament, his life naturally exhibited 
 a surprising plenitude of incident and change. He was 
 born May 9, 1810, at Dublin, Ireland, and he died June 
 7, 1880, in ISTew York, in the seventy-first year of his age. 
 His youth was passed at home, and he received a good 
 education. He was at Trinity College in his native city, 
 and lie walked St. Peter's Hospital there, and it was in- 
 
JOHN BROUGHAM. Ill 
 
 tended that he should be a surgeon ; but the rich uncle 
 whose favorite he was, and from whom he had been taught 
 to expect an inheritance of wealth, fell into poverty, and 
 so the youth was forced to change all his plans of life, and 
 to seek his fortune in new channels. He went to London, 
 and became an actor, appearing at a little theatre in Tot- 
 tenham Street, in July, 1830, in the rough old play of 
 " Tom and Jerry." Erom that time onward he never left 
 the stage. For half a century he was an actor and a writer 
 of plays. He came to America in 1842 ; remained here 
 till the autumn of 1860, when he returned to London ; 
 came back to 'New York in the autumn of 1865, and 
 never afterward quitted this country. 
 
 At intervals within the last two or three years. Brougham 
 has been engaged in writing an autobiography. His talk 
 of old times was deeply interesting, full of anecdote, and 
 various with sketches of character, witty comment, and 
 professional learning. His recollections extended back to 
 the days of Yestris, at the London Olympic, and afterward 
 at Covent Garden. He had seen Munden and Liston and 
 many another worthy of the old school. He knew Charles 
 Mathews in his youth, and could have traced the whole 
 growth of that sparkling mind and vigorous career which 
 in our da}'" became so famous. The first play that he wrote 
 — it was in 1831 — was a burlesque for Burton, then act- 
 ing in London. He saw the incidents which attended Sir 
 Walter Scott's last sad journey through London, when that 
 intellectual giant was forced to pause there, as he was 
 going home to die. He was familia:^ with the last days of 
 Campbell and Eogers, and contemporary with the opening 
 careers of both Dickens and Thackeray. He was the com- 
 rade of Dion Boucicault when that author was little more 
 than a boy, and he aided him in the composition of the com- 
 
112 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 edy of " London Assurance." His memories of the Kem- 
 bles and the Keans were perfectly distinct, and his de- 
 scriptions of Macready and of Charles Kean in particular — 
 with both of whom he had acted, and for both of whom he 
 had managed the stage — were remarkably vivid, richly 
 humorous, and not a little pungent with drollery. To 
 liear his account of a performance by Charles Kean, with 
 all the people about the stage shod in list slippers, was to 
 realize a truthful and instructive picture, and to enjoy a 
 complete exhilaration. He possessed an unerring faculty 
 of mimicry ; and as he said, " You take my life when you 
 do take the heans whereby I live," the listener heard again 
 the living voice of Charles Kean. In felicity of theatrical 
 anecdote there has been no one like him here since George 
 Jamieson and John Sefton ; and in this matter of simu- 
 lation of unconsciously comic attributes he has scarcely 
 left an equal among actors, unless, perhaps, it be Chanfrau 
 or Jefferson. 
 
 On the American stage he has been an important and 
 prominent figure since 1842, when he came forth at the old 
 Park Theatre as O'Callaghan, in Bernard's farce of " His 
 Last Legs," one of the strong characters of the brilliant 
 Tyrone Power. He M^as at different periods associated with 
 Burton, for whose stage he wrote many plays, and with 
 whom he acted in various versions of the works of Dickens. 
 He opened "Brougham's Lyceum" in 1.850 ; managed the 
 Bowery Theatre in 1856 ; acted for many seasons at 
 Wallack's ; made starring tours of the country ; opened 
 "Brougham's Theatre," in Twenty-fourth Street, in 1869 ; 
 edited a bright paper called "The Lantern"; published 
 "A Basket of Chips " and " The Bunsby Papers " ; wrote 
 plays for many of the popular stars of his profession; 
 associated himself with the stock companies managed by 
 
JOHN BROUGHAM. 113 
 
 Daly and by Boucicault ; and to the last kept busily at 
 work, dying, as lie had lived, in harness. His last play, 
 finished about last Easter, was called " Home Eule," and 
 was designed to exhibit the present social and political 
 condition of Ireland, and to suggest a remedy for some of 
 the evils which afflict that country. Brougham was an 
 Irishman, though of French descent, and he loved his 
 native land, and always desired and strove to promote the 
 welfare of its people. 
 
 Of the brilliant attributes of his mind, the charm of his 
 character, the vital force that he brought to bear upon 
 his work, and the wholesome influence that he exercised 
 upon society, it would be difficult to speak with too much 
 admiration. He was the author of over seventy-five dra- 
 matic pieces, of all kinds, and many of them, by their 
 sterling qualities of invention, movement, character, poetry, 
 style, humor, and pathos, will long endure in literature, to 
 testify to the solidity and sparkle of his intellectual pow- 
 ers. His comedies of "Playing with Fire," "Eomance 
 and Reality," " The Euling Passion," and " The Game of 
 Life," are among the most ingenious and brightly writ- 
 ten of modern works of their class. His melodramas of 
 "O'Donnell's Mission" and ''The Emerald Eing" are 
 pieces of marked originality, exciting interest, and pictu- 
 resque stage effect. His " Lily of France " — a dramatic 
 exposition of the story of Joan of Arc — is fraught with 
 the imaginative glow and the soft romantic glamour of a 
 true poem. His burlesques of " Pocahontas " and " Co- 
 lumbus " are wildly droll, exuberant in animal spirits, 
 and — especially the latter — notable for melodious elo- 
 quence. He touched many styles, but, as Johnson said 
 of Goldsmith, he touched nothing that he did not adorn. 
 Although he lived in the library, and maintained and 
 
 8 
 
114 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 cherislied a high ideal of what the literary artist should 
 strive to accompHsh, he had neither the erudite prosiness 
 nor the exckisive isolation of the abstract scholar ; he lived 
 also in the world and with the life of his time. He 
 clasped the hands of men and M'^omen ; he spoke to their 
 hearts ; he was interested in their fortunes ; " their wel- 
 fare pleased him, and their cares distrest " ; and wherever 
 he went, he carried the benediction of good deeds, and 
 left the sunshine of love and laughter. The multitudes 
 who have heard his off-hand speeches before the curtain 
 will often call to mind what a ring of genuine kindness 
 there was in his voice, what a light of sweetness there was 
 in his face, what a glow of animal spirits he diffused 
 around him, what a winning ideal of manliness he sug- 
 gested, — with his native elegance of bearing, and the breezy 
 heartiness and joyous dash of his manners. The men who 
 were brought near to him iii the business of life will not 
 forget his thoughtful consideration, his delicate courtesy, 
 his simple goodness. The poor had cause to bless him, 
 though himself was poor. As he lay in his coffin, his 
 noble face, grand in the awful serenity of death, was like 
 the face of Shakespeare. The light, the merriment, the 
 trouble, the pain, were all gone, and nothing but the 
 majesty remained ; and looking on him there I thought 
 of Shakespeare's words : — 
 
 *' Our cause of sorrow 
 Must not be measured by his worth, for then 
 It hath no end." 
 
FAEEWELL TO BROUGHAM. 115 
 
 FAREWELL TO BROUGHAM. 
 
 [In the summer o/1874, Brougham iprojected, and made his prepara- 
 tions for, a visit to his native land ; and, as he was in feeble health, 
 it was the thought of more than one of his friends that he would not 
 return to America. The Lotos Club, of New York, to signalize 
 his departure, gave a banquet in his honor, at the old club house, 
 No. 2 Irving Place, on the evening of June 4, 1874. Mr. White- 
 law Reid presided, avd upwards of 175 gentlemen were present, 
 tlie stage being worthily represented by Mr. Lester Wallack, Mr. 
 John Gilbert, Mr. John McCullough, Mr. W. R. Floyd, and Mr. 
 George Fawcett Rowe. Several excellent and merry speeches were 
 made, and Brougham himself spoke, with much emotion. It was 
 then that the following tribute was delivered by its author."] 
 
 I. 
 
 IF buds "by hopes of spring are blessed, 
 That sleep beneath the snow, 
 And hearts by coming joys caressed, 
 
 Which yet they dimly know, — 
 On fields where England's daisies gleam, 
 
 And Ireland's shamrocks bloom, 
 To-day shall summer, in her dream. 
 Be glad with thoughts of Brougham. 
 
 II. 
 
 To-day, o'er miles and miles of sea, 
 
 Beneath the jocund sun. 
 With merrier force and madder glee 
 
 The bannered wind shall run. 
 
116 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 To-day great waves shall ramp and reel, 
 And clash their shields of foam, 
 
 With bliss to feel the coming keel 
 That bears the wanderer home. 
 
 III. 
 
 For he that, loved and honored here, — 
 
 God bless his silver head ! — 
 O'er many a heart, for many a year, 
 
 The dew of joy has shed, 
 Longs for the land that gave him birth, 
 
 Turns back to boy again, 
 And, bright with all the flags of mirth, 
 
 Sails homeward o'er the main, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah, well may winds and waves be gay, 
 
 And flowers and streams rejoice. 
 And that sweet region, far away, 
 
 Become one greeting voice ! 
 For he draws backward to that place. 
 
 Who ne'er, by deed or art, 
 Made darkness in one human face, 
 
 Or sorrow in one heart. 
 
 V. 
 
 He comes, whom all the rosy sprites 
 Eound humor's throne that throng 
 
 Have tended close, through golden nights 
 Of laughter, wit, and song : 
 
 Whom love's bright angels still have known, 
 He ne'er forgot to hear 
 
FAEEWELL TO BEOUGHAM. 117 
 
 The helpless widow's suppliant moan, 
 Or dry the orphan's tear. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Where boughs of oak and willow toss, 
 
 His life's white pathway flows, — 
 With many an odor blown across. 
 
 Of lily and of rose ; 
 His gentle life, that blessings crown, 
 
 Is fame no chance can dim ; 
 And we honor manhood's best renown. 
 
 When now we honor him ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ambition's idols, crowned to-day. 
 
 To-morrow are uncrowned ; 
 Their fragments are of common clay. 
 
 Strewn on the common ground j 
 But unto monarchs of the heart 
 
 Are crowns immortal given. 
 And they who choose this better part 
 
 Are anchored fast on heaven. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Grief may stand silent in the eye, 
 
 And silent on the lip, 
 When, poised between the sea and sky, 
 
 Dips down the fading ship : 
 But there's one charm his heart to keep. 
 
 And hold his constant mind, — 
 He '11 find no love, beyond the deep. 
 
 Like that he leaves behind ! 
 
118 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 IX. 
 
 So, to thy breast, old Ocean, take 
 
 This brother of our soul ! 
 Ye winds, be gentle for his sake ; 
 
 Ye billows, smoothly roll ; 
 And thou, sad Ireland, green and fair, 
 
 Across the waters wild, 
 Stretch forth strong arms of loving care, 
 
 And guard thy favorite child ! 
 
 X. 
 
 And whether back to us he drift. 
 
 Or pass beyond our view, 
 Where life's celestial mountains lift 
 
 Their peaks above the blue, 
 God's will be done !' whose gracious will, 
 
 Through all our mortal fret. 
 The sacred blessing leaves us still, 
 
 To love — and not forget. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS AND RELICS. 119 
 
 EECOLLECTIONS AND EELICS 
 
 AS already declared, it is not my purpose to endeavor 
 to continue and conclude Brougham's biography. 
 That would be a work of years, and even then it could 
 be but inadequately performed. My effort has been to 
 select with discretion, out of a great mass of material, and 
 within a very brief time, the things that are best cal- 
 culated to make up a life-like memorial of the actor, the 
 author, and the man. The greater part of his story has 
 now been told in his own language, and that part which 
 is not told is clearly suggested. My personal recollections 
 of him extend over a period of about twenty-three years, 
 and from the moment when first we met till his eyes closed 
 in death we lived in uninterrupted friendship. He was 
 acting Captain Murphy Maguire when first I saw him, and 
 he at once fascinated my youthful fancy, with that sweet 
 manliness which to the last was his native and inextin- 
 guishable charm. I had frequent opportunities of seeing 
 him, just before he went away to England, at the outbreak 
 of the civil war ; and I was deeply impressed by the lib- 
 erality of his mind, the gentleness of his judgment, and 
 his great and constant charity for human infirmity and 
 error. He saw things as they are, and not as he wished 
 them to be, and never through a mist of prejudice; he 
 did not condemn because his taste or principle had dis- 
 approved ; he could praise a foe ; and he could go on doing 
 kind deeds for others, with neither the thought nor the 
 
122 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 well speech on this occasion was no less touching than 
 witty, and, considering the injustice with which he had 
 been treated by the owner of the theatre, temperate and 
 reticent. 
 
 There was a banquet in honor of Brougham at the 
 Astor House, the next night, April 4th, at which Mr. 
 Charles Stetson presided, and Lester Wallack, Barney 
 Williams, Edwin Adams, and many other leading mem- 
 bers of the dramatic profession spoke in his praise, and at 
 which was laid the foundation of a benefit for him, that 
 occurred on May 19th, and brought him more than $5,000. 
 The performances occurred at Mblo's Theatre in the 
 afternoon, and at the theatre in Fourteenth Street (now 
 known as Haverly's) in the evening ; and, although a 
 violent rain-storm prevailed, both houses were crowded. 
 At the day performance "The School for Scandal" was 
 given, with a remarkable cast : — 
 
 Sir Peter Teazle ..... John Gilbert. 
 
 Sir Oliver Surface .... John Brougham. 
 
 Joseph Surface . . . . . ISTeil Warner. 
 
 Charles Surface Edwin Adams. 
 
 Crabtree A. W. Young. 
 
 Sir Benjamin Backbite . . Owen Marlowe. 
 
 Eowley T. J. Hind. 
 
 Moses : Harry Beckett. 
 
 Trip J. C. Williamson. 
 
 Snake Frank Eae. 
 
 Careless J. W. Collier. 
 
 Sir Harry Bumper . . . . E. Green. 
 
 Lady Teazle Mrs. D. P. Bowers. 
 
 Maria Miss Pauline Markham. 
 
 Lady Sneerwell Mrs. John Sefton. 
 
 Mrs. Candour Miss Fanny Morant. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS AND RELICS. 123 
 
 These lists of plays, in Brougliam's handwriting, are 
 copied from the inner side of the cover of one of his old 
 record books, and are without date : — 
 
 Work Done : — " Eomance and Eeality " ; " The Game 
 of Life" ; '' The Game of Love " ; " Mght and Morning " ; 
 " Bleak House " ; " Dombey and Son " ; " Capture of Cut- 
 tle " ; " The Confidence Man " ; " Vanity Fair " ; " Cousin 
 German " ; " The Red Mask " ; " Jane Eyre " ; " David 
 Copperfield " ; " Love and Murder " ; " Our Tom Thumb " ; 
 " The World's Fair " ; " Love in Livery " ; " Pocahontas " ; 
 " Distinguished Foreigners " ; " The Eifle Corps " ; " Am- 
 brose Germaine " ; " Franklin " ; " Tom and Jerry in 
 America"; "The Eival Magicians"; "Eowat the The- 
 atre" ; " The Actress of Padua " ; "A Decided Novelty " ; 
 " The Eevolt of the Sextons"; " Don Caesar de Bassoon " ; 
 " The Haunted Man " ; " O'Harrigan and Jones " ; " The 
 Irish Yankee"; "Temptation"; " Dr. Faustus"; "Coun- 
 terfeit Presentments "; " Life in the Clouds " ; " The Pirates 
 of the Mississippi"; " AU's Fair in Love"; "The New 
 Camille " ; " The Gunmaker of Moscow " ; " Owen, the 
 Gold-Beater " ; "A Decided Case." 
 
 Work to Do : — " Metamora " ; " Quentin Matsys " ; 
 " Anne of Austria " ; " Indian Uncle " (Australia) ; " Fille 
 Bien Gardee " ; "Christine of Sweden"; "Four Funny 
 Screen Stories " ; " Mystery of a Hundred Years " ; " Co- 
 lumbus." 
 
 January 23d, 1876. At his home, No. 139 East 17th 
 St., N. Y., J. B. read to me his comedy, in five acts, 
 named "Love's Champion." 
 
124 SUPPLEMENTAEY MEMOIR. 
 
 Here is one of his letters, in which, there is a bit of 
 theatrical history, and which has the charm of his charac- 
 teristic manner : — 
 *f Deteoit, Sunday (but no sun), 1869. 
 
 My dear Willie : — Our letters crossed, a plain spir- 
 iUial proof that our intangibilities were in communication 
 with each other before the tardier humanity of which we 
 are cognizant. I thank you deep down for the poem, which 
 I read with dewy eyes and an impediment in my throat. 
 Very pleasant pain, however. It is a lonely, wet day, and, 
 in a provincial tavern, solitary as Crusoe, without my man 
 Friday, that is to say Ship, you may imagine that my 
 hilarity is not excessive. Opposite to my window stands 
 a dilapidated city hall ; next to it a deserted market, 
 with empty stalls and a generally forlorn aspect. Not a 
 soul to be seen ; the only evidences that the universe still 
 contains some fragment of animal life are exhibited in a 
 pair of hungry pigeons. 
 
 You ask me to tell you something about the Broad- 
 way. My personal experience of the place is simply 
 a story of hopes destroyed and confidence abused. When 
 I started to build it, — I forget the year, — 1850, I 
 think, — depending upon profuse promises, I put all I 
 had then saved into the foundation, plunging into the 
 affair with my usual recklessness. My means and the few 
 subscriptions I obtained soon became exhausted, and I 
 was compelled to execute a mortgage to Edwin P. Christy, 
 entailing a very exorbitant interest. One very particular 
 friend advanced me a large sum, and without the slightest 
 acknowledgment from me. Indeed, I am certain he then 
 had my interest truly at heart ; and had not business mat- 
 ters gone wrong with him, he never would have acted as 
 he subsequently did. However, I struggled through the 
 
KECOLLECTIONS AND RELICS. 125 
 
 preliminary difficulties, and the opening was a brilliant 
 one, though, the public opinion was that the place was 
 entirely too far ujp town. In the first season, Trimble, 
 the architect, was paid his entire bill : by the way, he 
 has often told me it was the only theatre he had ever 
 built for which he was entirely paid. There was every 
 indication that the adventure would be profitable and 
 permanent ; but, unluckily for us, the corner building 
 was torn down, which compelled us at our own expense 
 to shore up the theatre, and this had the effect of making 
 it look dangerous, — a report very industriously spread by 
 a few disinterested people. The consequence was an abrupt 
 desertion of the place and a period of much tribulation to 
 " yours truly." A little assistance then would have en- 
 abled me to tide over the shallows, but I did not know 
 how to solicit it. My successor did, though, and with a 
 subscription of $5,000 from my friends he walked quietly 
 into a place my money and work' had partially set afloat. 
 It was during this period of difficulty that my friend be- 
 fore mentioned asked me to give him some kind of security 
 for the return of his loan. Induced by his great confidence 
 in me to place equal reliance upon him I told him to go 
 to my lawyer and have such papers made out as he liked. 
 Well, they managed between them to draw* up an instru- 
 ment either carelessly read to me, or its principle not ex- 
 plained at all, by which I forfeited all right and title to 
 lease and building if the debt were not paid eleven days 
 after application, — " only as a matter of form, you know, 
 my dear boy." The application was made, I could n't 
 pay, and, stricken in a double sense, I had to clear out. 
 Mr. Stebbins offered double the amount of the debt, but 
 it was refused, and that 's the whole of the story. If you 
 choose to say anything concerning the early history of the 
 
124 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 Herb is one of his letters, in wHch tliere is a bit of 
 theatrical history, and which has the charm of his charac- 
 teristic manner : — 
 *f Deteoit, Sunday (but no sun), 1869. 
 
 My dear Willie : — Our letters crossed, a plain spir- 
 itual proof that our intangibilities were in communication 
 with each other before the tardier humanity of which we 
 are cognizant. I thank you deep down for the poem, which 
 I read with dewy eyes and an impediment in my throat. 
 Very pleasant pain, however. It is a lonely, wet day, and, 
 in a provincial tavern, solitary as Crusoe, without my man 
 Friday, that is to say Ship, you may imagine that my 
 hilarity is not excessive. Opposite to my window stands 
 a dilapidated city hall; next to it a deserted market, 
 with empty stalls and a generally forlorn aspect. N'ot a 
 soul to be seen ; the only evidences that the universe still 
 contains some fragment of animal life are exhibited in a 
 pair of hungry pigeons. 
 
 You ask me to tell you something about the Broad- 
 way. My personal experience of the place is simply 
 a story of hopes destroyed and confidence abused. When 
 I started to build it, — I forget the year, — 1850, I 
 think, — depending upon profuse promises, I put all I 
 had then saved into the foundation, plunging into the 
 affair with my usual recklessness. My means and the few 
 subscriptions I obtained soon became exhausted, and I 
 was compelled to execute a mortgage to Edwin P. Christy, 
 entailing a very exorbitant interest. One very particular 
 friend advanced me a large sum, and without the slightest 
 acknowledgment from me. Indeed, I am certain he then 
 had my interest truly at heart ; and had not business mat- 
 ters gone wrong with him, he never would have acted as 
 he subsequently did. However, I struggled through the 
 
RECOLLECTIONS AND RELICS. 125 
 
 preliminary difficulties, and the opening was a brilliant 
 one, though the public opinion was that the place was 
 entirely too far U20 town. In the first season, Trimble, 
 the architect, was paid his entire bill : by the way, he 
 has often told me it was the only theatre he had ever 
 built for which he was entirely paid. There was every 
 indication that the adventure would be profitable and 
 permanent; but, unluckily for us, the corner building 
 was torn down, which compelled us at our own expense 
 to shore up the theatre, and this had the effect of making 
 it looh dangerous, — a report very industriously spread by 
 a few disinterested people. The consequence was an abrupt 
 desertion of the place and a period of much tribulation to 
 " yours truly." A little assistance then would have en- 
 abled me to tide over the shallows, but I did not know 
 how to solicit it. My successor did, though, and with a 
 subscription of $5,000 from my friends he walked quietly 
 into a place my money and work' had partially set afloat. 
 It was during this period of difficulty that my friend be- 
 fore mentioned asked me to give him some kind of security 
 for the return of his loan. Induced by his great confidence 
 in me to place equal reliance upon him I told him to go 
 to my lawyer and have such papers made out as he liked. 
 Well, they managed between them to draw up an instru- 
 ment either carelessly read to me, or its principle not ex- 
 plained at all, by which I forfeited all right and title to 
 lease and building if the debt were not paid eleven days 
 after application, — " only as a matter of form, you know, 
 my dear boy." The application was made, I could n't 
 pay, and, stricken in a double sense, I had to clear out. 
 Mr. Stebbins offered double the amount of the debt, but 
 it was refused, and that 's the whole of the story. If you 
 choose to say anything concerning the early history of the 
 
126 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 place, these random sentences may assist you to the 
 knowledge of the facts. The rest you know all about. 
 Business very good here. I stay next week with " The 
 Lottery of Life " ; then for Pittsburg, Philadelphia, and 
 " home, sweet home." Shall I ever be permitted to settle 
 down in it? With best remembrances to Mrs. Winter. 
 and my sincerest affection, 
 
 Ever your friend, 
 
 John Brougham. 
 
 Brougham's burlesque of "Pocahontas, or the Gentle 
 Savage," was first produced, December 24th, 1855, at Wal- 
 lack's Theatre, and it was the most successful work of its 
 class that bad been offered upon the American stage up to 
 that time. The cast of parts was as follows : — 
 
 Powhatan Brougham. 
 
 John Smith Charles Walcot. 
 
 Cologog . . . . . . J. H. Stoddart. 
 
 Eolf Charles Peters. 
 
 Pocahontas Miss Hodson. 
 
 Pootepet Mrs. Stephens. 
 
 Weechevendah .... Mrs. Sylvester. 
 
 Krosaskanbee Mrs. L. Thompson. 
 
 In some of the cities of the old world they mark with 
 memorial tablets the houses in which distinguished persons 
 of the past have lived. The future antiquarian, for whom 
 this note is made, may be pleased to know the places at 
 which John Brougham resided while in l^ew York. In 
 1854, at No. 502 Broome Street; in 1866, at No. 325 
 West Twenty-third Street; in 1867, at No. 14 West 
 
RECOLLECTIONS AND RELICS. 
 
 127 
 
 Twenty-fourtli Street, wliere occurred the deatli of his 
 second wife; later, for five years, at 'No. 139 East Seven- 
 teenth Street ; then, at various times, at No. 50 Irving 
 Place, No. 17 East Fifteenth Street, No. 81 West Twelfth 
 Street, and, finally, at No. 60 East Mnth Street, where he 
 died. During the last years of his life he was very rest- 
 less, and he changed his quarters no less than five times. 
 
 The following play-hill may be interesting as a relic of 
 Brougham's theatrical days in Boston, in the earlier part 
 of his career : — 
 
 FEDERAL STREET. 
 
 MANAGER AND PROPRIETOR 
 
 - C. R. THORNE. 
 
 OOMPLIMENTAEY BENEFIT TO 
 
 MR. BROUGHAM 
 
 Thursday Eve. Feb. 3d, 1848, 
 
 The Entertainments will commence with Buckstone's popular and 
 interesting melo-drama of 
 
 PEESUMPTIVE EVIDENCE 
 
 Or.. THE SAILOR'S RETURN! 
 
 "With the following Unparalleled Cast. 
 
 Mannaduke Dorgan . Mr. W. G. Jones 
 Pryce Kynchela . . J. B. Booth 
 Lewey Madigan . . Beougham 
 
 Fred Byrnes 
 
 Brian Phillips 
 
 Jack Nelson 
 
 Tom Munroe 
 
 Phedrig Watkins 
 
 Jailor . 
 
 . Mr. Smith 
 
 Mr. Hr>mmond 
 
 . H. B. Phillips 
 
 Judith . 
 
 Mrs. MuzzT 
 
 Penny McLoughlin . 
 
 Mrs. Beougham 
 
 Nelly . 
 
 . Mrs. Hathaway 
 
 Shela 
 
 . Mrs. Mueller 
 
 Cauthleen . 
 
 Mrs. Reid 
 
128 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 To be followed by Mr. Brougham's new Experiment, called the 
 
 LIVING PICTURES 
 
 Frank Vision, an artist, more in imagination than reality, . . . Mr. Perry 
 Bob Piastic, his pupil and servant, with face enough for anything, Mr. Bkougham 
 
 An Old Gentleman, recently seen in public, Mr. Beougham 
 
 Uncle Gabriel, an individual from whom Frank has some expecta- 
 tions, which are more than realized, Mr. Byrnes 
 
 Angelica, an angel of a creature of course, . . . . Mrs. Hathaway 
 
 In the course of the piece. Living Representations will be given of the followiug 
 well known pictures. 
 
 CHAELES I, after Vandyke. FRANKLIN, the Red Cap Portrait. 
 
 WELLINGTON, after Sir Thomas Lawrence. NAPOLEON, after David's Cele- 
 brated Picture. WASHINGTON, after Stuart. 
 
 FAVORITE DANCE - - Miss MOAVBRAY 
 
 After which, Mr. Brougham's new and original, aboriginal Indian 
 Burlesq[ue, founded upon, and called 
 
 — OR THE — 
 
 LAST OF THE POLLYWOG-S ! 
 
 ANGLO-SAXONS. 
 
 Pappy Vaughan, an influential early settler, early settled, . . . Mr. Spear 
 Lord Fitzfaddle, a highly to be envied individual, who has the 
 
 honor to die by Metamora's knife, Phillips 
 
 Master Walter, not the hunchback, but over head and ears in love, . Watkins 
 
 Badenough, a most unpleasant individual, Byrnes 
 
 Worser, much the same, only more so, r-^.^^.^s 
 
 Oceana, old Vaughan's daughter, a chip of the old block, . . Mrs. Muzzy 
 
 POLLYWOGS. 
 
 Metamora, the ultimate Polly wog, an aboriginal hero, and a fa- 
 vorite child of the Eouest, Mr. Bkougham 
 
 Kantshine, a friend, who gives excellent advice, and is treated as 
 all are who do it, McFarland 
 
 Old Tar, Indian Interpreter, from the Junk, half savage — half 
 sailor, H. B. Phillips 
 
 Whiskee T. Oddi, skilled in talk, so we are informed, Nix 
 
 Anaconda, a recreant red man, rather serpentine, Nelson 
 
 Tapiokee, La Belle Sauvage, the squalling squaw of Metamora, 
 killed with kindness, Mrs. Brougham 
 
 Papoose, being the last of the last of the Polly wogs, .... Miss H. Mace 
 
 too 
 
EECOLLECTIONS AND EELICS. 
 
 129 
 
 Printer's Ink Sketch of portions of the plot — Just sufficient to stimulate curiosity. 
 
 A PRIMITIVE WOOD ! Introducing a pair of unhappy lovers — one of wlioni 
 discovers an interesting fact, and with considerable tact, redolent of college, com- 
 municates the knowledge, description of a caitiff, another of a native; a doubtful 
 sort of rhyme, but sufficient for the time. In a minute now or more, expect to hear 
 the FOEEST ROAR ! ! A mystery, in natural history, a deep weazle fast asleep — 
 whom, the maiden tries to catch, but meeting M-ith her match, in a most uncommon 
 fright, cries out with all her might, METAMORA COMES IN SIGHT. Savage 
 quite and shows light, with delight, and, without a scratch or bite, seals up the 
 weazle's optics, in everlasting night ; served him right. Then comes a conversa- 
 tion, all about the Indian Nation, bringing some recrimination, for the white man's 
 usurpation, of a station in creation, lately in the occupation of the Pollywog's rela- 
 tion. After some exciting talk, Metamora waxes wroth, but to tlie maiden gives, 
 who dared his deadly purpose baulk, a pinion which will save her fi'om the savage 
 tomahawk. THE WOOD IS CLEARED ; And you perceive, Mrs. Metamora 
 grieve, at the absence of her love, like to anv turtle dove, but meets comfort from 
 her wild, interesting child. THE POLLYWOG IS RILED. Two messengers 
 appear, from the council sitting near, and so, whether he likes it or no, Metamora 
 has to go, for which he's rather green, to the FAMOUS COUNCIL SCENE. 
 Which opens with a song, but it is n't very long. The PoUywog comes in, and the 
 way he uses up the crowd to Moses is a sin ! He gives it to them some, and anathe- 
 matizes rum, says "you've sent for me and lam come, if you've nothing to say 
 I must go home." At first they 're stricken dumb, and at nothing will they stick, so 
 they're down upon him quick, swore 't was he " Threw that last Brick." They 
 bring in a lying witness, objecting to his fitness, METAMORA GIVES HIM FITS, 
 and frightens the assembly nearly out of their wits, by a wild denunciation of the 
 whole Teutonic nation. Flying from the lodge, by a most unworthy dodge, delighted 
 you will see, THE POLLYWOG IS FREE. In another pleasant scene, you '11 per- 
 ceive a rather green, but excessively serene, gentleman of slender shape, of the 
 genus we call ape. The article makes love, but don't successful prove. Many 
 other things ensue, until the piece is through, that you and me between, TO BE 
 APPRECIATED, MUST BE SEEN. 
 
 To conclude with Buckstone's popular Farce, of the 
 
 TIM MOORE, a travelling tailor 
 
 Squabbs 
 Ginger 
 John Long , 
 Mr. Puffy 
 Capt. Dixon 
 Mr. Wadd 
 Mr. Shin 
 
 H. B. 
 
 Mr. Spear 
 
 Phillips 
 Phillips 
 Byrnes 
 . Perry 
 Munroe 
 . Evans 
 
 Mr. Yawkins 
 Ml-. Mackenzie 
 Mrs. Fitzgig 
 Mrs. Crummery 
 Miss Echo . 
 Miss Titter . 
 Miss Smiler 
 
 MR. BROUGHAM 
 
 . Mr. Nelson 
 . Mills 
 
 . Mrs. BUOUGHAM 
 
 . Reid 
 
 . Muzzy 
 
 . Hathaway 
 
 Miss Mowbray 
 
 To-morrow (Friday) will be presented a bill of Extraordinary- 
 Attraction. 
 
 In rehearsal, a New National Drama. 
 
 EASTBUBN'S press — STATE STKEET. 
 
 A MORE recent theatrical relic is an Opening Address, 
 which Bxougham wrote for the occasion of the reopening 
 
 9 
 
130 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 of Daly's Theatre, January 21st, 1873, in the old stone 
 church near Astor Place, in Broadway. The theatre in 
 Twenty-fourth Street had been burned three weeks before 
 that date, and Daly's expeditious energy, in getting his 
 new house ready within so short a time, prompted these 
 lines. Miss Clara Morris, on this night, gave her first 
 performance of Alixe, and gained one of the brightest of 
 her laurels. 
 
 WILLIAM DAVIDGE. 
 
 Thanks, generous patrons, for that welcome cheer ! 
 
 It shows us we have little cause to fear. 
 
 As our suspended play we here renew, 
 
 Our change of base will bring no change in you. 
 
 G. H. GRIFFITHS. 
 
 Stooping to conquer is our motto now, — 
 
 A kind of paradox, I must allow ; 
 
 For, though your high esteem was won up town, 
 
 Higher we '11 rise by coming farther down. 
 
 MRS. GILBERT. 
 
 Ill fortune is the truest, best of friends ; 
 Tor all our ill your goodness makes amends 
 Most ample ; and that favor to return 
 As far as in our power lies we burn. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. 
 
 Not literally, mind you, gracious knows 
 
 'T is quite enough, I think, to burn our clothes. 
 
 SARA JEWETT. 
 
 I think so, too ! — that lovely polk de sole — 
 The sweetest thing in silk I ever saw ! 
 That Paris bonnet and manteau de cour — 
 
EECOLLECTIONS AND RELICS. 131 
 
 LINDA DIETZ. 
 
 My beautiful marquise — trimmed with guipure, 
 And robe imperial that was so chic — 
 
 MARY GARY. 
 
 And my incomparable moire-antique, 
 riches d' Antoinette and point-lace berthe, 
 A thing of joy — 
 
 KATE CLAXTON. 
 
 The masterpiece of Worth ! 
 I cannot now, so much I feel bereft, 
 Eemember half the articles I left. 
 
 B. T. RINGGOLD. 
 
 The public will remember one, don't fear ! 
 
 CLARA MORRIS. 
 
 Which one 1 
 
 G. H. GRIFFITHS. 
 
 " Article 47," my dear. 
 
 C. H. ROCKWELL. 
 
 They won't forget that easily, I 'U bet ! 
 
 OWEN FAWCETT. 
 
 "No ! no ! no ! no ! I 'm not so mad as that ! 
 
 FANNY MORANT. 
 
 Ah well ! 't is useless vain regrets to nurse ! 
 If you reflect, it might have been much worse ; 
 And the burned sacrifice is not in vain 
 That such abundant sympathy can gain : 
 As for the rest, my dears, I rather guess 
 That sumptuary grievance you 'U re-dress. 
 
132 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 JAMES LEWIS. 
 
 Gone is the little stage we loved so well, 
 And now I 'd find it difficult to tell 
 " The spot where she originally fell." 
 
 G. H. WHITING. 
 
 Sulky no longer, I accept my lot, — 
 Although I found that " Eoad to Euin " hot. 
 
 LEMOYNE. 
 
 The way I bolted from it was a sin : 
 
 It was n't business, but " I throws it in." \ 
 
 GEORGE CLARKE. 
 
 And now, determined from our minds to cast 
 
 All gloomy recollections of the past, 
 
 Here is our home : no fitter could be found 
 
 Than this, — for it was on this very ground 
 
 Our manager and author's work began, 
 
 And " Under the Gas-light " took the town and ran. 
 
 It was the Broadway then ; the alteration 
 
 I shall account for in a brief narration. 
 
 Once, when old Judkins, of the Cunard Line, 
 
 Felt premature necessity to dine 
 
 His craving appetite outran the hour. 
 
 At sea those captains have peculiar power : 
 
 Hailing the watch, with grim and burly glee, — 
 
 *' Ho, there ! what lacks it of four bells ? " said he. 
 
 " Some twenty minutes by the sun, sir, sure," 
 
 The man replied ; when said the Commodore, 
 
 " The sun 1 Can't wait for him, sir ! make it four ! " 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir, four it is ! " So Judkins dined, — 
 
 Forcing the mystic hour to suit his mind. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS AND RELICS. 133 
 
 CHARLES FISHER. 
 
 Has not our captain shown the selfsame skill 
 To make the hours subservient to his will 1 
 The scene before us now that skill displays, — 
 The work of months performed in twenty days ! 
 You must acknowledge reason in this rhyme, — 
 Whatever else he lost, he lost no time. 
 
 LOUIS JAMES. 
 
 To call things as he pleases, too, he claims ; 
 
 For though this house has gone by various names, 
 
 In spite of custom or locality, 
 
 " Ho ! make it the Fifth Avenue," said he. 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir," said the printer ; " lucky words ! — 
 
 Fifth Avenue it is, sir, on the boards." 
 
 FANNY DAVENPORT. 
 
 The change one problem proves beyond a doubt, — 
 That Broadway can be thoroughly cleaned out 
 Without rough brigand hands to make it clear, 
 Or milder suasion of the atmosphere. 
 Here may we hope to pleasantly renew 
 Our late acquaintance shrivelled off with you. 
 Our purpose is to win you, head and heart ! 
 For this we '11 practice every kind of art ; 
 So that like Man and Wife we may remain, 
 And never come Divorce betwixt us twain ! 
 
 Mr. James A. Ship was, for twenty-three years, his 
 faithful attendant, serving him, alike in sickness and 
 health, with affectionate zeal. To him he left, by will, 
 a share of his personal property, and to him, on one 
 
134 SUPPLEMENTAEY MEMOIR. 
 
 occasion, he sent a valuable watch, with the following 
 
 characteristic letter : — 
 
 Nov. 9, 1874. 
 
 My dear Ship : — I have long thought that you required 
 looking after, so I this day place an additional watch upon 
 your movements. Sincerely hoping that it may tick off 
 nothing but happy hours for the rest of your life ! 
 From your friend, 
 
 John Brougham, 
 
 Here is a bit of Irish humor that would not have been 
 unworthy of the hand that wrote " Sir Lucius O'Trigger." 
 It is an Irish gentleman's letter to his son in college, and 
 was written by Brougham, as a specimen of the "Irish 
 buU": — 
 
 " My dear Son : — I write to send you two pair of my 
 old breeches that you may have a new coat made out of 
 them. Also, some new socks which your mother has just 
 knit by cutting down some of mine. Your mother sends 
 you ten dollars without my knowledge, and for fear you may 
 not spend it wisely, I have kept back half, and only send 
 you five. Your mother and I are well, except that your 
 sister has got the measles, which we think would spread 
 among the other girls if Tom had not had it before, and 
 he is the only one left. I hope you will do honor to my 
 teachings; if not, you are an ass, and your mother and 
 myself your affectionate parents." 
 
 Brougham was always ready to help others, and he 
 acted for many benefits. In the Holland benefit (January, 
 1871), — an enterprise originated and conducted by me, — 
 I received judicious advice and valuable support from 
 
BECOLLECTIONS AND RELICS. 135 
 
 him ; and lie it was who suggested the idea of simulta- 
 neous matinees at all the theatres in ITew York. The net 
 proceeds of that benefit amounted to $13,608.41, which 
 went to the family of the late George Holland. 
 
 "When Mr. H. J. Byron's comedy of " Our Boys " was 
 first produced in ]N'ew York, Brougham wrote a little tag 
 for it, which was thought characteristic and apt, and which 
 is here preserved : — - 
 
 MiDDLEWicK {to Sir Geoffrey confidentially). 
 Our children, sir, are ticklish things to handle ; 
 They can't be moulded as you would a candle. 
 We were both wrong ; with customers like these 
 The bullyragging system aint the cheese. 
 "When we first twigged as they was going to slope, 
 We should have tried the vally of soft soap. 
 
 Sir Geoffrey. 
 Ah, well ! the past is gone, beyond excuse ; 
 This lesson, though severe, will be of use. 
 Privation only heightens future joys ; 
 Let 's hope 't will bring success to both Our Boys ! 
 
 The American Dramatic Fund Association was one of 
 Brougham's pet institutions, and he never tired of work- 
 ing for it. He felt a deep interest also in the success of 
 the Shakespeare Memorial at Stratford, and he warmly 
 advocated an idea which perhaps will yet be carried out 
 to a successful result in this country, — the union, that 
 is, of all the theatres on this continent in a simultaneous 
 benefit performance for the Memorial. This project is 
 suggested in the following letter, addressed to him by his 
 
TEEEA-TRE ROYA.L 
 
 DRURY ^J»iwm<?' ■ LANE 
 
 Lessee - - - - Mr. F. B. CHATTERTON. 
 
 SHAKESPEARIAN 
 
 AFTERNOON PERFORMANCE, 
 
 PEIDAT, APEIL 23ra, 1875, 
 AT TWO O'CLOCK, 
 
 Tlie Anniversary of the BirtMay of the Great Poet. 
 
 Miss HELEN FAUCIT 
 
 (Mrs. Theodore Maetin) 
 Has kindly consented to appear, as ROSALIND, on this occasion. 
 
 Messrs. F. B. CHATTEETON" and J. H. MAPLESOIT having 
 
 kindly given the use of this Theatre, a Performance 
 
 of one of Shakespeare's Comedies will take 
 
 place, in aid of the Funds now 
 
 being raised to erect a 
 
 SHAKESPEARE MEMORIAL THEATRE 
 
 AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
At Two o'clock, SHAKESPEAEE'S COMEDY, in Five Acts, of 
 
 -A.J 
 
 -STOTJ LIEZE IT. 
 
 "Will be played with the following Powerful Cast : — 
 
 . Mr. CRESWICK. 
 
 Mr. CHARLES WARNER. 
 
 Jaques . 
 Orlando 
 Oliver . 
 Le Beau 
 Banished Duke 
 Duke Frederick 
 Jaques de Bois 
 
 Lords . 
 
 Amiens . 
 
 Mr. JAMES FERNANDEZ. 
 
 Mr. H. R. TEESDALE. 
 
 Mr. ROGERS. 
 
 Mr. HOWARD RUSSELL. 
 
 Mr. WEATHERSBY. 
 ; Mr. W. McINTYRE. 
 ; Mr. F. DEWAR. 
 
 Mr. GEORGE PERREN. 
 
 (Who will sing, " Blow, blow, thou wintry wind," and " Under 
 the Greenwood Tree.") 
 
 Touchstone Mr. E. RIGHTON. 
 
 Corin .Mr. LIONEL BROUGH. 
 
 Sylvius Mr. A. C. LILLY. 
 
 William Mr. BUCKSTONE. 
 
 Charles . . . . . . Mr. HARRY PAYNE. 
 
 Adam Mr. CHIPPENDALE. 
 
 Rosalind Miss HELEN FAUCIT. 
 
 (Mrs. Theodore Martin.) 
 
 Celia Miss HENRIETTA HODSON. 
 
 Phebe . Miss ANNIE LAFONTAINE. 
 
 Audrey Mrs. E. FITZWILLIAM. 
 
 The Glees, " What shall he have that killed the Deer," and " Forester, sound the 
 Cheerful Horn," will be sung by the Chorus of the Royal Italian Opera, by 
 kind permission, all of whom have proifered their valuable aid. 
 
 Stage Manager 
 
 Mr. EDWARD STIRLING. 
 
 The above eminent artists will appear by the kind permission of their respective 
 Managers : Mrs. H. L. Bateman, Miss Litton, Messrs. F. B. Chatterton, J. B. Buck- 
 stone, W. Holland, S. B. Bancroft, J. HoUingshead, James and Thorne, R. Douglas, 
 Alexander Henderson, &c. 
 
 Costumier, Mr. S. MAY ; Perruquier, Mr. CLARKSON : who have kindly 
 given their assistance. 
 
 Prices of Admission: — Private Boxes (Grand Tier), £3 3s. ; Pit Tier, £2 2s. ; First 
 Tier, £1 Is.; Second Tier, 10s. 6d. ; Stalls, 10s. 6d.; Dress Circle, 7s. 6d.; 
 Amphitheatre Stalls, 5s. ; Galleries, Is. 
 
 No fee fox Booking. Box OfBce open from Ten till Five daily. 
 
 Chairman . . . Mr. T. SWINBOURNE. 
 Honorary Treasurer, Mr. H. GRAVES. 
 Secretary . . .Mr. GASTON MURRAY. 
 
 Subscriptions to the " Shakespeare Memorial Fund " will be thankfully received 
 by C. E. Flowee, Esq., Avon Bank, Stratford-on-Avon, or by H. Geaves, Esq., the 
 Honorary Treasurer, 6 Pall Mall, London. 
 
138 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 old friend, Henry Graves, of London, wHcli incorporates 
 an interesting, play-bill : — 
 
 London, April 24, 1875. 
 
 My dear Brougham, — Yesterday was tlie birthday of 
 Shakespeare, and we had, at old Drury, " As You Like 
 It," and took .£300. I escorted the Princess Louise to 
 the royal box. We have now got £4,000. The theatre 
 will now be begun at a cost of £5,000, but if we have the 
 picture gallery, and school or university for acting, we shall 
 want £5,000 more. 
 
 I propose that on April 23d, 1876, every theatre in 
 America and Great Britain shall give a Shakespeare play, 
 free, and the £5,000 will be got. Can you get a promise 
 from the New York managers 1 I feel assured I can get 
 the London ones. I only begun on Easter Monday, and 
 " did the deed." Let me hope America will hear a noise, 
 but will not say, they did not do the deed. 
 
 Miss Lafontaine plays Fkebe admirably. Miss Fau- 
 cit was rather slow, but still good. If we do it next year, 
 I will get a great cast ; and Simms Eeeves has promised, 
 with Sothern as Orlando, and Ada Cavendish as Rosa- 
 lind. Miss Faucit drew, on a Friday afternoon, £300. 
 Had it been Saturday or Monday we should have had 
 £50 more in the gallery. I hope erelong to see you in 
 
 London. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Henry Graves. 
 
 Brougham was twice married : first, to Emma "Williams, 
 in 1838; subsequently, to Annette J^elson, in 1847. By 
 his first wife he had one child, a boy, who died at the age 
 of seven months, — an affllicting loss, which the father never 
 
EECOLLECTIONS AND RELICS. 139 
 
 forgot. His second wife was a widow (Mrs. Hodges) ; to 
 her lie was tenderly attached, and they are buried side 
 by side in Greenwood. Amy Fawsitt is also buried beside 
 him, — a young actress who died in New York, December 
 26th, 1876, in extreme destitution, and to whose remains, 
 although she was comparatively a stranger to him, he 
 tenderly gave a place of rest. 
 
 From my friend Mr. Ireland's trustworthy and excellent 
 " Eecords of the New York Stage " are copied the follow- 
 ing statements respecting Brougham's wives : — 
 
 "Mrs. Brougham — known in London as Miss Emma 
 "Williams — was a model of physical beauty, of the Juno 
 style, and, although not brilliant in talent, had sufficient 
 good taste to get through her representations to the satis- 
 faction of the audience, and, if she rarely thrilled one with 
 delight, never proved offensive or disagreeable. She first 
 played at the St. James's Theatre (London), in 1836, and 
 afterward at Covent Garden, where she was the original 
 representative of the Empress, in 'Love.' .... In 1845 
 Mrs. Brougham returned to England, and remained away 
 for seven years. On her return, she appeared at the Broad- 
 way Theatre, February 16th, 1852, and played a short en- 
 gagement, and in 1859 again made us a visit, being then 
 Mrs. Eobertson. She died in New York, June 30th, 
 1865." 
 
 "Miss Nelson was on the London stage as early as 
 1830, and made her American debut at New Orleans, as 
 the Fairy Queen, in 1833. She was generally called a 
 beauty, and her hands and feet were so delicate and so 
 exquisitely proportioned as to excite general admiration. 
 Her talents were not, however, of the highest grade, al- 
 though she danced and sung to the great delight of many 
 youthful admirers, and her Mountain Sylph was considered 
 
140 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 a very attractive performance. She at one time had the 
 direction of the Eichmond Hill, which then went by the 
 name of Miss Nelson's Theatre, and she was afterwards 
 at Wallack's National, where she appeared as Telemaclius. 
 In 1847, Miss Nelson was announced as Mrs. Brougham, 
 she being the second wife of John Brougham, and after- 
 ward occupied a prominent position at Burton's Theatre 
 and at Wallack's." She died in New York, May 4th, 1870. 
 
 In his latter days Brougham declined into poverty. His 
 last professional tour, made in 1877, proved a bitter dis- 
 appointment, and therefore his friends organized a benefit 
 for him. Performances with this object occurred at the 
 Academy of Music, New York, on January 17th, 1878, 
 and at Wallack's Theatre in ,Eebruary. The net receipts 
 amounted to $10,278.56. The sum of $875 was used 
 to pay a debt of Brougham's, and the sum of $9,403.56 
 was invested in an annuity for him in the New York In- 
 surance Company. By that arrangement Brougham was 
 to receive |1,380 a year during the rest of his life, and at 
 his death the annuity would expire. The members of the 
 Brougham Benefit Committee present when this plan was 
 adopted were Mr. John Lester Wallack, Mr. John Gilbert, 
 Dr. Charles Phelps, Mr. Theodore Moss, Mr. WiUiam 
 "Winter, Mr. Arthur Wallack, and Mr. Lovecraft. The 
 plan received Brougham's sanction at the time, although 
 subsequently he regretted it. But his friends — hoping 
 and believing that he would live many years — deemed 
 this the wisest way to secure him from want. The 
 benefit had been arranged for him, and not for his 
 creditors ; and it was thought that, if kept afloat and 
 guarded against trouble, he could by his pen — which 
 
RECOLLECTIONS AND RELICS. 141 
 
 was active to the last — retrieve his fortunes and set his 
 affairs straight with the world. This anticipation was not 
 destined to be fulfilled. The veteran's health had been 
 more seriously impaired than even those nearest to him 
 could perceive. His spirit had begun to break. He no 
 doubt saw that the end was near. Yet he continued 
 steadily at work, and his intercourse with society was 
 marked by unaffected grace and gentleness. As late as 
 the 25th of February, 1880, he was present at a dinner- 
 party at the house of his friend, Mr. William Bond, — in 
 whose companionship he found, as every one does, happi- 
 ness and comfort, — given in honor of Miss Kate Field, 
 who had but lately arrived from England, and whose pur- 
 posed Monologue Entertainment was then first submitted 
 to a little circle of . kindly critics ; and I remember with 
 what gracious courtesy and sympathetic kindness he en- 
 tered into her plans and discussed the dramatic art and 
 the public taste. Later, on the 24th of April, we dined 
 together — it was for the last time — at the Westmore- 
 land Hotel. He had much to say then of his new play of 
 " Home Rule " ; but to his personal circumstances he made 
 no reference. He was guarding — as afterward I sadly 
 learned — the secret of hardship that many an affectionate 
 friend would have been glad to relieve. Five days later 
 he went out for the last time. During the remaining 
 weeks of his life it seemed to be his purpose to secrete 
 himself, if possible, from the knowledge of his friends. 
 About the end of May it was suddenly made known 
 that he was dying. Many who loved and honored him 
 sought his bedside then, and took his hand for the last 
 time. Wallack, Gilbert, McCuUough, Sothern, Florence, 
 Jeffersoii, Raymond, and Bangs were among the old pro- 
 fessional comrades whom he recognized with a greeting of 
 
142 SUPPLEMENTARY MEMOIR. 
 
 kindness and farewell. He was tended to the last with 
 zealous and loving devotion by his trusted Ship, and by 
 his attached friends, Annie D eland and Laura Phillips, 
 whom he made his heirs. The final scenes were inex- 
 pressibly sad. He lingered till the 7th of June, in great 
 misery. For twenty-four hours immediately preceding 
 death he was unable to speak, though apparently con- 
 scious. He then sank into a deep sleep, and died without 
 a murmur. It was a merciful release. 
 
 " The storm that wrecks the winter sky 
 No more disturbs his deep repose 
 Than summer evening's latest sigh 
 That shuts the rose." 
 
 This record of the funeral of Brougham is transcribed 
 from the IS'ew York Tribune, of June 10, 1880 : — 
 
 " The funeral of John Brougham took place at 11 a.m., 
 June 9th, at the Church of the Transfiguration, in East 
 Twenty-ninth Street, New York. The church was crowded, 
 while many persons who were unable to obtain admittance 
 remained standing outside during the service. Delega- 
 tions from the Lotos Club, the Dramatic Fund Associa- 
 tion, and the Theta Delta Chi Fraternity were present. 
 Of the members of the Lotos Club in attendance were 
 Messrs. Thomas "VY. Knox, G. P. Hiltman, William Apple- 
 ton, Jr., Col. E. Lathers, Daniel Bixby, B. E. Palmer, 
 H. K. Alden, George W. Colby, P. E. MoUeson, P. Brod- 
 hurst, H. A. Mariotte, A. Kling, George H. Story, Mon- 
 tague Marks, James Beard, Chandos Pulton, Dr. A. E. 
 MacDonald, Charles P. Shaw, J. A. Pickard, Dennis Don- 
 ahue, Justice F. G. Gedney, W. E. Floyd, Judge H. W. 
 Allen, Dr. James Furguson, and A. P. Burbank. Among 
 
RECOLLECTIONS AND RELICS. 143 
 
 the other persons present were Lester Wallack, James A. 
 Ship, B. T. Einggold, J. H. McYicker, of Chicago ; Charles 
 Pope, of St. Louis ; Joseph Murphy, of Philadelphia ; 
 Charles Leslie Allen, of Boston ; James Dunn, P. S. 
 Chanfrau, Mr. and Mrs. W. J. Plorence, Madam Ponisi, 
 Franklin Mordaunt, W. P. Harrison, Stella Boniface, Lot- 
 tie Church, John A. Stevens, George P. Browne, Alfred 
 Joel, Emily Delmar, Col. T. A. Brown, Charles Wheat- 
 leigh, Benjamin Baker, George Edgar, Hart Jackson, Herr. 
 Kline, Thomas Chapman, I. Daveau, E. E. Kidder, Dr. 
 Gillette (who had attended Brougham in his last illness), 
 Thomas Goodwin, Henry Pearson, Thomas E. Morris, J. 
 C. McCloskey, A. M. Palmer, E. H. Gouge, Edward Lamb, 
 C. T. Nichols, Henry Watkins, Clifton W. Tayleure, Frank- 
 lin Aiken, ex-Judge G. S. Bedford, J. B. Phillips, Louisa 
 Eldridge, Mrs. Chanfrau, Mrs. Boucicault, John L. Yin- 
 cent, Steele Mackaye, William Davidge, Sr., Maze Ed- 
 wards, Annie Ward Tiffany, W. S. Quigley, and Arthur 
 Gilman. 
 
 *'The services were conducted by the Eev. Dr. G. H. 
 Houghton, assisted by the Eev. Alexander McMillan, both 
 of whom met the remains at the gate of the church- 
 yard. There were eight pall-bearers, — John E. Brady, 
 S. L. M. Barlow, Edwin Booth, William Winter, E. C. 
 Bangs, Charles Phelps, Noah Brooks, and John W. Car- 
 roll. The services were simple. At the head of the 
 coffin was a shield of flowers, in the centre of which was 
 a cluster of violets, arranged in the form of a lotos-flower. 
 This was sent by the Lotos Club. A few white flowers, 
 given by William Winter, were in the hand of the dead 
 actor, and were buried with him. Upon the coffin was 
 the inscription : * John Brougham, died June 7, 1880, 
 aged 70 years and 1 month.' The coffin was not opened, 
 
144 SUPPLEMENTAEY MEMOIR. 
 
 either at the church or cemetery. The remains were only 
 seen by the few friends who, with the bearers, met at 
 Brougham's late home, ]^o. 60 East Mnth Street, before 
 the funeral. The burial took place in Greenwood Ceme- 
 tery." 
 
 ** In what new region, to the just assigned. 
 What new employments please the unbodied mind ? 
 A winged virtue, through the ethereal sky, 
 From world to world, unwearied does he fly ? ... . 
 Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind ? — 
 A task well suited to thy gentle mind. 
 0, if sometimes thy spotless form descend, 
 To me, thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend ! 
 When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, 
 When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, 
 In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, 
 And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart ; 
 Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before. 
 Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more." 
 
III. 
 
 BROUGHAM IN HIS CIFB LIFE. 
 
 By NOAH BROOKS. 
 
 10 
 
BEOUGHAM IN HIS CLUB LIFE. 
 
 Lotos Club, 147 Fifth Avenue, New York, 
 Sept. 9, 1880. 
 
 MY DEAR Winter : — Your request for a copy of the 
 resolutions adopted by the directory of this ckib 
 on the death of Mr. Brougham, and also for a reminiscence 
 by me of our departed friend, brings to my mind a host of 
 pleasant, tender, and sad recollections of the dear old man, 
 whose title among the older members was " Uncle John." 
 As you know, he was one of the founders of our club. 
 Here he was more at home, during the latter years of his 
 life, than anywhere else, I think. His increasing infirmi- 
 ties made it difficult for him to come to the club during 
 the months immediately preceding his death; but when he 
 did come, he was greeted with a certain affectionate rever- 
 ence and respect which were touching to witness, and 
 which I am sure were keenly appreciated by him. 
 
 " Uncle John " was early chosen Vice-President of the 
 Lotos, and he subsequently served two terms as President. 
 As presiding officer at a business meeting, I am con- 
 strained to say he did not shine. It was utterly impossi- 
 ble for him to expedite the business of the hour ; and he 
 interlarded his rulings and statements of pending questions 
 with jokes and humorous remarks, which were vastly en- 
 tertaining but highly irregular. Indeed, the spectacle of 
 the good old man sitting at the head of the council-board, 
 
148 BROUGHAM IN HIS CLUB LIFE. 
 
 and flinging liis quips and cranks and smiles about with 
 absolute abandon, was an extremely ludicrous one. Often, 
 when he was in high good humor, he would tolerate the 
 most diffuse debate, throwing in his own amusing remarks, 
 from time to time, until some restive member would insist 
 upon the board being recalled to its regular business. 
 
 But at the head of a dinner-table (and Uncle John 
 presided at many such) he was in his element. He was 
 quick to turn a point in a humorous direction, and his 
 unfailing wit, geniality, and vivacity insured a jolly occa- 
 sion whenever he took command of the feast, and the fun 
 began. Much of the time, however, during his presidency 
 of the club, his professional engagements kept him from 
 convivial reunions. As I was then Vice-President, it be- 
 came my duty to attempt to fill his chair j and he never 
 failed, so far as I can now remember, to remind me that he 
 should not be able to attend, and that I must take his place. 
 I think he rather enjoyed the position which he filled in 
 the club, and he gave it up with great reluctance when he 
 found that his growing physical weakness forbade his fre- 
 quent attendance at the meetings and festivals of the mem- 
 bers. " What 's the use 1 " he once said to me : " when 
 I 'm not playing I 'm sick, and when I 'm not sick I 'm 
 playing; and between the two, it's little use I am to the 
 club, anyhow." This was almost literally true, and his 
 retirement from the chair seemed necessary. But the 
 members could not let him go without some new tribute 
 of affection and respect ; and, at the expiration of his last 
 term of office, he was unanimously elected a life-member 
 of the Lotos. Although he accepted this somewhat unu- 
 sual honor with his habitual gayety, he was deeply touched 
 by it, and he privately assured us of his sense of the great 
 kindness shown to him, and of his own humble deserts. 
 
BROUGHAM IN HIS CLUB LIFE. 149 
 
 He took great pride in the increasing prosperity of the 
 club, and he never spared hiroself any exertion which he 
 thought, or others thought, might enhance the comfort and 
 enjoyment of the members. He never failed, when called 
 upon, to respond with a song, a speech, or a story, and 
 sometimes he generously gave all three, with a spirit and 
 unction that were peculiarly his own. Among the festal 
 occasions which called out some of his happiest efforts, T 
 recall the dinner to Edmund Yates, when Uncle John 
 (then Yice-President) was at his best. He proposed 
 the health of Mr. Yates in a jolly, rollicking speech, 
 into which he introduced the titles of the novelist's best- 
 known works very happily and wittily. Once, however, 
 Uncle John was fairly " flabbergasted " — to quote his 
 own phrase — by one of his happy-go-lucky blunders. In- 
 troducing William Black, the novelist, in an after-dinner 
 speech at the club, he referred to him as "the author of 
 Lorna Doone." Somebody corrected him on the spot in 
 an undertone, and Uncle John recovered himself as best 
 he could, and went on with his speech ; but he afterwards 
 said that he would much rather have made the mistake in 
 referring to some better-known writer, "because," said he, 
 "that would show that I was a blockhead; whereas, in 
 this case, William Black is not so well known in this 
 country that a better man than myself might not confuse 
 him with Blackmore. At any rate, he is more Black 
 than Blackmore." 
 
 When Uncle John made his arrangements to go to Eng- 
 land in 1874, it seemed to many of us that we should never 
 see him again in this country, where he had lived so long, 
 and had so endeared himself to all who knew him. His 
 health had become very infirm, and it did not seem possi- 
 ble that he could live long enough to accomplish his plans 
 
150 BROUGHAM IN HIS CLUB LIFE. 
 
 for a visit to " the old country," and return to us. There 
 is no event in the history of the Lotos Club which is cher- 
 ished in the memories of its members with so much ten- 
 derness as the farewell dinner given to our dear old friend 
 when he was on the eve of sailing. For once, Uncle John 
 failed to bubble with mirth and jollity. You will remem- 
 ber how he finally did break down when your poem, the 
 perfect flower of the occasion, fell from your lips. In place 
 of conviviality, we had a flood of tears ; and where we had 
 looked for a joviaL cheer at parting, we were met with a 
 strain of plaintive melody. Nevertheless, no Lotos-eater, 
 I am sure, would willingly give up his share of the recol- 
 lection of that remarkable night. It was like a delightful 
 poem in all its changeful passages. But under everything 
 that was said and done was the perpetually recurring 
 thought, " The old man is going away from us, never to 
 come back again." Brougham afterwards, when his depart- 
 ure was indefinitely postponed, made many a joke at his 
 own expense, protesting that he had roused all this sorrow 
 to no purpose; but unto the day of his death, that farewell 
 dinner, with all its train of delightful centiment, was 
 counted among the sweetest of his memories. There was 
 no time when the respect and affection of the members of 
 the Lotos Club for Mr. Brougham flagged or languished ; 
 but, if I were to refer to any point in his association with 
 us as most significant of the tenderness of the relation 
 which he held to us, my mind would involuntarily go 
 back to that farewell dinner in 1874. 
 
 In a club, you know, men are disposed to exercise the 
 privilege of members of a family, and to criticise each 
 other, especially in club affairs, with great freedom. But 
 I do not remember that Uncle John ever spoke an ill word 
 of a member. Certainly, he never said an ill word of a 
 
BROUGHAM IN HIS CLUB LIFE. 151 
 
 man behind his back. If he had any criticism to make, 
 he addressed himself, with a certain serious humor, to the 
 object of his censure. Once, when provoked by a talkative 
 wrangler at the whist-table, he burst out with "All we 
 want out of you is play, and mighty little of that ! " On 
 another occasion, when a querulous, captious member was 
 making a half-hearted apology for his failings, saying that 
 he " could not help it," Uncle John fairly exploded with 
 "Well, you can help making yourself so infernally dis- 
 agreeable." And again, of a somewhat tedious acquaint- 
 ance, he meditatively remarked, "— is an acquired 
 
 taste." 
 
 There was no sourness in his disposition, no gall in his 
 ink. Harsh criticism of an absent friend or acquaintance 
 uttered in his presence would invariably draw from him a 
 gentle reminder of the good qualities of the absent. Gen- 
 tleness, indeed, became more and more a prominent trait in 
 his character as his life wore on to its close. His was not an 
 old age embittered by fruitless regrets and repinings. He 
 bore his infirmities of body with uncomplaining patience. 
 The old servants of the club were swift to wait upon him, 
 his manner was so gentle and full of kindly consideration. 
 Even in the midst of pain, and when racked by ills which 
 had become chronic, his urbanity was unbroken. It was 
 an urbanity which came from a kind heart, not that which 
 is taught by the rules of politeness. 
 
 I^either could any amount of suffering extinguish Uncle 
 John's humor. When we visited him in the sick-room, to 
 which he was so often confined, he "•^eceived us with a joke, 
 a hearty greeting, and a breezy joviality which belied and 
 perhaps cheated his pain. When he was brought home, 
 apparently to die, from his last Western trip, several gen- 
 tlemen of his own profession received him, after much 
 
152 BROUGHAM IN HIS CLUB LIFE. 
 
 running back and fortli, at the railway station, and accom- 
 panied him to his rooms, where, more dead than alive, he was 
 propped np in an easy chair, while one of the party, who 
 had just left a convivial dinner-table, made to him a speech 
 of welcome. " Mr. Brougham," said the orator, holding by 
 the back of a chair, " we are prepared to minister to your 
 slightest want. We will stay with you ; we will sit up 
 with you, if you need watchers ; and if you die, we will 
 act as pall-bearers at your funeral." This was too much 
 for the poor old man, who lifted his head painfully, and 
 murmured, " Hear ! hear ! " Uncle John outlived the ora- 
 tor, and he used to tell of this melancholy reception with 
 great glee. 
 
 John Brougham's death, I need hardly say to you, came 
 to us who knew him in the club like a personal bereave- 
 ment. It was the sundering' of a tie whose tenderness we 
 had not fully known until it was snapped. It was not 
 only that a gentle life was ended, that we mourned his 
 demise ; it was not that we had lost an old and valued 
 member of our organization, that we lamented his final 
 departure ; it was because each of us must hereafter miss a 
 welcome presence, a winning smile, a sympathizing friend, 
 a delightful companion. If his last days had been happier, 
 — if the life which had been spent in making existence for 
 others more endurable had been less dimmed by care and 
 sorrow, — Uncle John's friends would have beheld the 
 gradual sinking of his sun with less poignant regrets. 
 But troubles, which he concealed as far as he could, clouded 
 his later days ; and, mingled with the grief which his death 
 caused to us who knew and loved him so well, comes ever 
 the painful reflection that this bright career should not 
 have so ended, — that something might have been done to 
 illuminate his closing hours. But, proud and sensitive to 
 
BKOUGHAM IN HIS CLUB LIFE. 153 
 
 the last degree, he concealed his poverty from his asso- 
 ciates, and it was not until he was actually on his death-bed 
 that we knew how great were his needs. I am glad to say 
 that the members of the Lotos Club were swift to minister 
 to the last necessities of their well-beloved associate. And 
 when all was over, and affection could do no more for him, 
 the club was requested by its government to attend his 
 funeral. It was also ordered that suitable floral emblems 
 should be sent to be laid on his coffin, and that his bust in 
 the club-house should be draped in mourning. The fol- 
 lowing resolutions were adopted, June 7, 1880, and were 
 written on the records of the club : — - 
 
 " Resolved^ That the Lotos Club joins with a bereaved 
 community in lamenting the death of its ex-president and 
 life-member, Mr. John Brougham. The club shares its 
 grief with the host of the late Mr. Brougham's friends and 
 admirers in every sphere of society. He was a many-sided 
 man. He touched life at numerous points, and whatever 
 he touched he adorned. As playwright, actor, poet, jour- 
 nalist, scholar, he was highly distinguished. He graced 
 every social circle of which he was a part. His brilliant 
 imagination, his bustling humor, were constant allies of 
 purity and goodness. He wrote no line which, dying, he 
 would wish to blot. He was never so happy as when pro- 
 moting the happiness of others. Large-hearted and open- 
 handed, his were the deserts which won universal affection 
 and respect. Such in his broad relations to his fellow- 
 men was the rare man whose loss we deplore. 
 
 " Resolved, That no tribute of words which this club can 
 render will fully discharge its obligation to Mr. Brougham's 
 memory. As an officer of the club in the earlier years of 
 its existence, he was a nucleus around which clustered the 
 elements of geniality and good-fellowship." 
 
154 BROUGHAM IN HIS CLUB LIFE. 
 
 " More than any other place, the Lotos Club was his home. 
 His cheerful presence, his thoughtful kindness, his ever- 
 ready wit, that never wounded, contributed greatly to stamp 
 the club, in its formative era, with a character which is one 
 of its best claims to distinction. As a club man — the 
 relation in which he was nearest to us — he was a beloved 
 personality, whose name will always be tenderly enshrined 
 in our recollection, and preserved on the roll of our hon- 
 ored dead." 
 
 It seems to me that I have very inadequately complied 
 with your request. What I have written in this familiar 
 and desultory manner is at your service, to make of it what- 
 ever disposition you may choose. I knew Uncle John in- 
 timately, and, if I had the time, it would give me great 
 pleasure to set down, with what skill I may have, a thought- 
 ful and appreciative estimate of his personal character. He 
 was, in many respects, a rare man. I shall never see his 
 like again. But other and abler hands must do him that 
 justice which too partial friendship cannot render to the 
 dead. We who lament his death must chiefly grieve that 
 in this work-a-day and selfish world we lost a great bright- 
 ness when we lost John Brougham. 
 
 Faithfully yours, 
 
 IfoAH Brooks. 
 To William Wintee, Esq. 
 
IV. 
 
 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
TERRY MAGRA 
 
• TEEEY MAGEA'S LEPEECHAUN. 
 
 AMONGST a people so simple-hearted and enthusiastic 
 as the Irish, it is not at all surprising that a firm 
 and implicit belief in supernal agency should be almost 
 universal. To vivid imaginations, ever on the stretch for 
 the romantic, yearning always for something beyond the 
 dull realities of commonplace existence, there is something 
 extremely fascinating in the brain revellings of Eairy Land. 
 !N'ow the Irish fairies are very numerous, and all as well 
 classified, and their varied occupations defined and de- 
 scribed by supernaturalists, as though they really were 
 amongst the things that be. The " learned pundits " in 
 such matters declare that the economy of human nature is 
 entirely carried on through their agency. Philosophers 
 have demonstrated the atomic vitality of the universe, and 
 the believer in fairies simply allots them their respective 
 places and duties in the general distribution. They tell 
 you that every breath of air, every drop of water, every 
 leaf and flower, teems with actual life. Myriads of tiny 
 atomies, they say, are employed carrying on the business of 
 existence, animal, vegetable, and atmospheric. Here are 
 crowds of industrious little chemists, extracting dew from 
 moonbeams, which they deliver over to relays of fairy 
 laborers, by them to be applied to the languishing grass. 
 The noxious exhalations of the earth are, by a similar pro- 
 cess, gathered from decaying vegetation, and dispersed or 
 condensed into refreshing rain. The warm sunbeams are 
 
158 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 by them brought down and scattered through the fields ; it 
 is the beautiful ministry of one class to breathe upon, and 
 gently force open, the budding blossoms, while another 
 sedulously warms and nurtures the ripening corn, and tends 
 the luscious fruits. Mischievous fellows there also are, 
 whose delight it is to try and frustrate the exertions of the 
 workers. They travel from place to place, loaded with 
 malign influences ; blight and mildew, and all the destruc- 
 tive agents that blast the hopes of the agriculturist, are 
 under their control ; and, with an industry nearly equal to 
 their opponents, they employ their time in training cater- 
 pillars and other devouring insects to assist them in the 
 work of desolation. 
 
 Many are the battles, we are informed, that occur be- 
 tween the two opposing classes, and it depends upon which 
 side has the best of the contest what the result may be to 
 the defeated object ; whether they contend for the life of 
 some delicate flower, or whether the poor farmer's toils 
 were to be rewarded or rendered hopeless by the safety or 
 the destruction of his entire crops. 
 
 But to leave this fanciful, and, it must be admitted, po- 
 etical theory, our business now is with an individual of a 
 highly responsible class in the world of Eairydom, — the 
 Leprechaun. A most important personage he is ; being the 
 custodian of all hidden treasure, it is he who fabricates the 
 gold within the rock-encircled laboratory. The precious 
 gems, the diamond, sapphire, ruby, amethyst, emerald, 
 and all the world-coveted jewels, are in the safe guar- 
 dianship of the Leprechaun ; and fatal it is to him when 
 aught is discovered and torn from his grasp, — for his fairy 
 existence, his immortal essence, is lost with it ; he can no 
 longer sport through the air, invisible to mortal ken, but is 
 compelled to take a tangible form, and to work at a degrad- 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 159 
 
 ing occupation, — that of making and mending the shoes 
 of his former fairy companions. 
 
 In the Httle village of Templeneiry, situated at the base 
 of one of the Galtee mountains, whose summit looks down 
 upon the diminutive hamlet from the altitude of two thou- 
 sand feet, there dwelt a very celebrated and greatly sought- 
 after individual, one Terry Magra, the piper ; there was n't 
 a, patheivi, fair, wake, wedding, or merriment of any descrip- 
 tion, for miles round, in which he and his dhrones were not 
 called into requisition. 
 
 !N'ow, with grief it must be recorded, Terry M^as too much 
 addicted to the almost national failing, that of intoxica- 
 tion. "Whiskey was to him the universal panacea ; did his 
 sweetheart, and he had plenty of them, frown upon his 
 tender suit, whiskey banished the mortification; was his 
 rent in arrear, and no sign of anything turning up, whiskey 
 wiped off the account instanter; did all the ill-omened 
 birds that flock around the head of poverty assail him, he 
 fired a stiff tumbler of whiskey-punch at them, and they 
 dispersed. On the whole, it was a jolly vagabond, reckless, 
 and variegated life, that of Terry Magra. 
 
 It was one moonlight night that Terry, after having at- 
 tended a grand festival in the neighborhood, brought up, as 
 was his usual custom, at a Sheebieen house, where a few' sea- 
 soned old casks like himself invariably "topped off" with 
 a round of throat-raspers. Here he was the Sir Oracle. 
 The lord of the soil himself (did they ever see him, which 
 was not at all probable, for upon the means wrung by his 
 agents from the poor wretches by Providence delegated to 
 his care — those same agents, by the way, managing to 
 squeeze out a comfortable percentage for themselves — he 
 lives in London) could not be served with readier obedi- 
 ence, or listened to with more profound attention. 
 
160 BKOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 The roaring song, and joke, and fun, abounded upon this 
 occasion, and Terry improvised so wild and inspiriting a 
 strain upon his famous pipes that it was generally con- 
 ceded, with enthusiasm tinctured with awe, that no mortal 
 hand could have produced such astounding music. 
 
 At length the sleepy proprietor of the place put a sudden 
 end to the jollification by stopping the supplies, the only 
 way in which the Widow Brady — for I 'm sorry to say it 
 was a woman, and a decent-looking one too, who presided 
 over this Pandora's box, where Hope forever lies impris- 
 oned — could break up the party. 
 
 Terry, after vainly endeavoring to mollify the widow, 
 gathered up his magic pipes, and sallied forth. Adieus 
 were exchanged j friendly hugs and protestations of eter- 
 nal friendship passed between the stammering, roaring 
 crowd, to be ratified hereafter, it might be, by a crack on 
 the skull from a tough alpieen. At last they separated, 
 each to find, as he could, his way home by the devious 
 light of a clouded moon. 
 
 !N"ow Terry lived a smart way up the mountain, and so, 
 with, as he said, ''the sense fairly bilin' in him everywhere 
 but his murdherin' legs," that persisted in carrying him in 
 the opposite direction to that which his intention pointed, 
 the contest between his will and his locomotive powers 
 making his course somewhat irregular, our bold piper pro- 
 ceeded on his way, humming snatches of songs, and every 
 now and then, by way of diversion, waking the echoes by 
 a fierce blast from his " chanter." 
 
 "Whether Terry resorted to these means for the purpose 
 of keeping his courage from slumbering within his breast, 
 I know not ; but, inasmuch as the ground he was travers- 
 ing had a general fairy repute, I think it more than likely 
 that, notwithstanding the whiskey valor with which he had 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 161 
 
 armed himself, it was not without considerahle trepidation 
 he endeavored to make his way through the enchanted 
 precincts. 
 
 There was one isolated mound, which tradition had pos- 
 itively marked as a favorite resort of the " good people," 
 and, as Terry neared it, apprehension smote against his 
 heart lustily. For the first time, he faltered. The moon, 
 which had hitherto seemed to light him famously, shot 
 suddenly behind a dense, black cloud, and Terry thought 
 that blindness had fallen upon him, so black did everything 
 appear. At the same moment, a gust of wind shook the 
 crisp leaves of the aspen-trees, with a noise like the rat- 
 tling of dry bones, that sunk into his very soul. He was 
 frightened, — he could n't go a step further. Down on 
 his knees he fell, in the middle of the road, and, as a last 
 resource, tried to collect himself sufficiently to mutter 
 through the form of exorcisement used by the peasantry 
 in similar emergencies. To his horror he discovered that 
 he could n't remember a syllable of the matter. He re- 
 sorted to his prayers, but his traitor memory deserted him 
 there also. 
 
 Now his perturbation and dismay increased, for he knew 
 by those signs that he was "fairy-struck." There was 
 nothing left him but to run for it ; but, to his yet greater 
 terror, on endeavoring to rise from his knees, he found 
 himself rooted to the ground like a tree ; not a muscle 
 could he move. Then — as he described it — " The fairy 
 bells rung like mad inside of me skull. The very brains 
 of me was twisted about, as a washerwoman twists a wet 
 rag ; somethin' hit me a bat on the head, an' down I 
 dropped, as dead as a herrin'." 
 
 When Terry came to himself again, the darkness had 
 vanished, and the whole scene was glowing with the mel- 
 
 11 
 
162 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 low softness of an eastern morning. The atmosphere was 
 imbued with a delicious warmth, while a subdued crimson 
 haze hung between earth and sky. The common road- 
 stones looked like lumps of heated amber. The very dew- 
 drops on the grass glittered like rubies, while the noisy- 
 little mountain-fall, where it broke white against the rocks, 
 flashed and sparkled in the rosy light, like jets of liquid 
 gold, filling the air with living gems. 
 
 " Be jabers, an' this is Fairy -land, sure enough," said 
 ' Terry ; " an' if the little blaggards has got anything agin' 
 me, it 's in a murdherin' bad box I am, the divil a doubt of 
 it. I've nothin' for it, anyway, but to take it aisy." So 
 he sat upon a large stone on the wayside, and gazed with 
 intense admiration on the lovely scene before him, won- 
 dering what kind of demonstration the inhabitants of this 
 enchanted spot would make when they discerned his auda- 
 cious intrusion. 
 
 Several minutes had elapsed, and Terry heard nothing 
 but a small, musical hum, barely discernible by the sense, 
 which every warm current of air caused to rise and fall 
 upon his charmed ear, in undulations of dreamy mel- 
 ody. Suddenly, however, his . attention was directed to- 
 wards a fallen leaf, which some vagrant breeze apj^eared to 
 toss to and fro in merry play. Eor a long time he 
 watched its eccentric movements, until at last a gust of 
 wind lifted it up, and, whirling it round and round in 
 circling eddies, dropped it on the piece of rock where he 
 was sittino-. 
 
 'Now Terry perceived a multitude of tiny creatures, ant- 
 like, busied around the still fluttering leaf, and, on stooping 
 to examine them closely, his heart leaped like a living 
 thiaig within his bosom, his breath came short and gasping, 
 and his tongue clove to his palate. 
 
TEREY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 163 
 
 " There they are, an' no mistake," thought he ; " an' my 
 time is come. May the blessed saints stand betune me an' 
 harm ! " 
 
 The crowds of atomies which he had supposed to be 
 ants were beings of the most exquisite human form ; anon, 
 the air grew thick with them. Some, winged like butter- 
 flies, disported around his head, and alighted upon his 
 garments, pluming their bejewelled pinions and then dart 
 ing off again. 
 
 " It 's mighty quare that they don't give me a hint that 
 I 'm out of me element," thought Terry, as, emboldened 
 by their passiveness, he gently teok the leaf up in his 
 hand, on which were dozens of them yet clustered; he 
 held the fairy-laden leaf up to his eyes j still they kept 
 gambolling about it ; they overran his fingers, and clam- 
 bered up his sleeve, but no intimation did they give that 
 Terry was of other material than one of the rocks by 
 which they were surrounded ; they invaded his face, 
 examined his mouth, and peered into his eyes, yet there 
 was no indication that his presence was acknowledged. 
 
 Eesolving to test the matter at once, with an effort of 
 courage, he rose up gradually, and looked around him ; 
 all was quiet. 
 
 " If anything will make them spake, the pipes wdll," 
 said he, bravely, and so, filling his chanter, he gave one 
 preliminary blast, and finding that it met with no response, 
 save from the distant echoes, that sent it sweeping back 
 in multiplied reverberations, he commenced, to play one 
 of his most lauded planxtys : never had he satisfied him- 
 self better, but never had he exerted himself before a more 
 unappreciative assembly; the universal fun and frolic went 
 on as before. 
 
 His artistic self-love was sadly wounded. " The divil 
 
164 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 such a lot of stupid fairies did I ever hear tell of," said he, 
 throwing down his pipes in disgust. "An' bad luck 
 attend the grunt more yez '11 get out o' me ; such ilegant 
 music as I 've been threatin' yez wid, an' the never an 
 ear cocked among the lot of yez." 
 
 " Athin, Misther Terry Magra," said the smallest possi- 
 ble kind of a voice, but which thrilled through the piper 
 as though it were thunder-loud. " Shure, an' you 're not 
 goin' to concate that it 's music you 've been tearin' out of 
 them tree-stumps of yours ; be the powers of war, it 's a 
 tom-cat I thought you wor squeezin' undher yer arms." 
 
 " Thank you, kindly, yer honor, for the compliment, 
 whoever you are," replied Terry, when, on turning round 
 to the quarter whence the voice proceeded, he saw, sit- 
 ting on the branch of a tree beside him, a diminutive 
 piper, in all respects a perfect resemblance to himself; 
 dressed in similar garments, even to the dilapidated cau- 
 hieen, with an atom of a dhudieen stuck in it ; but what 
 elicited his admiration most of all was the weeny set of 
 pipes the swaggering little ruffian carried on his arm. 
 
 " Your soul to glory," cried Terry, his excitement com- 
 pletely mastering his apprehension. "An' if you can 
 blow any music out of them, I'll give in soon an' sud- 
 dent." 
 
 " Howld yer prate, you ugly man, an' bad Christian," 
 cried the little fellow ; " shure, an' it 's plinty of help I '11 
 have." With that, he put the bellows under his arm, and 
 blew a blast that sounded like the whistle of a tom-tit in 
 distress ; a signal which was quickly answered by similar 
 sounds, issuing from all directions ; and very soon Terry 
 saw groups of little pipers climbing up the tree until the 
 branch was fairly alive with them, each one an exact 
 counterpart of the first. 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 165 
 
 "May I never sin if the so wis of all the Terry Magras, 
 past, present, an' to come, ain't to the fore, it 's my belief, 
 this minnit," said the piper, in an ecstasy of amazement. 
 
 "We must graize our elbows before we begin, boys," 
 said Terry's friend, producing a fairy bottle. 
 
 " Here 's your health, Misther Terry Magra," says the 
 little vagabond, with a ghost of a laugh ; and up went the 
 bottle to his head. 
 
 " Here 's your health, Misther Terry Magra," they all 
 repeated, as the real mountain dew went merrily round. 
 
 " Faix, an' it 's glad enough I 'd be to return thanks for 
 the favor," said Terry, " if it 's a thing that I had a toothful 
 of sperrits to join yez in ; more be token, I 'm as drouthy as 
 a sand-bag this blessed hour." 
 
 " Never be it said that a dhry Christian should keep 
 cotton in his mouth while we can give him a dhrop to 
 wash it out," said the little piper, throwing his bottle at 
 Terry. 
 
 " Bedad, it 's a dhrop, sure enough, that I '11 be suckin' 
 out of this," said Terry, as he regarded the tiny atom that 
 rested in the palm of his hand. " Bad 'cess to me, if a 
 scooped-out duck-shot would n't howld more nourishment. 
 I 'm obleeged to you for your good intentions, anyway, 
 but I b'leeve I won't be robbin' you this time." 
 
 " Don't be refusin' your liquor, you fool," said the piping 
 little chap, with a wicked look out of his mites of eyes. 
 "I'll be bound that such liquor never tickled your throat 
 before." 
 
 " Well, rather than appear oniriendly, I '11 just go 
 through the motions ; so here 's jolly good luck to yez 
 all," said Terry, raising the pellet-like material to his lips, 
 when, to his intense satisfaction and wonder, his mouth 
 instantly filled up, and ran over, with a perfect flood of 
 
166 BROUGtIAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 such whiskey as he owned never yet had blessed his palate ; 
 again and again he repeated the experiment, and with the 
 like delicious result. 
 
 " Hollo there ! give me hack ray bottle, you thief of the 
 world; would you ruin us, intirely?" cried the little 
 piper. "If the blaggard wouldn't drink the say dhry, 
 I 'm not here." 
 
 "By the sowl of me mother," said Terry, with a loud 
 .smack of enjoyment, " if the say was made of such stuff 
 as that, may I never if I would n't change places wid a 
 mermaid's husband, and flourish a fish's tale all the days 
 of me life." 
 
 "But this has nothin' to do concarnin' the music," says 
 the fairy, " so, here goes to show how much you know 
 about humorin' the pipes." So saying, the whole army 
 of pipers set up a chant, so small, and yet so exquisitely 
 sweet and harmonious, that Terry scarcely dared to breathe, 
 for fear of losing the slightest echo of such bewitching 
 strains. 
 
 " What do you say to that 1 " inquired the little fellow, 
 when they had finished. 
 
 " Say to it," cried Terry, flinging his hat upon the ground 
 in an ecstasy of delight; "what the mischief can I sayi 
 Bedad, there never was a mortial had the concate so com- 
 plately licked out o' him as it 's been deludhed out o' me at 
 this present writin', an' to make my words good, av there 
 was a bit of fire near, if I would n't make cindhers of that 
 murdherin' ould catherwauler of mine, I 'm a grasshopper." 
 
 " It does you credit to own up to it so readily, Terry 
 Magra," said the head fairy, pleased enough at the compli- 
 ment. " An', by the way of rewardin' you for that same, 
 we'll give you a blast of another sort." With that they 
 turned to and executed a jig-tune, so swiftly fingered, so 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 167 
 
 lively and irresistibly so^e-inspiring, that, with a wild 
 scream of delight, Terry whipped off his great coat, and, 
 jumping on the level rock, went through the varied com- 
 plications of the most intricate description of Irish dance. 
 
 " Murdher alive, av I only had a partner now," he cried. 
 " Such ilegant music, an' only one to he enjoyin' it ! " 
 Faster and faster played the fairy pipers, and yet more 
 madly Terry beat time upon the stone, making the moun- 
 tains resound to his vociferous shouts, until, exhausted at 
 last, he jumped off, and sunk panting on the ground. 
 
 " Oh I tear an^ aigers ! " he cried, " an' av yez have a 
 grain of compassion in thim insignificant tiniments of 
 yours, fairies darlin', won't yez lend us the loan of a pull 
 out of that same bit of a bottle, for it 's the seven senses 
 that you 've fairly batthered out o' me wid that rattlin' leg- 
 teaser of a chune." 
 
 " Wid a heart an' a half, my hayro ! " said the little 
 piper, flinging Terry the fairy-bottle ; " it 's you that has 
 the parliaminthary unction for the creather, if ever a sowl 
 had. Don't be afeard of it, it won't hurt a feather of you, 
 no more nor wather on a duck's back." 
 
 Thus encouraged, Terry lifted his elbow considerably, 
 before he thought it prudent to desist, the fairy liquor ap- 
 pearing more delicious with each gulp, when, all at once — 
 for Terry had a tolerable share of acuteness for a piper — 
 the thought struck him that the little schemers might have 
 a motive in thus plying him with such potential stuff. 
 
 " If you 're at all inclined for a nap, Terry, my boy," 
 said the fairy, blandly, " there's a lovel}' bank of moss for- 
 nent you, that 'U beat the best feather-bed at the Globe Inn, 
 in the town of Clonmel. Stretch yourself on it, aroon, an' 
 we '11 keep watch over you as tindherly as av your own 
 mother was hangin' over yer cradle." 
 
168 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! is it there yez are, you sootherin' vagabonds," 
 said Terry to himself. "It 's off o' my guard you want to 
 ketch me, eh '? " He was determined, however, to diploma- 
 tize, so he replied, with equal politeness, " It 's thankful 
 that I am to yer honors for the invite, but I would n't be 
 makin' such a hole in my manners as to let a wink come 
 on me in such iligant company." 
 
 " 0, well, just as you like, Terry Magra," observed the 
 fairy, with just enough of lemon in his tone to convince 
 Terry that his surmise was correct. "At all events, if 
 you 're not sleepy now, you soon will be," the little fellow 
 continued, " so, when you are, you will lie down without 
 fear. In the mean time, we must go and inform our king 
 how famously we 've amused you, and what a fine fellow 
 you are.'* So saying, with a sharp little squeal of a laugh, 
 that Terry thought carried with it a sufficiency of sarcasm, 
 the little piper and his companions rapidly descended from 
 their perch, and vanished from his sight. 
 
 No sooner had they departed when Terry's ears were 
 saluted by a singularly delightful buzzing noise, that, in 
 spite of his endeavor to resist it, caused a growing drowsi- 
 ness to steal over him. The declining daylight deepened 
 into a still more roseate hue. Once or twice his eyelids 
 drooped, but he recovered himself with a vigorous effort. 
 
 " By the ghost of Moll Kelly," he cried, " I 'm a lost 
 mutton, as sure as eggs is chickens, if the sleep masthers 
 me ; the pipes is my only chance." So saying, he shook 
 off the slumberous sensation, and, seizing the instrument, 
 blazed out into a stormy attack upon " Garryowen," and, 
 sure enough, something like a distant groan, as of disap- 
 pointment, reached him at the very first snore of the 
 chanter. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " he exclaimed, "it is n't an omadhaun aU 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 169 
 
 out yez has to dale wid this time, you little rascals, as cunnin* 
 as ye think yerselves. Bedad, it won't do me any harm to 
 make use of my eyes hereabouts ; who knows but I may 
 light atop of a fairy threasure, and drive the imptiness out 
 of my pocket for ever and ever." 
 
 With this determination, the bold piper proceeded to 
 investigate the character of the ground in his immediate 
 neighborhood. For a short time he saw nothing remarkable 
 except the circumstance of the whole surroundings being 
 alive with fairies, to whose presence he was becoming more 
 and more habituated ; occasionally he would pause in his 
 search to view with admiration the energetic way in which 
 a group of workers attended to their specific duties. Ob- 
 serving at one time a more than usual commotion, he was 
 led to give the affair particular scrutiny, when he discov- 
 ered that it was the scene of a most animated contest be- 
 tween two distinct bodies of supernaturals. 
 
 An infant lily-of-the -valley was just raising its head 
 above the yielding earth, softened and broken to assist its 
 upward progress by scores of busy atomies. Numbers 
 showered its tender leaf with refreshing dew, procured, as 
 Terry observed, by plunging into the hollow cup of some 
 sturdy neighboring flower, then flying back to their charge, 
 and shaking the nutritious drops from their wings ; others, 
 with mechanical ingenuity, held glasses by which they 
 could concentrate the passing sunbeams upon the spot, 
 when necessary ; while others drove there with their united 
 pinions the stray breezes, whose invigorating breath was 
 needed. 
 
 While Terry was rapt in the delightful contemplation 
 of this curious scene, all at once he saw that there was 
 something of uncommon interest going on amongst the 
 crowd. He observed, in the first instance, that, although 
 
170 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 the labor was not for a moment suspended, yet a solid pha- 
 lanx of armed fairies had. formed about the immediate work- 
 ers. The reason was soon obvious ; for, careering round 
 and round, or darting to and fro in zigzag courses almost 
 as swiftly as the lightning itself, was an enormous dragon- 
 fly, carrying on its glistening back a diminutive form of a 
 brilliant green color, that flashed in the glancing light like 
 living emerald. Wherever there was a tender young plant 
 there its fierce attack was directed, and in all cases repelled 
 by the brave little guardians. 
 
 This terrible monster - — as it appeared even in Terry's 
 eyes, when compared with the tiny creatures that sur- 
 rounded him — seemed to have singled out the fragile lily- 
 of-the-valley for its especial ferocity, for again and again it 
 darted furiously against the unyielding defenders, only, 
 however, to be repulsed at each charge, writhing and twist- 
 ing its snaky body, punctured by the thorn-bayonets of the 
 fairy-guard. 
 
 The indomitable courage and resolution of the defence 
 at length prevailed, and after a last ineffectual effort to 
 break through the chevaux-de-frise that protected the be- 
 leaguered flower, the dreadful enemy wheeled angrily two 
 or three times around the spot, and at length darted up- 
 ward rapidly, and disappeared, to the manifest delight of 
 the fairies. Soon, however, a yet more formidable danger 
 threatened, for in the distance there approached a gigantic 
 snail, dragging its noxious slime over everything in its de- 
 structive path. Terry now observed evidences of the most 
 intense solicitude and perturbation. The guard around the 
 flower was trebled ; scouts seemed to be called in from all 
 quarters, hastening to a common rendezvous. Meantime, 
 the snail moved on in a direct line with the object of their 
 care and anxiety. 
 
TEREY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 171 
 
 " ]N"ow, my fine fellows," said Terry, completely absorbed 
 in the interesting scene, " how the mischief are yez goin' 
 to manage that customer 1 " 
 
 Nearer and nearer crawled the snail, and at every on- 
 ward movement the little crowd grew more agitated, scam- 
 pering here and there, and overrunning each other in a 
 perfect agony of apprehension and excitement, like a dis- 
 turbed colony of ants. Multitudes of them cleared the 
 small stumps of decayed grass, and rolled off the pebbles 
 from a side path, in the hope of diverting Mr. Snail's 
 course ; but their engineering skill was fruitless, — still 
 on he came, crushing every delicate germ in his pro- 
 gress. He was now only about six inches away from 
 the lily, and the trepidation of the fairies became so ex- 
 cessive that it smote upon Terry's heart. He forgot for 
 a moment or two that he himself was the arbiter of their 
 fate. 
 
 "Mother o' Moses," said he; "it's afeared I am that 
 yez goin' to get the worst of the fight this time ; heigh ! at 
 Mm agin, yer sowls," he shouted, clapping his hands by 
 way of encouragement, as a crowd would try to push the 
 snail from the direct path. 
 
 " Where 's yer sinse, you little blaggards 1 why don't yez 
 all get together, and you'd soon tumble the murdherin' 
 Turk over." 
 
 Despair seemed to be spreading through the fairy ranks, 
 when it suddenly occurred to Terry that it was in his own 
 power to put an end to their fears at once by removing the 
 cause ; another and more personal idea flashing across his 
 mind at the same time. 
 
 " Why, then, bad cess to this thick skull o' mine," said 
 he, as he picked up the snail and hurled it to a distance. 
 " It well becomes me to be stickin' here, watchin' the an- 
 
172 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 tics of these little ragamuffins^ instead of mindin' my own 
 business of threasure-huntin'." So, without waiting to see 
 what effect his timely interference had upon the supernals, 
 he commenced vigorously to prosecute his search. 
 
 For some time he diligently explored the crevices and 
 deep hollows on the mountain's side, without finding 
 the slightest indication to stimulate his quest. One par- 
 ticular opening, however, he was loth to penetrate; the 
 insects were so numerous therein, and flew so spitefully 
 against his face, that, although it evidently extended to 
 some distance into the heart of the mountain, again and 
 again he was driven from his purpose of ascertaining that 
 fact by the pertinacity of the annoying creatures. JSTow, 
 a prodigious horned beetle would bang sharply against 
 his cheek ; anon, he would be entirely surrounded by a 
 cloud of wasps, through which he had to fight his way 
 lustily. 
 
 Thrice had he entered the cavity, and, having been igno- 
 miniously driven back each time, had determined to give 
 up the effort to penetrate further. " Faix, an' it 's mighty 
 quare, intirely," said he, "that this is the only spot in the 
 place that 's so throubled with the varmint : it 's my belief 
 there 's somethin' in that, too," he continued, a new light 
 seeming to break upon him. " What should they be here 
 for, more nor at any other openin', unless it was to keep 
 strangers from inthrudin' 1 May I never, if I don't think 
 that same hole in the rock is the turnpike-gate to somethin' 
 surprisin' in the way of a fairy road ; here goes to thry, 
 anyway, in spite of the singin' and stingin'." 
 
 Once more, therefore, my bold Terry attempted to enter 
 the cavern, and was attacked as before, but with tenfold 
 fury ; legions of stinging flies, wasps, and hornets raised a 
 horrible din about his ears ; but, setting his resolution up 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 173 
 
 to the fearless point, on he went, without regarding their 
 unpleasant music, expecting, of course, to be stung desper- 
 ately. \^^lat was his astonishment and relief to discover 
 that the noise was the only thing by which he was at all 
 distressed ! ]^ot one of his myriad of assailants even as 
 much as touched him, and before he had proceeded many 
 steps further into the cavity every sound had ceased. 
 
 He now found his onward progress most uncomfortably 
 impeded by a stubborn species of wild hedge-brier, whose 
 sharp, thorny branches interlaced through each other, form- 
 ing a barrier, whose dangerous appearance was sufficient to 
 deter the boldest from risking a laceration. Not an open- 
 ing large enough to admit his head could Terry see, and he 
 was about again to give the attempt up as unattainable, 
 when, by the merest accident, on turning round, his foot 
 slipped, and, with that inward shudder with which one 
 prepares for an inevitable hurt, he fell against the prickly 
 wall; when, to his utter amazement, it divided on each 
 side as though it were fashioned of smoke, and he tumbled 
 through, somewhat roughly, to be sure, but altogether un- 
 harmed by the formidable-looking interposition. 
 
 " By the mortial of war," he cried, rubbing his dilapi- 
 dated elbow, and looking round to examine his position, 
 " I 'm on the right side of that hedge, anyway." 
 
 Now, Terry perceived that the barrier he had just so 
 successfully passed was slowly regaining its original appear- 
 ance, and, to his mortification, as it gradually closed up the 
 aperture of the cavern, the light, hitherto quite sufficient 
 for him distinctly to see every object, faded away slowly, 
 and finally left him in utter darkness. 
 
 " Bedad, an' a tindher-box an' a sulphur match would 
 be about the greatest threasure I could light on at this 
 present," said Terry, as he groped about cautiously to find 
 
174 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 some kind of an elevation whereupon he might sit and wait 
 for luck. 
 
 He had not been many minutes, however, in the black- 
 ness, when his quickened sense became aware of a light red- 
 dish spot, which faintly glowed at some distance. This 
 was the first sign of an encouraging nature he had experi- 
 enced, and with a beating heart he proceeded to feel his 
 way toward the bright indication. 
 
 Getting gradually accustomed to the dimness that sur- 
 rounded him, he suddenly discovered that he was opposed 
 by a solid wall of rock, in the very centre of which the 
 pale red ghmmer still shone, like a star seen through a sum- 
 mer mist. 
 
 " The divil a use in my thravehin' any longer in that 
 direction," said Terry, turning sharply round to retrace his 
 steps, when, to his amazement' and consternation, he en- 
 countered the same rocky barrier. Whichever way he 
 looked, all was alike stern and impassable. He was en- 
 closed within a stony wall, whose circumference was but 
 little more than an arm's length, but whose height was lost 
 in the unsearchable darkness. 
 
 "Musha, then, how the divil did I stumble into this 
 man-thrap 1 " cried Terry, in consternation. " There 's no 
 way out that I can see, an' where the mischief the top of 
 it is, is beyant my comprehendin'. Bedad, there 's noth- 
 ing for it but to thry an' climb up." So saying, Terry 
 placed his foot upon what he supposed, in the uncer- 
 tain light, was a bold projection of the rock, when down 
 he stepped through it, and before he could recover his 
 perpendicular his body was half buried in the apparent 
 wall. 
 
 " Be jabers, if it ain't more of their thricks ! — the never 
 a rock 's there, no more nor the briers was ; they may 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 175 
 
 make fools of my eyes, but they can't of my fingers, an' 
 it 's thim I '11 thrust to in future," said he. And so, keep- 
 ing the light in view, he boldly dashed through all the 
 seeming obstacles, and soon found himself once more in an 
 open space. It was a kind of vaulted tunnel that he was 
 now traversing, his onward path still in profound darkness, 
 with the sole exception of the red light, which Terry ima- 
 gined grew larger and more distinct each step he took. A 
 rush of warm air every now and then swept by him, and 
 his tread echoed in the far distance, giving an idea of im- 
 mense space. 
 
 •Somewhat assured by the impunity with which he had 
 already explored the enchanted districts, he was beginning 
 to pick his way with freer breath, when his ears were smit- 
 ten by a sound which filled him with dismay. It was 
 the loud and furious barking of a pack of evidently most 
 ferocious dogs, which approached rapidly, right in his path. 
 On came the savage animals, louder and louder grew their 
 terrible bark, and Terry gave himself up for lost in good 
 earnest. It was no use to turn about and run, although 
 that was his first impulse ; so, flinging himself down on 
 the ground, he awaited the attack of his unseen foes. 
 He could now hear the clatter of their enormous paws, 
 while their growHngs echoed through the cavern like 
 thunder. 
 
 *' Murdher an* nouns, there 's a half a hundred of them, 
 — I know there is ; an' it 's mince-meat they '11 make of 
 me in less than no time," cried Terry, mumbling all the 
 prayers he could remember ; and in another instant, with a 
 tremendous roar, they were upon him, and, with stunning 
 yells, swept over him as he lay ; but not an atom did he 
 feel, no more than if a cloud had passed across. 
 
 " If they 're not at it again, the blaggards," said he, get- 
 
176 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 ting up, and shaking himself; "the divil a dog was there 
 in the place at all, — nothin' but mouth ; but, bedad, 
 there 's enough of that to frighten the sowl out of a nar- 
 vous Christian " ; and once more the bold piper started in 
 pursuit of the coveted light. He had not proceeded very 
 far before he heard the distant bellowing of a bull ; but, 
 warned by his past experience, he shut his ears against the 
 sound, and, although it increased fearfully, as though some 
 mad herd were tearing down upon him, he courageously 
 kept on. To be sure, his breath stopped for a moment, 
 and his pulse ceased to beat, when the thing seemed to ap- 
 proach his vicinity, but, as he anticipated, the terror fled 
 by him as he stood up erect, with the sensation only of a 
 passing breeze. 
 
 Terry received no further molestation, but plodded along 
 quietly, until he came to the .place whence the light pro- 
 ceeded which had hitherto guided him, and here a most 
 gorgeous sight presented itself to his enraptured gaze. 
 
 Within a luminous opening of the cave he saw groups of 
 living atomies, all busied in the formation of the various 
 gems for which the rich ones of the world hunger. In one 
 compartment were the diamond-makers ; in another, those 
 who, when finished, coated them over with the rough exte- 
 rior which they hoped would prevent them from being 
 distinguished from common pebbles. Here was a tiny 
 multitude, fashioning emeralds of astonishing size ; there 
 a crowd of industrious elves, putting the last sparkle into 
 some magnificent rubies. 
 
 "With staring eyes, and mouth all agape with wonder 
 and delight, Terry watched the curious process for a few 
 moments, scarcely breathing audibly for fear of breaking 
 the brilliant spell. What to do he did not know. Heaps 
 of the coveted jewels lay around within his very grasp, yet 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 177 
 
 how to possess himself, without danger, of a few handfuls, 
 he could n't imagine. 
 
 At last, resolving to make one final effort to enrich him- 
 self, he suddenly plunged his hand into the glittering mass 
 of diamonds, presuming they were the most valuable, and, 
 clutching a quantity, thrust them into his pocket, intend- 
 ing to repeat the operation until he had sufficient ; but the 
 instant that he did so, the entire cavern was rent asunder 
 as with the force of an earthquake, the solid rock opened 
 beneath him with a deafening explosion, and he was shot 
 upwards as from the mouth of a cannon — up — up through 
 the rifted cave, and miles high into the air. I^ot a whit 
 injured did he feel from the concussion, saving a sense of 
 lightness, as though he were as empty as a blown bladder. 
 So high did he go in his aerial flight that he plainly saw 
 to-morrow's sun lighting up the lakes and fields of other 
 latitudes. As soon as he had reached an altitude commen- 
 surate with the power of the explosive agency, he turned 
 over and commenced his downward progress, and, to his 
 great relief, found that his fall was by no means as rapid 
 as he had anticipated, — for his consciousness had not for 
 a moment left him ; on the contrary, the buoyant air sup- 
 ported him without difficulty, and each random gust of 
 wind tossed him about like a feather. Well, day came, 
 and shone, and vanished ; so did the evening, and the 
 starry night, and early morning, before Terry had com- 
 pleted his easy descent ; when at length he touched the 
 earth, gently as a falling leaf, and found himself lying 
 beside the very stone whence he had departed on his late 
 exploration. The marks of the recent terrible convulsion 
 were visible, however, for the vast mountain was gone, 
 and in its place a deep, round chasm, filled to overflowing 
 with a dark yellow liquid, that hissed and bubbled into 
 
 12 
 
178 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 flame like a Tartarean lake. The rocks around him, that 
 before had shone so resplendently, were now blackened 
 and calcined, — the lovely vegetation blasted, — the para- 
 dise a desert. 
 
 " Athin, maybe, I have n't been kickin' up the divil's 
 delights hereabouts," said Terry, as he looked round at the 
 desolation. " But never a hair I care ; have n't I got a 
 pocket full of big diminds, an' won't they set me up any- 
 way 1 "' he continued, drawing forth the precious contents 
 of his pocket, and placing them on the rock by his side ; 
 when, to his infinite mortification, the entire collection 
 turned out to be nothing but worthless pebbles. 
 
 "Musha ! thin, may bad luck attend yez for a set of 
 schemin' vagabones ; an' afther all my throuble it 's done 
 again I am," he cried, in a rage, emptying his pocket, and 
 flinging away its contents in' thorough disgust. " Hollo ! 
 what 's this 1 " he cried, with a start, as he drew forth the 
 last handful ; " may I never ate bread if I have n't tuk one 
 of the chaps prisoner, an' if it is n't a Leprechaun I 'm not 
 alive." And sure enough there, lying in the palm of his 
 hand, was as queer a looking specimen of fairyhood as 
 ever the eye looked upon. 
 
 The little bit of a creature had the appearance of an old 
 man, with wrinkled skin and withered features. It was 
 dressed, too, in the costume of a bygone age. A mite of 
 a velvet coat covered its morsel of a back ; a pair of velvet 
 breeches, together with white silk stockings, and little red- 
 heeled shoes, adorned its diminutive legs, which looked as 
 if they might have belonged to a rather fat spider, and a 
 stiff white wig, duly pomatumed and powdered, surmounted 
 by a three-cornered hat, bedecked its head. 
 
 The leprechaun seemed to be in a state of insensibility, 
 as Terry examined minutely its old-fashioned appearance. 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 179 
 
 " It 's just as I 've heard tell of 'em," lie cried, in glee ; 
 " cocked hat, an' breeches, an' buckles, an' all. Hurroo ! 
 I 'm a made man if he ever comes to." With that, Terry 
 breathed gently on the little fellow as he lay in his hand, 
 as one would to resuscitate a drowned fly. 
 
 " I wondther if he 'd have any relish for wather, — here 
 goes to thry," said Terry, plucking a buttercup flower, in 
 whose cavity a drop of dew had rested, and holding it to 
 the lips of the leprechaun, " 0, murdher ! if I only had 
 a taste of whiskey to qualify it ; if that would n't bring 
 the life into an Irish fairy, nothing would. Ha ! he 's 
 openin' his bit of an eye, by dad y here, suck this, yer 
 sowl to glory," Terry continued, and was soon gratified 
 by seeing the leprechaun begin to imbibe the contents of 
 the buttercup with intense avidity. 
 
 " I hope you 're betther, sir," said Terry, politely. 
 
 "l!Tot the betther for you, Mr. Terry Magra," replied 
 the fairy, " though I 'm obleeged to you for the drop o' 
 drink." 
 
 " Indeed, an' yer welcome, sir," Terry went on, " an' 
 more betoken, it 's mighty sorry I am to have gev you any 
 oneasiness." 
 
 "That's the last lie you towld, Mr. Terry, and you 
 know it," the leprechaun answered, tartly, "when your 
 heart is fairly leapin' in your body because you've had 
 the luck to lay a howld of me." 
 
 " Well, an' can't a fella be ^lad at his own luck, an' 
 yet sorry if anybody else is hurted by it?" said Terry, 
 apologetically. 
 
 "You can't humbug me, you covetious blaggard," the 
 fairy went on. " But I 'U thry you, anyway. I^ow listen 
 to me. The fairies that you have just been so wicked as 
 to inthrude your unwelcome presence upon were all lepre- 
 
180 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 chauns like myself, — immortal essences, whose duty it 
 was to make and guard the treasures that you saw in 
 spite of aU the terrors that we employed to frighten you 
 away. So long as they were unobserved by mortal eyes, 
 our existence was a bright and glorious one ; but, once 
 seen, we are obliged to abandon our fairy life and shape, 
 take this degrading form, and work at a degrading occu- 
 pation, subject to the ailments and mishaps of frail hu- 
 manity, and forced to live in constant fear of your insatiate 
 species. ]^ow, the only chance I have to regain the bliss- 
 ful immortality I have lost, is for you to be magnanimous 
 enough to relinquish the good fortune you anticipate from 
 my capture. Set me unconditionally free, and I can revel 
 once more in my forfeited fairy existence; persevere in 
 your ungenerous advantage, and I am condemned to wan- 
 der a wretched outcast through the world. Jll^ow, what is 
 your determination 1 " 
 
 Terry 's better feelings prompted him at first to let 
 the little creature go ; but love of lucre got the upper 
 hand, and, after a slight pause of irresolution, he replied, 
 " Indade, an it 's heart-sick that I am to act so conthrary, 
 but 'I'll leave it to yerself if it ain't agin nature for a 
 man to fling away his luck. Shoemakin' is an iligant 
 amusement, an' profitable ; you '11 soon get mighty fond of 
 it ; so I 'm afeared I '11 have to throuble you to do some- 
 thin' for me." 
 
 "■ I thought how it would be ; you 're all alike," said the 
 fairy, sadly, — " selfish to the heart's core. AVell, what 
 do you want '? I 'm in your power, and must fulfil your 
 desire." 
 
 '' Long life to you ; now ye talk sense," cried Terry, 
 elated. *'Sure I won't be hard on you, — a thrifle of 
 money is all I wish for in the world, for everything else 
 will follow that." 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 181 
 
 " More, perhaps, than you imagine, — cares and anxie- 
 ties," said the leprechaun. 
 
 "I'U risk all them," replied Terry; "come, now, I'll 
 tell you what you may do for me. Let me find a shilHn' 
 in my pocket every time I put my fist into it, an' I '11 be 
 satisfied." 
 
 " Enough ! it 's a bargain ; and now that you have made 
 your wish, all your power over me is gone," said the lepre- 
 chaun, springing out of his hand like a grasshopper, and 
 lighting on the branch beside him. " It 's a purty sort of 
 a fool you are," it continued, with a chuckle, " when the 
 threasures of the universe were yours for the desire, to be 
 contented with a pitiful pocketful of shillin's ! Ho ! ho ! " 
 and the little thing laughed like a cornkrake at the dis- 
 comfited Terry. 
 
 " Musha, then, may bad cess to me if I don't crush the 
 fun out of your cattherpillar of a carcass if I ketch a howlt 
 of you ! " said Terry, savagely griping at the fairy ; but, 
 with another spring, it jumped into the brushwood and 
 disappeared. 
 
 Terry's first impulse was to dive his hand into his pocket 
 to see if the leprechaun had kept his word, and to his great 
 delight there he found, sure enough, a fine bright new shil- 
 ling. At this discovery his joy knew no bounds. He 
 jumped and hallooed aloud, amusing himself flinging away 
 shilling after shilling, merely on purpose to test the con- 
 tinuance of the supply. He was satisfied. It was inex- 
 haustible, and bright dreams of a splendid future flitted 
 before his excited imagination. 
 
 With a heart full of happiness, Terry now wended his 
 way homeward, busying himself as he went along in con- 
 veying shilling after shilling from one pocket into the 
 other, until he filled it up to the button-hole. On arriving 
 
182 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 at the village, he met a few of his old companions, hut so 
 altered that he could scarcely recognize them, while they 
 stared at him as though he were a spectre. 
 
 "Keep us from harm," said one, "if here ain't Terry 
 Magra come back." 
 
 "Back," cried Terry with a merry laugh, "why, man 
 alive, I 've never been away." 
 
 " Kever away, indeed, and the hair of you as white as 
 the dhriven snow, that was as brown as a beetle's back 
 whin you left," said the other. 
 
 It then struck Terry that his friends in their turn had 
 aged considerably. The youngest that he remembered had 
 become bent and wrinkled. " The saints be good to us," 
 he cried, " but this is mighty quare intirely. How long is 
 it sence I 've s^en yez, boys '? " he inquired, eagerly. 
 
 " How long is it '? why, a matther of twenty years 
 or so," said one of the bystanders ; " don't you know 
 it isr' 
 
 "Faith, an' I didn't until this blessed minute," said 
 Terry. "Have I grown ould onbeknownst to myself, I 
 wondher?" 
 
 " Bedad, an' it 's an easy time you must have had sence 
 you 've been away," said another. 
 
 " Well, won't you come an' taste a sup, for gra' we met?" 
 said Terry, beginning to feel rather uneasy at the singular 
 turn things had taken ; but they shook their heads, and, 
 without any other observation, passed on, leaving him 
 standing alone. 
 
 " Stop ! " he cried, " wait a bit ; it 's lashins of money 
 that I have. Here, look ! " and he drew forth a handful 
 of the silver. It was no use, however. AIL their old cor- 
 diality and love of fun were gone ; off they went, without 
 even a glance behind them. 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 183 
 
 " Twenty years," said Terry to himself. " 0, they 're 
 makin' fun of me. I don't feel a bit oulder nor I was yes- 
 therday. I '11 soon he aisy on that point, anyway." So 
 he proceeded toward the old drinking-place that he had 
 so often spent the night in, hut not an atom of it could he 
 find. In the place where he expected to see it there was 
 a brand-new house. He entered it, however, and, going 
 straight up to a looking-glass which stood in the room, 
 was amazed on seeing reflected therein an apparition he 
 could not recognize. So withered and wrinkled did it ap- 
 pear, and so altogether unlike what he anticipated, that he 
 turned sharply around in the hope of finding some aged 
 individual looking over his shoulder ; but he was entirely 
 alone, — it was his own reflection, and no mistake at all 
 about it. 
 
 "By the powers of war, but my journey into the moun- 
 tains has n't improved my personal appearance," said he. 
 " It 's aisy to see that. But niver mind, I 've got the 
 money, an' that '11 comfort me " ; and he jingled the shil- 
 lings in his pocket as if he could never weary of the 
 sound. 
 
 In a short time the fame of Terry's wealth spread abroad, 
 and, as it may readily be imagined, he did n't long want 
 companions. The gay and the. dissolute flocked round him, 
 and as he had a welcome smile and a liberal hand for every- 
 body, the hours flew by, carrying uproarious jollity on their 
 wings, and, notwithstanding his infirmities of body, Terry 
 was as happy as the days were long. 
 
 Now, while he had only to provide for his own imme- 
 diate wants, and settle the whiskey scores of his riotous 
 friends, he had easy work of it. It was only to keep put- 
 ting his hand into his pocket two or three dozen times a 
 day, and there was more than sufficient. But this kind 
 
184 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 of existence soon began to grow monotonous, and Terry 
 sighed for the more enviable pleasures of a domestic life ; 
 and inasmuch as it was now well understood that Terry 
 was an " eligible party," he had no great difficulty in mak- 
 ing a selection. Many of the " down-hill " spinsters gave 
 evident indications that they would be nothing loth to 
 take him for better or for worse ; and — I 'm sorry to have 
 to record the fact — not a few even of the more youthful 
 maidens set their curls at the quondam piper. l!^either 
 his age, nor the doubtful source of his revenue, render- 
 ing him an unmarketable commodity in the shambles of 
 Hymen. 
 
 In process of time, Terry wooed and won a demure- 
 looking little collieen, and, after having shut himself up for 
 two -or three days, accumulating money enough for the in- 
 teresting and expensive ceremony, was duly bound to her 
 for life. ]^ow it was that his inexhaustible pocket began 
 to be overhauled continuously, and Terry cursed liis im- 
 prudence in not asking for guineas instead of shillings. 
 Mrs. Terry Magra possessed a somewhat ambitious desire 
 to outvie her neighbors. Silk dresses were in demand, 
 and shawls and bonnets by the cart-load. The constant 
 employment gave Terry the rheumatism in his muscles, 
 until at last it was with the greatest difficulty he could 
 force his hand into his pocket. 
 
 Before many months had elapsed, Terry was prostrated 
 upon a sick-bed, his side — the pocket side — completely 
 paralyzed ; and as he was not one of those who lay by for 
 a rainy day, his inability to apply to his fairy exchequer 
 caused him to suffer the greatest privation. And where 
 were the boon companions of his joyous hours now ? 
 Vanished, — not one of them to be seen, — but haply flut- 
 tering around some new favorite of fortune, to be in his 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 185 
 
 turn fooled, flattered, and, when the dark day came, de- 
 serted. 
 
 "When Terry grew better in health, which he did very 
 slowly, there was a considerable back-way to make up, and 
 the best part of his time was occupied in the mere mechan- 
 ical labor of bringing out his shillings. Mrs. Magra also 
 became more and more exacting, and the care-worn piper 
 began to acknowledge to himself that his good fortune was 
 not at all comparable with the anxiety and annoyance it 
 had produced. Again and again he deplored the chance 
 which had placed the temptation in his way, and most 
 especially blamed his own selfish greed, which prevented 
 him from behaving with proper generosity toward the cap- 
 tured leprechaun. 
 
 " He towld me plain enough what would come of it," 
 cried he one day, as, utterly exhausted, he threw himself 
 on the floor, after many hours' application to the indispen- 
 sable pocket; "he towld me that it would bring care and 
 misery, an' yet I was n't satisfied to profit by the warning. 
 Here am I, without a single hour of comfort, everybody 
 dhraggin' at me for money, money ! an' the very sinews of 
 me fairly wore out wid divin' for it. This sort of life ain't 
 worth livin' for." 
 
 Before long, Terry's necessities increased to such a de- 
 gree that, out of the twenty-four hours of the day and 
 night, more than two thirds were taken up with the now 
 terrible drudgery by which they were to be supplied. 'No 
 time had he left for relaxation, — hardly for sleep. The 
 thought of to-morrow's toil weighed on his heart, and kept 
 him from rest. He was thoroughly miserable. It was in 
 vain that he called upon death to put an end to him and 
 his Avretchedness together. There was no escape for him, 
 even by that dark road ; the fear of a worse hereafter, made 
 
186 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 imminent by the consciousness of an ill-spent life, kept him 
 from opening the eternal gate himself, to which he was 
 often sorely tempted. 
 
 To this great despondency succeeded a course of reckless 
 dissipation and drunkenness. Homeless at last, he wan- 
 dered, from one drinking-shop to another, caring nothing 
 for the lamentable destitution in which his family was 
 steeped ; for, as is usually the case, the poorer he became, 
 the more his family increased. His deserted wife and 
 starving little ones were forced to obtain a scanty subsist- 
 ence through the degrading means of beggary. He him- 
 self never applied to his fairy resource unless to furnish 
 as much of the scorching liquor as would completely 
 drown all sense of circumstance. The slightest approach 
 to sobriety only brought with it reflection, and reflection 
 was madness. So, the very 'worst amongst the worst, in 
 rags and filth, he staggered about the village, a mark of 
 scorn and contempt to every passer-by, or else, prone upon 
 some congenial heap of garbage, slept off the fierceness of 
 his intoxication, to be again renewed the instant conscious- 
 ness returned. 
 
 With that extraordinary tenacity of life indicative of an 
 originally fine constitution, which, added to a naturally 
 powerful frame of body, might have prolonged his years 
 even beyond the allotted space, Terry crept on in this worse 
 than brutal state of existence for many months, until at 
 last one morning, after a drinking bout of more than usual 
 excess, he was found lying in a stable to which he had 
 crawled for shelter, insensible, and seemingly dead. Per- 
 ceiving, however, some slight signs of animation yet re- 
 maining, his discoverers carried him to the public hospital, 
 for home he had none, and liis own misdeeds had estranged 
 the affections and closed the heart against him of her whose 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 187 
 
 inclination as well as duty would have brought her quickly 
 to his side, had he hut regarded and cherished the great 
 God-gift to man, — a woman's love, — and not cast it aside 
 as a worthless thing. 
 
 Tended and cared for, however, although hy stranger 
 hands, Terry hovered a long time betwixt life and death, 
 until at length skill and attention triumphed over the as- 
 sailant, and he was restored to comparative health. 
 
 It was then, during the long solitary hours of his con- 
 valescence, when the mind was restored to thorough con- 
 sciousness, but the frame yet too weak for him to quit his 
 bed, that the recollection of his wasted existence stood 
 spectre-like before his mental vision. Home destroyed, 
 wife and children abandoned, friendships sundered, and 
 himself brought to the brink of a dreaded eternity, and all 
 through the means he had so eagerly coveted, and by which 
 he had expected to revel in all the world's joys. 
 
 He prayed, in the earnest sincerity of awakened repent- 
 ance j he prayed for Heaven's assistance to enable him to 
 return to the straight path. 
 
 "0, if I once get out of this!" he cried, while drops 
 of agony bedewed his face, " I '11 make amends during the 
 brief time yet left me, — I will, I will. Come what may, 
 never again will I be beholdin' to that fearful gift. I now 
 find to my great cost that wealth, not properly come by, is 
 a curse, and not a blessing. I '11 work, with the help of the 
 good God and his bright angels, an' maybe peace will 
 once more visit my tortured heart." 
 
 It was some time before he was able to leave his bed, 
 but when at last he was pronounced convalescent, he 
 quitted the hospital, with the firm determination never 
 again, under any circumstance whatsoever, even to place 
 his hand within the pocket whence he had hitherto 
 
188 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 drawn his resources. As a further security against the 
 probabihty of temptation, he took a strong needle and 
 thread, and sewed up the opening tightly. 
 
 " There," he cried, with an accent of relief, " bad luck 
 to the toe of me can get in there now. 0, how I wish 
 to gracious it had always been so, and I wouldn't be the 
 miserable, homeless, houseless, wifeless, and childless vaga- 
 bone that I am at this minute ! " 
 
 As he was debating in his mind what he should turn 
 to in order to obtain a living, — for so great a disgust 
 had he taken to the pipes, to which he attributed all his 
 wretchedness, that he had determined to give up his pro- 
 ductive but precarious profession of piper, and, abandoning 
 the dissolute crowd who rejoiced in his performances, be- 
 take himself to some more useful and reputable employ- 
 ment, — it suddenly occurred to him to visit the scene of 
 his fairy adventure, in the hope that he might get rid of 
 the dangerous gift his cupidity had obtained for him. 
 
 ^o sooner had he conceived the idea than he instantly 
 set forward to put it in execution. The night was favora- 
 ble for his purpose, and he arrived at the identical place in 
 the mountain, without the slightest interruption or accident. 
 He found it just as he had left it, a scene of the wildest 
 desolation. I^o sound fell on his ear save the mournful 
 shrieking of the wind as it tore itself against the harsh 
 branches of the dead pine-trees. He climbed the rugged 
 side of the hill, and looked into the black lake that filled 
 the dark chasm at its summit. It seemed to be as solid as 
 a sheet of lead. He flung a pebble into the gulf; it was 
 eagerly sucked in, and sunk without a ripple, as though 
 dropped into a mass of melted pitch. One heavy bubble 
 swelled to the surface, broke into a sullen flame that flashed 
 lazily for an instant, and then went out. A small, but in- 
 
TERRY M AGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 189 
 
 tensely black puff of smoke rose above the spot ; so dense 
 was the diminutive cloud that it was rejected by the 
 shadowy atmosphere, which refused to receive it within its 
 bosom. Reluctantly it seemed to hang upon the surface 
 of the lake, then slowly mounted, careering backwards and 
 forwards with each passing breeze. 
 
 The singular phenomenon attracted Terry's attention, 
 and he watched, with increasing interest, the gyrations of 
 the cloud, until at length it took a steady direction toward 
 the spot where he stood. It was not long before it floated 
 up to him, and he stepped aside to let it pass j but as he 
 moved, so did the ball of smoke. He stooped, and it fol- 
 lowed his movement ; he turned and r^n, — just as swiftly 
 it sped with him. He now saw there was something su- 
 pernatural in it, and his heart beat with apprehension. 
 
 " There 's no use in kickin' agin fate," he said, " so, with 
 a blessin', I '11 just stop where I am, an' see what will 
 come of it ; worse off I can't be, an' that 's a comfort any- 
 way." 
 
 So saying, Terry stood still, and patiently waited the re- 
 sult. To his great surprise the cloud of smoke, after mak- 
 ing the circuit of his head two or three times, settled on 
 his right shoulder, and, on casting his eye round, he per- 
 ceived that it had changed into a living form, but still as 
 black as a coal. 
 
 *' Bedad I'm among them agin, sure enough," said Terry, 
 now much more easy in his mind ; "I wondher who this 
 little divil is that 's roostin' so comfortably on my showl- 
 dher." 
 
 " Wondher no longer, Misther Terry Magra," grunted a 
 frog-like voice into his ear ; "by what magic means, 
 presumptuous mortal, did you discover the charmed stone 
 which compelled the spirit of yonder sulphurous lake to 
 
190 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 quit his warm quarters, thus to shiver in the uncongenial 
 air 1 Of all the myriad pebbles that are scattered around, 
 that was the only one which possessed the power to call 
 me forth." 
 
 " Faix, an' it was a lucky chance that made me stumble 
 on it, sir," said Terry. 
 
 " That 's as it may turn out," replied the spirit. " Do 
 you know who and what I am 1 but why should you, igno- 
 rant creature as you are 1 Listen, and be enlightened. I 
 am the chief guardian of yon bituminous prison, within 
 whose murky depths lie groaning .all of fairy kind who 
 have by their imprudence forfeited their brilliant station." 
 
 " You don't teU me that, sir *? By goxty, an' I would n't 
 like to change places with them," said Terry, with a great 
 effort at familiarity. 
 
 " There 's no knowing when you may share their fate," 
 replied the spirit. " The soul of many an unhappy mor- 
 tal, who has abused a fairy gift, lies there as well." 
 
 Terry shivered to his very marrow as he heard those 
 words, for full well he knew, that, amongst aU such, none 
 deserved punishment more than he ; he was only wonder- 
 ing how his immortal part could be extracted from its liv- 
 ing tenement, when, as though the spirit knew his very 
 thoughts, it uttered, " I have but to breathe within your 
 ear a word of power, and with that word the current of 
 your life would cease." 
 
 Terry instinctively stretched his neck to its fullest extent, 
 as he said to himself, " I '11 keep my lug out of your reach 
 if I can, my boy." But the spirit either knew his thought, 
 or guessed it from the movement. 
 
 " Eoolish piper," it said, " I could reach it, did I so 
 incline, were it as high as Cashel Tower." And to prove 
 that the assertion was not a mere boast, the little fellow 
 
TEERY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 191 
 
 made a jump, and perched upon the bridge of Terry's 
 nose, and sat there astride ', and as it was of the retrousse 
 order, a very comfortable seat it had ; light as a feather, it 
 rested there, peering alternately into each of Terry's eyes, 
 who squinted at the intruder, brimful of awe and amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " I give in," said he. " It 's less nor nothin' that I am 
 in your hands ; but if it 's just as convainient for you, I 'd 
 be much obliged to you if you 'd lave that, for it 's fairly 
 tearin' the eyes out of me head that you are, while I 'm 
 thryin' to look straight at you." 
 
 "It's all the same to me intirely," replied the spirit; 
 " and now that you have come to a full sense of my power, 
 I '11 take up my position at a more agreeable distance." 
 
 So saying, the spirit bounded off of Terry's nose, and 
 alighted on a branch of the same tree on which the legion 
 of little pipers had before assembled, while Terry wiped 
 his relieved eyes with the sleeve of his coat, and sat upon 
 the piece of rock that stood beside. 
 
 " And now, Masther Magra," said the spirit, " we '11 pro- 
 ceed to business. Had you picked up any other stone but 
 the one you did, or had you refrained from obstructing the 
 lake in any way, your soul would have been mine for ever. 
 You see what a small chance you had. But inasmuch as 
 your good luck pointed out the talismanic pebble, you have 
 yet the privilege of making another wish which I must 
 gratify whatsoever it may be. Think well, however, ere 
 you ask it ; let no scruples bound your desires. The 
 wealth of the world is in my distribution." 
 
 Terry's nerves thrilled again, as his mind conjured up 
 images of purchased delights. But for an instant only did 
 he hesitate what course he should pursue. 
 
 " The temptation is wonderful," said he, " But no : 
 
192 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 I 've endured enough of misery from what I 've had 
 already." 
 
 "What can I do for you?" said the spirit, sharply. 
 " Don't keep a poor divil all night in the cold." 
 
 " Well, then, sir, I '11 tell you," replied the other. " I 
 suppose you know already — for you seem to be mighty 
 knowledgable — that some years back I kotcli a leprechaun 
 on this very spot ; and though he towld me that it would 
 be the desthroyin' of him out an' out, I meanly chose to 
 make myself rich, as I thought, by taking a fairy gift from 
 him, rather than lettin' him go free an' unharmed. It was a 
 dirty an' selfish thransaction on my part, an' it 's with salt 
 tears that I 've repinted of that same. ]N^ow, if that lepre- 
 chaun is sufferin' on my account, and you can give the 
 creather any comfort, it 's my wish that you '11 manage it 
 for me, — ay, even though I was to bear his punishment 
 myself." 
 
 " You have spoken well and wisely," said the spirit ; 
 "and your reward will be beyond your hope." 
 
 Simultaneously with those words, Terry was still more 
 astonished at beholding a gradual but complete change 
 taking place in the neighborhood : the blasted trees shot 
 forth fresh branches; the branches, in their turn, pushed 
 out new leaves ; thick verdure overspread the rugged sides 
 of the mountain ; while, gushing joyously from an adjacent 
 hollow, a little rill danced merrily through the shining 
 pebbles, singing its song of gratitude, as though exulting 
 in the new-found liberty ; unnumbered birds began to fill 
 the air with their delicious melody ; the rifted and calcined 
 rocks concealed their charred fronts beneath festoons of 
 flowering parasites ; the murky lake sank slowly into the 
 abyss, while in its place a tufted, daisy-spangled field 
 appeared, to which the meadow-lark descended lovingly, 
 
TERRY M AGRA'S LEPRECHAUN 193 
 
 and, fluttering a short space amidst the dewy grass, sprang 
 up again, with loud, reverberating note. 
 
 The primeval change, when the beautiful new world 
 emerged from chaos, was not more glorious than was the 
 scene now presented to the rapt beholder. He felt within 
 himself the exhilarating effect of all this vast and unex- 
 pected wonder ; the free, fresh blood cast off its sluggish- 
 ness, and once more bounded through his veins ; the flush 
 of vigor and excitement bedewed his brow; the flaccid 
 muscles hardened into renewed strength ; elasticity and 
 suppleness pervaded every limb, stiffened and racked ere- 
 while with keen rheumatic pains. It was not, however, 
 until, attracted by the pure limpid stream that filtered into 
 a sandy hollow near him, he stooped down to carry the 
 refreshing draught to his lips, that he was aware of the 
 greatest change of all ; for, instead of the sunken cheeks 
 and wrinkled brow, the bloodshot eyes and thin, gray hairs 
 that he had brought with him, the ruddy, health-embrowned 
 and joy-lit features of years long gone laughed up at him 
 from the glassy surface. 
 
 And now a merry httle chuckle tinkled in his ear, and, 
 on looking around, he discovered that the black spirit had 
 vanished, and in its place sat the identical leprechaun, 
 about whose melancholy fate he was so concerned. 
 
 " By the piper that played before Moses, but it 's glad I 
 am to see you once more, mj haro ; have they let you 
 out 1 " inquired Terry, with considerable anxiety. 
 
 - " I have never been imprisoned," replied the little fellow, 
 gayly. 
 
 " Why, then tear an noiinthers^'' said Terry. " You 
 have n't been gostherin' me all the time, an' the heart of me 
 fairly burstin' wid the thought of them weeshee gams of 
 yours strikin' out among the pitch that was beyant." 
 
 13 
 
194 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WETTINGS. 
 
 " It was that very feeling of humanity, which I knew 
 yet lingered in your heart, that saved you," replied the 
 leprechaun. 
 
 " As how, sir, might I ax ? " 
 
 " How long is it since you saw nie before ? " 
 
 " Don't mention it," cried Terry, with an abashed look, 
 *' a weary life-time a'most has passed since then." 
 
 " And what a life-time ! " observed the leprechaun, 
 reproachfully. 
 
 ^^ Indeed, an' you may say that," replied the other. 
 " There's no one knows betther nor I do how sinfully that 
 life was wasted, how useless it has been to me an' to every 
 one else, how foolishly I flung away the means that might 
 have comforted those who looked up to me, among heart- 
 less, conscienceless vagabones, who laughed at me while I 
 fed their brutish appetites,' and fled from me as though I 
 were infectious when ill-health and poverty fell upon my 
 head." 
 
 " Then the fairy gift did not bring you happiness ? " 
 
 " Happiness ! " replied Terry, with a groan, " it changed 
 me from a man into a beast, it brought distress and misery 
 upon those nearest and dearest to me, it made my whole 
 worldly existence one continued reproach, and, God help 
 me ! I 'm afeared it has shut the gates of heaven against 
 my sowl hereafther." 
 
 " Then I suppose you have the grace to be sorry this 
 time that you did n't behave more generously in my case," 
 said the fairy. 
 
 '' True, darlin' ; if I was n't, I would n't be here now," 
 replied Terry. " It was to thry and find you out that I 
 took this journey, an' a sore one it is to a man wid the 
 weight of years that 's on my back." 
 
 " 0, I forgot that you were such an ould creather 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 195 
 
 intirely," said the little fellow, with a merry whistle, " but 
 what the mischief makes you bend your back into an 
 apperciand, and hide your ears on your showlders, as if 
 the cowld was bitin' them." 
 
 " Faix, an' it 's just because I 'm af eared to sthraighten 
 myself out, that murdherin' thief rheumatism has screwed 
 the muscles of my back so tight." 
 
 " You can't stand up then, eh, Terry ? " 
 
 " ^ot for this many a long day, sir, more is the pity," 
 replied the other, with a heavy sigh. 
 
 " You don't tell me that," said the leprechaun, with a 
 queer expression of sympathy. " There could be no harm 
 thryin', anyway." 
 
 " If I thought there would be any use in it, it 's only 
 too glad that I 'd be," said Terry. 
 
 " There 's no knowin' what a man can do, until he makes 
 the effort." 
 
 Encouraged by these words, Terry began very gingerly 
 to lift his head from its long sunken position ; to his infi- 
 nite delight he found the movement unaccompanied by 
 the slightest twinge, and so, with a heart brimful of joy, 
 he drew himself up to his full height without an ache 
 or a pain, — tall, muscular, and as straight as a tailor's 
 yard. 
 
 The hurroo ! that Terry sent forth from his invigorated 
 lungs, when he felt the entire consciousness of his return to 
 youth and its attendant freshness and strength, startled the 
 echoes of the mountain, like the scream of a gray eagle. 
 
 " And now, Misther Terry Magra," said the leprechaun, 
 " I may as well tell you the exact period of time that has 
 passed since I first had the pleasure of a conversation 
 with you ; it is now exactly, by my watch," and he pulled 
 out a mite of a time-keeper from his fob, — " there 's noth- 
 
196 BKOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 ing like being particular in matters of chronology, — jist 
 fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds, or, to be more 
 explicit, in another second it will be precisely a quarter of 
 an hour." 
 
 " 0, murdher alive ! only to think ! " cried Terry, gasping 
 for breath. " An' the wife an' childher, and the drunken- 
 ness and misery I scattered around me." 
 
 " Served but to show you, as in a vision, the sure conse- 
 quences which would have resulted had you really been in 
 possession of the coveted gift you merely dreamed that you 
 had obtained ; the life of wretchedness which you passed 
 through, in so short a time, is but one of many equally 
 unfortunate, some leading even to a more terrible close. 
 There are a few, however, I am bound to say, on whom 
 earthly joys appear to shed a constant ray ', but we, to 
 whom their inmost thoughts' are open as the gates of morn- 
 ing to the sun, know tliat those very thoughts are black as 
 everlasting night. What say you now, Terry 1 Will you 
 generously give up your power over me, and, by leading a 
 life of industry and temperance, insure for you and yours 
 contentment, happiness, and comfort, or wUl you, to the 
 quelling of my fairy existence and its boundless joys, 
 risk the possession of so dangerous though dazzling a gift 
 as I am compelled to bestow upon you, should you insist 
 on my compHance with such a wish ? " 
 
 It must be confessed that Terry's heart swelled again at 
 the renewed prospect of sudden wealth, and inasmuch as 
 he exhibited, by the puzzled expression of his counte- 
 nance, the hidden thoughts that swayed, alternately, his 
 good and evil impulses, the leprechaun continued, " Take 
 time to consider, — do nothing rashly ; but weigh well the 
 consequences of each line of conduct, before you decide 
 irrevocably and forever." 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LErRECHAUN. 197 
 
 "More power to you for givin' me that chance, any- 
 way," said Terry. " It would n't take me long to make my 
 mind up, if it was n't for what I 've gone through ; but 
 ' the burnt child,' you know, ' keeps away from the fire.' 
 Might I ax, sir, how far you could go in the way of 
 money"? for, av I incline that way at all, bed ad it won't 
 be a peddlin' shillin' that I '11 be satisfied with." 
 
 " Do you know Squire Moriarty 1 " said the fairy. 
 
 "Is it Black Pether 1 who does n't know the dirty thief 
 of the world 1 Why, ould Bluebeard was a suckiu' babby 
 compared to him, in the regard of cruelty." 
 
 " How rich is he ? " 
 
 " Be gorra, an' they say there 's no countin' it, it 's so 
 thremendous. Is n't he the gripin'est an' most stony- 
 hearted landlord in the barony, as many a poor farmer 
 knows, when rint-day 's to the fore 1 " said Terry. 
 
 "And how did he get his money?" inquired the 
 leprechaun. 
 
 " Indeed, an' I b'lieve there 's no tellin' exactly. Some 
 says this way, an' others that. I've heard say that he was 
 a slave marchint early in life, or a pirate, or something 
 aiqually ginteel an' profitable," replied Terry. 
 
 " They lie, all of them," the little fellow went on. " He 
 got it as you did yours, by a fairy gift, and see what it has 
 made of him. In his early days, there was not a finer- 
 hearted fellow to be found anywhere ; everybody liked, 
 courted, and loved him." 
 
 " That 's thrue enough," said Terry, ^' and now there 
 ain't a dog on his estates will wag a tail at him." 
 
 " Well, you may be as rich as he is, if you like, Terry," 
 said the fairy. 
 
 "May I]" cried Terry, his eyes flashing fire at the 
 idea. 
 
198 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 " He turned his poor old mother out of doors, the other 
 day," observed the leprechaun, quietly. 
 
 Terry's bright thoughts vanished in an instant, and 
 indignation took their place; for filial reverence is the 
 first of Irish virtues. " The murdherin' Turk ! " he ex- 
 claimed, angrily, " if I had a howld of him now, I 'd 
 squeeze the sowl out of his vagabone carcass, for disgracin' 
 the counthry that 's cursed with such an unnatural repro- 
 bate." 
 
 "It was the money that made him do it," said the 
 fairy. 
 
 " You don't tell me that, sir! " 
 
 " Indade but I do, Terry. When the love of that takes 
 possession of a man's heart, there 's no room there for any 
 other thought. The nearest and dearest ties of blood, of 
 friendship, and of kin, are loosed and cast away as worth- 
 less things. You have a mother, Terry"?" 
 
 "I have, I have; may all good angels guard and keep 
 her out of harm's way ! " cried Terry, earnestly, while the 
 large tears gushed forth from his eyes. " Don't say another 
 word," he went on rapidly ; " if it was goold mines that 
 you could plant under every sthep I took, or that you could 
 rain dimonds into my hat, an' there was the smallest chance 
 of my heart's love sthrayin' from her, even the length of a 
 fly's shadow, it 's to the divil I 'd pitch the whole bilin', 
 soon an' suddent. So you can keep your grand gifts, an' 
 yer fairy liberty, an' tak my blessin' into the bargain, for 
 showin' me the right road." 
 
 " You 're right, Terry," said the leprechaun, joyously, 
 "an' I 'd be proud to shake hands with you if my fist was 
 big enough. You have withstood temptation manfully, 
 and sufficiently proved the kindliness of your disposition. 
 I know that this night's exjDerience will not be lost on you, 
 
TERRY MAGRA'S LEPRECHAUN. 199 
 
 but that you will henceforth abandon the wild companion- 
 ship in the midst of which you have hitherto wasted time 
 and energy, forgetful of the great record yet to come, when 
 each misused moment will stand registered against you." 
 
 '' And now, Terry," he continued, " I '11 lave you to 
 take a little rest ; after all you have gone through you 
 must sorely need it." So saying, the leprechaun waved a 
 slip of osier across Terry's eyelids, when they instantly 
 closed with a snap ; down he dropped all of a heap upon 
 the springy moss, and slept as solid as a toad in a rock. 
 
 When Terry awoke, the morning was far advanced, and 
 the sun was shining full in his face, so that the first impres- 
 sion that filled his mind was that he was gazing upon a 
 world of fire. He soon mastered that thought, however, 
 and then, sitting down upon the famous stone, began to 
 collect his somewhat entangled faculties into an intelligi- 
 ble focus. Slowly the events of the night passed before 
 him; the locality of each phase in his adventures was 
 plainly distinguishable from where he sat. There, close 
 to him, was the identical branch on which had perched 
 the legion of little pipers ; a short distance from him was 
 the mazy hollow through which he had so singularly 
 forced his way ; half hoping to find some evidence of the 
 apparently vivid facts that he had witnessed, he put his 
 hand into his breeches pocket, but only fished out a piece 
 of pig-tail tobacco. 
 
 As he ran over every well-remembered circumstance he 
 became still more puzzled. It was clear enough that he 
 had been asleep, as he had but just waked ; but then 
 he was equally certain that he was wide awake when the 
 leprechaun touched his eyelids with the osier. Indeed, he 
 looked round in the expectation of seeing it lying some- 
 where about j but there was no trace of such a thing. 
 
200 BKOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 The conclusion he came to was a characteristic one. 
 "By the mortial," said he, as, taking up his pipes, he saun- 
 tered down the mountain road, " there 's somethin' quare in 
 it, sure enough ; hut it 's beyant my comprehendin'. The 
 divil a use is there in hotherin' my brains about it ; all I 
 know is that there's a mighty extensive hive o' bees sing- 
 in' songs inside of my hat this blessed mornin'. I must 
 put some whiskey in, an' drownd out the noisy varmints." 
 
 The chronicler of this veracious history regrets exceed- 
 ingly that he cannot, with any regard to the strict truth, 
 bring it to a conclusion in the usual moral-pointing style, 
 except in its general tendency, which he humbly considers 
 to be wholesome and suggestive ; but the hero of the tale 
 — the good-for-nothing, wild roysterer, Terry, who ought, 
 of course, to have profited by the lesson he had received 
 and to have become a sober, steady, useful, somewhat bil- 
 ious, but in every way respectable member of society, 
 dressed in solemn black, and petted religiously by ecstatical 
 elderly ladies — did not assist the conventional denouement 
 in the remotest degree. With grief I am compelled to 
 record the humiliating fact that Terry waxed wilder than 
 ever, drank deeper, frolicked longer, and kicked up more 
 promiscuous shindies than before, and invariably wound 
 up the account of his fairy adventures, which in process 
 of time he believed in most implicitly, by exclaiming, 
 " What a murdherin' fool I was not to take the money ! " 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 201 
 
 O'BEYAK'S LUCK* 
 
 A TALE OF NEW YORK. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE MEKCHANT-PRINCE. 
 
 IN the private ojBEice of a first-class store sat two indi- 
 viduals, each thoroughly absorbed in his present em- 
 ployment, but with very different feelings for the work. 
 One — it was the head of the establishment, the great Mr. 
 Granite, the millionnaire merchant — was simply amusing 
 himself, as was his usual custom at least once a day, figur- 
 ing up, by rough calculation, the probable amount of his 
 worldly possessions, they having arrived at that point when 
 the fructifying power of wealth made hourly addition to 
 the grand total ; while the other, his old and confidential 
 clerk. Sterling, bent assiduously over a great ledger, me- 
 chanically adding up its long columns, which constant use 
 had enabled him to do without the possibility of mistake. 
 With a profound sigh of relief, he laid down his pen, and, 
 rubbing his cramped fingers, quietly remarked, " Accounts 
 made up, sir." 
 
 "Ah ! very good, Sterling," replied the stately principal, 
 with a smile, for his arithmetical amusement was very 
 satisfactory j " how do we stand 1 " 
 
 * The author has treated the subject of this story in his touching 
 play called " The Irish Emigrant." —Ed. 
 
.202 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 "Balance in our favor, two hundred and fifty-seven 
 thousand eight hundred and forty-seven dollars, and 
 twenty-three cents," slowly responded the old clerk, read- 
 ing from his abstract. 
 
 " You 're certain that is correct, Mr. Sterling 1 " inquired 
 the merchant-prince, in a clear, loud voice, which indicated 
 that the old, time-worn machine was wearing out. He w^as 
 so deaf that it was only by using his hand as a conductor 
 of the sound that he could hear sufficiently to carry on a 
 conversation. 
 
 "Correct to a cipher, sir," he replied. "I have been 
 up and down the columns a dozen times." 
 
 "Good." 
 
 " Did you speak, sir 1 " 
 
 " :^ro." 
 
 " Ah ! my poor old ears,'! the old clerk whispered, half 
 aside. " Five and forty years in this quiet office has put 
 them to sleep. They'll never wake up again, never, 
 never." 
 
 " You have been a careful and useful assistant and friend, 
 Sterling," said the merchant, in a kindly tone, touching 
 him on the shoulder with unaccustomed familiarity, " and 
 I thank you for the great good your services have done 
 the house." 
 
 " Bless you, sir, bless you ! — you are too good. I don't 
 deserve it," replied Sterling, unable to restrain the tears 
 which this unusual display of good feeling had forced up 
 from the poor old man's heart. 
 
 " I shall have no further need of you to-day. Sterling, if 
 you have any business of your owm to transact." 
 
 " I have, I have, my good, kind friend, and thank you 
 for granting me the opportunity," said Sterling, descending 
 with difficulty from his place of torture. — Why will they 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 203 
 
 not abolisli those inflexible horrors, those relics of barbar- 
 ism, those inquisitorial chattels, — ofiice stools *? *' I '11 go 
 now, and mingle my happiness with the sweet breath of 
 heaven. And yet, if I dared to say what I want — I — " 
 " Well, speak out, old friend." The merchant went on, 
 with an encouraging look: "If your salary be insufii- 
 cient — " 
 
 "0, no, no ! " interposed the other suddenly. " I am 
 profusely paid, — too much, indeed, — but — " and he cast 
 down his eyes hesitatingly. 
 
 " This reserve with me is foolish. Sterling. What have 
 you to say ] " 
 
 "!N^othing much, sir; indeed, I hardly know how to 
 bring it out, knowing, as I well do, your strange antipa- 
 thy — " Granite turned abruptly away. He now knew 
 what was coming, and it was with a dark frown upon his 
 brow he paced the office, as Sterling continued, " I saw Am 
 to-day." 
 
 " Travers 1 " 
 
 "Yes," replied the other, "Travers. But don't speak 
 his name as though it stung you. I was his father's clerk 
 before I was yours." 
 
 " You know what I have already done for him," moodily 
 rejoined the merchant. 
 
 " Yes, yes, — I know it M-as kind, very kind of you, — 
 you helped him oncej but he was unsuccessful. He is 
 young, — pray, pray, spare him some assistance. You 
 won't miss it, — indeed you won't," pleaded the clerk. 
 
 " Sterling, you are a fool," Granite replied, sternly. 
 " Every dollar lent or lost is a backward step that must 
 be crawled up to again by inches. But I am inclined to 
 liberality to-day. What amount do you think will satisfy 
 this spendthrift ? " 
 
204 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 " Well, since your kindness emboldens me to speak — 
 it 's no use patching up a worn coat, so even let him have 
 a new one — give him another chance — a few hundred 
 dollars, more or less, can't injure you, and may be his 
 salvation. About five thousand dollars will suffice." 
 
 " Five thousand dollars ! are you mad. Sterling 1 " cried 
 the merchant, starting to his feet in a paroxysm of anger. 
 
 " Your son will have his half a million to begin with," 
 quietly suggested Sterling. 
 
 " He will, he will ! " cried the other, with a strange, 
 proud light in his eye, for upon that son all his earthly 
 hopes, and haply those beyond the earth, were centred. 
 " Wealth is power, and he will have sufficient ; he can lift 
 his head amongst the best and proudest ; he can wag his 
 tongue amongst the highest in the land, — eh, my old 
 friend ? " 
 
 " That can he, indeed, sir, and be ashamed of neither 
 head nor tongue, for he's a noble youth," replied the clerk. 
 
 " Here, take this check. Sterling. I '11 do as you wish 
 this time ; but mind it is the last. I have no right to in- 
 jure, even in the remotest degree, my son's interests, of 
 which I am simply the guardian. You can give it to — 
 to — him, and with this positive assurance." 
 
 " Bless you ! this is like you, — this is noble, princely," 
 murmured the old clerk, through his tears, which now 
 were flowing unrestrainedly ; " when I tell — " 
 
 " Hold ! repeat his name again, and I recall the loan. 
 I repent already of having been entrapped into this act of 
 folly." 
 
 " You wrong your own liberal nature," said Sterling, 
 mildly. *' You are goodness itself, and fear not but you 
 will receive your reward fourfold for all you have done 
 for — " 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 205 
 
 "Away, you prating fool," cried Granite, in a tone that 
 hurried the old clerk out of the office, full of gratitude for 
 the service done, and of unaffected joy that Providence 
 had selected him to be the bearer of such happy intelli- 
 gence to the son of his old employer. 
 
 Meantime, the merchant-prince flung himself into his 
 comfortable easy-chair, a spasm of agony passing across 
 his harsh features. " Travers, Travers! " he inly ejacu- 
 lated, " must that black thought ever thrust itself like a 
 grim shadow across the golden sun-ray of my prosperity 1 " 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 THE MAN OF LABOR. 
 
 The accommodating reader will now be kind enough to 
 accompany me to a far different place from that in which 
 the foregoing dialogue was held. With an effort of the 
 will — rapid as a spiritual manifestation — we are there. 
 You see, it is an exceedingly small habitation, built entirely 
 of wood, and excepting that beautiful geranium-plant on 
 one window^ and a fine, sleek, contented-looking puss 
 winking lazily on the other, — both, let me tell you, con- 
 vincing evidence that the household deities are worshipped 
 on the hearth within, for wheresoever you see flowers 
 cultivated outside of an humble house look for cleanliness 
 and domestic comfort on the inside, — little of ornament 
 is visible. Kind people dwell within, you may know ; 
 for, see, the placid puss does n't condescend to change her 
 position as we near her ; her experience has n't taught her 
 to dread an enemy in our species. 
 
 Lift the latch j 't is but a primitive fastening. ISTay ! 
 
206 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 don't hesitate ; you know we are invisible. There ! you 
 are now in the principal apartment. See how neat and 
 tidy everything is. The floor, to be sure, is uncarpeted, 
 but then it is scrupulously clean. Look at those white win- 
 dow-curtains ; at that Avell-patched table-cloth, with every 
 fold as crisp as though it had been just pressed ; the 
 dresser over there, each article upon it bright as industry 
 and the genius of happy home can make it. What an 
 appetizing odor steams in from yonder kitchen ! and listen 
 to those dear little birds, one in each window, carrying on 
 a quiet, demure conversation, in their own sweet way ! 
 Do they not say, and does not every quiet nook echo : 
 " Though poor and lowly, there is all of heaven that 
 heaven vouchsafes to man, beneath this humble roof; for 
 it is the sphere of her who is God's choicest blessing — 
 that world angel — a good, pure-hearted, loving wife." 
 
 But hark ! who is that singing 1 You can hear him, 
 although he is yet a block off; and so can she who is 
 busy within there ; you can tell by that little scream of 
 
 joy- 
 That is Tom Bobolink, the honest truckman, and the 
 
 owner of this little nest of contentment. 
 
 But, if you please, I will resume my narrative in my 
 
 own way, for you are a very uncommunicative companion, 
 
 reader, and it is impossible for me to discover whether 
 
 you like the scene we have been looking at, or do not. 
 In a few moments, Tom rushed into the little room, his 
 
 face all a-glow with healthy exercise, and a joyous song on 
 
 his lips. 
 
 " Hello, pet ! where are you 1 " he cried, putting down 
 
 his hat and whip. 
 
 " Here am I, Tom ! " answered as cheerful a voice as 
 
 ever bubbled up from a heart full of innocence and love. 
 
O'BKYAN'S LUCK. 207 
 
 " Din in a sec" meaning dinner in a second ; for " Tom 
 and Pol," in their confidential chats, abbreviated long 
 words occasionally ; and I give this explanation as a sort of 
 guide to their pet peculiarity. 
 
 " Hurry up, Polly ! " cried Tom, with a good-humored 
 laugh, "for I 'm jolly hungry, I tell you. Good gracious ! 
 I 've heard of people's taking all sorts of things to get up 
 an appetite j if they 'd only have the sense to take nothing, 
 and keep on at it, it 's wonderful what an efiect it would 
 have on a lazy digestion." 
 
 Polly now entered with two or three smoking dishes, 
 which it did not take long to place in order. Now, I 
 should dearly like to give you a description of my heroine, 
 — ay, heroine, — for it is in her station that such are to 
 be found, — noble spirits, who battle with privation and 
 untoward fate, — smoothing the rugged pathway of life, and 
 infusing fresh energy into the world-exhausted heart. 0, 
 what a crown of glory do they deserve, who wear a smile 
 of content upon their lips, while the iron hand of adversity 
 is pressing on their hearts, concealing a life of martyrdom 
 beneath the heroism of courageous love ! 
 
 I say I should like to give you some slight description 
 of Polly's appearance, but I choose rather that my readers 
 should take their own individual ideas of perfect loveli- 
 ness, and clothe her therein ; for, inasmuch as she is the 
 type of universal excellence, in mind and character, I wish 
 her to be so in form and beauty. 
 
 " What have you got for me, Polly 1 " says Tom. 
 
 " It ain't much," she replied ; " cos you know we can't 
 afford lux^es ; but it 's such a sweet little neck of miit, and 
 lots of wedges.'''' 
 
 " Gollopshus ! " says Tom ; " out with it ! I 'm as hungry 
 as an unsuccessful of&ce-seeker." 
 
208 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 *' Office-seekers ! what are they, Tom 1 " 
 
 " Why, Polly, they are — faith, I don't know what to 
 compare them to ; you 've heard of those downy birds, that, 
 when some other has got hisself a comfortable nest, never 
 rests until he pops into it. But them's politics, Polly, and 
 ain't prop for worn to meddle with." 
 
 " I agree with you there, Tom, dear ; there 's enough 
 to occupy a woman's time and attention inside of her 
 house, without bothering her head with what 's going on 
 outside." 
 
 " Bless your little heart ! " cried Tom, heartily. " 
 Polly, darling ! if there were a few more good wives, 
 there would be a great many less bad husbands. This is 
 glorious ! If we could only be sure that we had as good a 
 dinner as this all our lives, Pol, how happy I should be ! 
 but I often think, my girl, if any accident should befall 
 me, what would become of you." 
 
 " Now, don't talk that way, Thomas ; nor don't repine 
 at your condition ; it might be much worse." 
 
 " I can't help it. I try not ; but it 's impossible, when 
 I see people dressed up and titevated out, as I go jogging 
 along with my poor old horse and truck — - 1 envy them in 
 my heart, Pol — I know it 's wrong ; but it 's there, and it 
 would be worse to deny it." 
 
 " Could any of those fine folks enjoy their dinner better 
 than you did, Tom 1 " said Polly, with a cheering smile. 
 
 " 1:^0, my girl ! But eating is n't all, Pol. This living 
 from hand to mouth — earning with hard labor every 
 crust we put into it — never seeing the blessed face of a 
 dollar that is n't wanted a hundred ways by our necessi- 
 ties — is rather hard." 
 
 " Ah, Tom ! and thankful ought we to be that we have 
 health to earn that dollar. Think of the thousands of 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCE. 209 
 
 poor souls that are worse off than ourselves ! Never look 
 above your own station with envy, Thomas ; but below it 
 with gratitude." 
 
 This moment there appeared at the open door a poor, 
 wretched-looking individual, evidently an Irishman, and, 
 from the singularity of his dress, only just landed. He 
 said not a word, but upon his pale cheek was visibly 
 printed a very volume of misery. 
 
 " Hello, friend ! what the devil do you want 1 " asked 
 Tom. 
 
 " Don't speak so, Thomas. He 's sick and in distress," 
 said Polly, laying her finger on his mouth. " There ! sup- 
 pose you were like that ! " 
 
 " What 1 a Paddy ! " replied the other, with a jolly 
 laugh ; " don't mention it ! " then calling to the poor 
 stranger, who was resignedly walking away, " Come on, 
 Irish ! " he cried. "Do you want anything ] " 
 
 " Av you plaze, sir," answered the Irishman, " I 'd like 
 to rest meself." 
 
 " Sit down, poor fellow ! " said PoUy, dusting a chair, 
 and handing it towards him. 
 
 " I don't mane that, ma'am ; a lean o' the wall, an' an 
 air o' the fire '11 do. The blessin's on ye for lettin' me 
 have it ! " So saying, he placed himself near the cheerful 
 fire-place, and warmed his chilled frame. 
 
 " A big lump of a feUow like you, would n't it be better 
 for you to be at work than lounging about in idleness 1 " 
 said Tom. 
 
 " Indeed, an' its thrue for ye, sir, it would so; but 
 where is a poor boy to find it 1 " 
 
 " 0, anywhere, — everywhere ! " 
 
 " Bedad, sir, them 's exactly the places I 've been lookin' 
 for it, for the last three weeks ', but there was nobody at 
 
 14 
 
210 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 home. I hunted the work while I had the stringth to 
 crawl afther it, an' now, av it was to come, I 'm afear'd 
 that I have n't the stringth to lay howld ov it." 
 
 " Are you hungry *? " inquired Polly. 
 
 " I 'm a trifle that way inclined, ma'am," he replied, with 
 a semi-comic expression. 
 
 " Poor fellow, here, sit down and eat," said Polly, 
 hurriedly diving into the savory stew, and forking up a 
 line chop, which she handed to the hungry stranger. 
 
 " I'd relish it betther standin', if you plaze, ma'am," said 
 he, pulling out a jack-knife and attacking the viands with 
 vigorous appetite, exclaiming, " May the heavens bless you 
 for this good act ! sure it 's the poor man that 's the poor 
 man's friend, afther all. You 've saved me, sowl and body, 
 this blessed day. I have n't begged yet, but it was comin' 
 on me strong. I looked into the eyes of the quality folks, 
 but they carried their noses so high they could n't see the 
 starvation that was in my face, and I wouldn't ax the 
 poor people for fear they were worse off than meself." 
 
 " Ain't you sorry, Thomas, for what you said just now 1 " 
 inquired Polly of her husband. 
 
 " 'No," he replied, striking his fist on the table. " I 'm 
 more discontented than ever, to think that a few hundred 
 scoundrel schemers, or fortunate fools, should monopolize 
 the rights of millions ; is n't it devilish hard that I can't 
 put my hand in my pocket and make this poor fellow's 
 heart jump for joy." 
 
 " Point out to him where he can get some employment, 
 Thomas, and his heart will be continually jumping," 
 replied Polly. 
 
 By this time the poor stranger had finished his extem- 
 pore meal, and shut up his pocket-knife, which he first 
 carefully wiped on the tail of his coat. " May God bless 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 211 
 
 you for this ! " said he. " I 'm stronger now. I '11 go an' 
 hunt for a job j maybe luck won't be a stepfather to me 
 all my days." 
 
 " Stop," cried Tom, " suppose I were to give you some- 
 thing to do, what would you say 1 " 
 
 "Faixj I wouldn't say much, sir," said the Irishman, 
 "but I'd do it." 
 
 " Come along with me, then, and if I get any job, I '11 
 get you to help me." 
 
 " 0, then, may long life attend you for puttin' fresh 
 blood in my veins ! " responded the excited Milesian, 
 giving his already curiously bad hat a deliberate punch 
 in the crown, to show his gratitude and delight. 
 
 " Bless his noble, honest, loving heart ! " cried Polly, as 
 Tom, having impressed his usual kiss upon her lips, started 
 to his labor again. "If it were not for those little fits of 
 discontent every now and then, what a man he 'd be ! but 
 we can't be aU. perfect ; don't I catch myseK thinking silks 
 and satins sometimes, instead of cottons and calicoes 1 and 
 I '11 be bound, if the truth was known, the great folks that 
 wear nothing else but grand things don't behave a bit 
 better, but keep longing for something a little grander still, 
 so he must n't be blamed, nor he sha'n't, neither, in my 
 hearing." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 
 
 Turn we now to the highly genteel establishment where 
 Henry Travers and his young wife are now resident, 
 presided over by a little more than middle-aged, severe- 
 looking personage, who rejoices in the euphonious name 
 
212 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 of Grimgriskin : her temper, phraseology, and general dis- 
 position may be hetter illustrated by the conversation which 
 is now going on between her and her two unfortunate in- 
 mates. The midday accumulation of scraps, which was 
 dignified by the name of dinner, but just over, Henry Tra- 
 vers, in his small, uncomfortable bedroom, was ruminating 
 upon the darkness of his present destiny, when a sharp 
 knock at his door admonished him that he was about to 
 receive his usual dunning visit from his amiable landlady. 
 
 " Come in," he gasped, with the articulation of a person 
 about to undergo a mild species of torture. 
 
 " You '11 excuse me, good people," said Grimgriskin, *' for 
 the intrusion ; but business is business, and if one don't 
 attend to one's business, it 's highly probable one's business 
 will make unto itself wings, and, in a manner of spealdng, 
 fly away : not that I want to make you feel uncomfortable. 
 I flatter myself, in this estabhshment, nobody need be 
 under such a disagreeable apprehension ; but houses won't 
 keep themselves, at least / never knew any so to do. 
 Lodgings is lodgings, and board is board ; moreover, mar- 
 kets — specially at this season of the year — may reasonably 
 be said to be markets ; beef and mutton don't jump spon- 
 taneously into one's hands, promiscuous-like ; neither do 
 the hydrants run tea and coffee, — at least as far as my 
 knowledge of hydrants goes." 
 
 " The plain sense of all this is — " 
 
 " Exactly what I am coming to," interrupted the voluble 
 hostess. '' I 'm a woman of few words ; but those few, 
 such as they are, I 'm proud to say, are geuerally to the 
 purpose. I make it a point to send in my bills regularly 
 every month, and I presume that it 's not an unreasonable 
 stretch of imagination to expect them to be paid. J^ow, 
 for the last three months they have come up to you re- 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 213 
 
 ceipted, and down to me witli what one might call the auto- 
 graphical corner torn off, IS'ow, as it is not in my nature 
 to make any one feel uncomfortable, and being a woman 
 of very few words, I would merely intimate to you that 
 rents is rents — and, moreover, must be paid — and mine, 
 I am sorry to observe, is not a singular exception in such 
 respect." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Grim — " 
 
 " One moment ! " interposed the woman of few words. 
 " Perhaps you may not be aware of the circumstance, but 
 I have my eyes open, — and, moreover, my ears. Whispers 
 is whispers, and I have heard something that might make 
 you uncomfortable ; but as that is not my principle, I 
 won't repeat it; but talkers, you know, will be talkers, 
 and boarders can never be anything else in the world but 
 boarders." 
 
 " What have they dared to say of us ? " inquired 
 Henry. 
 
 *' Nothing — 0, nothing to be repeated — dear, no ! I 'm 
 proud to observe that my boarders pay regularly every 
 month, and are therefore highly respectable ; and respecta- 
 ble boarders make a respectable house, and I wouldn't 
 keep anything else. Thank heaven, I have that much 
 consideration for my own respectability ! " 
 
 " May I be permitted to ask what all this amounts to *? " 
 asked Henry, with commendable resignation. 
 
 " Just two hundred dollars," sharply replied Mrs. Grim- 
 griskin; "being eighty for board, and one hundred and 
 twenty for extras. I 'm a woman o:^ few words — " 
 
 " And I 'm a man of less," said Henry, " I can't pay it." 
 
 " I had my misgivings," cried the landlady, tartly, "not- 
 withstanding your boast of being connected with the rich 
 Mr. Granite. Allow me to say, sir," she continued, seating 
 
214 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 herself upon a chair, " I 've just sent for a hackman to 
 take your trunks away, and I mean to retain the furniture 
 until some arrangement is made." 
 
 " May I come in ? " murmured a small, but apparently 
 well-known voice at the door, from the alacrity with which 
 Henry's poor young wife rushed to open it, admitting old 
 Sterling, the clerk. 
 
 " Let me look in your eyes," cried she ; " is there any 
 hope?" 
 
 Sterling shook his head. 
 
 " Noj — no more ! '' 
 
 " Heaven help us ! " she exclaimed, as she tottered back 
 to her seat. 
 
 " Heaven has helped you, my bright bird," said Sterling. 
 " I only shook my head to make your joy the greater." 
 
 *' What say you 1 " exclaimed Travers ; " has that stony 
 heart relented]" 
 
 " It is not a stony heart," replied Sterling ; " I am 
 ashamed of you for saying so. It 's a good, generous heart. 
 It has made mine glow with long-forgotten joy this day." 
 
 *'Does he give us relief? " inquired Henry. 
 
 " He does," said the old man, the enthusiasm of gener- 
 ous happiness lighting up his features ; " great, enduring 
 relief. What do you think of five thousand dollars ? " 
 
 " You dream, I dream ! " cried Travers, starting up in 
 astonishment ; while Mrs. Grimgriskin, smoothing her un- 
 amiable wrinkles, and her apron at the same time, at the 
 mention of so respectable a sum, came forward, saying, in 
 her newest-lodger voice, " You '11 excuse me ; but I 'm a 
 woman of few words. I hope you won't take anything 
 I 've said as at all personal to you, but only an endeavor, 
 as far as in me lies, to keep up the credit of my own 
 establishment ; as for that little trifle between us, of 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 215 
 
 course you can take your own time about that." So 
 saying, and with a profusion of unnoticed courtesies, she 
 quitted the room. 
 
 She had scarcely done so, when, with a deep groan of 
 agony. Sterling pressed his hand against his head, and 
 staggered to a chair. In an instant, Henry and his wife 
 were by his side. 
 
 " What is the matter, my dear Sterling ? " cried Henry. 
 
 " Don't come near me," replied the old clerk, the very 
 picture of despair and wretchedness ; "I am the destroyer 
 of your peace, and of my own, forever. 0, why was I 
 allowed to see this dreadful day 1 Curse me, Travers ! 
 Bellow in my blunted ear, that my vile sense may drink it 
 in. I 've lost it, — lost it ! " 
 
 "Not the money]" exclaimed Henry and his wife at a 
 breath. 
 
 " That 's right ! Kill me ! kill me ! I deserve it ! " con- 
 tinued Sterling, in an agony of grief. " careless, guilty, 
 unhappy old man, that in your own fall must drag down 
 all you love, to share your ruin ! Lost — lost — lost, 
 forever ! " 
 
 " Forgive even the appearance of injustice, my good, 
 kind old friend," soothingly observed Travers. " It is I 
 who am the doomed one. There is no use in striving 
 against destiny." 
 
 "Don't, Henry, don't! " gasped the old clerk, through 
 his fast-falling tears. " This kindness is worse than your 
 reproof. Let me die ! let me die ! I am not fit to live ! " 
 Suddenly starting to his feet, he cried, " I '11 run back, — 
 perhaps I may find it. 0, no, no ! I cannot ; my old 
 limbs, braced up by the thought of bringing you hap- 
 piness, are weakened by the efi'ect of this terrible re- 
 action ! " 
 
216 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 " Come, come, old friend, take it not so much to heart ! " 
 said Travers, cheering him as well as he could. " There, 
 lean upon me; we'll go and search for it together, and 
 even if it be not found, the loss is not a fatal one, so long 
 as life and health remain." 
 
 " You say this but to comfort me, and in your great 
 kindness of heart, dear, dear boy ! " cried Sterling, as he 
 rose from the chair, and staggered out to retrace his steps, 
 in the hope of regaining that which had been lost. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE PIECE OF LUCK. 
 
 It so happened that the very truckman who was sent to 
 take Henry's trunks was our friend Bobolink, who was 
 plying in the vicinity, and, as it was his first job, he was 
 anxious enough to get it accomplished ; therefore, a few 
 minutes before Sterling came out, he and his protege^ 
 Bryan, the Irishman, trotted up to the door. 
 
 " There ! away with you up, and get the trunks," said 
 Bobolink ; " I'll wait for you here." 
 
 Bryan timidly rung at the bell, and entered. In the 
 mean time, Tom stood at his horse's head, pulling his ears, 
 and having a little confidential chat. Taking out his wal- 
 let, he investigated its contents. 
 
 " Only fifty cents," he exclaimed, shrugging his shoul- 
 ders, "and this job will make a dollar, — that's aU the 
 money in the world." 
 
 In putting back his greasy, well-worn wallet, his eye 
 happened to fall upon an object which made the blood 
 rush with a tremendous bound through his frame. Lying 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 217 
 
 close to the curb, just below his feet, was a large pocket- 
 book. 
 
 " Good gracious ! " he exclaimed, " what 's that I It looks 
 very like" — (picking it up hurriedly, and taking a hasty 
 survey of its contents) — ^' it is — money — heaps of money 
 — real, good money, and such a lot — all fifties and twen- 
 ties ! " First, he blessed his good luck ; then, he cursed 
 the heaviness of the temptation ; at one moment he 
 would whistle, and endeavor to look unconcerned ; at 
 another, he would tremble with apprehension. What to 
 do with it, he did not know ; but the tempter was too 
 strong ; he at last determined to retain it. " It 's a wind- 
 fall," said he to himself; "nobody has seen me take it. 
 Such a large sum of money could not have been lost by a 
 poor person, and nobody wants it more than I do myself. 
 I '11 be hanged if I don't keep it ! " 
 
 Just then Bryan emerged from the door, with a most 
 lachrymose expression of countenance, and was very much 
 astonished to find that his stay did not produce an equally 
 woe-begone effect upon Tom. 
 
 "There's no thrunks goin'," said Bryan. "The fellow 
 as was leavin' ain't leavin' yet; because somebody's after 
 leavin' him a lot o' money." 
 
 "Come, jump up, then," cried Bobolink, " and don't be 
 wasting time there." 
 
 At that moment his eye caught that of Sterling, who, 
 with Travers, had commenced a search for the lost pocket- 
 book. Instinct told him in an instant what tlieir occupa- 
 tion was, and yet he determined to keep the money. 
 
 "My man," said Travers to Bryan, " did you see any- 
 thing of a pocket-book near this door 1 " 
 
 " Is it me •? " replied Bryan. "Do I look as if L'd seen 
 it? I wish I had!" 
 
218 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 ** What for 1 you 'd keep it, I suppose ? " observed 
 Travers. 
 
 " Bad luck to the keep," replied Bryan, " and to you 
 for thinkin' it ! but it 's the way of the world, — a ragged 
 waistcoat 's seldom suspected of hidin' an honest heart." 
 
 " Come, old friend," said Henry to Sterling, "these men 
 have not seen it evidently " ; and off they went on their 
 fruitless errand, while a feeling of great relief spread it- 
 self over Bobolink's heart at their departure. 
 
 " How wild that ould fellow looked," said Bryan. 
 
 " Humbug ! " replied Bobolink ; " it was only put on to 
 make us give up the pocket-book." 
 
 "Make us give it up 1 " 
 
 " Yes ; that is to say, if we had it. There, don't talk. 
 I'm sick. I've got an oppression on my chest, and if I 
 don't get relief, I '11 drop in the street." 
 
 " Indeed, an' somethin 's come over ye since mornin', sure 
 enough," said Bryan; "but you've been kind, an' good, 
 an' generous to me, an' may I never taste glory, but if I 
 could do you any good by takin' half yer complaint, I 'd 
 doit." 
 
 " I dare say you would," replied Tom ; " but my consti- 
 tution 's strong enough to carry it all. There, you run 
 home, and tell Polly I '11 be back early. I don't want you 
 any more." 
 
 As soon as Bryan was off. Bobolink sat down on his 
 truck, and began to ruminate. His first thought was about 
 his wife. " Shall I tell Polly 1 " thought he. " I 've never 
 kept a secret from her yet. But suppose she would n't let 
 me keep if? I sha'n't say a word about it. I '11 hide it for 
 a short time, and then swear I got a prize in the lottery." 
 It suddenly occurred to him that he was still on the spot 
 where he had found the money. " Good heaven," said he, 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 219 
 
 " why do I linger about here 1 I must be away, — away 
 anywhere ! and yet I feel as though I was leaving my life's 
 happiness here. Pooh ! lots of money will make any one 
 happy." So saying, and singing — but with most con- 
 strained jollity — one of the songs which deep bitterness 
 had called up spontaneously from his heart, he drove to 
 the nearest groggery, feeling assured that he should require 
 an unusual stimulant of liquor, to enable him to fitly bear 
 this accumulation of good luck which did not justly be- 
 long to him. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 "What a dear, considerate, good-natured husband I 
 have, to be sure ! The proudest lady in the land can't be 
 happier than I am in my humble house," said Polly, as she 
 bustled about to prepare for Tom's coming home, having 
 been informed by Bryan that she was to expect him. 
 " Poor fellow ! he may well be tired and weary. I must 
 get his bit of supper ready. Hush ! that 's his footstep," 
 she continued. But something smote her as she noticed 
 the fact that he was silent. There was no cheering song 
 bursting from his throat, — no glad word of greeting ; but 
 he entered the door, moody and noiseless. Another glance. 
 Did not her eye deceive her 1 No ! The fatal demon of 
 Liquor had imprinted its awful mark upon his brow. She 
 went up to him, and, in a voice of affection, asked what 
 was the matter. 
 
 " Matter 1 What should be the matter 1 " he answered, 
 peevishly. 
 
220 _ BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 " Don't speak so crossly, Thomas," said she, in a subdued 
 voice ; "you know I did not mean any harm." 
 
 " Bless your little soul ! I know you did n't," he ex- 
 claimed, giving her a hearty embrace. "It 's me that 's the 
 brute." 
 
 "Indeed, Thomas, you are nothing of the kind," she 
 went on, the cheerful smile once more on her lip. 
 
 " I am, Polly ; I insist upon being a brute. Ah ! you 
 don't know all." 
 
 " All what ] you alarm me ! " 
 
 " I wish I dared tell her," thought Bobolink ; " I will ! 
 I 've found a jolly lot of money to-day, Polly." 
 
 " How much, Thomas V 
 
 " Shall I tell her 1 I 've a great mind to astonish her 
 weak nerves. — How much do you think ] " cried he, with 
 a singular expression, which Polly attributed but to one 
 terrible cause, and she turned sadly away. That angered 
 him, — for men in such moods are captious about trifles. 
 " I won't teU her," said he ; " she does n't deserve it. 
 Well, then, I 've earned a dollar.^' 
 
 "Only a dollar?" replied Polly. "Well, never mind, 
 dear Thomas, we must make it do ; and better a dollar 
 earned, as you have earned yours, by your own honest in- 
 dustry, than thousands got in any other way." 
 
 Somehow Tom fancied that every word she said was 
 meant as a dig at him, forgetting, in his drunkenness, 
 that she was ignorant of what had passed. The conse- 
 quence was, that he became crosser than ever. 
 
 " Why do you keep saying savage things, that you know 
 must aggravate mel" he cried. "I can't eat. Have you 
 any brandy in the house ? I have a pain here ! " and he 
 clasped his hands upon his breast, where the pocket-book 
 lay concealed. " I think the brandy would relieve me." 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 221 
 
 "My poor Thomas," replied his wife, affectionately, 
 " something must have happened to annoy you ! I never 
 saw you thus before ; but you are so seldom the worse for 
 drink that I will not upbraid you. The best of men are 
 subject to temptation." 
 
 At that word Bobolink started from his seat, and, gazing 
 intently in her face, exclaimed, " What do , you mean by 
 thatr' 
 
 " Why, even you, Thomas, have been tempted to forget 
 yourself," she replied. 
 
 " How do you know 1 " he thundered, his face now sickly 
 pale. 
 
 " I can see it in every feature, my poor husband ! " said 
 she, sorrowfully, as she quitted the room to get the brandy 
 he required. 
 
 " I suppose you can," muttered Bobolink to himself, as 
 he fell into the chair, utterly distracted and unhappy ; 
 " everybody can. I 'm a marked, miserable man ! and for 
 what 1 I '11 take it back. JN'o, no ! I can't now, for I 've 
 denied it ! " 
 
 ■ " Something has happened to vex you terribly, my dear 
 husband ! " cried Polly, as she returned with a small bottle 
 of brandy. 
 
 "Well, suppose there has," replied he, in a loud and 
 angry tone, " is a man accountable to his wife for every 
 moment of his life 1 You 've had such a smooth road 
 all your life that the first rut breaks your axle. Come, 
 don't mind me, Polly ! I don't mean to worry you, but 
 — but you see that I'm a little sprung. Leave me to 
 myself, there 's a good girl ! Come, kiss me before you 
 go. Ha ! ha ! I '11 make a lady of you yet, Pol ! see if I 
 don't. Did n't you hear me tell you to go to bed ? " 
 
 "Yes, Thomas, but— " 
 
222 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 " But what ] " 
 
 " Pray, drink no more." 
 
 " I '11 drink just as much as I please ; and, moreover, I 
 won't be dictated to by you, when I can buy your whole 
 stock out, root and branch. I 've stood your nonsense 
 long enough, so take my advice and start." 
 
 " Thomas ! Thomas ! " cried his weeping wife, as 
 she hurried to her little bedroom ; " never did I expect 
 this, and you '11 be sorry for it in the morning." 
 
 " Damn it ! I am an unfeeling savage. Don't cry, Pol ! " 
 he shouted after her, as she quitted the room ; " I did n't 
 intend to hurt your feelings, and I won't drink any more, 
 there. Say God bless you, before you go in, won't you 1 " 
 
 *' God bless you, dear husband ! " said the loving wife. 
 
 *' That's right, Pol!" 
 
 As soon as Tom found himself quite alone, he looked 
 carefully at the fastenings of the doors and windows, and, 
 having cleared the little table of its contents, proceeded to 
 examine the interior of the pocket-book. With a tremu- 
 lous hand and a quick-beating heart, he drew it forth, start- 
 ing at the slightest sound ; tearing it open, he spread the 
 thick bundle of notes before him ; the spectacle seemed 
 to dazzle his eyes ; his breath became heavy and suffo- 
 cating ; there was more, vastly more, than he had even 
 dreamed of. 
 
 " What do I see 1 " he cried, while his eyes sparkled with 
 the fire of suddenly awakened avarice, "tens — fifties — 
 hundreds — I do believe — thousands ! I never saw such 
 a sight before. What sound was that? I could have 
 sworn I heard a small voice call out my name. For the 
 first time in my life, I feel like a coward. I never yet 
 feared to stand before a giant ! now, a boy might cow me 
 down. Pshaw ! it 's because I 'm not used to handling 
 money." 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 223 
 
 Again and again, he tried to count up how much the 
 amount was, hut grew confused, and had to give it up. 
 
 " Never mind how much there is," he cried at last ; " it's 
 mine, — all mine ! Nohody saw me ; nobody knows it : 
 nobody — but One — but One ! " he continued, looking 
 upward for an instant, and then, clasping his hands 
 together, and leaning his head over the money, he wept 
 bitter tears over his great Piece of Luck. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 At a splendid escritoire Mr. Granite sat, in his own room, 
 surrounded by the luxurious appliances which wait upon 
 wealth, however acquired. The face of the sitter is deadly 
 pale, for he is alone, and amongst his most private papers. 
 He has missed one, upon which the permanence of his 
 worldly happiness hung. Diligently has he been searching 
 for that small scrap of paper, which contained the sentence 
 of death to his repute. the agony of that suspense ! 
 It could not have been abstracted, for it was in a secret 
 part of his writing-desk, although by the simplest accident 
 in the world it had now got mislaid ; yet was he destined 
 not to recover it. In hastily taking out some papers, it 
 had dropped through the opening of the desk, which was 
 a large one, upon the carpet, where it remained, unper- 
 ceived. In the midst of his anxious and agonized search, 
 there was a knock at the door, and, even paler and more 
 heart-broken than the merchant himself. Sterling tottered 
 into the room. 
 
 " Well, my good Sterling," said the merchant, with a 
 
224 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 great effort stifling Ms own apprehension, "I am to be 
 troubled no more by that fellow's pitiful whinings. I was 
 a fool to be over-persuaded ; but benevolence is my failing, 
 — a commendable one, I own, — but still a failing." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say that, sir, for you now have 
 a great opportunity to exercise it." 
 
 " Ask me for nothing more, for I have done,^ — inter- 
 rupted Granite ; fancying for an instant that he might have 
 placed the missing document in a secret place, where he 
 was sometimes in the habit of depositing matters of the 
 first importance, he quitted the room hurriedly. 
 
 " Lost ! lost forever ! I have killed the son of my old 
 benefactor ! " cried Sterling. " He can't recover from the 
 shock — nor I — nor I ! my heart is breaking. To fall 
 from such a height of joy into such a gulf of despair ! I, 
 who could have sold my very life to bring him happiness.'- 
 At that moment his eye caught a paper which lay on the 
 carpet, and, with the instinct of a clerk's neatness solely, 
 he picked it up and put it on the table before him. " The 
 crime of self-destruction is great," he continued, "but I 
 am sorely tempted. With chilling selfishness on one side, 
 and dreadful misery on the other, life is but a weary bur- 
 den." Carelessly glancing at the paper which he had 
 taken from the floor, he read the name of Travers ; he 
 looked closely at it, and discovered that it was an abstract 
 of a will. Curiosity prompted him to examine it, and his 
 heart gave one tremendous thob, when he discovered it to 
 bear date after the one by which Henry, in a fit of anger, 
 was disinherited by his father. 
 
 The old man fell upon his knees, and if ever a fervent, 
 heartfelt prayer issued from the lips of mortal, he then 
 prayed that he might but live to see that great wrong 
 righted. 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 225 
 
 He had just time to conceal the paper within his 
 breast, when Granite returned. 
 
 " You here yet V he cried. " Have I not done enough 
 to-day? What other beggarly brat do you come suing 
 for?" 
 
 " For none, dear sir," said Sterling. " I would simply 
 test that benevolence of which you spoke but now. The 
 money which you sent to Travers — " 
 
 "Well, what of it?" 
 
 "I have lost!" 
 
 " Pooh ! old man," continued the other, contemptuously, 
 " don't think to deceive me by such a stale device ; that 's 
 a very old trick." 
 
 " You don't believe me ? " 
 
 " After so many years ! " cried the old man, with tear- 
 choked utterance. 
 
 " The temptation was too much for you," bitterly replied 
 the merchant. The old leaven exliibited itself once more. 
 " You remember — " 
 
 " Silence, sir ! " cried the old man, drawing up his aged 
 form into sudden erectness, while the fire of indignation 
 illumined his lustreless eye. " The majesty of my integ- 
 rity emboldens me to say that, even to you, your cruel 
 taunt has wiped out aU of feeling that I had for you. Fel- 
 low-sinner, hast thou not committed an error also 1 " 
 
 " Insolent ! how dare you insinuate 1 " 
 
 "I don't insinuate ; I speak out ; nay, not an error, but 
 a crime. I hiow you have, and can prove it." 
 
 " Away, fool ! you are in your dotage." 
 
 " A dotage that shall wither you in your strength, and 
 strip you of your ill-bought possessions," exclaimed the 
 old man, with nearly the vigor of youth ; " since humanity 
 
 15 
 
226 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 will not prompt you to yield up a portion of your stolen 
 wealth, justice shall force you to deliver it all, — ay, 
 all ! " 
 
 " Villain ! what riddle is this % " cried Granite, with a 
 vague presentiment that the missing paper was in some 
 way connected with this arraignment. 
 
 " A riddle easily solved," answered Sterling. " Behold 
 its solution, if your eyes dare look at it ! A will, devising 
 all the property you hold to Henry Travers ! There are 
 dozens who can swear to my old employer's signature. 
 Stern, proper justice should prompt me to vindicate his 
 son's cause ; yet, I know that he would not purchase 
 wealth at the cost of your degradation. Divide equally 
 with him, and let the past be forgotten." 
 
 There was but one way that Granite could regain his 
 vantage-ground, and he was not the man to shrink from it. 
 With a sudden bound, he threw himself upon the weak 
 old clerk, and, snatching the paper from him, exclaimed, 
 " You shallow-pated fool ! think you that you have a 
 child to deal with ? The only evidence that could fling a 
 shadow across my good name would be your fragment of 
 miserable breath, which I could take, and would, as easily 
 as brush away a noxious wasp, but that I despise you too 
 entirely to feel your sting. Go, both of you, and babble 
 forth your injuries to the world ! Go, and experience how 
 poor a conjBict starveling honesty in rags can wage against 
 iniquity when clad in golden armor ! I defy ye all ! Be- 
 hold how easily I can destroy all danger to myself, and 
 hope to him, at once." So saying, he held the paper to the 
 lamp, and, notwithstanding the ineffectual efforts of Ster- 
 ling to restrain him, continued so to hold it until a few 
 transitory sparks were all that remained of Henry Tra- 
 verses inheritance. 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 227 
 
 Sterling said not a syllable, but with a glance at the 
 other, which had in it somewhat of inspiration, pointed 
 upward, and slowly staggered from the room. 
 
 CHAPTER yil. 
 
 MORNING THOUGHTS. 
 
 The early gray of dawn peeped furtively through the 
 shutters of Tom Bobolink's home, and, as they strength- 
 ened and strengthened, fell upon a figure which could 
 scarcely be recognized as the same joyous-hearted individ- 
 ual of the day before. On the floor lay Tom ; the candle, 
 which had completely burned out in its socket, close to his 
 head ; one hand grasped the empty bottle, and the other 
 was tightly clutched within his breast. 
 
 And now another scarcely less sorrowful-looking figure 
 is added. Polly gazes, with tearful eyes, upon the pros- 
 trate form. He is evidently in the maze of some terrible 
 dream, for his head rolls fearfully about, his limbs are con- 
 vulsed, and his breathing is thick and heavy. 
 
 Polly stooped down to awake him gently, when, at the 
 slightest touch, he started at one bound to his feet, mutter- 
 ing incoherent words of terror and apprehension ; his eyes 
 rolled about wildly. He seized Polly, and held her at 
 arms' length for an instant, until he fairly realized his 
 actual situation, when he burst into a loud laugh, that 
 chilled his poor wife's blood. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! Pol, is that you ?" he cried, wildly. " I 've 
 been a bad boy, I know; but I '11 make up for it gloriously, 
 my girl. Ugh ! what a dream I 've had ! Ah ! the dark- 
 ness is a terrible time to get over when one's conscience 
 
228 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 is filling the black night with fiery eyes." Then, turning 
 to his wife, he said, londly : " Polly, darling, I 'm ashamed 
 of myself ; but it will be all right by and by. You were 
 cut out for a rich woman, Pol." 
 
 " Dear Thomas, let me be rich in the happiness of our 
 humble home ; 't is all I ask." 
 
 " 0, nonsense ! Suppose now you got a heap of money, 
 a prize in the lottery, would n't you like to elevate your 
 little nose, and jostle against the big bugs in Broadway 1 " 
 
 " Not at the price of our comfort, Thomas," she answered, 
 solemnly. 
 
 " You 're a fool ! Money can buy all sorts of com- 
 fort." 
 
 "What do you mean, Thomas, by those hints about 
 money 1 has anything happened 1 " 
 
 " 0, no, no ! " he replied quickly, turning his eyes 
 away ; " but there 's no knowing when something might. 
 IS'ow I'll try her," thought he. "It's my dream, Pol. 
 Shall I tell it to you r' 
 
 " Do, my dear Tom. 0, I 'm so glad to see you your- 
 self once more ! " 
 
 "Well, dear," he continued, sitting close to her, and 
 placing his arm around her waist, " I dreamed that, as I 
 was returning from a job, what should I see in the street, 
 under my very nose, but a pocket-book, stuffed full of 
 money. Presently the owner came along. He asked me 
 if I had found it. I said no, and came home a rich man, — 
 0, so rich ! " 
 
 " I know your heart too well, Tom, to believe that such 
 a thing could happen except in a dream," said his wife, 
 to his great annoyance. He started up, and after one or 
 two turns about the little, now untidy room, exclaimed 
 angrily : " Why not ? I should like to know if fortune 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 229 
 
 did — I mean — was to fling luck in my way, . do you 
 think I 'd be such a cursed fool as not to grab at it 1 " 
 
 " Thomas, you have been drinking too much," said she, 
 sadly. 
 
 " N^o, no," he interrupted, " not enough ; give me some 
 more." 
 
 " Not a drop, husband," she replied, seriously, and with 
 determination. " If you will poison yourself, it shall not 
 be through my hand." 
 
 " Don't be a fool," he cried, savagely, " or it may be the 
 worse for you. I 'm master of my own home, I think." 
 
 " Home ! ah, Thomas, some evil spirit has stolen away 
 our once happy home forever," said Polly, as she slowly 
 and sorrowfully returned to weep~ in the silence of her 
 own room. 
 
 " There has, there has," cried Tom, as she quitted him. 
 " And this is it," — pulling out the pocket-book, which he 
 had not left hold of for an instant, and frowning desper- 
 ately at it. " Confound your skin ! it 's you that has stolen 
 away our comfort. I '11 take the cursed thing back ; I 
 would n't have Polly's eyes wet with sorrow to be made of 
 money. I '11 take it back this very blessed morning ; and 
 somehow that thought brings a ray of sunlight back to my 
 heart." So saying, he thrust the pocket-book, as he 
 thought, safely within his vest, but in his eagerness to take 
 extra care of it, it slipped through, and dropped upon the 
 floor; his mind being taken off for a moment by the 
 entrance of Bryan, to tell him that the horse and truck 
 were ready. 
 
 "Yery weU, I'm glad of it," cried Tom. " :N'ow I'll 
 see what the fine, bracing morning air will do for this 
 cracked head of mine ; now, then, to take this back," — 
 and he slapped his chest, under the full impression that 
 
230 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 the pocket-book was there. " Bryan, I don't want you 
 for half an hour; just wait till I come back, will you?" 
 
 " That I will, sir, and welcome," said Bryan, and with a 
 merry song once more at his lip, and a cheerful good-by 
 to Polly, to whose heart both brought comfort in her great 
 sadness, Bobolink mounted his truck, and trotted off. 
 
 Meantime Bryan, now left alone in the room, dived into 
 the recesses of his capacious coat-pocket, and, producing 
 a piece of bread and cheese, moralized the while upon, 
 the pleasant change in his prospects. 
 
 "Long life to this tindher-hearted couple," said he. 
 *' Shure an' I 'm on the high road to good luck at last ; 
 plenty of the best in the way of atin'^ and an elegant sta- 
 ble to sleep in, with a Christian-like quadruped for com- 
 pany ; av I had only now a thrifle o' money to get myself 
 some clothes, — these things does n't look well in this part 
 of the world," — casting his eyes down in not over-delighted 
 contemplation of his nether integuments.. " A little bit o' 
 money now would make me so happy an' industrious, I 
 could take the buzz out of a hive o' bees. The saints be- 
 chune us and all mischief, what 's that 1 " he continued, 
 starting to his feet, as his glance fell upon the pocket-book 
 which Tom had dropped. " It serves me right," he went 
 on, his face suddenly becoming pale as paper, " to wish for 
 any such thing. I don't want it, — it was all a mistake," 
 cried he apologetically. " This is the Devil's work ; no 
 sooner do I let a word out o' me mouth, that I did n't 
 mane at all at all, but the evil blaggard sticks a swadge of 
 temptation right before me. I won't have it, — take it 
 away." 
 
 At that instant Polly returned into the room. " Take 
 care how you come, — don't walk this way," said Bryan. 
 "Look!" 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 231 
 
 " What is it 1 " cried Polly, in alarm. 
 
 " Timptation ! " shouted Bryan. " I was foolish enough 
 just now to wish for a thrifle of money, and may I niver see 
 glory if that lump of a pocket-book did n't sprout up before 
 me very eyes." 
 
 " Pocket-book, eh 1 " cried Polly, seizing it in her hands, 
 despite of the comic apprehension of Bryan, who insisted 
 that it would burn her fingers. The whole truth flashed 
 across her mind at once. Tom's dream was no dream, but 
 a reality, and the struggle in his mind whether to keep or 
 return it had caused that miserable night. " Bryan," said 
 she, quickly, " did you hear any one say that he had lost 
 any money yesterday 1 " 
 
 "Let me see," replied the other. "Yes, to be sure, 44 
 came out of the hall-door, and axed me if I saw a pocket- 
 book." 
 
 " It must be his. Thank God for this merciful dispen- 
 sation ! " cried the agitated wife. " Quick, quick, my bon- 
 net and shawl, and come you, Bryan, you know the place j 
 this money must be that which was lost." 
 
 " I 'm wid you, ma'am," answered Bryan. "Who knows 
 but that may be the identical pocket-book % At any rate 
 it '11 do as well if there 's as much money in it, and if there 
 isn't, there'll be another crop before we come back." 
 
 CHAPTEE YIII. 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Snugly ensconced in his own apartment, Mr. Granite 
 had flung himself in post-prandial abandon into his easiest 
 of easy-chairs. Leisurely, and with the smack of a true 
 
232 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 connoisseur, he dallied with a glass of exquisite Madeira. 
 The consciousness of the enviable nature of his worldly 
 position never imbued him so thoroughly as at such a 
 moment. Business was flourishing, his health was excel- 
 lent, and his son, on whom he concentrated all the 
 affection of which his heart was capable, had recently 
 distinguished himself at a college examination. Every- 
 thing, in fact, seemed to him couleur de rose. 
 
 It can readily be imagined that to be disturbed at such 
 a period of enjoyment was positive high-treason against 
 the home majesty of the mercantile monarch. 
 
 Fancy, therefore, what a rude shock it was to his quiet, 
 when he was informed that Mr. Sterling wished to see him 
 on a matter of the greatest importance. " I cannot, I will 
 not see him, or anybody," said the enraged potentate; 
 " you know, he knows, my invariable rule. It must not 
 be infringed, for any one whatever, much less for such a 
 person," — and, closing his eyes in a spasm of self-suffi- 
 ciency, he again subsided into calmness, slightly ruffled, 
 however, by the outrageous attack upon his privacy. 
 
 He had just succeeded in restoring his disturbed equa- 
 nimity, when he was once more startled into ill-humor by 
 the sound of voices as if in altercation, and a sharp knock 
 at the chamber-door. 
 
 The next instant, to his still greater surprise and anger, 
 the old clerk. Sterling, who had been ignominiously dis- 
 missed since the last interview between him and Granite, 
 stood before him. Every particle of his hitherto meekness 
 and humility had apparently vanished, as for a few 
 moments he regarded the merchant with a fixed and 
 penetrating look. 
 
 " What villanous intrusion is this ? Where are my ser- 
 vants *? How dare they permit my home to be thus in- 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 233 
 
 vaded 1 " cried Granite, with flasliing eyes and lowering 
 brow. 
 
 "I am here, not for myself," replied Sterling, calmly, 
 " but for the victim of your rapacity, — of your terrible 
 guilt. I have intruded upon you at this unusual time to 
 inform you of the extremity in which Travers is placed, 
 and from my carelessness, — my criminal carelessness. 
 Will you not at least remedy that 1 " 
 
 " No ! " thundered the exasperated merchant. " Your 
 indiscreet zeal has ruined both you and those for whom 
 you plead. I 'U have nothing to do with any of ye, — be- 
 gone ! " 
 
 " Not before I have cautioned you that my lips, hitherto 
 sealed for fear of injury to him, shall henceforward be 
 opened. Why should I hesitate to denounce one who is 
 so devoid of common charity V 
 
 "Because no one will believe you," responded the other, 
 with a bitter sneer. "The denunciations of a discharged 
 servant are seldom much heeded ; empty sounds will be of 
 no avail. Proof will be needed in confirmation, and where 
 are you to find that ? " 
 
 " Ah ! where, indeed ! you have taken care of that ; 
 but have you reflected that there is a power to whom your 
 machinations, your schemes of aggrandizement, are as 
 flimsy as the veriest gossamer web 1 " solemnly ejaculated 
 Sterling. 
 
 " Canting sways me as little as your hurtless threats. 
 What I have I shall keep in spite of — " 
 
 " Heaven's justice ] " interposed the old clerk. 
 
 " In spite of anything or everything," savagely replied 
 the irritated merchant. " You have your final answer, 
 nor is it in the power of angel or devil to alter it ; and 
 so, the sooner you relieve me from your presence the bet- 
 
234^ BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 ter I shall like it, and the better it may be for your future 
 prospects." 
 
 " Of my future, God knows, I take no care ; but for the 
 sake of those poor young things, so cruelly left to struggle 
 with a hard, hard world, I feel that I have strength even 
 to oppose the stern rock of your obstinacy, almost hopeless 
 though the effort may be. I am going," he went on, see- 
 ing the feverish impatience working in Granite's face, " but, 
 as a parting word, remember that my dependence is not in 
 my own ability to unmask your speciousness, or contend 
 against the harshness of your determination. No, I sur- 
 render my case and that of my clients into His hands who 
 never suffers the guilty to triumph to the end. The ava- 
 lanche falls sometimes on the fruitfullest vineyards, as well 
 as on the most sterile waste." 
 
 " By heaven ! you exhaust my patience," roared the 
 other, as he rung the serviants' bell impetuously ; " since 
 you will not go of your own accord, I must thrust you 
 forth into the street like a cur." 
 
 " There shall be no need of that," meekly replied the 
 clerk, turning to leave the apartment, just as the servant 
 entered, bringing a letter for Mr. Granite. 
 
 The latter was about to address an angry sentence to the 
 servant, when he perceived that the letter he carried was 
 enclosed in an envelope deeply bordered with black. 
 
 His heart gave one mighty throb as he snatched it, — 
 tearing it open, and gasping with some terrible presenti- 
 ment of evil, he but glanced at the contents, and with a 
 fearful shriek fell prostrate. 
 
 Sterling rushed to his side, and, with the aid of the ser- 
 vant, loosed his neckcloth, and placed him in a chair, using 
 what immediate remedies he could command in the hope 
 of restoring animation. It was some minutes before the 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 235 
 
 stricken man, clutched from liis pride of place in the wink- 
 ing of an eyelid, gave signs of returning vitality. During 
 his unconsciousness, Sterling ascertained from the open 
 letter lying at his feet, that the merchant's son, the sole 
 hope of his existence, for whom he had slaved and toiled, 
 set at naught all principle, and violated even the ties of 
 kindred and of honesty, had died suddenly at college. 
 No previous illness had given the slightest shadow of an 
 apprehension. He had quietly retired to his bed at his 
 usual hour on the previous night, and in the morning was 
 found stark and cold. None knew the agony which might 
 have preceded dissolution. No friendly tongue was nigh 
 to speak of consolation, no hand to do the kindly offices 
 of nature. 
 
 Slowly and painfully the wretched parent returned to 
 consciousness, and, with it, the terrible reality of his 
 bereavement. Glaring around him fiercely, " Where am 
 11 — what is this "? — why do you hold me 1 " he cried, 
 madly. At this instant his glance fell upon the fatal 
 letter. "0 God! I know it all, — all! My son! my 
 son 1 " Turning upon Sterling, fiercely, he grasped him 
 by the throat. "Old man," he cried, "you have mur- 
 dered him ! you, and that villain Travers ! " Then he 
 relaxed his grip, and, in an agony of tears, fell to suppli- 
 cation. " It cannot be, — it shall not be ! Oh ! take me 
 to him. What am I to do ? Sterling, my old friend, 
 0, forgive me ! — pity me ! — let us away ! " He tried to 
 stand, but his limbs were paralyzed. " The judgment has 
 fallen — I feared it — I expected it, but not so suddenly 
 — it may be that there is still hope — hope, though ever 
 so distant. Perhaps a quick atonement may avert the 
 final blow. Quick, Sterling — give me paper, and pen." 
 They were brought. " Now write," he continued, his 
 
236 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 voice growing fainter and fainter : "I give Travers all, — • 
 all, — if this late repentance may be heard, and my son 
 should live. I know I can rely on his benevolence. 
 Quick, let me sign it, for my strength is failing fast." 
 
 With extreme difficulty, he appended his signature to 
 the document Sterling had drawn up at his desire. When 
 it was done, the pen dropped from his nerveless grasp, his 
 lips moved for an instant as though in prayer, — the next, 
 he was — nothing ! 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 SUNLIGHT. 
 
 Our scene shifts back to Mrs. Grimgriskin's elegant 
 establishment, where poor Travers's affairs are once more in 
 a very dilapidated state, as may be inferred from the con- 
 versation now progressing. 
 
 "People as can't pay," said the now curt landlady, 
 smoothing down an already very smooth apron, " need n't 
 to have no objections, I think, to turn out in favor of them 
 as can. I 'm a woman of few words, — very few indeed. 
 I don't want to make myself at all disagreeable; but 
 impossibles is impossibles, and I can't provide without I 
 have the means to do so with." 
 
 " My good lady," interposed Travers, " do pray give me 
 a little time ; my friend Sterling has again applied to Mr. 
 Granite — " 
 
 " Pooh ! I 'm sick of all such excuses ; one word for all, 
 — get your trunks ready. I'd rather lose what you owe 
 me than let it get any bigger, when there's not the remot- 
 est chance, as I can see, for its payment; and, dear me. 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 237 
 
 how lucky ! I declare there 's the very truckman who came 
 the other day. I '11 tell him to stop, for I don't mind giv- 
 ing you all the assistance I can, conveniently with my own 
 . interest." 
 
 So saying, she hailed Tom Bobolink, who was indeed 
 looking somewhat wistfully towards the house. He was 
 just cogitating within his mind what excuse he could make 
 to get into the place, and so rid himself of his unfortunate 
 good fortune at once. 
 
 " Your trunks, I presume from appearance, won't take 
 a long time to get ready," said the delicate Grimgriskin. 
 "Here, my man; just come in here," she continued, as 
 Tom, in a state of considerable trepidation, entered the 
 room; "this young man will have a job for you." 
 
 The poor wife now joined Travers, and, on inquiring the 
 cause of the slight tumult, was told by Henry that she 
 must prepare to seek an asylum away from the hospitable 
 mansion which had recently afforded them a shelter. 
 
 " Come, my love," said he, with a tolerable effort at 
 cheerfulness, "let us at once leave this mercenary woman's 
 roof."' 
 
 " Mercenary, indeed ! " the landlady shrieked after them, 
 as they entered their own room. " Because a person 
 won't suffer themselves to be robbed with their eyes open, 
 they're mercenary. The sooner my house is cleared of 
 such rubbish, the better. Mercenary indeed ! " — and with 
 an indignant toss of her false curls, she flounced out of the 
 room. 
 
 " l^ow for it ! " cried Tom ; " the coast is clear ; what 
 the deuce shall I do with it 1 I dare not give it openly, 
 suppose I say I found it under the sofa. Egad, that will 
 do famously ; here goes." So saying, he plunged his hand 
 into his bosom, and to his horror and consternation it was 
 
238 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 not there. " miserable, miserable wretch ! I Ve lost it, 
 I 've lost it ! what is to become of me ! " In vain he 
 searched and searched ; it was gone. " 0, how can I 
 face Polly again 1 " he groaned. " My life is made un- 
 happy forever ; cursed, cursed luck ! That ever my eyes 
 fell upon the thing at all ! — Ha ! " a shadowy hope flitted 
 across him, that he might have left it at home. " Could I 
 have been so drunken a fool as to leave it behind me 1 
 if so, where is it now? At all events, I must go back 
 as fast as I can, for if I cannot recover it, my God ! I 
 shall go mad." With a few big jumps he reached the 
 street, and, hastily mounting his truck, drove rapidly 
 home, unmindful of the public observation his demented 
 look and unusual haste produced. 
 
 A short time after Tom's sudden departure, which was 
 a perfect mystery to Mrs. Grimgriskin, and also to Henry 
 and his wife, a timid ring was heard at the hall door, and 
 soon Travers, to w^hom every sound brought increase of 
 apprehension, trembled as he became aware of an alter- 
 cation between his irate landlady and the new-comers, 
 whoever they were. 
 
 " I tell you I must see 44, the man that had the thrunks 
 goin' away a few days agone," said an unmistakably Irish 
 voice, rich and round. 
 
 "0, if you please, ma'am ! " placidly continued a small, 
 silvery one. 
 
 The dispute, however, was very suddenly cut short by 
 the owner of the loud voice exclaiming, " Arrah, get out o' 
 the road, you cantankerus witch of Endher," and O'Bryan 
 and Polly rushed up the stairs without further ceremony. 
 The door of Traverses room was flung open. " Ha ! ha ! " 
 cried O'Bryan, " there he is, every inch of him ; that 's 
 44 ; long life to you I and it 's glad I am I 've found you. 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 239 
 
 and glad you'll be yourself, I'm thinkin', if a trifle o* 
 money will do yez any good." 
 
 " What 's the matter with you, my friend 1 what do you 
 seek from me 1 " demanded Travers. 
 
 " 0, sii', I beg your pardon for breaking in upon 
 you so suddenly," said Polly, " but have you lost any 
 money ] " 
 
 " I have, indeed," replied Henry, " a large sum. Do you 
 know anything about it 1 " 
 
 " Yes, sir," cried Polly, with a radiant flash of her eye. 
 "Here it is"; — handing over the wallet, with its con- 
 tents, with a sigh of the greatest possible relief. " Tell 
 me one thing, sir," she hesitatingly went on, "was it — 
 was it — taken from you ? " 
 
 " No, my good woman, it was lost by an old friend of 
 mine, — dropped, he believes, in the street." 
 
 " It was, sir, just as you say, thank heaven for it ! Yes, 
 sir ; my husband found it. Is it all there, sir ? 0, pray 
 relieve me by saying it is ! " 
 
 "Yes, every penny." 
 
 " Then, sir, whatever joy you may feel at its resto- 
 ration cannot equal what I feel at this moment," said 
 Polly, while the tears gushed forth unrestrainedly from her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Here, my good woman, you must take a portion and 
 give it to your honest husband," said Henry, handing to 
 her a liberal amount of the sum. 
 
 " Not a shilling, sir, not a shilling," Polly firmly 
 repeated. "I hate to look at it." 
 
 " Then would you, my friend, take some reward," con- 
 tinued he, addressing O'Bryan. 
 
 " Is it me 1 not av you were me father, I would n't," 
 said the Irishman, with a look of horror. " I know where 
 
240 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 it came from ; bedad, I know the very soil it sprouted 
 out of. I '11 tell you how it was, sir. You see I was sittin' 
 by meself, and, like an ungrateful blaggard as I am, 
 instead of thankin' the blessed heavens for. the good luck 
 that had fell a-top o' me, what should I do but wish I had 
 a bit o' money, for to dress up my ugly anatomy, when all 
 at once that swadge of temptation dropped on the floor 
 before my very face." 
 
 " Don't heed him, sir, he knows not what he talks about," 
 said Polly. " It is all as I told you, sir. My husband — " 
 
 She was interrupted by O'Bryan, who cried, " Here he 
 comes. May I niver stir if he does n't, skelpin' along the 
 street in a state of disthractitude ; by me sowl, it 's here 
 he 's coming, too." 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Henry, "he is employed, I believe, 
 by our worthy landlady, to remove our things." 
 
 At this moment Tom burst into the room, but on seeing 
 Polly and O'Bryan he stopped short, as if arrested by a 
 lightning stroke. " You here, Polly 1 have you heard of 
 my crime 1 " he said, wildly : but she restrained him by 
 gently laying her hand upon his arm. 
 
 "Yes, Tom," she said, quietly, "I know all about it, 
 and so does this gentleman. I have restored the money." 
 
 " What 1 " exclaimed Bobolink, while a thrill of joy 
 went through his frame ; " is this true 1 " 
 
 "Hush! husband, dear, hush !" she continued; "I did 
 as you told me, you know. I have brought and given 
 back the lost money to its owner. You know you left it 
 at home for me to take." 
 
 " Ah, Polly, I wish I could tell this fellow that," said 
 Tom, laying his hand upon his heart ; " but I did intend 
 to give it back. I did, by all my hopes of happiness." 
 
 " I know you did, my dear Tom," replied Polly, ear- 
 
O'BRYAN'S LUCK. 241 
 
 nestly. " Your true heart could not harbor a bad thought 
 long." 
 
 " My good friend," said Travers, approaching the truck- 
 man. " Your wife has refused any reward for this honest 
 act." 
 
 "She's right, sir, she's right," interrupted the other. 
 
 "At least you'll let me shake you by the hand, and 
 proffer you my friendship ? " 
 
 " I can't, Pol, I can't," said Tom, aside, to his wife. 
 " I 'm afraid — I 'm half a scoundrel yet — I know I am ; 
 but I've learned a wholesome lesson, and while I have 
 life I '11 strive to profit by it." 
 
 Urged to it by Polly, he did, however, shake hands with 
 Travers and his wife, just as old Sterling, his face shrouded 
 in gloom, and Mrs. Grimgriskin, stiff and tigerish, entered 
 the room. 
 
 " Ah, Sterling, my good old friend, rejoice with us ! This 
 honest fellow has found, and restored the money lost," said 
 Travers, gaily ; " but how is this 1 you don't join in our 
 gladness. Has that old rascal — " 
 
 " Hold ! " interrupted the old clerk, in an earnest voice, 
 and impressive manner; " Heaven has avenged your wrongs 
 in a sudden and fearful manner. Mr. Granite is dead." 
 
 "Dead ! " exclaimed Henry, in a subdued tone; "with 
 him let his misdeeds be bnried. His son will perhaps be 
 more merciful ; he will inherit — " 
 
 ■' He has inherited — his father's fate," solemnly replied 
 the old clerk. "Justice may slumber for a wdiile, but 
 retribution must come at last. You are now, by the mer- 
 chant's will, his sole heir." 
 
 " Ho, ho ! " thought Mrs. Grimgriskin, who had been an 
 attentive listener, " I 'm a woman of few words, but if I 
 had been a woman of less, perhaps it would be more to my 
 
 16 
 
242 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 interest ; but sudden millionnaires are usually generous " ; 
 — and so, smoothing her feline demeanor into quietude, 
 she approached Travers. "Allow me most sincerely to 
 congratulate you upon your good fortune," she simpered. 
 " Apropos^ the first floor is somewhat in arrear ; lovely 
 apartments, new carpet, bath, hot water." 
 
 "Plenty of that, I'll be bail," remarked O'Bryan; 
 " arrah, howld yer prate, Mrs. Woman-of-few-words, — 
 don't you see there 's one too many here]" 
 
 " Then why don't you go, you ignorant animal," sharply 
 suggested the other. 
 
 " Because I 'm not the one." 
 
 Suffice it to say, Henry, with his young wife, and dear 
 old Sterling, were soon installed in a house of their own, 
 and, to their credit, never lost sight of the interest of Tom 
 Bobolink and Polly, who from that day increased in con- 
 tent and prosperity. 
 
 As for O'Bryan, the last intimation we had of his well- 
 doing was the appearance of sundry gigantic street-bills 
 which contained the following announcement : — 
 
 VOTE FOR 
 THE PEOPLE'S FEIEND. 
 
 O'BRYAN, 
 
 FOR ALDERMAN. 
 
EOMANCE AND REALITY. 243 
 
 EOMANCE AND EEALITY. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 IT was morning in the neighborhood of Belgrave Square, 
 that is to say, fashionable morning, very considerably 
 past midday, when calls are orthodox, and belles and beaux 
 emerge from their respective beautifying retreats. Unten- 
 anted carriages dash along in one general round of unsub- 
 stantial etiquette; visits are paid by proxy; an inch or 
 two of enamelled pasteboard representing, frequently, dukes, 
 earls, or marquises, perhaps fully as well as they repre- 
 sent their individual constituency. West End morning 
 is a period of factitious politeness and unreal industry ; 
 everybody is supposed to be out, but everybody is known 
 to be at home. 
 
 Sir Henry Templeton, of Templeton, one of the wealthiest 
 baronets of England, the deeds of whose ancestors, are they 
 not registered in that sublimest of works, Burke's Peerage 1 
 sat within his splendid library, so called from the fact of 
 its containing an unlimited number of books. But what 
 they themselves contained was matter of profoundest 
 mystery, both to him and his household. A Tnoiety of 
 the diurnals, the Times, the Morning Post, and hebdoma- 
 dally the Bull, comprised the staples of this " fine old 
 English gentleman's " literary labors. Be it observed, that 
 he was too good a Tory to cast a glance over the pages of 
 any paper emanating from the opposition ; being one of 
 
244 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 those who like some one else to do their thinking, he con- 
 fined his opinions to those of the leader of his own party. 
 
 He had just got to the " Hear ! hear ! " and " Great cheer- 
 ing ! " with which the imaginative reporter had introduced 
 an unpretending speech of his own, which, until this 
 moment, he has been under the disagreeable impression 
 had been a lamentable failure. Imagine his surprise when 
 he finds his half-dozen scarcely intelligible phrases swollen 
 into a goodly column of well-rounded, nicely-perioded, 
 polysyllabic English, garnished with a Miltonic quotation, 
 and classically tailed up with a line and a half of Homer. 
 
 " Well," said the Baronet, and not without a pardonable 
 glow of vanity at the contemplation of his eloquence, "those 
 reporters certainly have long ears. I had no idea in the 
 world that I made or could make so sensible a speech ; but 
 I suppose I did. In point of fact, I must have been rather 
 luminous. Latin, too, by Jove ! I did n't know that I 
 could recollect so much." 
 
 In the full bloom of his amour propre, a footman entered 
 and announced " Lord Sedleigh." 
 "At home." 
 
 In the interval between the announcement and the 
 appearance of his lordship, as he is a stranger, perhaps 
 I had better give you the benefit of a descriptive introduc- 
 tion. The Lord Sedleigh, but newly arrived from All Souls' 
 College, Oxford, is a tolerably fair specimen of the reputa- 
 ble portion of England's young nobility. Rich without 
 ostentation, generous without extravagance, prudent with- 
 out parsimony, and learned without pedantry; his title 
 lent him no lustre that his virtues did not pay back with 
 interest. 
 
 Hoping, dear reader, that you will not repent of the 
 acquaintanceship, behold him ! he enters. Do you not 
 
ROMANCE AND REALITY. 245 
 
 agree with me in saying that he looks the very imperson- 
 ation of that oft-desecrated phrase, a nohle-Toaan 1 
 
 The greeting between Sedleigh and Sir Henry is hearty 
 and sincere. The last new singer having been discussed, 
 and the last liaison deplored, with some slight embarrass- 
 ment Sedleigh broke the primary object of his call. 
 
 " Sir Harry," said he, with almost startling abruptness, 
 " you have a ward 1 " 
 
 *' Egad, Sedleigh, you 're right there," replied Sir Henry, 
 with a good-natured chuckle, " nor would you have erred 
 had you said two." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know," rejoined the Viscount. " But — 
 ah ! — I — the fact is, there 's no use in mincing the matter, 
 I have taken a most insurmountable interest in one." 
 
 "Lucyl" 
 
 *' IsTo. Arabella — pardon me — I mean Miss Myddle- 
 ton." 
 
 " I 'm sorry for that, Sedleigh," replied the baronet, — 
 "very sorry, for I like you." 
 
 " Why 1 why 1 " eagerly interposed the other. " Is she 
 engaged 1 " 
 
 " ]^o, not exactly that ; but — " 
 
 " But what 1 Do, for pity's sake, relieve my suspense." 
 
 *' Upon my soul, Sedleigh, instead of being a neophyte 
 in love, one would suppose you an amorado of some years' 
 experience. Ah ! in my day, people never married head 
 over heels. But you don't want to hear anything about 
 that. Seriously, I should like to give you encouragement 
 if I could, but you don't know the wild, wayward gypsy 
 Arabella. Would you believe it, she's a perfect little 
 Chartist, an absolute leveller, sneers at a title, and declares 
 that, if she ever does marry, it will be with some son of 
 toil, some honest yeoman. By Jove, I don't know 
 
246 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 whether it *s that fellow Bulwer, with his cursed empty 
 love-in-a-cottage balderdash, who has turned her little 
 brain topsy-turvy or not, but she absolutely and positively 
 restrains me from presenting anybody of the suitor order, 
 who is tainted with, as she calls it, the adventitious pos- 
 session of hereditary worthlessness. I 'm very sorry, by 
 George, I am ! But now, there 's Lucy, could n't you trans- 
 fer your affection to her 1 " 
 
 Sedleigh, who fortunately had not heard the last morsel 
 of mercantile philosophy, suddenly exclaimed, " She objects 
 to a title r' 
 
 "Intoto." 
 
 " Full of romance 1 " 
 
 " Brim." 
 
 " Do 1/ou object to my trying to influence her?" 
 
 "JN'ot in the least. But, by Jove, I can't introduce 
 you." 
 
 ** I don't ask you, if I have your consent. I '11 manage 
 the rest myself." 
 
 " That you have, Sed, my boy, and my best wishes for 
 your success. But what do you mean to do 1 By Jupiter, 
 I don't think you '11 ever get her consent." 
 
 "WeshaUsee." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Lucy and Arabella Myddleton were orphans, with good, 
 though not great fortunes, — both left to the strict guardian- 
 ship of their uncle, Sir Henry, the will expressly premis- 
 ing, that, in case either married without his consent, her 
 fortune was to revert to the other. 
 
ROMANCE AND REALITY. 247 
 
 There was but one year's difference in their age. Arabella 
 was the older, but being a blonde, with exceedingly beauti- 
 ful, young-looking hair, — glossy hair, — looked many 
 years the junior. Lucy, on the contrary, was a beauty of a 
 severer nature; a magnificent brunette, with large, lustrous 
 eyes of the darkest hazel, and hair like a raven's wing. 
 Their dispositions were as opposite as were their complex- 
 ions. Lucy was a proud, high-souled creature, with a step as 
 stately as a pet fawn, and a sort of regnant look, that plainly 
 kept familiarity aloof, while Arabella was all life, spirit, 
 elasticity, and wildness. The very soul of joy beamed from 
 her sparkling eyes, and mirth itself dwelt within the ring- 
 ing echo of her laugh. So that, although Lucy attracted 
 every eye by the majesty of her appearance, and the fawn- 
 like gracefulness of her deportment, yet Arabella won 
 every heart by the yielding sweetness of her temper and 
 the gladsome smile that played on her lips. 
 
 Two or three mornings subsequent to that on which 
 the conversation mentioned in the last chapter took place, 
 as Arabella was leisurely strolling through the conservatory, 
 which opened with glass doors into the drawing-room, she 
 perceived a young man, plainly but elegantly dressed, with 
 his collar thrown back k la Byron, displaying a throat of 
 womanly whiteness, climb up the trellis-work, and jump at 
 once through the open window. Her first impulse was to 
 scream ; but, perceiving that the stranger was remarkably 
 handsome, and moreover, as she was in the act of reading 
 "Zanoni," her susceptible heart was predisposed for any 
 romantic incident. Seeing that his attention was directed 
 towards a bust of Byron, which ornamented the conserva- 
 tory, and that she was as yet unperceived, she quietly 
 waited the result. 
 
 Sedleigh, for it was he, approached the bust with rever- 
 
248 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 ence. Giving his hair the conventional thrust back from 
 his forehead, and flinging himself into a theatrical attitude, 
 he exclaimed, " thou undying one, upon whose ample 
 brow high intellect doth sit enthroned, from whose expres- 
 sive eye the lightning of the soul, the fire of genius, seems 
 incessantly to flash, upon whose every lineament the mighty 
 hand of nature hath irrevocably stamped the evidence of 
 an immortal mind, — spirit of poesy, my soul doth kneel 
 to thee ! " 
 
 What an exceedingly nice young man ! thought Arabella, 
 as he, with increasing fervor, proceeded, — 
 
 "And thou wert of that tinsel throng men bow, and 
 cringe, and fawn on, and call lord. I cannot call thee so ; 
 thy genius lifts thee higher than the highest pinnacle of 
 rank could e'er attain. I'll call thee what thou wert, a 
 man, spurning the gauds of title, — an inspired, an inde- 
 pendent, but ah ! most persecuted man ! " 
 
 These sentiments so entirely coincided with those of the 
 romantic Arabella, that, forgetting the time, place, her igno- 
 rance of the individual she addressed, everything except 
 the glow of enthusiasm which his words had kindled, she 
 flung "Zanoni" aside, and rushed forward, exclaiming, 
 " He was ! he was ! You 're right, sir, he was a perse- 
 cuted man." 
 
 Sedleigh started with well-simulated astonishment, ex- 
 claiming, in a faltering tone, "Miss Myddleton, here — 
 I — pray your pardon. I — " 
 
 " Don't apologize, I pray," said the rapt girl, " sweet 
 poet — but — " Suddenly recollecting herself, and blush- 
 ing deeply, she continued, " I beg your pardon. You are 
 a stranger, — at least, I do not remember having had the 
 pleasure of an introduction." 
 
 " Alas, never ! " exclaimed Sedleigh, sighing profoundly. 
 
ROMANCE AND REALITY. 249 
 
 " But that I have seen you before, I am certain." 
 
 " Many a time, and in many a guise hast thou observed 
 me : nor didst thou know that all those varied forms con- 
 tained but one devoted heart." 
 
 " Indeed ! what mean you % " 
 
 "As at the balmy twilight hour the other eve you 
 walked, a mendicant sailor you did encounter, with leg of 
 wood, a pitiable patch across his face, — 't was I. I asked 
 for charity. You gave me sixpence, but the coin was 
 naught compared with the sweet sigh of sympathy which 
 hallowed the donation. In menial garb for months I 've 
 waited on thee, paid by a look, enchanted by a smile. At 
 Beulah-Spa, a gypsy I did personate, and as I gazed upon 
 thy beauteous palm, I promised thee what from my soul I 
 wished, and still do wish, — a long, a joyous, cloudless, 
 sunny life." 
 
 "I don't recollect the sailor or the gypsy," said Arabella, 
 feeling, as he spoke, in a strange, incomprehensible flutter, 
 for his voice was sweet, and his manner pecuKarly 
 impressive. 
 
 " Sweet lady," he continued, " will you deign to pardon 
 the presumption of one, who, although a simple unit from 
 the presumptuous herd, yet dares to utter his aspiring 
 thoughts within thy hearing % " 
 
 "How like Claude Melnotte he speaks," thought Arabella, 
 rather flatteringly, it must be confessed; it was sufficient 
 to show that Bulwer was a piece of golden-colored glass 
 within the windows of her soul. " Would it be too much, 
 sir," said she, in that matter-of-fact way' which romancers 
 frequently fall into, as the exception, — " would it be too 
 much to inquire who and what you are % " 
 
 The question was almost too abrupt for Sedleigh, too 
 earthly, now that his imagination was abroad upon the 
 
250 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 wings of fancy. However, with a still more extensive 
 respiration, he replied, — 
 
 " Madam, to be frank with you, I 'm a gentleman ; but 
 alas ! the spirit and plaything of hard destiny, which, had 
 it emptied all its store of woes upon my head, makes 
 ample recompense by now permitting me to speak to thee. 
 0, let the soft music of thy voice, steeping my soul in 
 melody, bid me not despair. 'T is strength of love alone 
 that lends me boldness, for I feel, I know, that I am 
 unworthy of you. The possessor only of a poor cottage- 
 home, where love might make its rosy dwelling, but where 
 worldly riches enter not." 
 
 Arabella felt strangely excited. Here was the realiza- 
 tion of her every wish, untitled, wealthy only in abundant 
 love. She hesitated, and in accordance with the veracious 
 proverb, in that moment's unguardedness, Cupid, the 
 vigilant, abstracted her heart forever. 
 
 Sedleigh was crafty enough not to prolong this introduc- 
 tory visit, which was meant but to show Arabella that she 
 had a devoted adorer. Affecting to hear an approaching 
 footstej), he cried, in an agitated voice, " Some one comes ! 
 O, do not send me away without a ray of hope to light 
 existence ! " 
 
 " What can I say ? " replied the really agitated Arabella. 
 
 " That you do not hate me 1 " 
 
 « No." 
 
 " You '11 let me see you again ? " 
 
 *'No." 
 
 " I must, I must. 0, say but yes ! Eemember the 
 happiness or misery of a life depends upon your answer." 
 
 Arabella was most imprudently silent; for Sedleigh, 
 construing it advantageously, exclaimed, " 0, thanks, ten 
 thousand thanks, for that voiceless eloquence ! And now, 
 
ROMANCE AND REALITY. 251 
 
 for a time, farewell, my first, my only, everlasting love, 
 farewell." And hastily opening the window, he withdrew 
 by the same uncomfortable way in which he had entered, 
 leaving Arabella in a fearful maze, but whether of joy or 
 apprehension she hardly knew. But the chord of sym- 
 pathy had been touched, and still vibrated to her very 
 heart ; for she acknowledged that, of all men, he was the 
 only one for whom she had ever felt the slightest approach 
 to a sentiment of love. 
 
 ISTow would she laugh at the absurdity of being so taken 
 with a mere stranger, and suddenly find her recollection 
 dwelHng on his features, — thus struggling like a bird in 
 the net of the fowler. Slowly and silently she returned 
 to the drawing-room, hearing, as she went, the loud, 
 hearty laugh of her uncle in the library, little thinking 
 that she had furnished him with matter for such uproari- 
 ous mirth; for Sedleigh was at that moment relating to Sir 
 Henry the success of his first interview, and the tears 
 rolled down the old gentleman's crimsoned cheeks as he 
 listened. 
 
 JSText day Arabella was very busy at her toilette, and 
 Lucy, curious to know what could so occupy her atten- 
 tion, crept stealthily across, and, peeping over her sister's 
 shoulder, beheld the half-finished likeness of a remarkably 
 nice-looking young man, with beautiful dark hair, and 
 brilliant eyes. Pulling down the corners of her mouth 
 with a good-gracious-me sort of an expression, she quietly 
 returned to her chair and said nothing, — sensible girl I 
 
252 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 For several weeks had those secret interviews- — so 
 secret that they were known to the whole household — 
 occurred, and Arabella, who tolerated them at first, from 
 the mere caprice of a romantic disposition, soon began to 
 look forward to their coming with what one might call a 
 heart-hunger. The truth was, she loved Sedleigh, the — ■ 
 as she imagined — poor, unfriended youth, with an affec- 
 tion the most ardent and overwhelming, and now, for the 
 first time, a shade of gloom dimmed the radiance of her 
 brow as the thought incessantly arose before her that Sir 
 Henry could never, by any possibility, be induced to 
 countenance a match so unworthy. Many a time did she 
 determine to throw herself on her knees before her uncle, 
 and try the unequal contest of woman's tears against 
 a man's will, but as often did her heart fail her, at the 
 full certainty of refusal, and the consequent dismissal of 
 Sedleigh. 
 
 Poor Arabella's perturbation of mind and uneasy de- 
 meanor, as one might suppose, were matter of pleasant 
 observation to Sir Henry and Lucy, who, in full posses- 
 sion of everything that occurred, could construe every look 
 and action of her who thought herself the very focus of 
 mystery, the very incarnation of romance. 
 
 It was now near the time at which her lover usually 
 made his stolen visits," and Arabella, making some trivial 
 excuse, rose, and, with a beating heart, sought the conser- 
 vatory, Sir Henry and Lucy stealing quietly after, and 
 ensconcing themselves within a seeable, though not a 
 bearable distance, — treasonable encroachment upon the 
 precincts of Eros, King of Hearts. 
 
EOMANCE AND REALITY. 253 
 
 'Not long had Arabella to wait. With a mysterious 
 glance around, and with a noiseless, stealthy step, Sedleigh 
 approached. 
 
 " Dearest love," whispered he, most tenderly, " again 
 am I in the presence of my soul's ray, again the cheering 
 influence of those beaming eyes imbues my seared and 
 withered heart," — for as he was making love medicinally, 
 he was no homoeopathist. " 0," he continued, with a 
 glance of unspeakable affection, " how have I languished 
 for this blissful hour ! a blank, a void, a dull, cheerless 
 nullity has been the intervening time since last we parted, 
 and were it not that thy bright image ever dwelling here 
 within my heart of hearts shot through my breast a ray of 
 joy, and kindled hope within my soul, despair and death 
 had, ere now, claimed their victim." 
 
 Now Sedleigh thought, at first, that by enacting these 
 scenes of high-wrought and overcharged romance, he 
 would disabuse the mind of Arabella, and thereby induce 
 her to listen to him in his real character ; but he was much 
 mistaken, and but little knew the page he had to study ; 
 for, as the purest, deepest love had taken possession of her 
 enthusiastic young heart, she looked on all he said or did 
 as the perfection of their kind. bounteous dispensa- 
 tion of the heart's disposer, that so incHnes and tempers 
 each to each, that to its own choice the enraptured soul 
 can find no parallel ! What, a short time since, even in 
 the midst of her romance, she would have deemed absurd, 
 now, in the very soberness of her reflective moments, her 
 partial heart found full excuse for — only because his was 
 the expression of a true and sacred love, although in an 
 exaggerated mask. 
 
 . " The smi wiU warm, though it do not shine." 
 
254 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 This interview, lengthened out to an unprecedented 
 extent, — outstaying even curiosity, for Sir Henry and 
 Lucy were tired in about half an hour, — brought a 
 definite issue, which may be inferred from the following 
 conversation that took place in the library a short time 
 later. 
 
 "Well, Sed, my boy, my gay deceiver, how do you 
 get on, eh ? " 
 
 " Famously ! " 
 
 " Does she surrender at discretion 1 " 
 
 " JSTo. Most indiscreetly." 
 
 " How so ]" 
 
 " Be in the drawing-room, but not in view, at twelve 
 o'clock to-night, and you shall see." 
 
 " Why, zounds ! You don't mean that you are going 
 to — " 
 
 " Gretna Green, by the Lord Harry." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " roared the Baronet. " Give me your 
 hand ; by Jove, that 's capital. An Elopement Extraor- 
 dinary, a young lady running off with a Viscount and 
 ten thousand a year, and thinking that she's throwing 
 away a good fifteen thousand to unite her fate with a 
 cottage-keeper's grow-your-own-vegetable sort of a fel- 
 low ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! try that port ! It 's too good, by 
 George, it is." Whether the Baronet meant the wine or 
 the joke was doubtful and immaterial. 
 
 The evening wore on, and all around bore an aspect of 
 abstraction. A sort of mysterious atmosphere seemed to 
 envelop the place ; never were the girls so silent, and 
 never did the Baronet go off into so many unaccountable 
 explosions of laughter without condescending to explain 
 the various witticisms. At last Arabella rose, and, as 
 was her custom before retiring for the night, embraced 
 
ROMANCE AND REALITY. 255 
 
 her sister and her uncle. There were tears in her eyes as 
 she gave Lucy a long, long kiss ; hut when she approached 
 Sir Henry, something again appeared to tickle him amaz- 
 ingly, for it was full five minutes before he subsided 
 sufficiently to receive his ward's affectionate salute. 
 
 " Good-night, you little — pooh ! hoo ! ha ! ha ! " and 
 off he went again. 
 
 " What can be the matter, uncle ? " gravely inquired 
 Lucy, with the slightest possible smile resting on her 
 proud lip. 
 
 " JSTothing, child, nothing ; a good joke I heard to-day, 
 that 's all j a capital joke. But come, 't is foolish to laugh 
 so much," — and with an altered, and now serious coun- 
 tenance, the good, kind-hearted old gentleman kissed Ara- 
 bella affectionately, saying, " God for ever bless you, my 
 pet ! good night," — and she retired. 
 
 Some two hours after, the lights being all out in the 
 drawing-room save one small lamp, and Lucy and Sir 
 Henry, with a cambric handkerchief stuffed into his mouth, 
 snugly concealed behind the ample window-curtains, a 
 soft step was heard gently approaching, and the little 
 fluttering run-away crept into the apartment. It was as 
 much as the Baronet and Lucy could do to restrain their 
 emotion as they saw the seeming giddy child fling herself 
 upon her knees, and, burying her face in her hands, burst 
 into an agony of tears. 
 
 A few moments after, a signal was heard. Hastily 
 wiping away the pearly drops from her eyes, Arabella 
 started to her feet, threw a note on the table, and, snatch- 
 ing up thence two miniatures, one of her uncle and the 
 other of her sister, kissed them fervently, and then placed 
 them in her bosom. 
 
 Sedleigh joined her, and it was with much and earnest 
 
258 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 persuasion that lie at length induced her to accompany him. 
 They went out, and, as they crossed the garden, Arabella 
 thought she heard either a smothered laugh or a sob, or 
 both. 
 
 Crack went the postilion's whip, and off they dashed, 
 northward, at the rate of twelve miles an hour. They 
 need not have been in so great a hurry, — nobody followed 
 them. 
 
 CHAPTEE lY. 
 
 Gentle reader, oblige me by filling up the hiatus as 
 your imagination may suggest, and skip with me three 
 weeks. Having done so, now let me show you the 
 interior of a small, but for the life of me I cannot say 
 comfortable, cottage in Devonshire, the humble residence 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Sedleigh. He is sitting on a chair, 
 dressed in a gamekeeper's sort of fustian jacket, cord con- 
 tinuations, and high leather gaiters. A gun rests on his 
 arm, and a magnificent pair of thorough-blooded pointers 
 recline at his feet, with mouths all agape, and tongues 
 quivering in proof of recent exercise. Seated opposite to 
 him is his sister, the Lady Emma Sedleigh, her noble 
 contour but ill-concealed beneath a maid-of-all-work's 
 coarse habiliments. You may hear Arabella in the adja- 
 cent small garden, singing like a bird, and as happy as 
 one. ]^ow for our story. 
 
 "Well, brother," rather pettishly exclaims the Lady 
 Emma, " this notable scheme of yours does n't promise 
 much success. Just listen to that extraordinary wife of 
 yours, warbling away as though this were a palace, and- 
 not an odious, unendurable hovel." 
 
EOMANCE AND KEALITY. 257 
 
 " Patience, Emma love," replies Sedleigh, " all will yet 
 be as I wish. I have noticed already moments of discom- 
 fort j they '11 soon swell to hours, hours to days, and then 
 for my lesson. Depend upon it, we shall soon contrive 
 to make her fee! uncomfortable." 
 
 *' Do, do, for gracious sake," replied the petted child of 
 fortune, who undertook this matter as much from the 
 excitement of novelty as for sisterly love ; and now the 
 former had passed away, the latter scarcely sufficed to keep 
 her to her promise. 
 
 " I have begun already," replied Sedleigh, " by placing 
 a brick across the chimney, — and see the result," as a puff 
 of smoke clouded into the room. 
 
 " 0, delicious ! " exclaimed his sister, clapping her 
 hands, " she '11 never be able to endure that. Hark ! she 's 
 coming ; I must return to my place in the hope of soon 
 changing it " ; and the Lady Emma, or rather Mary, as she 
 is now called by that familiar term, vacated the parlor for 
 the poor kitchen, heartily sick and tired of her situation. 
 
 In bounded Arabella, radiant with happiness, and all 
 aglow with health. "My own, own husband," she 
 exclaimed, " never did I in my wildest dreams anticipate 
 the fulness of joy that now inhabits my soul." 
 
 " My beautiful, my wife," ardently responded Sedleigh, 
 " happiness is but a fleeting shadow, and its opposite may 
 obtrude itself even among these rosy bowers." 
 
 " How ! you look sorrowful, my Sedleigh. Dear hus- 
 band, has anything happened to vex ? any light word of 
 mine ? 0, I would not bring the slightest shadow of 
 a cloud upon thy brow for millions of worlds," tenderly 
 exclaimed Arabella, the mere alteration in his tone chasing 
 her smile away upon the instant. 
 
 Sedleigh, with difficulty obliging himself to go through 
 
 17 
 
258 BTIOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 with his design, said, " The fact is, dearest, I am rather 
 close pressed, in the pecuniary way, just at present. I owe 
 a trifle ; my creditor has been here, and — " 
 
 " Pay him ! pay him, certainly. I will myself," ener- 
 getically cried Arabella, — but suddenly checked by the 
 thought, for the first time in her life, of being without the 
 means. 
 
 "But no matter," rejoined Sedleigh, "that I can put 
 off, but present wants must be supplied j dinner is impera- 
 tive. I must away and try and shoot some game if his 
 lordship's well-stocked grounds be not too closely watched." 
 
 " Are you obliged to leave me, Sedleigh 1 " said she 
 with a small pout. 
 
 " Else we have no dinner," he replied. Giving her an 
 affectionate embrace, he left her to digest this, her first 
 practical lesson, in the comforts of " Love in a Cottage," 
 and, to say the truth, poor Arabella felt at this moment 
 very far from happy ; the leaves began to drop from the 
 roses and the concealed thorns to make themselves seen 
 and felt. 
 
 It was in this mood, that, on sitting down to reflect, a 
 puff of smoke descended the chimney, covering her in a 
 black cloud of soot. Putting her hands over her eyes, 
 she screamed for Mary several times, stamping her pretty 
 little foot in positive anger. At last, with the characteris- 
 tic listlessness of her role, the Lady Emma crawled into 
 the room. Wiping her hands on her apron, she drawled 
 out, "Did you call, mum 1 " 
 
 " Call, mum," replied Arabella, with a rather dangerous 
 expression of eye, — "I did call enough to waken the 
 dead." 
 
 "If they weren't too far gone, I s'pose, mum," provok- 
 ingiy rejoined the maid- servant. 
 
ROMANCE AND REALITY. 259 
 
 " 1^0 impertinence ! " 
 
 " What do you please to want, mum 1 " 
 
 " Why, don't you see ? " said Arabella, pettishly. 
 
 " See what, mum 1 " 
 
 " The chimney." 
 
 "Yes, mum." 
 
 " It smokes." 
 
 " Law, do it, mum 1 Well, so it do, a little, I declare," 
 said she, as another volume of sooty vapor swept into the 
 place. " But don't take on, mum," she continued, " it 
 always do smoke when the wind is in one direction, and 
 it generally almost always is, so that you '11 soon get used 
 to it." 
 
 " Good heaven," said Arabella, " I cannot endure this ; 
 I must go out into the air. Come here ! put my collar 
 straight." 
 
 " Can't, mum." 
 
 "WhjnotV' 
 
 " Cos my hands is all black-leaded," said the lady-ser- 
 vant, going out of the room with an internal consciousness 
 that matters were progressing to a climax. 
 
 And now poor Arabella began seriously to deplore the 
 dark prospect which rose before her imagination. Her 
 little feet went pat pat upon the uncarpeted floor, and, if 
 she had been asked at that moment how she felt, she 
 would have replied, decidedly miserable ; but her true 
 woman's heart soon conquered every discomfort, and she 
 said within herself, 't is my Sedleigh's fate ; if he can 
 endure it, so shall /, without a murmur. So that, when he 
 returned, instead of finding her, as he supposed he should, 
 in sorrow, her beautiful face greeted him with snules more 
 gladsome than ever. 
 
 It was some days before Sedleigh could make up his 
 
260 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 mind to bring matters to a crisis. He was becoming him- 
 self rather fatigued with his rustic life, and so, with a 
 view to investigate the state of Arabella's feelings, he one 
 morning seated her beside him, saying, " J^ow, dearest 
 love, since you have had some experience in this our 
 homely country life, tell me frankly how you like it. 
 Does it come up to, or exceed, your expectation ? " 
 
 " Sedleigh," she replied in a tone of earnest seriousness, 
 *' I married you, and not your station, swearing at the 
 holy altar to be yours, in health or in sickness, in joy or 
 in sorrow. If I can shed one ray of happiness upon your 
 onward path, though ne'er so humble, 't will be my glory 
 and my pride." 
 
 " But now," continued he, " were I to find myself 
 within a somewhat better sphere, were fortune to bless me 
 with increase of means, — say, now that by some strange 
 freak a title were to fall to me." 
 
 " Sedleigh, husband," replied Arabella, with enthusiasm, 
 " I would not love you less were you a beggar, I could not 
 love more were you a king." 
 
 "I'd like the former chance before the latter," smil- 
 ingly rejoined Sedleigh. " Heaven reward your sweet, 
 disinterested love. I have a somewhat larger and more 
 commodious house ; it has just been put in order at some 
 little cost ; we shall remove there, dearest, after dinner. 
 'Tis but a short walk from this. J^ow for our meal. 
 Mary!" 
 
 In vain they called ; Mary had incontinently vanished, 
 and, with her, all hope of dinner. 
 
 " Never mind," said Sedleigh, '' we may find something 
 at the other house." 
 
 " I hope so," gayly responded Arabella, "for I am furi- 
 ously hungry." 
 
ROMANCE AND REALITY. 261 
 
 Delighted at the anticipation of being anywhere out of 
 the atmosphere of smoky chimneys, Arabella put on her 
 little plain straw bonnet, and, taking the arm of her hus- 
 band, sallied forth. In a few minutes they came in view 
 of a splendid castellated mansion, situated in the centre of 
 a spacious park, with herds of deer browsing here and 
 there, upon the velvety grass. 
 
 " Goodness me, what a lovely place ! " said Arabella, as 
 they entered ; "may we go through here 1 " 
 
 "As often as you please, dearest," replied Sedleigh, 
 '' the owner, I think I may venture to say, will not inter- 
 dict you." 
 
 " Indeed, then I shall take many a walk beneath the 
 shade of those fine old elms," replied Arabella. 
 
 " I hope so, most sincerely," replied Sedleigh, " and I 
 too: and then we might fancy this delightful place our 
 own, and stroll about as though we had a right." 
 
 They now neared the entrance to the castle, and 
 Arabella, perceiving that the marble steps were lined with 
 servants in rich liveries, shrunk timidly back. But what 
 was her surprise to find her husband walk directly 
 towards the group ! 
 
 "You are not going in there, Sedleigh!" she cried in 
 a voice of alarm, a sensation akin to fear creeping over 
 her. 
 
 "Yes, dearest," he replied, "I know some persons con- 
 nected with the household. Indeed, I believe you have 
 met them occasionally; so come, — fear nothing." 
 
 In a sort of wondering maze, Arabella entered, and, 
 leaning heavily on the arm of her husband, traversed the 
 statued hall and noble picture-gallery. As she neared an 
 inner apartment, a sound proceeded from it that made her 
 thrill with vague, indefinite anticipation. It was a peculiar 
 
262 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WKITINGS. 
 
 laugh. She could have sworn that she knew it, and 
 she was right. A pair of large folding-doors flew open, 
 and in a rich, elegantly appointed room, mellowed by the 
 soft light of a glorious tinted window, Arabella almost 
 fainted with overpowering excitement as she beheld, rush- 
 ing forward to embrace her, Sir Henry Templeton and 
 her sister Lucy. Scarcely had she recovered the shock 
 of pleasurable surprise, when the quondam Mary, splen- 
 didly attired, flung her arms around her neck, exclaiming, 
 " Dear sister, let me be the first to welcome the Vis- 
 countess Sedleigh to the domain of her husband. His, by 
 right of heritage, hers by right of conquest." 
 
 Arabella gave one glance of unutterable love at her lord^ 
 through eyes made brighter by tears 
 
 " That came not from a soul-cloud charged with grief, 
 But were from very over-brightness shed, 
 Like heart-drops falling from a sun-lit sky." 
 
KIT COBB, THE CABMAN. 263 
 
 KIT COBB, THE CABMAK 
 
 A STORY OF LONDON LIFE. 
 
 Il^TEODUCTIOK 
 In which the Author frankly acknowledges his Ignorance. 
 
 IT is not in my power to give you the slightest account 
 of my hero's birth and early experience; indeed, it 
 would be very hard if I were called upon to do anything 
 of the kind, seeing that my worthy friend Kit. himself 
 was equally ignorant upon the subject. His recollection 
 did not carry him back further than his tenth year ; why 
 it took so limited a retrospect it is impossible for me to 
 determine ; perhaps he was a forward boy, too strongly 
 imbued with the go-a-headativeness of Yankeetude to 
 waste time in Parthian glances, — perhaps, like Swift, and 
 other great geniuses, whose juvenile dulness has become 
 matter of history, he indulged in no precocious draughts 
 upon memory. However the reader may exercise his in- 
 genuity in establishing an hypothesis, I can't say more 
 than I know, and, what 's more, I won't ; but should you 
 speculate on the subject, you can bear in mind that the 
 probability is he must have been tolerably easy in his 
 circumstances, for early discomfort makes a notch in the 
 memory not easy planed off. How far that may have 
 been the result more of a contented disposition than of 
 the velvet accessories of wealth can, I think, be safely de- 
 
264 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 duced from the relation of a simple fact. He wore his first 
 pair of shoes, strong, double-soled, and hob-nailed, after 
 he had attained his fourteenth year, — that is to say, there 
 or thereabout, for poor Kit never had a birthday but once, 
 and he could n't even swear to that, for no man can give 
 evidence in a case which concerneth himself. That he 
 had a father we have only the same circumstantial proof, 
 utterly invalid in a legal point of view, and, inasmuch as 
 no clearer testimony could be adduced to establish the fact 
 of maternity, according to the unerring dictum of Eng- 
 lish jurisprudence, he was an absolute nullity ; to be sure 
 he lived, and breathed, and moved, but of what avail was 
 that, — he could nH prove it. 
 
 Poor Kit, he certainly was a waif upon the road of life, 
 a stray fly in the great sugar-hogshead of the world, a thing 
 of chance, an incomprehensible atom; for aught he, or 
 any, know to the contrary, he might have been " evolved 
 from contingent matter," hatched in the "Eccalobeion," or 
 won at a raffle ! JN^o matter, there he was, an inexplicable 
 human riddle, a fine, fat, chubby, laughing, squalling, 
 hungry mystery ! 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Which is to be hoped will give you a better Opinion of the Author, 
 and of his Subject. 
 
 A COLD, gray, drizzlj^, uncomfortable ]!!^ovember morn- 
 ing began reluctantly to tint the eastern sky with a dull 
 something which might be almost mistaken for light, hold- 
 ing a deadly-lively contest for precedence with sundry 
 pale, sleepy-looking gas-jets that reeled and flickered in 
 their lamps with a tipsy, up-all-night sort of undulation. 
 
KIT COBB, THE CABMAN. 265 
 
 Silence brooded over the west end of the town, broken 
 only by the echoing tread of the ever- watchful police- 
 man, and now and then the sudden rattle of a furiously 
 driven cab, containing some belated son of Nox, some titled 
 ruffian, who, sheltered by a name and wealth, defies all 
 law, owns no restraint, and breaks through every social tie, 
 upheld by the mean-souled worshippers of Mammon. Save 
 these, all was stillness ; but in the abodes of wretchedness 
 and continual labor, to which I am about to conduct the 
 reader, all was astir. 
 
 Perhaps no other city on the face of the globe can par- 
 allel the utter destitution and misery, both apparent and 
 actual, which are to be found in the very core of London. 
 Within this great metropolis, surrounded by evidences of 
 superabundant wealth, with the palaces of the nobility 
 bounding it on one side, and the scarcely less splendid 
 mansions of the merchant kings on the other, stands, or 
 rather rots, the parish of St. Giles, the very focus of squalid 
 poverty, the nucleus of disease, the nurse of vice. Year 
 after year has it been denounced as the hot-bed of conta- 
 gion, the "normal" school of crime. Yet there it re- 
 mains, and will remain unless the hand of Heaven, by the 
 purification of fire, averts a second plague. 
 
 In a wretched stable, in the most wretched lane of this 
 wretched neighborhood, the sound of a merry voice might 
 be heard, in startling contrast to the surrounding scene. 
 The singer is Kit Cobb, now about fifteen years old, and 
 the happy owner of a hack cab and horse. Although the 
 most of his life hitherto had been passed in lounging 
 about, running of messages, pulling down shutters, with 
 intervals of dangerous inactivity, yet he had curiously es- 
 caped the vitiating influence of the society into which 
 fate had cast him. 
 
266 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 About a year previous to this time, a large cab-owner, 
 struck by the boy's frauk countenance, had engaged him 
 as a driver, and, as a reward for his integrity and industry, 
 sold him a vehicle, consenting to receive payment for it 
 weekly, in small instalments. 
 
 Last night the purchase was made, and this morning 
 behold him. Alexander the Great, when Darius owned 
 him conqueror, Napoleon, when with his own hands he 
 placed the crown of Charlemagne upon his head, were 
 not a whit more happy than poor Kit Cobb, when, in the 
 extravagance of his joy, with eyes streaming, and a chok- 
 ing voice, he cried, " Horse and cab, all mine, mine ! " And 
 then he would laugh, and dance, and sing, with all his 
 might, now squaring up at the horse and punching' him 
 as though he had n't a greater enemy in the world, now 
 hugging and kissing the brute's long face with most alarm- 
 ing emphasis. 
 
 He was fond of the animal ; the truth is it was his first 
 affection, and I 'm happy to say the feeling was recipro- 
 cated ; for, as Kit would rub his horse down, pluck his ears, 
 and bestow such like evidences of partiality, the animal 
 would neigh, and sniff, and wink knowingly at him, as 
 much as to say, " You 're my particular friend, Kit ; stick 
 to me, and I'll stick to you." 
 
 And Kit held an interesting conversation with his 
 favorite, but, inasmuch as they were both rather excited, 
 it 's not worth while to relate the substance of it ; indeed, 
 it was very well for them that they were not observed by 
 the keeper of a lunatic asylum, for no madman could pos- 
 sibly exceed the extravagance of Kit's demeanor, and if 
 ever a horse deserved a strait waistcoat, it was Old Turk. 
 
KIT COBB, THE CABMAN. 267 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "Which is Short, hut (or else the Author flatters himself) Pithy. 
 
 Gentle reader, with your kind permission, we jump two 
 years, and find, in addition to his horse and cab, Kit has 
 persuaded an unfortunate little girl that he could n't live 
 without her ; she, with the innocent simplicity of her sex, 
 believed him, and they were married. Our poor friend's 
 worldly store was but little augmented by this procedure, 
 for his bride brought him, by way of dower, one stuff 
 gown, one doubtful colored silk ditto, one imitation 
 French shawl, one Dunstable bonnet, with other smaller 
 matters, not mentioned in the category, and all settled 
 tightly on herself; but no matter. Kit loved her with 
 an overweening love, and, when the heart is driver, pru- 
 dence gets the whip. The result of Kit's domestic ar- 
 rangement was, in due time, a duodecimo edition, so that 
 there were soon three mouths to provide for, besides that 
 of Old Turk, the most expensive of all; for though Kit 
 might and did stint his own appetite, yet he held it 
 part of his religion that the horse should have no cause 
 to complain for lack of food. 
 
 Things began to look gloomy ; the outgoings exceeded 
 the incomings, notwithstanding their most stringent exer- 
 tions ; for the first time Kit had been unable to make up 
 the instalment of purchase-money; he became despondent, 
 and the old horse moped for sympathy. 
 
 One morning poor Kit took the lact truss of hay and 
 feed of oats, discoursing as was his custom with his early 
 friend, and the person who had the temerity to say that the 
 horse couldn't understand every word would have been 
 looked upon by him as an intensely ignorant individual. 
 
268 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 " Come up, you old brute," said he. " I 've had no 
 breakfast mj'-self yet, but here 's yours. We 've a precious 
 long day's work before us, and if you don't earn more than 
 you did yesterday, it ain't much you'll get to-morrow, 
 that I can tell you." 
 
 Old Turk sniffed, and pushed his nose out in anticipa- 
 tion of the coming meal. 
 
 " What a hurry you 're in, you precious old rascal," 
 said Kit, rather offended at Turk's evident want of senti- 
 ment ; " let me tell you a bit of my mind before you eat a 
 morsel," and he snatched back the sieve of oats just as 
 Turk had licked his teeth round for the second mouthful, 
 a proceeding at which he made his displeasure tolerably 
 evident. 
 
 " 0, I don't care ! " continued Kit, " you may blow up 
 as much as you like, but it 's my belief that you 're a 
 selfish old reprobate." The horse gave Kit one reproach- 
 ful look that went directly to his heart. " There, take 
 it," said he; "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to 
 insult you ; pitch into it ; it does my heart good to see 
 you enjoy it," — and, flinging the feed into the manger. 
 Kit folded his arms and watched his pet as he plunged 
 into the welcome food. It was not long before he nuzzled 
 up every grain. 
 
 "Now, then," said Kit, stroking down the old horse's 
 mane as he spoke, " I 'm going to tell you something that 
 will break your heart, — leastways I think it will. I 
 wouldn't say anything of it before, for fear of spoiling 
 your breakfast ; but things are getting worse and worse, 
 Turk, and if something don't turn up in the course of this 
 very day, we — we '11 have to part. You — you and I '11 
 have to part — to part, Turk," he repeated sternly, — one 
 round, big tear settling in the corner of his eye, — and 
 gently pulling the horse's ears as he spoke. 
 
KIT COBB, THE CABMAN. 269 
 
 The old brute, for the purpose of enjoying the luxury 
 to an extent, placed his head on Kit's shoulder. That 
 was enough ; construing it into an appeal to his affection, 
 he could stand it no longer, but burst into a flood of tears, 
 exclaiming through his sobs, "Don't, don't, Turk ! you 
 deceitful old beast, don't you go to take advantage of my 
 weakness. I tell you my mind 's made up. I — I have 
 a w-hi-hife ! now — I have ! and a chi-hi-hild ! They 've 
 had plenty as yet, but they don't know how I have pinched 
 myself to get it. I can't let them want. You would n't 
 if you were me, bless your old bones ! I know you 
 would n't ; so let us part friends. I can't pay for you, 
 and I must give you up again. You must go, — indeed 
 you must. Come, now bear it like a Christian. I '11 give 
 your ears another pull, if you want me. There, there, 
 come ! " 
 
 And poor Kit wept like a sick child, while he harnessed 
 old Turk for, as he thought, the last time. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 "Which is essential to the Story, and contains, moreover, a Moral 
 Lesson, though inculcated in a curious "Way. 
 
 " Dear Kit, you don't eat." 
 
 "]N'ever mind me, Betsey, love, go on. I — I'm not 
 hungry yet ; I shall be sure to get something by and by." 
 
 ]N"ow that was a lie, — a deliberate lie; he was hungry, 
 and would have thought no more of demolishing the 
 entire of that meagre meal than if it were but a mouthful ; 
 but he struggled manfully against his inclinations, and, 
 having watched his darling wife and child make a suffi- 
 
270 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 cient breakfast, kissed them both with his heart upon his 
 lips, and departed upon his almost hopeless toil. 
 
 "God bless and preserve them,'' said he,' "whatever 
 may become of me ; I can battle with the world's strong 
 arm ; I will, Heaven help me in the effort ! It is not for 
 myself I ask it. No, no j were I alone, like a stray weed 
 on the surface of the waters, I 'd make no opposition to 
 the whelming tide, but float along wherever fate impelled 
 me; but while these two helpless and uncomplaining 
 creatures look to me, I will work, I will strive, for I love 
 them so that I could willingly give up my life to rescue 
 them ; nay, if it would insure their happiness, I do believe 
 — God forgive me ! — that I would sell my very soul to 
 the jiendy 
 
 Who can tell at what time an " idle word " may meet 
 its recompense, or the mental invocation be answered, 
 and the destroyer permitted to fling his specious lure upon 
 the sea of circumstance % 
 
 Kit spoke from the very promptings of his heart, feel- 
 ing sincerely what he said, but without the vaguest notion 
 of supernal aid in this debtor and creditor age ; it was 
 merely a common saying uttered heedlessly, yet, even as 
 he spoke the words, the soul-ensnarer had begun his work. 
 He was hailed by a sedate-looking, middle-aged, but no 
 further remarkable gentleman, who engaged him for 
 several hours, giving promise of a good day's work, from 
 so favorable a commencement, and poor Kit's heart 
 bounded again with joy at the thought of home, and this 
 cheering omen of better fortune. Great cause had he for 
 
 joy 5 
 
 At the self-same moment that the stranger entered 
 
 Kit's cab, two suspicious-looking individuals might be 
 
 observed creeping stealthily up the rickety stairs which led 
 
KIT COBB, THE CABMAN. 271 
 
 to his miseraHe home; as they seem to move slowly 
 and with difficulty, I '11 describe them as nearly as I can, 
 while in progression. The first was an apoplectic son of 
 Iscariot, short, squab, and intensely fat, his huge carcass 
 decorated in the very extremity of gaudy show, his capa- 
 cious chest enveloped in a flaming plaid velvet waistcoat, 
 about which an endless convolution of snake-pattern, 
 imitation gold chain played at hide and seek, now fantasti- 
 cally twining round an exaggerated breastpin of some red 
 material, then flitting through sundry button-holes, and 
 finally plunging into his side pocket ; his continuations, or 
 pants, to use the Yankee abbreviation, were composed of 
 light, very light blue material, and made so uncomfortably 
 tight as to give one a sensation of pain, while his feet were 
 squeezed into French gaiter boots, with patent-leather tips. 
 The coat was of that economically fashionable material, 
 generally worn at night, when rows are expected, mostly 
 patronized, though, by ambitious apprentices, in the last 
 year of their time, when they begin to be intrusted with 
 the door-key, and, from a laudable anxiety to go to bed 
 early, invariably defer it until next morning. His hands 
 — fins — flippers, or whatever they were au naturel, were 
 surrounded on all sides with kid gloves, but where he got 
 the gloves, how he got into them, or when he did, are 
 matters as mysterious to me as Mesmer, Hahnemann, or 
 Pusey. 
 
 His follower, literally, was in every way antithetic ; long, 
 scraggy, and cadaverous, he looked like a slender, consump- 
 tive ninepin by the side of a plethoric ball. 
 
 " Phew ! " ejaculated Solomon Duggs, our adipose friend, 
 following it up with a series of fatty suspirations. " Dim 
 these dim stairs. Phew ! — stop, Ws rest — dim the 
 dim thing — how diTYi fatigued I em ! Why, Badger, 
 
272 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 you dim, watery-blooded anatomy, how dim cool you 
 look ! " 
 
 " I am cool," gruffly responded the thin-ribbed follower, 
 " I have only myself to carry." 
 
 " Dim your impudence ! " puffed Duggs, " do you mean 
 to insinuate that I am so dim fat 1 " 
 
 " ISTot I j I only thought it would be convenient to be a 
 shade smaller," said Badger, the ghost of a smile shivering 
 on his lips. 
 
 " You lie, dim you, it would n't : I like it — phew !" — 
 and Duggs fanned himself with his great fist. 
 
 "0, very well, I've done. I'm sorry I spoke. If 
 you like it, may your shadow never be less, that 's all " ; 
 and Badger fairly laughed, — a breach of discipline and of 
 decorum which raised the ire of Duggs to such an extent 
 that he punched him in the ribs, which was about as 
 much use as flinging putty against iron bars. 
 
 " Come, come, no more of this dim nonsense, but le^s to 
 business ; phew ! " and he fanned faster than ever. " Are 
 you sure this is the dim place % " 
 
 Badger nodded, for he was an economist in words. 
 
 " Well, knock, dim you." 
 
 Badger knocked a small, crafty, neighbor-like knock — 
 a miserable, mean, dirty " summons." 
 
 Poor Betsey flew to open the door, and started back 
 ag^in with astonishment and vague apprehension, as 
 Duggs, followed by Badger, waddled in ; utterly unable to 
 speak, and gasping from an indefinite sense of dread, she 
 gazed on the intruders. 
 
 " Sarv'nt, mm, don't be so alarmed ; we aint agoing to 
 hurt you," blandly simpered Duggs, flourishing his cane, 
 while Badger, with the practised eye of an appraiser, in 
 one glance round the room calculated to a sixpence the 
 profits of his brokerage. 
 
KIT COBB, THE CABMAN. 273 
 
 "Take a cheer, 7nim" continued Duggsj "hem," — 
 and he cleared his throat for his stereotyped introductory 
 speech. " I 'm extremely sorry that so unpleasant a dooty 
 should revolve upon me as a legal functionary, but laws is 
 laws, and dooties is dooties, and if I wariit to do it, p'r^aps 
 some one else as is not so tender ^ud he obligated." 
 
 "For heaven's sake," cried the agitated Betsey, "tell 
 me what all this means." Dnggs shrugged up his shoul- 
 ders, and began fumbling in his pocket, pointing at the 
 same time to Badger, who, seated cross-legged on the bed, 
 was noting down with callous indifference every article of 
 furniture. The extent of her misfortune struck her in an 
 instant, her brain reeled, the blood rushed upward from 
 her heart, and she fell. 
 
 ^^ Dim the dim thing," gasped Duggs, "she's fainted." 
 
 " So she has, I declare," said Badger, dryly, without 
 moving. 
 
 "Then dim you, come and help." Badger got slowly 
 up, and helped to raise the poor victim, giving her a shake, 
 and saying ~ gruffly, "I hate your fainters; don't put her 
 on the cheer; we'll want that. Here, drop her on the 
 mattress at once ; there, she'll come to time enough." 
 
 " Give her some water, dim you." 
 
 He did so ; it seemed to revive her a little ; she swal- 
 lowed about half a glassful. Badger threw the remainder 
 under the grate, and, pocketing the tumbler, proceeded 
 with his inventory. 
 
 "Come, mm," said Duggs, " don't take on so; 'taint for 
 much, — only a paltry jip-poun ten ; dimme, I 'd pay it 
 myself, only that dooties is dooties. Can't you give it us, 
 and we 'U be Ao/." 
 
 "God knows," said poor Betsey, her eyes streaming 
 with tears, " I have n't five farthings in the world, but do 
 
 18 
 
274 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 wait until my husband comes home : he '11 give it you, I 
 know he will, for he 's as honest as truth itself." 
 
 " Why, you see, mim, there aint no honesty in the case," 
 replied the amiable Duggs, speaking the truth, by mis- 
 take ; " the long and the short of it is, if you have n't the 
 dim money we must take the dim things." 
 
 But why linger over a scene, which, to- the disgrace of 
 British laws, is enacted daily in the British metropolis. 
 Suffice it to say. Kit had neglected, from perfect igno- 
 rance, to answer a summons before the Court of Requests, 
 summary execution was issued, and amidst the agony of 
 grief and ineffectual remonstrances of that poor, lonely 
 mother, the humble apartment was stripped of every 
 article except the bed she lay on, even to the very cradle 
 of her infant, to satisfy the greed of a stony-hearted credi- 
 tor, and the rapacity of a shameful and cruel law. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 In which Kit spurns at Fortune in a most unaccountable Manner. 
 
 " So ho ! old Turk, we 've done well to-day, old boy, 
 ha ! ha ! I 've paid my instalment, and have ten good 
 shillings in my pocket. So ho ! good old fellow, who 's 
 afraid It There 's life in a muscle yet. There, there, now 
 don't be impatient, you shall have such a feed pres- 
 ently, you'll feel in your stall like a bishop, only you 
 won't have no wine. So much the better. Water 's the 
 good, wholesome drink that nature provides for all sorts 
 of animals, and how mankind got to like anything else 
 puzzles me ; but the sense is leaving us and going into the 
 brutes — there, you 're unharnessed, now give yourself a 
 
KIT COBB, THE CABMAN. i275 
 
 shake — that's right — now just wait until I go cheer up 
 my darhng Bessie, and kiss that varmint, young Kit." 
 
 So saying, with a hght step and a joyous heart, Kit 
 hounded up stairs, singing as he went, — 
 
 ** 0, there 's nothing like luck all the universe over, 
 Misfortunes don't always stay with us, 't is clear ; 
 
 To-day we 're in sorrow, to-morrow in clover, 
 
 The light follows darkness throughout the long year. 
 
 O, the light follows darkness — " 
 
 At that moment, with a gladsome smile on his lips, 
 he rushed into the room. Heavens ! what a sight met his 
 view ! the quick revulsion of feeling almost drove out 
 sense. It was as though one were suddenly to wake fresh 
 from the glories of a bhssful dream, to find a devouring 
 flame enveloping his bed. In the confusion of his first 
 dismay he had a vague conception of some sweeping 
 destruction, and that wife, child, and all were lost ; but 
 when he saw that they were safe, a deep feeling of relief 
 came over him, the blood flowed again, and full conscious- 
 ness returned. 
 
 " Great heaven ! Bessie ! " he cried in dry, husky ac- 
 cents, "what's the meaning of this? who has been here/? 
 what has happened ? " 
 
 "0 Kit," she replied, flinging her arms round his 
 neck, and breaking into a flood of tears, " dear Kit ! why 
 did n't you come sooner ] — they have been here — and — 
 everything is gone." 
 
 " Who — who has done this 1 " said Kit, with a savage 
 glance in his eye, seldom lighted there, but, once it was, 
 most fearful to encounter. 
 
 " That man, you know, — that grocer, dear Kit," said 
 Bessie. 
 
 *'Higgins!" cried Kit. She nodded. "The grasping 
 
276 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 cur, the sneaking, dastardly slave, to take advantage of my 
 absence," said Kit, fiercely, clenching his hands and grind- 
 ing his teeth. " May " — the large tears rolled in streams 
 down his cheeks ; burying his face in his hands, he con- 
 tinned, "May God pardon him for this day's inhuman 
 work, forgive me for the harsh words I 've used, and 
 avert the strong hate that in my own despite springs up 
 within me towards him. 0, 't is hard ! — hard to be 
 thus dashed, dear Bessie, with a soul full of hope. But 
 come, it 's over now, and we must make the best of it." 
 
 " Bless you, bless you," replied the devoted wife, " we 
 will, we will ; for your sake, and for the sake of our child, 
 I can endure anything." 
 
 " Heaven reward your true woman's love, Bessie, dar- 
 ling," fervently replied Kit. " I have enough for present 
 want, here," — placing his hand in his pocket to take out 
 the piece of gold which lie had carefully deposited there, 
 when, to his utter dismay, he could not find it. He hunted 
 through every crevice, but to no purpose : it was gone. 
 " Fool ! fool that I am ! " he exclaimed, bitterly. " I 've 
 lost it." 
 
 " IS'ever mind, dear Kit," replied Bessie, tenderly, 
 " there 's enough for the boy's supper, and I do not want 
 anything." 
 
 "What have I donel" pettishly exclaimed Kit. "Great 
 heaven ! what have I done, that everything should so con- 
 spire against me 1 " At that instant they both started, — 
 hearing the peculiar chink of gold. " Ha ! " shouted Kit, 
 " there it is," and, rushing over to the place whence the 
 sound proceeded, he saw a sight which made his brain reel. 
 Seated on the cab cushions which he had brought in with 
 him, his little boy was playing with a bag of gold; he had 
 just managed to untie the string, and the precious metal 
 
KIT COBB, THE CABMAN. 277 
 
 poured out in a perfect shower. Kit's first thought was 
 one of unmitigated delight, but ere an instant had passed, 
 he and his wife looked intently at each other, with faces 
 painfully livid. 
 
 '' Bessie," said he, grasping her hand tightly, and speak- 
 ing through his teeth with compressed energy, " these walls 
 are naked, you and your child are pinched by hard want, 
 misfortune dogs our very footsteps, — let us pray that a 
 merciful God may give us strength to battle with this 
 strong temptation." And with clasped hands they knelt 
 in silent supplication. 
 
 The mingled aspirations of two hearts as pure as ever 
 tenanted this mortal clay wended upward from those mis- 
 erable walls to the throne of Him who hears, and who, in 
 His own good time, will answer the prayer of the wretched. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 In which Kit does an extraordinary Thing, and is recompensed in 
 an extraordinary Way. 
 
 [N'either Kit nor Bessie slept a single wink all that 
 night ; the consciousness of having so great a sum of money 
 in their possession, which did not belong to them, effect- 
 ually drove off slumber. Kit had counted it, and found 
 there were one thousand pounds in the bag. How it could 
 possibly have escaped his notice, as he removed the cush- 
 ions from the cab, puzzled him exceedingly, but he con- 
 jectured the string had by some meaixS got twisted round 
 one of the buttons. Having replaced the money, he put it 
 carefully under his pillow^ and if he felt once, he felt a 
 hundred times to see if it were safe. Bessie was equally 
 
278 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 fidgety, and at last, far from being inclined to retain any, 
 they both heartily wished it anywhere but with them. 
 Now would they fancy footsteps were approaching the bed ; 
 now Kit would jump up and put some additional fastening 
 on the door and window, for the first time experiencing 
 the truth of the old proverb, — 
 
 *' He who has naiiglit to lose 
 Need never his doors to close." 
 
 Poor Bessie, in the simplicity of her heart, exclaimed, 
 " Dear Kit, if money makes people feel as I do, I would n't 
 be rich for all the world." 
 
 Long before morning, they were both up, and when Kit 
 cast his eyes first upon his scant breakfast and then upon 
 the treasure within his grasp, his heart bounded up 
 to his throat. Bessie, guessing his thoughts, with true 
 woman's tact, diverted them into the one broad, over- 
 whelming current of paternal love, presenting the laugh- 
 ing boy to receive his father's kiss. " See, see," she ex- 
 claimed, "how beautiful he looks this morning. Does 
 it not seem as though heaven had sent one of its own 
 angels to reward us for shunning this devil's lure'? Is it 
 not a great thing, dearest, to meet his smile without a 
 blush of shame?" 
 
 " It is, it is," he exclaimed, regarding his child with the 
 strong emotion of a father's love. "JSTo, no; you shall 
 never curse your father's memory. The anger of a just 
 God, who visits the father's sins upon the children, shall 
 never reach you from my misdeeds, if through His abundant 
 mercy my soul be still strengthened in the right." 
 
 With placid minds, and even cheerfully, they sat down 
 to their insufiicient breakfast. Kit cheering his wife the 
 while, by saying, " Take heart, love, take heart ! I shall 
 
KIT COBB, THE CABMAN. 279 
 
 take the money down to Somerset House. No doubt I shall 
 see the owner ; he will be grateful for its return, and will 
 perhaps reward me with a trifle. At all events, the greatest 
 pleasures money could obtain would n't approach the thou- 
 sandth part of the joy I feel at the anticipation of return- 
 ing to that old man his no doubt almost hopelessly la- 
 mented treasure." 
 
 When Kit arrived at Somerset House, he found the office 
 for the reception of valuables found in cabs was not open, 
 so he sat down on the curbstone to wait, amusing himself 
 by hefting the bag in his pocket, and wondering what its 
 owner would give him for the recovery. His cab was 
 standing in the entrance ; suddenly he was startled by an 
 authoritative voice, shouting to him to get out of the way. 
 With habitual deference. Kit flew to lead his vehicle into 
 the enclosure, when a splendid carriage, driven by a pair 
 of blood-horses, dashed up the avenue, stopping short with 
 a sudden pull. 
 
 In an instant after, one of the liveried servants touched 
 Kit on the shoulder, and, upon looking up, in the occupant 
 of the carriage he beheld the owner of the treasure. 
 
 " Come in, come in," said the old man, and poor Kit 
 was handed into the magnificent vehicle. 
 
 " Good fellow, good fellow, have you brought it ? " said 
 the stranger quickly, and with the slightest possible evi- 
 dence of agitation. 
 
 *'To the uttermost farthing, sir," replied Kit, as, un- 
 twisting the string from around his neck, he placed the 
 bag in the old man's hands. 
 
 . " You're an honest fellow," said the latter, " what 's your 
 name % and where do you live ? " 
 
 Kit told him. 
 
 " I won't forget ; I won't forget. Shake hands, I honor 
 
280 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 you ! " and, with a hearty grasp, wealth paid homage to 
 honesty. "Now, good by," continued the old man ; " I 've 
 business of great importance to attend to." And without 
 any acknowledgment except that unsubstantial handshake, 
 poor Kit was left standing on the curbstone, while the 
 carriage of the ungrateful stranger whirled furiously away. 
 
 Stunned and mortified, Kit could hardly believe his 
 senses. "What," cried he, "not a guinea, not a shilling, 
 after restoring that vast sum ! Mean, miserly ! Well, 
 I've done my duty, and, after all, I had no positive 
 right to expect anything for it." Thus he argued, in the 
 endeavor to shake off his annoyance, but vainly ; he was 
 bitterly disappointed. 
 
 After a few hours spent in his usual occupation, utterly 
 despondent and almost hopeless. Kit sought his wretched 
 home, scarcely knowing how to meet his wife, or break the 
 mortification to her. He found her in tears, which, when 
 she saw him, she strove to restrain, but could not ; in her 
 hand was a large, lawyer-like, suspic.'ous-looking letter, 
 with an enormous seal, — just such a document as brings 
 a shudder through an individual in straitened circum- 
 stances. 
 
 " So, so," said Kit, " more wretchedness, more misfor- 
 tune ! Who is this from % Some other charitable soul, who 
 fain would help to sink a drowning wretch still deeper." 
 
 Seizing the letter he tore it open, when, glancing at the 
 contents, he gasped for breath, his eyes dilated, the big 
 tears bursting from them in torrents; he jumped up, 
 shouted, laughed, danced, kissed Bessie, and squeezed his 
 child until he fairly hurt it, and behaved altogether in a 
 most mysterious and alarming manner. 
 
 " Merciful heaven ! " cried Bessie, a cold shiver running 
 through her frame, " he 's mad ! " 
 
KIT COBB, THE CABMAN. - 281 
 
 "He's not, he's not," shouted Kit. "Look here, 
 read, read," and, pushing the letter towards her, between 
 laughing and crying they slowly deciphered the follow- 
 ing:— 
 
 " / hereby grant to Christopher Cohh, for the term of his 
 natural life, the sum of Two Hundred Pounds, laivfid Brit- 
 ish money, annually, for which this shall he deemed S2iffi,- 
 cient instrument, in gratitude for an essential service, and 
 as the inadequate reward of exemplary honesty. 
 
 " Egremont." 
 
 Eeader, art thou in prosperity, be grateful to Him from 
 whom all earthly good proceeds. Art thou in adversity, 
 remember that He who rules the thunder is all-powerful 
 to cast from thee the bitter cup. 
 
282 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WKITINGS. 
 
 THE MOEOTXa DEEAM. 
 
 ** The dream of the night there 's no reason to rue, 
 But the dream of the morning is sure to come true." 
 
 Old Saying. 
 
 PRETTY Peggy May ; a bright-eyed, merry-hearted, 
 little darling you are, Peggy ! there 's no gainsaying 
 that fact ; a cunning little gypsy, and most destructive too, 
 as many an aching heart can testify. But who can blame 
 you for that? as well might the summer's sun be blamed 
 for warming the sweet flowers into life. It is a natural 
 ordination that all who see you should love you. 
 
 Pretty Peg has. just completed her eighteenth year ; in 
 the heedless gayety of youth, she has hitherto gambolled 
 through the road of life, without a grief, almost without a 
 thought. for the sunny days of childhood, ere, wed- 
 ded to experience, the soul brings forth its progeny of 
 cares ! Why can we not add the knowledge of our wiser 
 years, and linger over that most blessed, least prized 
 period of our existence, when every impulse is at once 
 obeyed, and the ingenuous soul beams forth in smiles, its 
 every working indexed in the face, ere prudence starts up 
 like a spectre, and cries out, " Beware ! there is a prying 
 world that watches every turn, and does not always make 
 a true report." Prudence ! how I hate the cold, calculat- 
 ing, heartless term ! Be loyal in word, be just in act, 
 be honest in all ; but prudence ! 't is twin-brother to self- 
 ishness, spouse of mistrust, and parent of hypocrisy! 
 But methinks I hear some one say, " This is a most cava- 
 
THE MORNING DREAM. 283 
 
 lier way of treating one of the cardinal virtues." To 
 which I reply, " It certainly has, by some means or other, 
 sneaked in amongst the virtues, and thereby established a 
 right to the position ; but it is the companionship only 
 which makes it respectable, and it must be accompanied 
 by all the rest to neutralize its mischievous tendency." 
 
 If you have taken the slightest interest in little Peg, 
 prepare to sympathize in her first heart-deep sorrow. She 
 is in love ! ISTow, if she herself were questioned about the 
 matter, T 'm pretty sure she would say it 's no such thing ; 
 but I take upon myself to declare it to be true, and, for 
 fear you should think that I make an assertion which I 
 cannot prove, permit me to relate the substance of a 
 conversation which took place between Peg and her 
 scarcely less pretty, but infinitely more mischievous cousin, 
 Bridget O'Conner. They had just returned from one of 
 those gregarious merry-meetings where some spacious 
 granary, just emptied of its contents, gives glorious oppor- 
 tunity for the gladsome hearts of the village, and " all the 
 country round," to meet and astonish the rats — sleek, 
 well-fed rascals dozing in their holes — with uproarious 
 fun and revelry. 
 
 A sudden, and indeed, under the circumstances, ex- 
 tremely significant sigh from Peg, startled Bridget from 
 the little glass where she had been speculating as to how 
 she looked, for the last hour or two. I may as well say 
 the scrutiny was perfectly satisfactory j she had not danced 
 all her curls out. 
 
 " Gracious me ! " she exclaimed, " Peg, how you do 
 sigh ! " 
 
 " And no wonder," rejoined Peggy, with a slight squeeze 
 of acid, " after having danced down twenty couple twenty 
 times, I should like to know who would n't \ " 
 
284 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 "Ah! but that was n't a tired sigh, Peg. I know the 
 difference ; one need n't dive as low as the heart for them. 
 A tired sigh comes flying out upon a breath of joy, and 
 turns into a laugh before it leaves the lips j you are sad, 
 Peg!" 
 
 " How you talk ! why, what on earth should make me 
 sad?" 
 
 *' That 's exactly what I want to know j now there 's no 
 use in your trying to laugh, for you can't do it. Do you 
 think I don't know the difference between a laugh, and 
 that nasty deceitful croak 1 " 
 
 " Bridget ! " exclaimed Peg, with a look which she in- 
 tended should be very severe and very reproachful, " I 'm 
 sleepy." 
 
 " Well, then, kiss me, and go to bed," replied Bridget. 
 " Ho, ho !" thought she, "there 's something curious about 
 Peg to-night. I think what I think, and if I think right, 
 I 'm no woman if I don't find out before I sleep." Craftily 
 she changed the conversation, abused the women's dresses, 
 and criticised their complexions, especially the pretty ones. 
 At last, when she had completely lulled the commotion of 
 Peg's thoughts into a calm, she suddenly cried out, " 
 Peg ! I forgot to tell you that one of the boys we danced 
 with had his leg broke coming home to-night." 
 
 Peggy, surprised into an emotion she found it impossible 
 to conceal, started up, pale as snow, and gasped out, "Who 
 was if? — who % " 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " thought the other, " the fox is somewhere 
 about, — now to beat the cover." 
 
 " Did you hear me ask you who ] " said Peg, anxiously. 
 
 " I did, dear," replied Bridget, " but I 'm trying to recol- 
 lect. I think," and she looked steadily into Peggy's eyes, 
 " I think it was I^ed Eiley." 
 
THE MORNING DREAM. 285 
 
 Peg did n't even wink. 
 
 " She does n't care about him, and I 'm not sorry for 
 that," thought Bridget, thereby making an acknowledg- 
 ment to herself which the sagacious reader will no doubt 
 interpret truly. " 'No, it was n't Il^ed," she continued. 
 " Now I think of it, it was — it was — a — " 
 
 " Who ? who "i " cried Peg, now sensibly agitated ; "do 
 tell me, there 's a dear." 
 
 Not she, not a bit of it, but lingered with feminine 
 ingenuity, now making as though she recollected the name 
 and then, with a shake of her head, pretending to dive 
 back into memory, just as the inquisitors of old used to 
 slacken the torture to enable the recipient to enjoy another 
 dose. 
 
 " Now I have it," said she, — " no, I have n't ; I do 
 believe I 've forgotten who it was, but this I know, it was 
 the pleasantest-mannered and nicest young fellow in the 
 whole heap." 
 
 " Then it must have been Mark ! " exclaimed Peg, throw- 
 ing prudence overboard, and fixing her large, eloquent 
 eyes full on Bridget's mouth, as if her everlasting fate de- 
 pended upon the little monosyllable about to issue from it. 
 
 " It was Mark ! that was the name ! " 
 
 Peggy gave a gasp, while Bridget went on, with a tri- 
 umphant twinkle in her wicked little eye which did not 
 show over-favorably for her humanity. 
 
 ^^ Mark BradT//" dwelling on the name with slow, dis- 
 tinct emphasis, which made Peggy's heart jump at each 
 word as though she had received an ele'^tric shock. 
 
 She knew the tenderest part of the sentient anatomy, 
 Bridget did, and took intense delight in stabbing exactly 
 there ; not mortal stabs, that would be mercy, but just a lit- 
 tle too far for tickling. That sort of a woman was Bridget, 
 
286 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 who, if possessed of an incumbrance in husband shape, 
 would take infinite pains to discover the weakest points in 
 his temper, and industriously attack those quarters, piling 
 up petty provocations, one upon another, none in itself 
 of sufficient importance to induce a sally, but making 
 altogether a breastwork of aggravation that must at last 
 o'ertop the wall of temper. Phantoms of crutches and 
 of wooden legs came crowding on Peg's imagination, con- 
 trasting themselves with the curious agility with which 
 poor Mark had " beat the floor " in the merry jig, until 
 he made it echo to every note of the pipes. Then rose 
 up vague spectres of sanguinary-minded surgeons, with 
 strange butcherly instruments ; then she saw nothing but 
 fragmentary Marks, unattached legs, a whole roomful 
 dancing by themselves ; there they were, twisting and 
 twirling about, in the various difficult complications of 
 the "toe and heel," "double shuffle," "ladies' delight," 
 and " cover the buckle " ; she shut her eyes in horror, and 
 was sensible of nothing but a gloomy blood-red. There 's 
 no knowing to what lengths her terrible fancies might 
 have gone, had they not been dispersed like wreaths of 
 vapor by a hearty laugh from the mischievous Bridget. 
 Peggy opened her eyes in astonishment. Was she awake 1 
 Yes, there was her cousin, enjoying one of the broadest, 
 merriest, wickedest laughs that ever mantled over the face 
 of an arch little female. 
 
 " Poor Mark ! " she cried, and then burst forth again 
 into ringing laughter, which dimpled her crimson cheeks 
 like — what shall I say 1 — like a fine healthy-looking 
 cork-red potato, an Irish simile, to be sure ; but had we 
 seen Bridget, and were we acquainted with the features of 
 the aforesaid esculent, I 'm pretty certain you would ac- 
 knowledge its aptness. 
 
THE MORNING DREAM. 287 
 
 " What in the name of gracious are you laughing at 1 " 
 exclaimed Peggy, a gleam of hope breaking on the dark- 
 ness of her thought. 
 
 *' Why, that you should take on so, when I told you 
 Mark had broken his leg," gayly replied Bridget. 
 
 "Has n't her' 
 
 " Not half as much as your poor little heart would have 
 been broken if he had," said the tormentor. 
 
 " Bridget ! cousin ! " said poor Peg, now enduring much 
 more pain from the sudden revulsion of feeling, "you 
 should not have done this ; you have crowded a whole 
 lifetime of agony into those few moments past." 
 
 " Well, forgive me, dear Peggy. I declare I did n't 
 know that you had the affection so strong on you, or I 
 wouldn't have joked for the world. But now, confess, 
 does n't it serve you right for not confiding in me, your 
 natural born cousin '? Did I ever keep a secret from you 1 
 Didn't I tell you all about Pat Pinch, and Johnny Magee, 
 and Jack, the hurler, eh 1 " 
 
 "But not one word about Edward Piley, with whom 
 you danced so often to-night," observed Peg, with a very 
 pardonable dash of malice. 
 
 It was now Bridget's turn to change color, as she stam- 
 mered out, "I — I was going to, — not that I care much 
 about him ; no, no, Mark is the flower of the flock, and 
 I 've a mighty great mind to set my cap at him myself." 
 
 Peggy smiled, a very small but a peculiar and it might 
 have been perfectly self-satisfied smile, as she replied, 
 " Try, Miss Bridget, and I wish you success." 
 
 " Truth is scarce when liars are near," said Bridget. 
 " But I say, Peg, does Mark know you love him ?" 
 
 " Don't be foolish ; how should he 1 " 
 
 "Did you never tell him"?" 
 
288 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 " What do you take me for?" 
 
 " Did he never tell you ? " 
 
 " What do you take kim for ? " 
 
 " For a man, and moreover a conceited one ; don't you 
 mean to let him know his good fortune 1 " 
 
 " It is n't leap-year, and if it were, I 'd rather die than 
 do such a thing," said Peggy. 
 
 " Come, I '11 bet you a new cap, that I mean to wear at 
 your wedding, you ivill let him know the state of your 
 feelings, and that before a week is over your head," pro- 
 vokingly replied Bridget. 
 
 Peggy said nothing. Prudent Peg. 
 
 " Is it a bet ?" - 
 
 " Yes, yes, anything ; but go to sleep, or we sha'n't get 
 a wink to-night." 
 
 " True for you, cousin, for it 's to-morrow already ! 
 Look at the daybreak, how it has frightened our candle, 
 until it 's almost as pale as your cheek." 
 
 " Good night, Bridget." 
 
 " Good night, dear Peg, don't forget to remember your 
 dreams. Recollect it 's morning now, and whatever we 
 dream is sure to come true" 
 
 Before she slept, Bridget formed a project to insure the 
 winning of her bet. 
 
 Very early in the day Mark Brady and ]N"ed called to 
 inquire after the health of their respective partners. It so 
 happened that Bridget received them ; and very quickly, 
 for she was one of those tyrants in love who make their 
 captives feel their chains, on one frivolous pretence or 
 another dismissed her swain, and began to develop her 
 plot with Mark. 
 
THE MORNING DREAM. 289 
 
 Now Mark, I may as well tell you now as at another 
 time, was a very favorable specimen of a class I regret to 
 say not over numerous in Ireland ; a well-to-do farmer, 
 his rent always ready, his crops carefully gathered, and a 
 trifle put by yearly, so that he enjoyed that most enviable 
 condition in life, "a modest competence." As to his per- 
 sonal appearance, there 's scarcely any occasion to describe 
 that. Suffice it to say, Mark was a man ! A volume of 
 eulogy could not say more. 
 
 Mark was apparently very busy, sketching imaginary 
 somethings on the floor with his blackthorn stick, and 
 seemingly unconscious of Bridget's presence, when she 
 suddenly interrupted his revery by saying, " A penny for 
 your thoughts, Mr. Brady ! " 
 
 " Eh ! what ! " he rej)lied, blushing till the blood stung 
 his cheek like a million of needles. "A penny is it, 
 miss ? Faith, an' it 's dear they 'd be at that same." 
 
 " And what might you be thinking of, may I ask, Mr. 
 Mark % " said Bridget, accompanying the question with one 
 of her very sweetest smiles. 
 
 " Just nothing at all, miss," replied Mark. 
 
 "^K'othingl' then they would be ^ dear,'' and that's 
 true, Mark ; but supposing, now," she continued, archly, 
 " I only say, supposing it happened to be your sweetheart 
 you were thinking of, you might find another meaning for 
 that same little word ! " 
 
 Mark felt as though he had been detected in a fault, 
 as he replied, sketching away on the floor faster than ever, 
 " But what if I had n't a sweetheart to think of. Miss 
 O'Connor % " It was a miserable attempt at prevarication, 
 and he felt that it was. 
 
 " Why, then, I should say, as you 're not blind, it 's 
 mighty lucky that you don't carry such a thing as a heart 
 
 19 
 
290 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 about you. I 'd be ashamed if I were you, rising twenty 
 years old, and neither crooked nor ugly ; it 's disgraceful 
 to hear you say so, — a pretty example to set to the boys ! " 
 
 " True for you, and so it is," said Mark, " and more 
 betoken, it 's a much greater shame for me to tell any lies 
 about the matter. I have a sweetheart, though she does n't 
 know it ; ay, and have had one for this nigh hand a twelve- 
 month." 
 
 " Only to think," replied Bridget, casting down her eyes, 
 and affecting to conceal some sudden emotion, " and for a 
 twelve-month nigh hand ! dear ! I don't feel well ! " 
 
 Mark was puzzled, in point of fact embarrassed. There 
 was something in Bridget's manner which he could n't 
 understand ; he had a vague presentiment that there was a 
 mistake somewhere, but when she, pretending to be over- 
 come, flung herseK into his arms, the truth burst upon him 
 at once. He was in a precious dilemma ; Bridget was in 
 love with him, and he felt downright ashamed of himself 
 for being so fascinating. What he was to do, or how to 
 extricate himself, he could n't tell, as she, casting a fas- 
 cinating glance at him, said softly, "Dear Mark, those 
 good-looking eyes of yours told me of your love, long, long 
 before your lazy tongue." 
 
 "Love," interrupted Mark, endeavoring to put in a 
 demurrer. 
 
 " To be sure," said she ; " I saw it, I knew it and well," 
 she continued, seeing he was about to speak. " When do 
 you mean to talk to Aunty % You know my fifty pounds 
 are in her hands." She was an heiress, was Bridget. 
 
 " Pounds ! Aunty ! yes, to be sure," replied Mark, per- 
 fectly bewildered ; " but I thought Ned Eiley was — " 
 
 " Peggy's sweetheart, — well, we all know that," inter- 
 rupted Bridget, inly enjoying the consternation that painted 
 
THE MORNING DREAM. 291 
 
 Mark's cheek a livid white. " And you to be so jealous of 
 Eiley," she went on, "not to dance with me last night; I 
 knew the reason, but the jealousy that springs from love 
 is soon forgot, so I forgot yours." 
 
 " Peggy ! his sweetheart 1 Eiley 's 1 " 
 
 "To be sure; don't you know they are going to be 
 married'?" 
 
 " JSTo ! " vacantly replied the sorely bewildered Mark. 
 
 " 0, yes ! and now I want to tell you a pet plan of 
 mine, if you don't think me too bold, Mark, and that is, 
 how nice and cosey it would be if we could only aU be 
 married on the same day." 
 
 This was too much for Mark ; he could n't endure it 
 any longer ; he started up, pushed his hat very far on his 
 head, saying, in what he intended to be a most severe tone, 
 " Miss O'Connor, I don't know what could have put such 
 an idea into your head. Marry indeed ! I 've enough to do 
 to take care of myself. No, I 'm sorry to wound your 
 feelings, but I shall never marry ! " 
 
 " 0, yes, you will," said Bridget, placing her arm in his, 
 which he disengaged, saying bitterly, " JSTever ! never ! " 
 
 " ]^onsense ; I '11 bet you will, and, if it was only to 
 humor me, Mark, on the very same day that Peggy is ! " 
 
 " Bridget, I did n't think I could hate a woman as I 'm 
 beginning to hate you." 
 
 "Better before marriage than after, Mr. Mark. Come, 
 I '11 bet you a new Sunday coat, against a calico gown, and 
 that 's long odds in your favor, that what I 've said will 
 come true." 
 
 " IS'onsense ! " 
 
 "Isitabetr' 
 
 " Pooh ! I 'U bet my life, against — " 
 
 "What it 's worth, Mr. Mark, — just nothing at all." 
 
292 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 " True for you, now, Bridget ; true for you," and Mark 
 suddenly quitted tlie house, in such real sorrow that it 
 touched for a moment even Bridget's heart; but only for a 
 moment. " Pshaw ! " thought she, " let him fret ; it will 
 do him good, and make the joy greater when he comes to 
 know the truth. A hunt would be nothing without hedges 
 and ditches." Proceeding to the window, she uttered an 
 exclamation of surprise. 
 
 " Ha ! as I live, here comes Peg herself. She must meet 
 Mark ; what fun ! He sees her and stops short ; what a 
 quandary he 's in ! She sees him ! How the little fool 
 blushes ! Now they meet. Mark does n't take her hand. 
 I wonder what he 's saying. ' It 's a fine day,' I suppose, 
 or something equally interesting. He passes on, and Peg 
 looks as scared as if she had seen a ghost." 
 
 A sudden thought at, this moment seemed to strike 
 Bridget ; she clapped her hands together, and laughed a 
 little, sharp laugh, saying, " I '11 do it, I will ; I '11 have a 
 bit of fun with Peg, too." So she pretended to be very busy 
 at her spinning-wheel as Peggy entered, and, hanging up 
 her cloak and bonnet, sat down without saying a word. 
 
 *' Ah, Peg ! " Bridget began, " is that you % Mark has 
 just been here." 
 
 " Indeed ? " replied Peggy, twisting up one pretty curl 
 so tightly as to hurt her head. 
 
 "The blessed truth," continued the wicked little tor- 
 mentor. " Did you meet him ? " 
 
 A very desponding " Yes " was the response. 
 
 "Well," demanded Bridget, anxiously, "did he say any- 
 thing, — I mean, anything particular ? " 
 
 "He only said the weather was pleasant, and then 
 passed on, without ever even shaking hands with me," 
 sadly replied Peggy. 
 
THE MORNING DREAM. 293 
 
 " Mark need n't have done that ; whatever happens, he 
 ought to be civil to yow," said Bridget, with a peculiar ex- 
 pression that made Peggy's heart flutter within her like a 
 pigeon. 
 
 "Civil to me! what do you mean, Bridget?" 
 
 Bridget hummed an air, and, as if suddenly wishing to 
 change the conversation, said, gayly, " 0, I forgot 1 we were 
 to tell each other's dreams this morning. Peg, you begin ; 
 what did you dream about "? " 
 
 " I^othing, Bridget, I did n't sleep." 
 
 " Then you could n't have dreamed," sagely responded 
 the other, " but I did." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I dreamed that I had a beautiful new gown given to 
 me, and by whom do you think ? 
 
 " I don't know ; Ned Eiley, maybe." 
 
 " INTed Eiley indeed ! " replied Bridget, with a sneer ; 
 " not a bit of it. By a finer man than ever stood in his 
 shoes. Who but Mark Brady ? " 
 
 Peg's heart sank within her. 
 
 " That was n't all I dreamed," and she fixed her wild 
 eyes full on Peg, in a way that made hers fall instantly. 
 " I dreamed that I was married to him." 
 
 " To Mark 1 " whispered Peggy. 
 
 ''To Mark I" 
 
 Peggy did n't utter another syllable, did n't even look 
 up, but sat motionless and pale, very pale. Bridget 
 could n't understand her seeming apathy ; a more acute 
 observer would have contrasted it with the intense emo- 
 tion which she felt within, — an emotion not a whit 
 lessened as Bridget continued, with marked expression, 
 *' I dreamed all that this blessed morning, and morning 
 dreams, you know, always come true.''^ 
 
294 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 Peggy, still silent, seemed to be wholly occupied in 
 demolishing, piece by piece, the remnant of a faded flower 
 which she had taken from her bosom, lingering over its 
 destruction as though a portion of her heart went with 
 each fragment, when Bridget suddenly started up, ex- 
 claiming, " Here comes Mark, I declare." 
 
 A painful spasm shot through Peggy's frame, yet she 
 did not stir from her seat ; the only evidence that she 
 heard Bridget's exclamation was that her lips grew as 
 pale as her cheek. 
 
 "But, law ! what am I thinking about 1 I must go and 
 tidy my hair." 
 
 And away flew Bridget up to her room, whence she 
 crept stealthily down, and snugly ensconced herself be- 
 hind the door, — naughty girl ! — to listen to what was 
 then said. 
 
 Mark, who, since his conversation with Bridget, had 
 seriously contemplated suicide, but was puzzled about the 
 best mode of making away with himself, had come to 
 the conclusion that to enter the army as a common soldier 
 would be the least criminal, although certainly the most 
 lingering process, and it was to lacerate his feelings by 
 a parting interview with his dearly loved Peg, before he 
 consummated the act of enlistment, that he now came. 
 
 Arrived at the door, he hesitated a moment, then, giving 
 one big gulp, lifted the latch and entered. There he 
 saw Peggy herself, looking straight into the fire, never 
 once turning aside or raising her eyes, proof positive to 
 Mark, if he wanted it, that she cared nothing for him. 
 He sat down, and for several minutes there was a dead 
 silence. Mark had fully intended to say something fright- 
 fully cutting to his sweetheart ; but as he gazed upon her 
 white, sad face, his resentment vanished, and he felt more 
 
THE MORNING DREAM. 295 
 
 inclined to implore than to condemn. He wanted to speak, 
 but what to say he had not the remotest idea. 
 
 At last Peg broke the silence, by murmuring softly, 
 as though it were but a thought to which she had given 
 involuntary expression, " May you be happy, Mark ! may 
 you be happy ! " 
 
 " Happy ! " echoed Mark, with a sharp emphasis, that 
 thrilled painfully through Peggy. "Faith, it's well for 
 you to be wishing me happiness." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed I do, Mark ! — I mean Mr. Brady," 
 meekly replied the poor girl. 
 
 " 0, that 's right ! " said Mark, bitterly. " Mr. Brady ! 
 It used to be Mark." 
 
 " But never can again." 
 
 " You 're right, — never ! " 
 
 " Never ! " and poor Peggy sighed deeply. 
 
 After another embarrassing pause, broken only by a sort 
 of smothered sound, which might have been the wind, but 
 was n't, Mark started up, exclaiming, " I see my company 
 is displeasing to you, but I sha'n't trouble you long. That 
 will be done to-morrow which will separate us forever." 
 
 " To-morrow ! So soon % " replied Peggy, with a stifled 
 sob. 
 
 *' Yes ! the sooner the better. What is it now to you % " 
 
 " 0, nothing, nothing ! But I thought — that is — I 'm 
 very, very foolish." 
 
 Poor Peggy's heart overflowed its bounds ; burying her 
 face in her hands, she burst into tears. 
 
 Mark did n't know what to make of it. " She must have 
 liked me a little," thought he, "or why this grief? Well, 
 it 's all my own fault. Why did n't I teU her of my love, 
 like a man, and not sneak about, afraid of the sound 
 of my own voice % I 've lost her, lost the only thing that 
 
296 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 made life to me worth enduring, and the sooner I relieve 
 her of my presence the hetter." 
 
 " Miss May ! Peggy ! " he said, with an effort at calm- 
 ness, " this is the last time we may meet on earth ; won't 
 you give me your hand at parting 1 " 
 
 Peggy stretched out both hands, exclaiming through 
 her tears, " Mark, Mark ! this is indeed cruel ! " 
 
 " It is, I know it is ! " said Mark, brushing away an 
 obtrusive tear. " So God bless you, and good angels 
 watch over you ; and if you ever cared for me — " 
 
 " If I ever cared for you ! Mark ! " 
 
 " Why ! did you 1 " inquired Mark. 
 
 " You were my only thought, my life, my happiness ! " 
 There was the same curious sound from the chamber- 
 door, but the innocent wind had again to bear the blame. 
 Peggy continued, "Mark, would that you had the same 
 feeling for me ! " 
 
 " I had, I had ! " frantically he replied. " And more, 
 0, much more than I have words to speak ! Why did n't 
 we know this sooner ? " 
 
 "Ah! why indeed*?" sadly replied Peggy; "but it is 
 too late." 
 
 ''Too late!" replied Mark, ''too late!'' 
 
 " Not a bit of it ! " exclaimed Bridget, bursting into' the 
 room, streaming with tears of suppressed laughter. " Don't 
 look so frightened, good people ; I 'm not a ghost. Who 
 lost a new cap 1 eh, Peg. And more betoken, who is 
 •likely to lose a new gown 1 I '11 have my bets, if I die 
 for it. So, you 've spoke out at last, have you ? You 're a 
 pretty pair of lovers. You 'd have gone on everlastingly, 
 sighing and fretting yourselves, if I had n't interfered." 
 
 " You ] " cried Peggy and Mark, simultaneously. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, it made me perfectly crazy to see the two 
 
THE MORNING DREAM. 297 
 
 of you groaning and fussing, without the courage to say 
 what your hearts dictated. There, go and kiss each other, 
 you pair of noodles." 
 
 It is hardly necessary to say that Bridget's explanation 
 brought about a pleasant understanding between all par- 
 ties, and it will be only needful to add that a few weeks 
 afterwards there was a double wedding in the little parish 
 chapel. One of the brides wore a brand-new calico gown 
 of such wonderful variety of color, and moreover a new 
 cap of so elaborate a style of decoration, that she was the 
 admiration, and of necessity the envy, of the entire female 
 poj)ulation. 
 
 Bridget had won both her wagers, thereby establishing, 
 just as infallibly as all such matters can be established, the 
 truth of the old saying, — 
 
 The dream of the morning is sure to come true. 
 
298 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 THE TEST OF BLOOD. 
 
 *' Thou Shalt do no murder." 
 
 « "TT'OU won't dance with me, Kathleen?" 
 
 X «:N'o, Luke, I will not." 
 
 " For what reason 1" 
 
 *'I don't choose it. Besides, I'm engaged to Mark 
 Dermot." 
 
 The above very slight conversation in itself was, to the 
 speakers, full of the greatest import. Kathleen Dwyer was 
 the pretty, spoiled village pet, with quite sufficient vanity 
 to know that the preference was deserved. Every young 
 man in the place was anxious to pay court to her, and, 
 sooth to say, she impartially dispensed her smiles to all, re- 
 serving, it must be admitted, her more serious thoughts for 
 one alone. That one was Luke Bryant, and, as he reaUy 
 loved her, the fiightiness of her conduct and her intermina- 
 ble flirtations gave him very great uneasiness. Often and 
 often would he reason with her, imploring her to dismiss 
 the crowd of purposeless suitors that ever fluttered round, 
 and select one, even though that selection would doom him 
 to misery. 
 
 " l!^o, no ! " the little madcap would say, with a bright 
 smile, " I cannot give up altogether the delight of having 
 so many male slaves in my train ; they are useful, and if 
 you don't like- it, you know your remedy." 
 
 " But do you think it is right 1 " he would say; " suppose 
 there may be some, even one, who loves you truly, to lead 
 him on by the false light of your encouraging smile, to 
 perish at last "? " 
 
THE TEST OF BLOOD. . 299 
 
 " Pshaw ! " she would answer, " men are not made of 
 such perishable stuff." 
 
 " Well, well, Kathleen, have a care ; if any one of your 
 numerous admirers feels towards you as I do, to lose you 
 would be the loss of everything." 
 
 As may be reasonably supposed, these conversations 
 usually ended in a little tiff, when the wild, good-hearted, 
 but giddy -headed girl would select some one from her sur- 
 rounding beaux to play off against Luke ; generally pitch- 
 ing upon the person most likely to touch his feelings to 
 the very quick ; herself, the while, I must do her the justice 
 to say, quite as miserable as her victim, if not more so. 
 
 Mark Dermot, or, as he was most generally denominated, 
 Black Mark, was one of those persons we sometimes meet 
 with in the world on whom prepossessing appearance and 
 great natural ability are bestowed, only to be put to the 
 basest possible uses. Character he had none, except of the 
 very worst kind ; his ostensible pursuit was smuggling, but 
 crimes of the darkest nature were freely whispered about 
 him, and yet, in spite of all this, his dashing, dare-devil 
 nature and indomitable impudence enabled him to show 
 himself in places where, although his evil reputation was 
 well known, he was tolerated, either from supineness, or, 
 more likely, from the fear of his enmity. 
 
 It is not to be wondered at, then, that, as Luke stood by 
 and saw this ruffian carry off his soul's beloved, his very 
 heart should quake with apprehension. He was unaware 
 until this moment that she ever knew him, and his feelings, 
 as ever and anon Mark would seem to whisper something 
 in Kathleen's ear, to which she would seem to smile an 
 approval, can only be imagined by those of my readers, if 
 any such there be, who have seen another feeding upon 
 smiles which they would fain monopolize. 
 
300 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 Jealousy of the most painful nature took possession of 
 Luke ; he had often experienced sensations of annoyance 
 before, but never to this extent. Her reputation was 
 compromised ; for he knew Black Mark to be the worst 
 description of man for a woman to come in contact with, 
 caring nothing for the ties of morality, or for the world's 
 opinion, — reckless, bad-hearted, and moreover uncom- 
 fortably handsome in the eyes of a lover. 
 
 The dance now over, Luke imagined that she would give 
 up her partner and join him ; but no, the silly girl seemed 
 proud of her conquest, and to take a sort of mad delight 
 in wounding Luke's feelings to the uttermost. She ap- 
 proached the spot where Luke with folded arms was stand- 
 ing, and, leaning familiarly upon the arm of Mark, said 
 laughingly, " Why don't you dance, Luke 1 Come, I '11 
 find a partner for you." , 
 
 Galled to the very quick, Luke answered, with asperity, 
 " Thank you, Miss Dwyer, you have found one for yourself, 
 and" — looking at Black Mark as a jealous lover only can 
 look — "you '11 pardon me, but I don't like the sample." 
 
 Mark regarded him with a scowl of the deepest malig- 
 nity, while Kathleen, the real feelings of her heart kept 
 down by coquetry, exclaimed with a laugh, '• Don't mind 
 him, Mark, he 's only jealous, poor fellow. Come, will 
 you not dance again 1 " 
 
 "Ay, and again, and for ever," impetuously replied 
 Mark. "Come." 
 
 And as they went to rejoin the dancers, Kathleen 
 caught the expression of Luke's features, and there saw 
 so much misery depicted that she would have given 
 worlds to have recalled her words. She yearned to im- 
 plore his forgiveness, but her insatiable appetite for admi- 
 ration restrained her. " JSTever mind," thought she, " when 
 
THE TEST OF BLOOD. 301 
 
 the dance is over, I can easily make it up with him," and 
 away she went, thinking no more about it. 
 
 At the conckision of the dance, her better feelings all 
 predominating, she quitted Mark and rushed over to the 
 place where Luke had been standing, but he was gone ; 
 with that unfeeling speech rankling in his heart, he had 
 departed. It was now her turn to be miserable ; not all 
 the soft speeches that were poured into her ear had power 
 to console her, but her annoyance was at its height when 
 Black Mark, presuming uj)on the encouragement which 
 she had given him, seated himself beside her, and in ardent 
 language declared himself her passionate lover. Poor, un- 
 thinking Kathleen ! she had evoked a spirit which she had 
 not power to quell. 
 
 It was more than a week after before Luke could bring 
 himself to venture near Kathleen ; but finding that each 
 succeeding day only made him still more wretched he 
 determined to know his fate at once, and with a sorely 
 troubled heart he neared her abode, lifted the latch, and 
 entered. The first sight that met his eyes was Mark and 
 Kathleen, sitting near to each other. The deep blush that 
 crimsoned her to the very throat evinced to Luke the 
 interesting nature of their conversation. She could not 
 speak, neither could he ; but, giving her one look which 
 sank into her very brain, he left the place. In vain she 
 called after him, he turned but once — a deep curse was on 
 his lips, but his noble heart refused to sanction it. " Fare- 
 well, beloved Kathleen," he cried, while bitter tears flowed 
 fast, "may the good God protect you now, for you will 
 need it." And Luke rapidly strode towards the village, 
 inly determining to go to sea on the morrow, and never 
 look upon her or his loved home again. 
 
 Meanwhile, Kathleen, apprehensive that he would do 
 
302 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 something desperate, implored Mark to follow and bring 
 him back. With a contemptuous sneer, he answered, 
 "Do you think I 'm a fool 1 No, no ! Kathleen, you 've 
 gone too far with me to retract now. The world sees and 
 knows our intimacy; the only barrier to our happiness 
 was your foolish lover, Luke. He has taken the sulks, and 
 gone away, — our road is now clear. I love you better 
 than a hundred such milksops as he could, so come, — say 
 the word ! " 
 
 " That word," replied Kathleen, firmly, " shall never be 
 said by me." 
 
 " Have a care, girl ! " fiercely retorted Mark, "I'm not a 
 man to be trifled with ; you have led me to believe that 
 you liked me, and you shall redeem the pledge your eyes 
 at least have given." 
 
 " Never ! Mark Dermot, never ! " exclaimed Kathleen, 
 rising from her seat. But "with a fierce gesture, and a de- 
 termined fire in his eye, Mark forced her down again, say- 
 ing, in a clear, but terribly earnest manner, "Kathleen, 
 from my youth up, I never allowed the slightest wish of 
 my soul to be thwarted ; think you that I shall submit to 
 be led or driven, coaxed near or sent adrift, at the caprice 
 of any living thing ? — No ! if you can't be mine from love, 
 you shall from fear ; for," ratifying his threat by a fearful 
 oath, " no obstacle shall exist between me and my desire." 
 
 " What mean you, Mark Dermot % " cried the terrified 
 girl. 
 
 " No matter," he replied, " the choice rests with you. 
 You cannot deny that your manner warranted me in so- 
 liciting your hand. Eemember, love and hate dwell very 
 near each other, — the same heart contains them both. Be 
 mine, and every wish of your soul shall be anticipated; 
 refuse me, and tremble at the consequences." 
 
THE TEST OF BLOOD. 303 
 
 " Heaven forgive and help me ! " inly prayed Kathleen, 
 as the result of her weak conduct now made itself so 
 awfully apparent. Thinking to enlist some good feeling 
 from Mark's generosity, she frankly acknowledged to him 
 that her affections were entirely bestowed upon the absent 
 Luke. 
 
 She knew not the demon heart in which she had trusted ; 
 instead of inclining him to mercy her words only inflamed 
 him into tenfold rage. 
 
 " Vile woman ! " he exclaimed, starting to his feet* 
 "Have you then been making a scoff and jest, a play- 
 thing and a tool, of me 1 Better for you had you raised a 
 fiend than tampered with me thus. How know I that you 
 do not lie, even now, woman-devil 1 One word for all ! — 
 by your eternal hope, who is it that you do love ] '' 
 
 " On my knees, Luke Bryant," fervently said Kathleen. 
 
 " Then woe to ye both ! " cried Mark, casting her rudely 
 from him, and, with a look of intense hate, rushing from 
 the cottage. 
 
 There was a perfect tempest of rage in Mark's breast, as 
 he quitted Kathleen ; plans of revenge, deadly and horri- 
 ble, suggested themselves to him, and he nursed the devilish 
 feeling within his heart until every humanizing thought 
 was swallowed up in the anticipation of a sweeping re- 
 venge. On reaching the village, his first care was to find 
 Luke ; upon seeing him, Luke started as though a serpent 
 stood in his path. 
 
 " Keep away from me, Mark Dermot," he sternly ex- 
 claimed. " If you are come to triumph in your success, 
 be careful, for there may be. danger in it." 
 
 " Luke," replied the other, in a sad tone, " we are rivals 
 no longer. I^ay, listen, I bring you good news j there are 
 not many who would have done this ; but what care I 
 
304 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 now ? The fact is, like a sensible man, I am come to pro- 
 claim my own failure. Kathleen has refused me." 
 
 "She has r' 
 
 " As true as I 'm alive ; rejected me for you, Luke. 
 I^ay, as good as told me that she merely flirted with me 
 to fix your chains the tighter. Cunning little devil, — 
 eh, Luke? Come, you'll shake hands with me now, I 
 know." 
 
 "If I could believe you, Mark," said Luke, the joy 
 dancing in his eyes. 
 
 "I tell you she acknowledged to me that she never 
 could love any one but you. Now am I not a gener- 
 ous rival, to carry his mistress's love to another? She 
 requested me to ask you to call this morning, if you 
 would have conclusive proof of her sincerity, and you 
 would then find that sh^ could never use you so again. 
 But now 't is getting late, and, as I have delivered my mes- 
 sage, I shall leave you to dream of Kathleen and happi- 
 ness. Good night ; be sure and see her in the morning." 
 So they parted. 
 
 Soon afterwards, Luke missed his clasp-knife with which 
 he had been eating his supper ; but, after a slight search, 
 thought no more of the matter, his soul glowing with 
 renewed delight at the thought of seeing his loved one on 
 the morrow, — that their differences would be made up, 
 and all again be sunshine. 
 
 About an hour after, as he was preparing to retire for 
 the night, it suddenly occurred to him that he would like 
 to take a walk towards Kathleen's cottage. Perchance he 
 might see her shadow on the curtain ; he might hear her 
 sweet voice ; no matter, to gaze upon the home that con- 
 tained her would at least be something ; so off he started 
 in that direction, a happy feeling pervading his every 
 
THE TEST OF BLOOD. 305 
 
 sense. Arrived within sight of her abode, he fancied he 
 heard a stifled groan, but his thoughts, steeped in joy, 
 dwelt not on it. In a moment after, a distinct and fearful 
 scream, as of one in agony, burst on the stillness of the 
 night. It came from the direction of Kathleen's cottage. 
 Inspired with a horrible fear, he ran wildly forward. An- 
 other, and another terrible scream followed ; there was no 
 longer doubt ; it was the voice of his Kathleen. With 
 mad desperation, he reached the place just in time to see 
 the figure of a man, who, in the doubtful light, he could 
 not recognize, rush from the door and disappear in dark- 
 ness. In breathless horror Luke entered. Great heaven ! 
 what a sight met his eyes. His beloved Kathleen lay on 
 the blood-dabbled floor, in the last agony of departing 
 nature, her beating heart pierced with many wounds ; she 
 saw and evidently recognized Luke, for, 'mid the desperate 
 throes of ebbing life, she clutched his hand in hers, try- 
 ing, but in vain, to speak. She could but smile ; her eyes 
 glazed, her hand relaxed its grasp, and with her gentle 
 head resting on his breast her spirit passed away. 
 
 All this was so sudden and fearfully unexpected to 
 Luke that he scarcely knew 'twas reality, until several 
 of the surrounding neighbors, who had been alarmed by 
 the outcry, came hastily in. 
 
 " See ! " cried one, " 't is as I thought ; murder has been 
 done." 
 
 "And here is the fatal instrument with which it has 
 been done," said another, as he picked up a gory knife 
 from the floor. It caught the eye of Luke. " That knife 
 is mine," said he, in the measured tone of one stricken 
 down by a terrible calamity. 
 
 " Yours r' they all exclaimed at once. " Then you have 
 murdered her V 
 
 20 
 
306 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 Luke only smiled, — a ghastly, soul-crushed smile, most 
 awful to look upon at such a time : his heart was too full 
 for words. Reason, which had been dethroned by this 
 unexpected blow, had scarcely yet returned to its seat, for 
 all unconsciously he still held the lifeless form tightly 
 clasped in his arms, gazing, with a sort of stony expres- 
 sion, upon the face of her who had been to him the 
 world. It was not until they approached to seize him for 
 killing her, that he seemed to be thoroughly aware of his 
 position. 
 
 "What would you do, friends'?" said he, mournfully, 
 as they endeavored to force him away. " Would you deny 
 me the sad comfort of dying in her presence % " 
 
 "Have you not murdered her, wretch?" cried one of 
 the bystanders. 
 
 " What ! murder her / God in heaven forbid," he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " Is this not your knife 1 " 
 "It is." 
 
 " And how came it here — if not used by you — in this 
 unknown manner ? " 
 
 " It was stolen from me by that arch-demon, Mark Der- 
 mot," said Luke, shaddering to the very heart, as he men- 
 tioned that name. 
 
 " That has got to be proved/' cried one of the crowd, 
 who happened to be a friend of Mark's; "we can't take 
 your bare word for it. Let him be secured." 
 
 But Luke needed no securing. Listlessly he suffered 
 them to pinion his arms ; and in the same room with the 
 precious casket which once contained his heart's treasure, 
 he passed the rest of the night, in a state of mental torture 
 utterly indescribable. 
 
 The morning after this awful occurrence a coroner's 
 
THE TEST OF BLOOD. 307 
 
 jury was summoned, and the identity of tlie knife having 
 been proved, added to his own admission, and the fact 
 of his having had a quarrel with her the day before being 
 testified to, every circumstance tended to fix the guilt 
 upon him ; a verdict was delivered accordingly, and Luke 
 Bryant stood charged with the murder of one for whom 
 he would willingly have shed his last drop of blood. 
 
 With a degree of effrontery consonant with his general 
 character. Black Mark made his appearance amongst the 
 spectators who attended the inquiry, and was loudest in 
 denunciation against the supposed criminal. It only re- 
 mained now for the accused, who had been removed during 
 the inquest, to be brought into the chamber of death, pre- 
 viously to the warrant being drawn out for his final com- 
 mittal, to be tried at the ensuing quarter sessions. He was 
 conducted into the room ; with a listless, apathetic gaze 
 he looked around him mechanically, for he cared not now 
 what fate might do to him, when suddenly his eyes rested 
 on Mark Dermot. The consciousness of everything that 
 had taken place seemed all to flash through his brain at 
 once. 
 
 " Murder ! " he cried. " Can it be that Heaven's light- 
 ning slumbers 1 Friends ! behold that fiend, who, not 
 content with the life's blood of one victim, now comes to 
 triumph in a double murder ! " 
 
 "What means the foolT' contemptuously exclaimed 
 Mark. " Does he suppose that reasoning men will credit 
 his ravings, or help him to shift his load of crime upon 
 another's shoulders 1 " 
 
 "As I'm a living man, as there is a just God who 
 knows the secrets of all hearts, there stands the murderer, 
 Mark Dermot ! " solemnly replied Luke. " It is not for 
 myself I care, for Heaven knows that I would rather die 
 
308 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 than bear about this load of misery ; but that he should 
 brave the angels with a shameless brow, he whose hands 
 are crimsoned with her precious blood, — it is too much ! 
 too much ! " 
 
 " Then, Luke Bryant," said the coroner, " you deny hav- 
 ing committed this crime ? " 
 
 " On my knees, before the throne of mercy, I do." 
 
 '' I trust, then, that you may cause a jury of your coun- 
 trymen to believe so ; but for me, I have only one duty to 
 perform, and the circumstances clearly bear me out in my 
 assumption. I must send you to trial ! " 
 
 At this juncture, one of the jurymen, who thought he 
 could perceive a meaning in Mark's peculiar, ill-concealed 
 glance of savage delight, begged to be heard. Keeping his 
 eye steadily fixed on Mark's face, he said, with solemnity, 
 "When the judgment of man is in perplexity as to the 
 author of crimes like these, the aid of Heaven may well be 
 solicited, that it might be mercifully pleased to give some 
 indication by which the innocent may be saved from suf- 
 fering for the guilty. We have an old tradition here, that 
 if the accused lays his right hand upon the breast of the 
 corpse, swearing upon the Holy Evangelists that he had no 
 act or part in the deed, speaking truly, no results will fol- 
 low ; but if he swears falsely, the dead itself will testify 
 against him ; for the closed wounds will reopen their 
 bloody mouths, and, to the confusion of the guilty one, the 
 stream of life will flow once more. It seems to me that 
 this is a case in which The Test of Blood might be applied, 
 not vainly." 
 
 "Willingly, most wilhngly, will I abide the test ! " ex- 
 claimed Luke. 
 
 " And you % " said the juror, with a penetrating glance 
 at Mark. 
 
THE TEST OF BLOOD. 309 
 
 " I ! " said the latter, witli an attempt at recklessness. 
 " What is it to me 1 Why should I be subject to such 
 mummery 1 who accuses me 1 " 
 
 " I do ! " thundered Luke, " and I now insist upon his 
 going through the trial. Myself will point the way." 
 
 So saying, he approached the lifeless body, and, sinking 
 on his knees, laid his right hand reverently on the heart, 
 saying, " My blessed angel ! if thy spirit lingers near, 
 thou knowest that this hand would rather let my life- 
 blood forth than offer thee the shadow of an injury ! " 
 
 They waited an instant, — all was quiet. Meantime, 
 Mark, persuading himself that it was but a form, and yet 
 trembling to the very core, advanced. All eyes were upon 
 him ; he paused, cast a glance around, and, grinding his 
 teeth savagely, cried out, " Why do you all fix your gaze 
 on me? I'm not afraid to do this piece of folly." He 
 advanced another step — again he hesitated ; heartless — 
 brutal — though he was, the spell of a mighty dread was 
 on his soul. His face grew livid ; the blood started from 
 his lips ; large round drops rolled down his ashy cheeks. 
 At last, with a tremendous effort, he knelt, and attempted 
 to stretch forth his hand, — it seemed glued to his side. 
 Starting to his feet again, he cried fiercely, " I will not 
 do it, — why should I '] " 
 
 " You can not ! — you dare not ! " said Luke. " If you 
 are guiltless, why should you fear 1 " 
 
 " Fear ! " screamed the other, " I fear neither man nor 
 devil, — dead nor living," — and suddenly he placed his 
 hand upon the breast of the dead ! 
 
 " See ! see ! " cried Luke, wildly, " the blood mounts 
 up, — it overflows ! " 
 
 " It 's a lie ! " madly exclaimed Mark. 
 
 But it was no lie; the ruddy stream welled upward 
 
310 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 througli those gaping wounds, and flowed once more down 
 her snowy breast, a murnmr of awe and surprise breaking 
 from the assembled group ; whilst, shivering to the very 
 heart, the terrors of discovered guilt and despair seized 
 upon Mark. 
 
 " Curse ye all ! " he roared. " You would juggle my 
 life away ; but you shall find I will not part with it 
 so readily." Hastily drawing a pistol, it was instantly 
 wrested from him. Several of the bystanders flung them- 
 selves upon him ; but the desperate resistance which he 
 made, added to the frightful internal agony which he had 
 just endured, caused him to break a blood-vessel ; and in 
 raving delirium the hardened sinner's soul wended to its 
 last account, in the presence of those whom, in his reckless 
 villany, he had expected to destroy. 
 
 Wonder succeeded wonder ; and the mystery was soon 
 discovered to be no mystery at all, but the natural instru- 
 ment in the hands of Providence to confound the guilty. 
 As, relapsing into his former listlessness, Luke was intently 
 gazing on the body of his beloved, suddenly his heart gave 
 one tremendous throb. 
 
 " Hush ! " he exclaimed, with anxious, trembling voice. 
 " For heaven's love, be silent for an instant ! I thought I 
 heard a sound like — Ha ! there it is again, — a gasp, — 
 a gentle sob, and scarcely audible, but distinct as thunder 
 within my soul. There 's warmth about her breast, — her 
 eyelids tremble. The God of mercy be thanked ! She 
 lives ! she lives ! " and Luke sank upon his knees ; a flood 
 of tears, the first he had shed, relieved his overcharged 
 feelings. 
 
 It was true, — she did live ; from loss of blood only had 
 she fainted, and the excessive weakness had thus far pro- 
 longed the insensibility ; none of the stabs had reached a 
 
THE TEST OF BLOOD. 311 
 
 vital part, and it was the first effort of nature to resume its 
 suspended functions wMcli had caused the blood once more 
 to circulate, just at the instant which so signally estab- 
 lished the guilt of the intended murderer. 
 
 It only remains for me to say that Mark Dermot's pre- 
 vious bad character prevented any regret being felt for 
 a fate so well deserved. In process of time Luke's de- 
 voted love was rewarded. Kathleen recovered from the 
 effects of her wounds, gave him her hand, and, profiting 
 by the terrible lesson which she had received, made an 
 estimable, virtuous, and affectionate wife. 
 
312 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 FATALITY. 
 A CONDENSED NOVEL. 
 NOT BY SIR E — B — L- 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 *' 0, the summer night 
 Has a smile of light, 
 And she sits on a sapphire throne." 
 
 Barry Cornwall, 
 "Words, words, words." — Shakespeare. 
 
 THE moon in tranquil brilliancy shed a soft, spiritual 
 light upon the picturesque and happy village of 
 Oakstown, which, like an innocent child steeped in guilt- 
 less slumber, reposed upon its grassy couch ; that small, 
 low, musical reverberation which fills the air in calm 
 summer nights, rising and falling on the ravished sense 
 like the undulations of some fairy minstrelsy, broke 
 sweetly the intensity of silence ; whilst ever and anon 
 the clear, sharp bay of the distant watch-dog came ring- 
 ing on the ear with startling emphasis. 
 
 It was midnight ; the last peal from the village clock 
 had from the ivy-covered tower tolled forth the death of 
 yesterday, while mocking echoes caught up the sound, and 
 to the hills repeated it in myriad voices, then died away and 
 left the scene again to silence ; soft, balmy slumber closed 
 the eyes of all, — all, save one pale watcher ; he, for 't was 
 a man, with anxious gaze peered through the doubtful 
 
FATALITY. 313 
 
 light, listening eagerly and with bated breath to every 
 passing sound. For one Avhole hour had this poor, pallid 
 listener, without speech or motion, stood within the half- 
 opened window of a mansion. You would have thought 
 him lifeless, or a statue, so little evidence of vitality did 
 he present, and yet a close observer might have seen by 
 the deep corrugations on that brow, by the strong compres- 
 sion of those lips, by the fixed, steadfast gaze with which 
 those eyes were bent in one direction, that something 
 uncommon had brought that midnight watcher to the 
 open casement, when all around was stillness. 
 
 But see, his ear has caught a distant sound, his eyes 
 dilate, he scarcely breathes, as his head is cautiously 
 stretched forth to catch its import ; a signal is heard, 
 almost imperceptible, but to the patient listener full of 
 certified assurance ; 't is returned ; a figure is seen slowly 
 nearing the window ; he reaches it, the recognition is 
 mutual ; in a low and all but voiceless whisper the now 
 smiling watcher murmurs in the stranger's ear, "Is that 
 you. Bill 1 " 
 
 A nod and squeeze of the hand was the reply. 
 
 "Damn your eyes, I thought you were never coming," 
 said our friend within. 
 
 " Hallo, Jim, none of that ere," replied the new-comer ; 
 " I had to establish a crack on my OMm account, and a 
 jolly good swag I got ; so no more palaver, — business is 
 business, — let us go to work, and stash all Jaw.'' 
 
 " Well, come on then. Have you got the barkers ? " 
 
 " To be sure I have ; you don't suppose I 'd try a knobby 
 crib like this without the persuaders. Do you think the 
 gallows old cove will run rusty 1 " inquired Bill, the house- 
 breaker, exhibiting an enormous pair of horse-pistols. 
 
 " He might," returned Jim, " so 't is best to be careful, — 
 if he stirs, shoot him, it 's your only security." 
 
314 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 " 0, never fear me," said the other, with a significant 
 grin. " I 'm blowed if I stand a chance of being lagged 
 or scragged if I can help it ; here," he continued, cocking 
 his pistols as he spoke, " here 's my best friend in an argu- 
 ment ; he does n't speak very often, but when he does he 
 generally has it all his own way ; so, now for it." 
 
 " Hold ! " interrupted Jim, *' there 's one thing I bargain 
 for before I admit you." 
 
 " What 's that % " growled the robber. 
 *' The vakiables are in the pantry, locked up ; the key 
 is in the housekeeper's pocket; should she wake and 
 resist — " 
 
 " The knife," savagely whispered Bill, " the knife is a 
 silent argufyer." 
 
 "Villain! murderer!" exclaimed the former, energeti- 
 cally seizing the ruffian by the arm, " not for your life. 
 Know, man of blood," continued he, dashing the tears 
 from his eyes, and trembling with suppressed agitation as 
 he spoke, " I love that woman ; do with the others as you 
 please, but as you are a man, I charge you to spare her 
 life." 
 
 There was a pause ; at length the housebreaker gave the 
 required assurance. 
 
 "Heaven, I thank thee," fervently ejaculated the other, 
 opening the casement. They entered. 
 
 holy and inscrutable j^ature, who dost in every 
 being plant the imperishable germ of affection, laud be to 
 thee ! even this guilty butler, who, leagued with highway- 
 men, betrays his trust and yields his master to the murder- 
 ous blade', has within his inmost heart, corrupted though 
 it be, one humanizing influence. Circumstance, thou 
 daughter of the sky, twin-born with Destiny, creation 
 hinges on thy unening fiat, the will must coincide with 
 
FATALITY. 315 
 
 thee, tlie act be regulated by tliy inclination ; thou 
 stretchest forth the hand of man, thou put'st his very 
 tongue in motion ; vice attends thy bidding, enveloping 
 the unrighteous with the attributes of ill ; while virtue at 
 thy summons speeds to earth, and in holy vesture clothes 
 the BEAUTIFUL and the good. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 " There 's no place like home." — J. H. Payne, 
 " He hath a lean and hungry look." — Shakespeare. 
 
 The village of Oakstown, bathed in the sunlight of a 
 summer morning, showed lovely as the home of everlasting 
 joy ; the merry woodland choir upraised their song of ■ 
 thankfulness ; the gladsome sun- ray danced on the wave- 
 lets of the tiny stream, and rained a flood of softened 
 warmth, like breath of seraphs, on the fresh-cut grass with 
 which the morning's labor had bestrewn the meadows, 
 scattering its sweetness on the breeze, and making the 
 morning air one sweet and grateful perfume ; the happy 
 villagers thronged the various avenues, seeking their re- 
 spective homes, for food, and rest from the first instalment 
 of the day's pleasant toil ; faces embrowned with ruddy 
 health, and all aglow, looked gladly forth upon the liberal 
 free air of — their sole inheritance ; poor serfs of custom, 
 hapless slaves of circumstance, did they but know their 
 misery, shut out from scientific knowledge, far from the 
 inspiring converse of the intellectual, and in melancholy 
 ignorance doomed to wear out life in factitious happiness 
 and unreal comfort ! 
 
316 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 The breakfast-room in Oakleigh Hall presented a beauti- 
 ful picture of that domestic elegance which characterizes the 
 family houses of England. Lord Elderberry, the heredi- 
 tary owner of some score of miles, of which he formed the 
 noble nucleus, reclined in his velvet chair, surrounded by 
 all those luxuries which custom has interwoven with the 
 wants of life until they have become necessary to the high 
 in station. He was a tall, graceful, aristocratic-looking 
 man ; his age was about fifty, but he was so carefully 
 made up that a transient observer would hardly suppose 
 him to be more than thirty. His fair and ample brow, 
 well chiselled though slightly exaggerated nose, small 
 hands, and arch-instepped feet, proclaiming at once the in- 
 heritor of noble blood ; his beautiful child, the sole sur- 
 viving daughter of his house, bearing also, in her every 
 turn, the unmistakable evidences of gentle birth, sat near 
 him ; they, with a taciturn governess, and one male friend 
 of his lordship, made up the party. It was unusually 
 late, yet breakfast was not yet served ; indeed the table 
 was but partly laid, and each began to wonder what 
 could possibly have caused the delay. His lordship was 
 slightly, but not perceptibly annoyed. To the careless 
 observer no change could be seen, but MacBrose, his 
 accommodating distant relation and humble servant, with 
 the experienced eye of a toady, caught the shadow of an 
 ungracious expression, and exerted his utmost to avert the 
 coming storm, ere its arrival should oblige him to seek 
 shelter in retirement. 
 
 " Eemarkable fair day, this, my lord," insinuated he in 
 his blandest manner. 
 
 " Very," dryly responded the Earl. 
 
 " Hem ! " said MacBrose, confidentially to himself " He 
 is vexed; that tone is sufiicient, — the deil take their 
 
FATALITY. 317 
 
 laziness," — for inasmuch as his annoyance proceeded from 
 the long protraction of the matutinal meal he supposed the 
 cloud upon his lordship's brow was produced by the same 
 cause. 
 
 The Earl sighed heavily, so heavily as to cause the Lady 
 Emily, his daughter, to raise her head from her usual morn- 
 ing's occupation, that of tending her favorite exotics, when, 
 perceiving the sadness which had mantled over her father's 
 face, she approached him affectionately, and, kissing him, 
 exclaimed, " Dearest papa, you are looking quite pale." 
 
 0, amidst the thorny path of life, its pangs, its priva- 
 tions, the pointed rocks, the perilous obstructions fate flings 
 before us as we whirl along the troublous tide of destiny, 
 how sweet a comforter art thou, filial love ! 
 
 His lordship smiled, but 't was as a transient sun-ray 
 on a tomb, showing for one bright instant the external 
 semblance of joy, while all within was dark and dismal; 
 and yet that insubstantial gleam sufficed to calm his 
 daughter's agitation ; and when the Earl kissed her peachy 
 cheek, and with paternal fondness soothed her apprehen- 
 sion, she cheerfully resumed her task, her happy young 
 heart pure and unsophisticated. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 THE APPARITION. 
 
 " Morte la bete, 
 Mort le venin." 
 
 ** Can I believe my eyes ? " — Anon, 
 
 More than an hour had passed, and yet no sign of 
 breakfast ; the intervening time having been spent by Mac- 
 
318 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 Brose in mentally delivering over every servant in the 
 house to the hottest place your memory can suggest, cast- 
 ing furtive glances ever and anon towards Lord Elder- 
 berry, and wondering from the inmost recesses of his 
 epigastrium what could possibly have caused this unusual 
 apathy. He was Hungry, — uncommonly Hungry. 
 
 At last the Earl broke silence, exclaiming, suddenly, 
 "Mac Brose"; after a slight pause, continuing, "What's 
 your opinion with regard to Apparitions % " 
 
 " Why, my lord, I — that is to say — upon my word — 
 appareetions — gudenQs,s me, the study of demonology is 
 one of 07iquestionable anteequity from the earliest stages of 
 the world up to the present time. Hestory is rife weth 
 illustrations. Poleebius maintains that — " 
 
 Lord Elderberry stayed him in his learned exordium 
 by saying with solemnity, "I saw one last night." 
 
 MacBrose forgot his very appetite in more absorbing cu- 
 riosity. The Lady Emily, arrested in the act of trimming a 
 lotus, caught her father's words, and timidly crept forward 
 to listen. 
 
 "You know, MacBrose," continued the Earl, his voice 
 rendered nearly inarticulate from agitation, — "you know 
 the details of my early life, — the mysterious loss of my 
 first-born, my only son, the heir to my name, the last of 
 this noble house." 
 
 "Alas ! unhappy destiny," sighed forth MacBrose, making 
 liberal use of his cambric, and inwardly exulting that dis- 
 tant relationship was lifted by the circumstance a thought 
 nearer to the broad lands of Oakleigh. 
 
 The Lady Emily tried to speak, but could not ; so, bury- 
 ing her face within her hands, she knelt on the footstool at 
 her father's feet, and nestled herself in his breast. " My 
 cMld," faltered he, " my own, my only child ! " and the 
 
FATALITY. 319 
 
 Earl, stem, cold as was his nature, wept. The grief of 
 father and daughter was sharp but silent. JSTot so that 
 of MacBrose ; he sobbed aloud ; and what 's more, felt 
 the fell acuteness of his sorrow, for he was hungry even to 
 anguish. 
 
 After a space, the Earl resumed his natural, calm dig- 
 nity, and continued : " 'T is now just fifteen years since 
 my boy was lost ; had he lived, he would have been of age 
 to-day ; after the three years which I employed in ceaseless 
 search, believing him dead, I endeavored, as you know, to 
 school myself, if possible, into Christian-like resignation." 
 
 " Sore blow ! sore blow ! good man ! excellent man ! " 
 sobbed MacBrose, seeing that there was a pause, and he 
 was expected to say something. 
 
 " Time, at length, the great softener of human suffering, 
 began to blunt the edge of my anguish ; and what was 
 at first a maddening thought, that ever stood up stark and 
 plain before me, sank into a settled melancholy. But as 
 this day comes round, the anniversary of his birth, the 
 greatness of my loss obtrudes itself upon my imagination 
 with renewed violence. Overpowered by such feelings, it 
 was very late last night ere I retired to my bed, and, with 
 my thoughts full of my lost one, fell at last, from very 
 weariness of limb, into an uneasy, broken slumber, from 
 which I was awakened by a sudden noise, and on looking 
 up, great heavens ! what was my astonishment upon be- 
 holding the apparition of my son ; not a sweet, smiling 
 boy, as when last I saw him, but with his manly form 
 developed, his mother's angel face changed into mascu- 
 line severity, just as it has been my pride to picture what 
 he might have grown to had he lived. Slowly he seemed 
 to near my couch, and then I saw that he was meanly 
 clad, and had a haggard, fearful look j a knife was in one 
 
320 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 hand, and the semblance of a miniature in the other. I 
 knew it at once : 't was similar to one in my possession, — 
 a likeness of his mother, set in brilliants. His attention 
 seemed to be directed alternately towards it and me. Fear 
 had hitherto fettered my tongue, and froze up the very 
 current of my blood. But in the faint hope of receiving 
 a reply, I determined to address the spectre. For that 
 purpose I raised myself gently, and had just ejaculated, 
 ' In the name of heaven,' when a flash of lightning seemed 
 to break from his very hand ; a loud clap of thunder 
 instantaneously followed, and the apparition vanished." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 *' Do I merit pangs like these, 
 
 That have cleft my heart in twain ? 
 Must I, to the very lees, 
 
 Drain thy bitter chalice, Pain ? " — Morris. 
 
 *' Eevenge is now the cud that I do chew." 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, 
 
 Scarcely had Lord Elderberry finished the relation 
 when a confused murmur was heard approaching the 
 apartment, and several voices exclaiming, " Bring him 
 along," " We 've caught him," " Villain, robber," etc., the 
 hubbub growing louder and louder, until Simkins, the 
 housekeeper, bounced into the breakfast-room. 
 
 " What 's the matter, Simkins 1 " sternly demanded the 
 Earl. 
 
 " Why, don't you know that you have been robbed, my 
 dear lord," she returned ; "but we 've caught 'em, — that 
 
FATALITY. 321 
 
 villain, James, to go for to have the impertinence to make 
 up to me, too ! the wickedness of the world ! " 
 
 " Robbed r' replied the Earl. 
 
 "Eobbed?" anxiously exclaimed MacBrose, for inas- 
 much as his posterity might, in a century or two, have an 
 interest in the property, it behooved him to be personally 
 concerned. 
 
 " And by that rascal, James, too ? " said the Earl ; " un- 
 grateful fellow ! " 
 
 " Horrible ruffian ! " said MacBrose. 
 
 " Unfortunate wretch ! '"' said the Lady Emily. 
 
 " Where is he 1 " demanded Lord Elderberry. 
 
 " They 're a bringing him, my lord," whimpered Sim- 
 kins, who, to the honor of womankind, be it said, lamented 
 more at the prospect of a poor fellow's being hanged, and 
 so lost to her and to respectability forever, than for the 
 imminent danger of his lordship's valuables. 
 
 At this moment, James, the delinquent butler, was 
 dragged in by several of the under servants, who showed 
 their loyalty for the Earl, and their detestation for crime, 
 by looking awfully indignant, and grasping James tightly 
 by the collar. 
 
 '* Eelease him," said the Earl, in a justice of the peace 
 tone. They did so, and the butler shook off his capturers, 
 and, folding his arms across his breast, scowled upon the 
 group. 
 
 "Well, sir," said the Earl, regarding the prisoner sternly, 
 " this is a pretty reward for all I have done for you." 
 
 " You are right. Earl," replied the fellow in a determined 
 voice, '' it is." 
 
 " What mean you ] " demanded his lordship. 
 
 " Patience, my lord ; you '11 soon know," replied the but- 
 ler, casting upon him a glance of concentrated malignity. 
 
 21 
 
322 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 " Come, come, fellow," interrupted MacBrose, who was 
 playing clerk, and noting down the proceedings, "consider 
 where you are, sir, — be respectful." 
 
 " Peace, fool ! " exclaimed the other savagely. " Mean, 
 crawling parasite, keep to your vocation ; cringe, and fawn, 
 and flatter, and eat your miserable meal in silence." 
 
 "I wish to the Lord I had it to eat," thought MacBrose, 
 for he was one of those humane, milk-blooded folks who 
 reverence themselves too much to take offence at anything. 
 
 " Now, sir, explain," demanded the EarJ. " How have I 
 injured you '? " 
 
 " How 1 " replied the fellow, with a flashing eye. 
 "How'? Ha! I '11 tell you how ; great lord, t/ou endowed 
 me with this load of misery, 7/ou delivered me up to the 
 tender mercy of a cruel fate. Lord — Father ! ^ou gave 
 me life." 
 
 The Earl gasped for breath, shuddering from his very 
 soul as the fellow continued, "Look upon this portrait, 
 most noble lord," tearing a humbly executed miniature 
 from his breast, and flinging it to his lordship. 
 
 " Great powers ! Maria ! " muttered the Earl, sinking 
 back into his chair. 
 
 " Ha ! " exclaimed the delinquent, " you recognize that 
 face'; you saw it when, in youth, health, innocence, and 
 beauty, it beamed like a ray of light ; but you saw it not 
 when vice, miser?/, and degradation had stamped the im- 
 press of a fiend on that angelic countenance; you saw her 
 when she lived the minion of your vicious passion, but you 
 did not see her die a hopeless death, raving in delirium. 
 I did ; and kneeling beside the corpse of her that was my 
 mother, I swore to be avenged upon her soul's destroyer, 
 — upon thee. Ay, writhe, writhe ! I 've more to tell thee 
 yet. Thy son — " 
 
FATALITY. 323 
 
 " Lives," almost shrieked the Earl. 
 
 " You shall hear," quietly returned the prisoner. " You 
 never even inquired whether there was such a thing in ex- 
 istence as I, so there was no fear of being recognized. I 
 soon obtained a situation in your household ; once there, 
 my first design was to seek your library, upbraid you with 
 your infamy, and shoot you where you sat. Several times 
 did I enter for that purpose, and invariably found you 
 fondling your son, — your only legitimate son, — the heir to 
 the house and honors of Oakland ; when the idea flashed 
 across my brain what glorious revenge it would be to make 
 that much-loved boy the instrument of retribution, to nur- 
 ture him in vice, to steep him in villany, to blot out every 
 attribute of good, to destroy him utterly in life and in 
 ETERNITY, — a son's soul for a mother's. I stole him, kept 
 him concealed for a time, clothed him in squalid rags, and 
 then found means to have him conveyed to the abodes of 
 guilt and wretchedness. Ha ! ha ! ha ! day by day, week 
 by week, year by year, while you incessantly deplored his 
 loss, I watched him in his progress through all the grades 
 of infamy; schooled in wickedness, tutored by robbers 
 and murderers, the heir of Oakleigh grew up a Jit inheritor 
 of his father's honor." 
 
 " Merciful heaven ! " ejaculated the Earl, as the sus- 
 picion flashed across his mind. "Was it he? was it my 
 son that — " 
 
 " That aimed the murderous weapon at his father's heart % 
 It was ! Ha ! ha ! it was," triumphantly exclaimed the 
 fellow. " I led him on to the commission of this crime. 
 I planned it, pointed out your room, hoping he would have 
 killed — no, not killed you; for I would have had you 
 hiow the hand that gave the death-wound." At this 
 moment the sound of footsteps was heard approaching. 
 
324 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 " l^ow," roared the rufl&an, " noble father, prepare to raeet 
 thy honorable son." 
 
 Several dependents entered, having in their custody the 
 man vfhom the reader will recognize as Bill, of the first 
 chapter. He gave a savage look at the butler, muttering 
 between his teeth, " So, you precious varmint, the whole of 
 this here vos a plant, they tell me." 
 
 "Listen," replied the butler, "listen, my lord, to the 
 classic eloquence of your son's language. Honorable Bill, 
 the housebreaker ! let me present you to your father. Ha, 
 ha ! ha ! " and the ruffian's face beamed with savage joy. 
 
 The Earl groaned, and covered his face with his hands, 
 in speechless agony. 
 
 "What 's all this nonsense ? " said Bill ; " w.y father 's far 
 enough away ; he 's bin transported this many a year." 
 
 "It's a lie," thundered the butler. "There, there, he 
 sits in that velvet chair, overflowing with paternal love. 
 Go J go, and receive his blessing before you are hanged.''^ 
 
 " Will anybody tell me what the fellow means '] " replied 
 Bill, looking round the group. 
 
 " Why, he asserts," said MacBrose, finding no one spoke, 
 "that you are the undoubted son of his lordship here, 
 whom he, from motives of revenge, stole in infancy, and 
 caused to be brought up in iniquity, hoping by such horrible 
 means to involve father and son in one common destruc- 
 tion." 
 
 "0, that's it, is if?" said Bill; "then he'd best have 
 not hollered so loud, damn him ; I 'm glad I can pay him 
 off for getting me into this scrape. I ain't no more your 
 son, my lord, than Oliver Crummies." 
 
 The Earl started from his chair, while the butler's face 
 grew livid with rage. 
 
 " Proceed," said his lordship ; " if there be but the thou- 
 
FATALITY. 325 
 
 sandth particle of a doubt, yon shall be saved, rewarded. 
 Go on, go on, in mercy." 
 
 " All I got to say," resumed Bill, " is, that everybody 
 knows who my father was ; but there used to be a poor 
 little natomy of a creature, that was sommat like me, among 
 us. "We called him Slender Jimmy. ISTobody knowed 
 where he corned from, or anything about him." 
 
 " And where is he % " said the Earl, with intense anxiety. 
 
 " Why, you see we could n't make him useful nohow ; 
 he had no taste for picking pockets, and all the whoppin' 
 in the world could n't drive it into him ; so we let him 
 alone until he got up to be a youth. We always knew 
 that there was something queer about him, he had such a 
 curious knack of reading books. Why, if you believe me, 
 I stole nigh hand a whole stall of thim, 'cause he liked 
 'em, and had n't the heart to prig for hisself. Well, at last 
 he guv us the slip entirely, and I did hear that he listed 
 and threw hisself away in the army." 
 
 " It must, it must be he. 0, heaven be thanked ! " fer- 
 vently cried the Earl. 
 
 Meantime, the butler, frenzied at the destruction of his 
 plans, suddenly drew a pistol from his breast, levelled it 
 full against the Earl's, and, exclaiming, " Damnation ! you 
 shall never behold him," pulled the trigger. There was a 
 loud report, followed by a scream of agony. The barrel 
 had burst, causing the ball to deviate, which lodged harm- 
 lessly in the wall, shattering the hand and arm of the 
 ruffian butler, while a fragment of steel pierced his fore- 
 head and sunk even to his brain. He raised himself with 
 difficulty, and, fixing his glazing eyes upon the Earl, 
 opened his mouth several times as if attempting to speak, 
 but in vain ; shaking his clenched fist, and regarding him 
 with a scowl of malevolence, his jaw dropped, and he fell 
 dead. 
 
326 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 ** A fair commencement, better far continuation, 
 And the winding up the fairest of the whole." 
 
 Knoioles. 
 " Ne quid nimis." — Latin Proverh. 
 
 But little more remains to be told. The Earl inserted a 
 cautiously worded advertisement in the various newspapers, 
 which very soon had the effect of discovering the indi- 
 vidual mentioned by Bill ; everything conspired to certify 
 his identity. It appeared that, after quitting the vile 
 society in which his boyhood was passed, he gained much 
 distinction, earning for himself the rank of ensign in the 
 regiment into which he had enlisted, so that, had he not 
 already a name, he would have ennobled one by his own 
 exertions. The interview between father and son was 
 most affecting ; and as the latter had passed scathless 
 through so vitiating a trial as the companionship of his 
 early years, it need not be said that he was in every way 
 worthy to shed lustre upon the high position to which he 
 found himself entitled. 
 
 The housebreaker was brought to trial, but, inasmuch as 
 this particular transaction was shown to be the contriving 
 of the dead butler, and no other was proved against him, 
 his punishment was limited to a short imprisonment, after 
 undergoing which, his lordship granted him a small farm on 
 his estate, provided that he sincerely promised to amend his 
 life. He did so, and, to his honor be it said, most rigidly 
 kept his word. Who shall say that he has a better hope 
 beyond this life than that reformed sinner 1 Doth not the 
 holy book declare, " There is joy in heaven over one 
 
 SINNER THAT REPENTETH " ? 
 
THE BLARNEY STONE. 327 
 
 THE BLAEXEY STOKE. 
 
 ** 0, did you ne'er hear of the Blarney, 
 'T is found near the banks of Killarney, 
 Believe it from me, no girl's heart is free, 
 Once she hears the sweet sound of the Blarney." 
 
 Lover. 
 
 " "T~ TELL you, Mike, agra ! it 's no manner o' use, for do 
 -L it I can't, an' that 's the long an' the short of it." 
 " Listen at him ; why, it is n't bashful that you are, eh, 
 I^ed, avic % " 
 
 " Eaix, an' I 'm afeard it is." 
 
 " Gog^s hleakey ! why, they '11 put you in the musayum 
 along wid the marmaids an' the rattlin' sneaks ; a bashful 
 Irishman ! why, a four-leaved shamrogue 'ud be a mutton- 
 chop to that, man alive." 
 
 " So they say ; but I 've the complaint anyway." 
 " Well, tear an aigers, I never heerd the likes ; it makes 
 me mighty unhappy, for if modesty gets a footin' among 
 us it '11 be the ruin of us altogether. I should n't wonder 
 but some of them retirin' cockneys has inoculated us with 
 the affection, as they thravelled through the country. 
 Well, an' tell us, how d' you feel whin you 're blushin', 
 I^edr' 
 
 " Arrah ! now don't be laughin' at me, Mike ; sure we 
 can't help our wakeness, — it 's only before her that the 
 heart of me melts away intirely." 
 
 " ISTever mind, avic ; shure it 's a good man's case any- 
 way ; an' so purty Nelly has put the comether over your 
 sinsibilities ? " 
 
328 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 " You may say that, Mike, aroon. The niver a bit of 
 sinse have I left, if it 's a thing that I iver happened to 
 have any ; an' now, Mike, widout jokin', is n't it mighty 
 qiiare that I can't get the cowardly tongue to wag a word 
 out o' my head when her eye is upon me. Did you iver 
 see Nelly's eye, Mike 1" 
 
 " Scores o' times." 
 
 ^* Maybe that is n't an eye 1 " 
 
 " Maybe there is n't a pair of thim, since you come to 
 thatr' 
 
 "The divil such wicked-lookin' innocitice iver peeped 
 out of the head of a Christian afore, to my thinkin'." 
 
 " It 's nothin' but right that you should think so, ]!!^ed." 
 
 " 0, Mike ! to me, the laugh that bames out of thim, . 
 whin she 's happy, is as good to a boy's feelin's as the soft- 
 est sun-ray that iver maqle the world smile; but whin 
 she 's sad — 0, murdher, murdher ! Mike — whin them 
 wathery dimonds fiutthers about her silky eyelashes, or 
 hangs upon her downy cheek, like jew upon a rose-lafe, 
 who the divil could endure it % Bedad, it 's as much as I 
 can do to stand up agin them merry glances j but when 
 her eye takes to the wather, be the powers of war, it 
 bothers the navigation of my heart out an' out." 
 
 " Thrue for you, Ned." 
 
 "An' thin her mouth! Did you iver obsarve Nelly's 
 mouth, Mike?" 
 
 " At a distance, Ned." 
 
 " Now, that 's what I call a rale mouth, Mike ; it does n't 
 look like some, only a place to ate with, but a soft-talkin', 
 sweet-lovin' mouth, wid the kisses growin' in clusthers 
 about it that nobody dare have the impudence to pluck off, 
 eh, Mike?" 
 
 " Howld your tongue, Ned." 
 
THE BLARNEY STONE. 329 
 
 " If I^elly's heart is n't the very bed of love, why thin 
 Cupid 's a jackass, that 's aU. An' thin her teeth ; did you 
 notice thim. teeth *? why, pearls is pavin'-stones to them ; 
 how they do flash about, as her beautiful round red lips 
 open to let out a voice that 's just for all the world like 
 talkin' honey, every word she says slippin' into a fellow's 
 soul, whether he likes it or not. 0, Mike, Mike, there 's 
 no use in talkin' : if she is n't an angel, why she ought to 
 be, that 's all." 
 
 " You 're mighty far gone, 'Ned, an' that 's a fact. It 's 
 wonderful what a janius a boy has for talkin' nonsense 
 when the soft emotions is stirrin' up his brains. Did you 
 ever spake to her ] " 
 
 " How the divil could I ? I was too busy listenin' ; an' 
 more betoken, between you an' me, the rale truth of the 
 matter is, I could n't do it. Whether it was bewitched I 
 was, or that my sinses got dhrounded wid drinkin' in her 
 charms, makin' a sort of a mouth of my eye, I don't know, 
 but every time I attempted to say somethin', my tongue, 
 bad luck to it, staggered about as if it was tipsy, an' the 
 divil a word would it say for itself, bad or good." 
 
 " WeU, now, only to think. Let me give you a word 
 of advice, Ned ; the next time you see her, take it aisy, 
 put a big stone upon your feelin's an' ax about the 
 weather ; you see you want to bowlt out all you have to 
 say at once, an' your throat is too little to let it through." 
 
 " Be the mortial, an' that 's a good advice, Mike, if I can 
 but folly it. This love is a mighty quare affection, ain't 
 itr' 
 
 " Thremendious. I had it oncet myself." 
 
 " How did you ketch it '? " 
 
 " I did n't ketch it at aU. I took it natural." 
 
 " And did you ever get cured, Mike ? Tell us." 
 
330 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 - "Complately." 
 " How 1 " 
 " I got married." 
 " 0, let us go to work ! " 
 
 From the foregoing characteristic conversation between 
 Mike Eiley and his friend 'Ned Flynn, it would appear 
 evident that the blind boy's shaft, 
 
 " Feathered with pleasure and tipped with pain," 
 
 was fast imbedded in the heart of the latter, or in plainer 
 and not less expressive phrase, he was bothered entirely 
 by Miss Nelly Malone. 
 
 During an interval of rest from mowing, the dialogue 
 took place ; that over, they resumed their labor ; the con- 
 valescent "married man", humming a sprightly air, which 
 kept time to the stroke of his scythe, while the poor 
 wounded deer, Ned, came in now and then with an accom- 
 paniment of strictly orthodox sighs. 
 
 It certainly was a most extensive smite on the part of 
 pretty I^ell ; and a nobler heart never beat under crimson 
 and gold than the honest, manly one which now throbbed 
 with the first ardor of a pure and unselfish passion. A 
 short time longer, and they rested again. Ned was sad 
 and silent ; and the never-forgotten respect which makes 
 suffering sacred in the eyes of an Irish peasant kept Mike 
 mute also. At last, Ned, with a half downcast, wholly 
 sheepish expression, said, the ghost of a smile creeping 
 over his features, " Mike, do you know what 1 " 
 
 "Whatr' said Mike. 
 
 " I 've writ a song about Nelly." 
 
 " No," rejoined his friend, with that ambiguous emphasis 
 which might as well mean yes. Adding, with dexterous 
 
THE BLARNEY STONE. 331 
 
 tact, " Is it a song ^ An' why the mischief should n't you ? 
 
 shure an' have n't you as illigant a heart to fish songs 
 
 out of as anybody else 1 Sing us it." 
 
 " I 'm afeard that you '11 laugh if I do, Mike." 
 
 " Is it me ? " replied Mike, so reproachfully that Ned 
 
 was completely softened. After the making-your-mind-up 
 
 minute or two, with a fine, clear voice, he sang : — 
 
 THE ROSE OF TRALEE. 
 
 All ye sportin' young heroes, wid hearts light an' free, 
 Take care how you come near the town of Tralee ; 
 For the witch of all witches that iver wove spell 
 In the town of Tralee at this moment does dwell. 
 0, then, don't venture near her, be warned by me, 
 For the divil all out is the Rose of Tralee. 
 
 She 's as soft an' as bright as a young summer morn, 
 
 Her breath 's like the breeze from the fresh blossomed thorn, 
 
 Her cheek has the sea-shell's pale, delicate hue. 
 
 And her lips are like rose-leaves just bathed in the dew : 
 
 So, then, don't venture near hcT, be warned by me, 
 
 For she's mighty desthructive, this Rose of Tralee. 
 
 0, her eyes of dark blue, they so heavenly are, 
 Like the night sky of summer, an' each holds a star ; 
 "Were her tongue mute as silence, man's life they 'd control, 
 But eyes an' tongue both are too much for one's soul. 
 Young men, stay at home, then, and leave her to me. 
 For I 'd die with dehght for the Rose of Tralee. 
 
 And now, after this toploftical illustration of the state of 
 Ned 's feelings, and inasmuch as they are about to resume 
 their labor, let us leave them to their mowing, and look- 
 after Miss Nelly Malone, for love of whom poor Ned had 
 tasted the Pierian spring. 
 
332 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 In a neat little chamber, bearing about it the unmis- 
 takable evidence of a tidy woman's care, sits the individual 
 herself, her little fingers busily employed in knitting a very 
 small stocking, — her own ; no trace of wealth is to be seen 
 in this humble abode, but of its more than equivalent, 
 comfort, it is redolent. At the open casement peep in 
 the blossoms of the honeysuckle and the sweet-pea, fill- 
 ing the air with a perfume more grateful than art could 
 ever obtain ; sundry artless prints, and here and there a 
 ballad on some heart-breaking subject, probably amongst 
 them the highwayman's autoballadography, wherein he 
 heroically observes, 
 
 *' I robbed Lord Mansfield, I do declare, 
 And Lady Somebody in Grosvenor Square," 
 
 are fastened to the walls, decorated with festoons of cut 
 paper of most dazzling variety or color ; a fine, plump, con- 
 tented lark, in an open cage, which he scorns to leave, 
 returns his mistress's caress with a wild, grateful song, 
 whilst, tutored into friendliness, a beautiful sleek puss, 
 whose furry coat glances like satin in the sun-ray, dozes 
 quietly upon the window-sill, indulging in that low purr 
 which is the sure indication of a happy cat. It is the 
 home of innocence and beauty, fitly tenanted. 
 
 And what are pretty J^elly's thoughts, I wonder ; a 
 shade of something, which may be anxiety or doubt, but 
 scarcely sorrow, softens the brightness of her lovely face. 
 She speaks, — 't will be no treason to listen. You will 
 perceive that the cat is her confidante, — a discreet one, 
 it must be confessed. 
 
 " It 's foolishness, so it is ; is n't it, puss ? " 
 
 Puss does n't condescend to notice the remark. 
 
 " l!^ow, Minny, is n't it, I ask you, is n't it folly, - the 
 worst of folly, to be thinkin' of one who does n't think of 
 
THE BLAENEY STONE. 333 
 
 me 1 I won't do it any more, that I won't. Heigh-ho ! 
 I wonder if he loves me. I somehow fancy he does, and 
 yet again if he did, why could n't he say so 1 there 's one 
 thing certain, and that is, I don't love him, that is to say, 
 I won't love him ; a pretty thing, indeed, to give my heart 
 to one who wouldn't give me his in return. That would 
 be a bad bargain, would n't it, puss ? " 
 
 Pussy acquiesced, for silence, they say, gives consent. 
 
 " But, 0," resumed J^elly, " if I thought he did love 
 me — there, now, I've dropped a stitch — what am I 
 thinkin' oil — I must n't give way to such foolishness. 
 Why, the bird is done singin', and Minny is lookin' angry 
 at me out of her big eyes. Don't be jealous, puss, you 
 shall always have your saucer of milk, whatever happens, 
 and — hark ! that 's his step, it is ! he 's comin' ! I wonder 
 how I look," and, running to her little glass, N'elly, with 
 very pardonable vanity, thought those features could not 
 well be improved, and — the most curious part of the 
 matter — she was right. 
 
 " He's a long time coming," thought she, as, stealing a 
 glance through the white window-curtain, she saw Ned 
 slowly approach the garden gate ; gladly would she have 
 flown to meet him, but maidenly modesty restrained her ; 
 now he hesitates a moment, takes a full gulp of breath, 
 and nears the house; at every approaching step, !N"elly's 
 pulse beat higher ; at last, she bethought herself it would 
 be more prudent to be employed ; so, hastily taking up her 
 work, which was twisted and ravelled into inextricable 
 confusion, with a seeming calm face she mechanically plied 
 her needles, her heart giving one little shiver as Ned 
 rapped a small, chicken-livered rap at the door. Nelly 
 opened it with a most disingenuous, "Ah, Ned! is that 
 you? who would have thought it ! Come in, do." 
 
334 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 The thermometer of l^elly's feelings was about fever 
 heat, yet she forced the index to remain at freezing point. 
 *' Take a chair, won't jou ^ " 
 
 And there sat those two beings whose hearts yearned for 
 each other, looking as frigid as a pair of icicles, gazing on 
 the wall, the floor, pussy, or the lark. Ned suddenly dis- 
 covered something that wanted a deal of attending to in 
 his hat-band; whilst JSTelly, at the same time, evinced 
 an extraordinary degree of affection for the cat. To 
 say the truth, they were both very far from comfortable 
 Ned had thoroughly made up his mind to speak this time, 
 if ruin followed, and had even gone so far as to have set- 
 tled upon his opening speech ; but Nelly's cold and in- 
 different " Take a chair " frightened every word out of his 
 head. It was essentially necessary that he should try to 
 recover himself, and he seemed to think that twisting his 
 hat into every possible form and tugging at the band were 
 the only possible means by which it could be accomplished. 
 Once more all was arranged, and he had just cleared his 
 throat to begin, when the rascally cat turned sharply round 
 and stared him straight in the face, and in all his life he 
 thought he never saw the countenance of a dumb creature 
 express such thorough contempt. 
 
 " It well becomes me," thought he, "to be demeanin' 
 myself before the cat," and away flew his thoughts again. 
 
 Of course all this was very perplexing to Nelly, who, in 
 the expectation of hearing something interesting, remained 
 patiently silent. There was another considerable pause ; at 
 last, remembering his friend Mike's advice, and, moreover, 
 cheered by a most encouraging smile from the rapidly 
 thawing Nell, Ned wound up his feelings for one desper- 
 ate effort, and bolted out, " Is n't it fine to-day, Miss 
 Malone?" 
 
THE BLARNEY STONE. 335 
 
 This broke the silence so suddenly that Nelly started 
 from her chair, the lark fluttered in the cage, and puss 
 made one jump bang into the garden. 
 
 Amazed and terrified by the results of his first essay, 
 fast to the roof of his mouth 'Ned's tongue stuck once 
 more, and, finding it of no earthly use trying to overcome 
 his embarrassment, — that the more he floundered about 
 the deeper he got into the mud, — he gathered himself up, 
 made one dash through the door, and was off like light- 
 ning. NeEy sighed as she resumed her knitting, and this 
 time she was sad in earnest. 
 
 " Well, what luck 1 " said Mike, as, nearly out of breath 
 from running, Ned rejoined him in the meadow. " Have 
 you broke the ice ? " 
 
 " Bedad, I have," said ISTed, " and more betoken, fell 
 into the wather through the hole." 
 
 " Why, would n't she Hsten to you 1 " 
 
 " Yes, fast enough, but I did n't give her a chance ; my 
 ould complaint came strong upon me. Ora ! what 's the 
 use in havin' a tongue at all, if it won't wag the words out 
 of a fellow's head. I 'm a purty specimen of an omadhaun; 
 there she sot, Mike, lookin' out of the corners of her eyes 
 at me, as much as to say spake out like a man, with a soft 
 smile runnin' about all over her face, and playing among 
 her beautiful dimples, like the merry moonbame dancin' 
 on the lake. 0, murther ! Mike, what the mischief am 
 I to do ? I can't live without her, an' I have n't the heart 
 to tell her so." 
 
 " Well, it is disgraceful," replied Mike, " to see a good- 
 lookin' man disparage his country by flinching from a purty 
 girl ; maybe it might do you good to go an' kiss the Blar- 
 ney Stone." 
 
 " That 's it," exclaimed Ned, joyously clapping his hands 
 
336 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 together, and cutting an instinctive caper, " that's it. I 
 wonder I niver thought of it before ; I '11 walk every stitch 
 of the way, though my legs should drop off before I got 
 half there. Do you think it 'ud do me good to kiss it 1 " 
 
 ''Divil a doubt of it, — sure it never was known to fail 
 yet," said Mike, oracularly. 
 
 " Why, then, may I niver ate a male's vittles, if there's 
 any vartue in the stone, if I don't have it out of it." And 
 that very night, so eager was Ned to get cured of his bash- 
 fulness, off he started for Killarney. It was a long and 
 tedious journey, but the thought of being able to speak to 
 Nelly when he returned sufficed to drive away fatigue j in 
 due time he reached the far-famed castle, 
 
 " On the top of whose wall, 
 But take care you don't fall, 
 There 's a stone that contains all the Blarney ! " 
 
 Mike climbed with caution, discovered the identical spot, 
 and, believing implicitly that his troubles were now at an 
 end, knelt, and, with a heart-whole prayer for his absent 
 Nelly, reverently kissed The Blarney Stone. 
 
 True, devoted love had lent him strength to overcome 
 the difficulties of access ; imagination, that powerful direc- 
 tor of circumstance, did the rest. It was with humility 
 and diffidence he had approached the object of his pilgrim- 
 age, but he descended from it with head erect and coun- 
 tenance elated; he could now tell his burning thoughts 
 in her ear ; he was a changed man. A very pretty girl, who 
 officiated as guide, and upon whose pouting lips, report 
 says, the efficacy of the charm has been frequently put to 
 the test, met him at the archway of the castle, — for no 
 other reason in the world than merely to try if he were 
 sufficiently imbued with the attractive principle. Ned 
 watched an opportunity, and, much more to his own aston- 
 
THE BLARNEY STONE. 337 
 
 ishment than to hers, gave her a hearty kiss, starting back 
 to watch the effect. She frowned not, she did not even 
 bhish. Ned was delighted ; his object was attained. 
 
 *' He could kiss who he plazed with his Blarney " ; con- 
 sequently, feeling supremely happy, without losing another 
 moment, he retraced his steps homeward. 
 
 Meantime, Nelly missed her silent swain, whose absence 
 tended materially to strengthen the feeling of affection 
 which she entertained for him. Day after day crept on, 
 yet he came not ; and each long hour of watching riveted 
 still more closely her heart's fetters. Now, for the first 
 time, she acknowledged to herself how essential he was to 
 her happiness, and, with a fervent prayer that the coming 
 morning might bring him to her side, she closed each day. 
 Her wonder at last at his continued absence quickened 
 into anxiety, and from anxiety into alarm. Jealousy, with- 
 out which there cannot be a perfect love, spread its dark 
 shadow o'er her soul, and she was wretched. In vain she 
 reasoned with herself; the sun of her existence seemed 
 suddenly to be withdrawn, and all was gloom ; even the 
 very bird, appearing to share his mistress's mood, drooped 
 his wings and was silent; so much are externals influenced 
 by the spirit of the hour, that even her cheerful room felt 
 comfortless and solitary. Nelly loved with a woman's love, 
 devotedly, intensely, wholly ; to lose him would be to her 
 the loss of all that rendered life worth living ; hers was an 
 affection deserving that which was given for it, although 
 as yet she knew it not. 
 
 Gazing out one day in the faint hope of seeing her be- 
 loved, her heart gave one sudden and tremendous bound. 
 She saw him ; he had returned at last. But how changed 
 in demeanor ! Can her eyes deceive her 1 No, her heart 
 tells her it is he, and it could not err. 
 
 22 
 
338 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 Instead of the downcast look and hesitating step, joy 
 laughed forth from his face, and his tread was easy, rollick- 
 ing, and careless; as he came nearer, she thought she 
 heard him sing ; he did sing ! what could it portend 1 
 Had he found one who knew how to break the shell of 
 reserve? 'T was torture to think so, and yet it was the 
 first image that presented itself to her anxious heart. It 
 was now her turn to be tongue-tied, dumb from agitation ; 
 she could not utter a syllable, but, trembling to the very 
 core, sat silently awaiting what she feared was to prove the 
 funeral knell of her departed happiness. 
 
 "With a merry song upon his lips, l!^ed lightly bounded 
 over the little paling, and in a minute more was in her 
 presence. Speak or move she could not, nor did his first 
 salutation place her more at ease. 
 
 " JS'elly," said he, " you drove me to it, but it 's done,, 
 it's done!" 
 
 "What's done? what can he mean?" thought l!Telly, 
 more agitated than ever. 
 
 " It 's all over now," he continued, " for I 've kissed it. 
 Don't you hear me, Nelly 1 I say I 've kissed it." 
 
 " In heaven's name," cried the pale, trembling girl, 
 " what do you mean 1 kissed who ? " 
 
 " No who at all," said Ned, laughingly, " but it, — I 've 
 kissed ^^." ^ 
 
 "Kissed what?" 
 
 " Why, the Blarney Stone, to be sure," screamed out 
 Ned, flinging his hat at pussy, and executing an extremely 
 complicated double-shuffle in the delight of the moment ; 
 indeed, conducting himself altogether in a manner which 
 would have jeopardized the sanity of any one but a love- 
 stricken Irishman. 
 
 " Shure it was all for you, Nelly, mavourneen, that I did 
 
THE BLARNEY STONE. 339 
 
 it ; it has loosened the strings of my tongue, and now I 
 can tell you how deeply your image is burnin' widin my 
 very heart of hearts, you bright-eyed, beautiful darling ! " 
 
 What more he said or did it will be unnecessary for me 
 to relate ; suffice it to say that the world-renowned talis- 
 man lost none of its efficacy on this particular occasion. 
 One observation of pretty Nell's, I think, is worthy of 
 record. At the close of a most uninteresting conversation, 
 to anybody but themselves, the affectionate girl whispered 
 to him, " Dear Ned, you need rCt have gone so far ! " 
 
 The course of true love sometimes does run smooth, a 
 great authority to the contrary nevertheless, for in about 
 three weeks' time the chapel bells rang merrily for the 
 wedding of Edward and Nelly. Ay, and what's more, 
 neither of them had ever cause to regret Ned's visit to 
 The Blakney Stone. 
 
340 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 NED GEEAGHTY. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 BEAYE old Ireland is the Land of Fairies, but of all 
 the various descriptions there is n't one to be com- 
 pared to the Leprechaun, in the regard of cunning and 
 'cuteness. Now if you don't know what a leprechaun is 
 I'll tell you. Why, then, — save us and keep us from 
 harm, for they are queer chaps to gosther about, — a lepre- 
 chaun is the fairies' shoemaker; and a mighty conceited 
 little fellow he is, I assure you, and very mischievous, ex- 
 cept where he might happen to take a liking. 
 
 But perhaps the best way to give you an idea of their 
 appearance and characteristics will be to tell you a bit of 
 a story about one. 
 
 Once upon a time, then, many years ago, before the 
 screech of the steam-engine had frightened the "good 
 people " out of their quiet nooks and corners, there lived a 
 roUicking, good-natured, rakish boy, called Ned Geraghty ; 
 his father was the only miller in the neighborhood for 
 miles around, and, being a prudent, saving kind of an old 
 hunks, was considered to be amazingly well off, and the 
 name of the town they lived in would knock all the 
 teeth out of the upper jaw of an Englishman to pro- 
 nounce : it was called Ballinaskerrybaughkilinashaghlin. 
 
 Well, the boy, as he grew up to man's estate, used to 
 worry the old miller nearly out of his seven senses, he was 
 such a devil-may-care good-for-nothing. Attend to any- 
 

 a E R A a H T y 
 
NED GERAGHTY. 341 
 
 thing that was said to him he would not, whether in the 
 way of learning or of business. He upset ink-bottle upon, 
 ink-bottle over his father's account-books, such as they 
 were ; and at the poor apology for a school, which the 
 bigotry of the reverend monopolizers of knowledge per- 
 mitted to exist in Ball , the town, he was always 
 
 famous for studying less and playing more than any boy - 
 of his age in the barony. 
 
 It is n't to be much wondered at, then, that when, in 
 the course of events, old Geraghty had the wheat of life 
 threshed out of him by the flail of unpitying Time, Master 
 Ned, his careless, reprobate son, was but little fitted to 
 take his position as the head-miller of the country. 
 
 But there is a luck that runs after and sticks close to 
 some people, whether they care for it or not, as if, like 
 love, it despiseth the too ardent seeker. 
 
 Did you ever take notice that two men may be fishing 
 together at the same spot, with the same sort of tackle and 
 the same sort of bait, and that one will get a basketful be- 
 fore the other gets a bite 1 That 's luckj — not that there 's 
 any certainty about it ; for the two anglers might change 
 places to-morrow. Ah ! it 's an uncomfortable, deceiving, 
 self-confidence-destroying, Jack-a-lantern sort of thing is 
 that same luck ; and yet how many people, especially our 
 countrymen, cram their hands into their pockets and fully 
 expect that the cheating devil will filter gold through 
 their fingers. 
 
 But, good people, listen to me, take a friend's advice, 
 don't trust her, and of this be assured, although a lump of 
 luck may now and then — and mighty rarely at that — 
 exhibit itself at your very foot, yet to find a good vein of 
 it you must dig laboriously, unceasingly. Indolent hu- 
 manity, to hide its own laziness, calls those htcki/ men 
 
342 BKOUGHAM'S SELECTED WKITINGS. 
 
 who, if you investigate the matter closely, you '11 find have 
 been simply industrious ones. 
 
 But to return to the particular luck which laid hold of 
 Ned Geraghty. Everybody thought that Ned the rover 
 would soon make ducks and drakes of the old man's 
 money ; that the mill might as well be shut up now, for 
 there was nobody to look after it. Ever}^ gossip, male and 
 female, in the town, had bis or her peculiar prognostic of 
 evil. Sage old men shook their heads, grave old matrons 
 shrugged their shoulders, while the unanimous opinion of 
 the marriageable part of the feminine community was that 
 nothing could possibly avert the coming fatality except a 
 careful wife. 
 
 Now candor compels the historian to say that the mill- 
 hoppers did not go as regularly as before, and moreover, 
 ' that Ned, being blessed , with a good personal exterior, 
 began to take infinite pains in its adornment. Finer 
 white cords and tops could not be sported by any squireen 
 in the parish ; his green coat was made of the best broad- 
 cloth ; an intensely bright red India handkerchief was tied 
 openly round his neck ; a real beaver hat covered his impu- 
 dent head ; and a heavy thong- whip was in his hand, for 
 he had just joined modestly in the Bally &c. &c. hunt. 
 
 This was the elegant apparition that astonished the 
 sober and sensible townfolk a very few months after the 
 decease of the miserly old miller, and of course all the 
 evil forebodings of the envious and malicious were in a 
 fair way to be speedily fulfilled, when my bold Ned met 
 with the piece of luck that changed the current of his 
 life, and gave the lie to those neighborly and charitable 
 prognostications. 
 
 It was one fine moonlight night that Ned was walk- 
 ing homeward b}^ a short cut across the fields, for his sorry 
 
NED GERAGHTY. 343 
 
 old piece of horse-flesh had broken down in that day's 
 hunt, and for many a weary mile he had been footing it 
 through bog and brier, until with fatigue and mortification 
 he felt both heart-sick and limb-weary, when all at once 
 his quick ear caught the sound of the smallest kind of 
 a voice, so low, and yet so musical, singing a very little 
 ditty to the accompaniment of tiny taps upon a diminutive 
 lapstone. l^ed's heart gave one great bound, his throat 
 swelled, and his hair stuck into his head like needles. 
 
 "May I never eat another day's vittles, if it ain't a 
 
 leprechaun," said he to himself, " and the little villain is 
 
 , so busy with his singing that he did n't hear me coming ; 
 
 if I could only ketch a-howlt of him, my fortune 's made." 
 
 With that he stole softly towards the place whence the 
 sounds proceeded, and, peeping slyly over a short clump 
 of blackthorn, there, sure enough, he saw a comical little . 
 figure, not more than an inch and a half high, dressed in an 
 old-fashioned suit of velvet, with a cocked hat on his head, 
 and a sword by his side, as grand as a prime minister, 
 hammering at a morsel of fairies' sole-leather, and singing 
 away like a cricket that had received a musical education. 
 
 " Now 's my chance," said Ned, as, quick as thought, he 
 dropped his hat right over the little vagabond. " Ha ! ha ! 
 you murtherin' schemer, I 've got you tight," he cried, as 
 he crushed his hat together, completely imprisoning the 
 leprechaun. 
 
 " Let me out, Ned Geraghty ; you see I know who you 
 are," squalled the little chap. 
 
 " The devil a toe," says Ned, and away he scampered 
 towards home with his prize, highly elated, for he knew 
 that the leprechauns were the guardians of all hidden 
 treasure, and he was determined not to suffer him to 
 escape until he had pointed out where he coidd discover a 
 pot of gold. 
 
344 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 When Ned reached home, the first thing he did was 
 to get a hammer and some nails, and, having placed his 
 hat upon the tahle, to fasten it securely by the brim, the 
 little fellow screeching and yelling hke mad. 
 
 " !N"ow, my boy, I 've got you safe and snug," says Ned, as 
 he sat down in his chair to have a parley with his prisoner. 
 " There 's no use in kicking up such a huUaballoo, — tell 
 me where I can find a treasure, and I '11 let you go." 
 
 "I won't, you swaggering blackguard, you stuck-up 
 lump of conceit, you good-for-nothing end of the devil's 
 bad bargain, I won't"; and then the angry little creature 
 let fly a shower of abuse that gave Ned an indifi'erent 
 opinion of fairy gentility. 
 
 " Well, just as you please," says he ; " it 's there you '11 
 stay till you do," and with that Ned makes himself a fine, 
 stiff tumbler of whiskey-punch, just to show his indepen- 
 dence. 
 
 " Ned," said the little schemer, when he smelt the odor 
 of the spirits, " but that 's potheen." 
 
 " It 's that same, it is," says Ned. 
 
 " Ah ! ye rebel ! ain't you ashamed of yourself to chate 
 the ganger 1 Murther alive ! how well it smells ! " chirps 
 the cunning rascal, snuffing like a kitten with a cold in 
 its head. 
 
 "It tastes better, ayi'c," says Ned, taking a long gulp, 
 and then smacking his lips like a postboy's whip. 
 
 " Arrah, don't be greiggin a poor devil that way," says 
 the leprechaun, " and me as dry as a lime-burner's wig." 
 
 " Will you tell me what I want to know then V 
 
 " I can't, really I can't," says the fairy, but with a 
 pleasanter tone of voice. 
 
 " He 's coming round," thought Ned to himself, and 
 as with a view of propitiating him still further, " Here 's 
 
NED GERAGHTY. 345 
 
 your health, old chap," says he, "and it's sorry I am to 
 be obliged to appear so conthrary, for may this choke me 
 alive if I wish you any harm in the world." 
 
 "I know you don't JN'ed, allana," says the other, as 
 sweet as possible ; " but there 's one thing I 'd like you to 
 do for me." 
 
 " And what might that be 1 " 
 
 "Jest give us the least taste in life of that ilegant 
 punch, for the steam of it 's gettin' under the crevices, an' 
 I declare to my gracious it 's fairly killing me with the 
 drouth." 
 
 " JSTabocklish," cries ISTed, "I'm not such a fool; how 
 am I to get it at you ] " 
 
 "Aisy enough; just stick a pin-hole in the hat, and 
 gi' me one of the hairs o' yer head for a straw." 
 
 " Bedad, I don't think that would waste much o' the 
 liquor," says JSTed, laughing at the contrivance ; " but if it 
 would do you any good, here goes." 
 
 So ]^ed did as the leprechaun desired, and the little 
 scoundrel began to suck away at the punch like an alder- 
 man, and, by the same token, the effect it had on him was 
 curious : at first he talked mighty sensibly, then he talked 
 mighty lively, then he sung all the songs he ever knew, 
 and some he never knew ; then he told a lot of stories as 
 old as Adam, and laughed like the mischief at them him- 
 self; then he made speeches, then he roared, then he cried, 
 and at last, after having indulged in 
 
 " "Willie brewed a peck o' malt," 
 
 down he fell on the table with a thump as though a small- 
 sized potato had fallen on the floor. 
 
 " 0, may I never see glory ! " roared Il^ed, in an explo- 
 sion of laughter, " if the little ruffian ain't as drunk as a 
 piper." 
 
346 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 " Ha ! 'Ned, Ned, yon unfeelin' reprobate an' bad Chris- 
 tian ; have yon no compassion at all at all 1 " sqneaked the 
 leprechann in drnnken bnt most miserable accents. 
 
 " Oh ! — oh ! — oh ! " the poor little creature groaned, 
 like a dying tadpole. 
 
 " What 's the matter," says Ned with real concern. " Is 
 there anything I can do for yon 1 " 
 
 " Air ! air ! " grunted the leprechaun. 
 
 " The fellow 's dead drunk," thought Ned, " so there '11 
 be no harm in lettin' him have a mouthful of fresh air " ; 
 so he ripped up two or three of the nails, when, with a 
 merry little laugh, the cunning vagabond slid through 
 his fingers, and disappeared like a curl of smoke out of a 
 pipe. 
 
 " Mushen then, may bad luck to you, for a deludin' dis- 
 ciple ; but you 've taken ,the conceit out o' me in beautiful 
 style," cried Ned, as he threw himself into his chair, laugh- 
 ing heartily, however, in spite of his disappointment, at 
 the clever way the little villain had effected his release. 
 
 " What a fool I was to be taken in by the dirty mounte- 
 bank." 
 
 " No, you are not," said the voice, just above his head. 
 
 Ned started with surprise and looked eagerly round. 
 
 " There 's no use in searching, my boy ; I Ve got my 
 liberty, and I'm now invisible," said the voice, "but 
 you 're lettin' me out was a proof that you had a good heart, 
 Ned, and I 'm bound to do you a good turn for it." 
 
 "Why, then, yer a jintleman ivery inch of ye, though 
 it 's only one an' a bit," cried Ned, jumping up with de- 
 light ; " what are you goin' to gi' me, — a treasure 1 " 
 
 '* No, better than that," said the voice. 
 
 "What then r' 
 
 " A warning." 
 
NED GERAGHTY. 347 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " What the mischief is the matter wid me, at all at all ? " 
 said Ned ; " sure, don't I know every foot of the ground 
 bechune this and the next place, wherever it is 1 but bad 
 luck attind the bit of me knows where I 'm stan'in' now. 
 Howsomever, I can't stand here all night, so here goes 
 for a bowld push, somewhere or another." 
 
 With that, my bold JSTed struck at random through the 
 fields in one direction, hoping to find some well-known 
 landmark which might satisfy him as to his whereabout, 
 but all in vain : the whole face of the country was changed ; 
 where he expected to meet with trees he encountered a 
 barren waste; where he expected to find some princely 
 habitation he met with nothing but rocks. He never was 
 so puzzled in his life. 
 
 In the midst of his perplexity, he sat down upon a 
 mound of earth, and, scratching his head, began seriously 
 to ponder upon his situation. 
 
 " I '11 take my Bible oath I was on my track before I 
 met with that devil of a leprechaun," said he, and then 
 the thought took possession of him that the deceitful fairy 
 had bewitched the road, so that he might wand.er away, and 
 perhaps lose himself amongst the wild and terrible bogs. 
 
 He was just giving way to an extremity of terror, when, 
 on raising his eyes, what was his astonishment to find 
 that the locality which, before he sat down, he could have 
 sworn was nothing but a strange and inhospitable waste, 
 was blooming like a garden ; and what 's more, he dis- 
 covered, upon rubbing his eyes, to make sure that he was 
 not deceived, it was his own garden ; his back rested against 
 the wall of his own house j nay, the very seat beneath him. 
 
348 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 instead of an earthy knoll, was the good, substantial form 
 that graced his little door-porch. 
 
 " Well," cries Ned, very much relieved at finding him- 
 self so suddenly at home, "if that don't beat the bees, 
 I 'm a heathen. May I never leave this spot alive if I 
 know how I got here no more nor the man in the moon : 
 here goes for an air o' the fire, anyway, for I 'm starved 
 intensely wid the cowld." 
 
 Upon that he started to go in, when he found that he 
 had made another mistake; it wasn't the house he was 
 close to, but the mill. 
 
 « Why, what a murtherin' fool I am this night ! sure 
 it 's the mill I 'm forninst and not the house," said he ; 
 " never mind, it 's lucky I am to be so near home, any- 
 way ; there it is, just across the paddock." So saying, he 
 proceeded towards the little stile which separated the small 
 field from the road, inly wondering, as he went along, 
 whether it was the leprechaun or the whiskey that had so 
 confused his proceedings. 
 
 " It 's mighty imprudent that I Ve been in my drinkin'," 
 thought he; "for if I had drunk a trifle less, the country 
 wouldn't be playin' such ingenious capers wid my eye- 
 sight, and if I had drunk a trifle more, I might a hunted 
 up a soft stone by way of a pillow, and made my bed in 
 the road." 
 
 Arrived at the stile, a phenomenon occurred, which 
 bothered him more and more : he could n't get across it, 
 notwithstanding the most strenuous exertion; when he 
 went to step over, the rail sprang up to his head, and 
 when, taking advantage of the opening, he tried to duck 
 under, he found it close to the ground. 
 
 The moon now popped behind a dense black cloud, and 
 sudden darkness fell upon the place, while at the same 
 
NED GERAGHTY. 349 
 
 moment the slow, rusty old village clock gave two or three 
 premonitory croaks, and then banged out the hour of mid- 
 night. 
 
 Twelve o'clock at night is to the superstitious the most 
 terror-fraught moment the fearful earth can shudder at, and 
 Ned was strongly imbued with the dread of ghostly things ; 
 at every bang of the deep-toned old chronicler, he quivered 
 to the very marrow of his bones ; his teeth chattered, and 
 his flesh rose up into little hillocks. 
 
 There he was, bound by some infernal power. The con- 
 trary stile baffled all his efforts to pass it ; the last rever- 
 beration of the cracked bell ceased with a fearful jar, like 
 the passing of a sinner's soul in agony, and to it succeeded 
 a silence yet more terrible. 
 
 *' Maybe its dyin' that I am," thought Ned ; and all that 
 was lovely and clinging in God's beautiful world rushed 
 across his mind at the instant. "If it is to be my fate to 
 leave it all, so full of life and hope, and yet so unmindful 
 of the great blessings I have unthankfuUy enjoyed. Heaven 
 pity me, indeed, for I 'm not fit to go." 
 
 At this moment his ear caught a most familiar sound, 
 that of the mill-hopper, so seldom heard lately, rising and 
 falling in regular succession. Surprised still more than 
 ever, he turned and beheld the old mill, brilliantly lighted 
 up ; streams of brightness poured out from every window, 
 door, and cranny, while the atmosphere resounded with 
 the peculiar busy hum which proceeds from an industri- 
 ously employed multitude. 
 
 Fear gave place to curiosity, and Ned stealthily crept 
 towards the mill opening and looked in ; the interior was 
 all ablaze with lights, while myriads of diminutive figures 
 were employed in the various occupations incidental to the 
 business. Ned looked on with wonder and admiration 
 
350 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 to see the celerity and precision with which everything 
 was done ; great as was the multitude employed, all was 
 order and regularity. Here, thousands of little atomies 
 pushed along sack after sack of corn; there, number- 
 less creatures ground and deposited the flour in marked 
 bags, while Ned recognized his old friend, the leprechaun, 
 poring over a large account-book, every now and then 
 reckoning up a vast amount of bank-bills and dazzling 
 gold pieces. 
 
 Ned's mouth fairly watered as he saw the shining metal, 
 and he heard the crisp creasing of the new bank-notes, 
 which took the little accountant ever so long to smooth 
 out, for each one would have made a blanket for him ; as 
 soon as the leprechaun had settled his book affairs to his 
 satisfaction, he, after the greatest amount of exertion, 
 assisted by a few hundred of his tiny associates, deposited 
 the money in a tin case, whereon Ned distinctly read his 
 own name. 
 
 While he was hesitating what course to adopt, whether 
 to try and capture the leprechaun again, or wait to see 
 what would occur, he felt himself pinched on the ear, 
 and on turning round, he perceived one of the fairy millers 
 standing on his shoulder, grinning impudently in his face. 
 
 *' How do you do, sir ? " says Ned, very respectfully, for 
 he knew the power of the little rascals too well to offend 
 them. 
 
 " The same to you, Ned Geraghty, the sporting miller," 
 says the fairy. " Have n't we done your work well 1 " 
 
 " Indeed, an' it 's that you have, sir," replied Ned. 
 " Much obleeged to you, I am, all round." 
 
 " Won't you go in and take your money 1 " says the fairy. 
 
 " Would it be intirely convenient 1 " said Ned, quietly, 
 although his heart leaped like a salmon. 
 
NED GERAGHTY. 351 
 
 " It *s yours, every rap, so in an' lay a-howld of it," said 
 the other, stretching up at his ear. 
 
 " They would n't be agin' me havin' it, inside, would 
 they ] " inquired Ned. 
 
 " The money that you have earned yourself, we can't 
 keep from you," said the fairy. 
 
 " That 's true enough, and sure, if I did n't exactly earn it 
 myself, it was earned in my mill, and that 's all the same " ; 
 and so, quieting his scruples by that consoling thought, 
 Ned put on a bold front, and walked in to take possession 
 of the tin case in which he had seen such an amount of 
 treasure deposited. There was not a sound as he entered, 
 — not a movement as he walked over to the case ; but as 
 he stooped down and found that he could no more lift that 
 box from the ground than he could have torn a tough old 
 oak up by the roots, there arose such a wild, musical, but 
 derisive laugh from the millions of fairy throats that Ned 
 sank down upon the coveted treasure, perplexed and 
 abashed; for one instant he held down his head with 
 shame, but, summoning up courage, he determined to know 
 the worst, when, as he raised his eyes, an appalling scene 
 was disclosed. 
 
 The fairies had vanished, and instead of the joyous multi- 
 tude flitting like motes in a sunbeam he beheld one gigan- 
 tic head which filled the entire space ; where the windows 
 had been, a pair of huge eyes winked and glowered upon 
 him ; the great beam became a vast nose, the joists twisted 
 themselves into horrible matted hair, while the two hop- 
 pers formed the enormous lips of a cavernous mouth. As 
 he looked spellbound upon those terrible features, the tre- 
 mendous lips opened, and a voice like the roar of a cataract 
 when you stop your ears and open them suddenly burst 
 from the aperture. The sound was deafening, yet Ned 
 distinguished every syllable. 
 
352 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 " Ain't you afraid to venture here ? " bellowed the voice. 
 
 " Eor what, your honor 1 " stammered out Ned, more 
 dead than alive. 
 
 " For weeks and weeks not a morsel has entered these 
 stony jaws, and whose fault is it 1 Yours ! " thundered the 
 awful shape ; " you have neglected us, let us starve, and rot 
 piecemeal ; but we will not suffer alone, — you, you must 
 share in our ruin." 
 
 At these words, a pair of long, joist-like arms thrust them- 
 selves forth, and, getting behind Ned, swept him into the 
 space between the enormous hoppers, — the ponderous jaws 
 opened wide, — in another instant, he would have been 
 crushed to atoms. But the instinct of self-preservation 
 caused him to spring forward, he knew not where. By a 
 fortunate chance he just happened to leap through the 
 door, alighting with great- force on his head ; for a long 
 time, how long he could not tell, he lay stunned by the 
 fall ; and indeed, while he was in a state of insensibility, 
 one of his neighbors carried him home, for he remembered 
 no more until he found himself in bed, with a bad bruise 
 outside of his head, and worse ache within. 
 
 As soon as he could collect his senses, the scenes of the 
 past night arose vividly to his mind. " It is the lepre- 
 chaun's warning," said he, " and it 's true he said it was 
 better far than gold, for now I see the error of my ways, 
 and, more betoken, it 's mend that I will, and a blessin' 
 upon my endayvors." 
 
 It is but fair to Ned to say that he became a different 
 man, gave up all his fine companions and evil courses, and 
 stuck diligently to his mill, so that in time he lived to 
 see well filled the very tin case that the leprechaun showed 
 him in the warning. 
 
THE FAIRIES' WARNING. 353 
 
 THE FAIEIES' WAENING. 
 
 A BROTH of a boy as ever stood in shoe-leather 
 was Mickey Maguire. At hurling, wrestling, kick- 
 ing football, or kicking up a shindy generally, there was n't 
 his equal in the barony. It would really do your heart 
 good to see him, with the fun glancing all over his face, 
 like sunbeams on the Shannon's water, " batin the flure," 
 at a fair or a " pathern," with some bright-eyed colleen ; 
 for there was no better foot at the jig in the country 
 round, and that the girls knew mighty well, for there 
 was n't one of them that would n't walk a long mile to 
 dance "Planxty Molly," or "The Ould Foxhunter," with 
 Sportin' Mickey Maguire. 
 
 Now you must know that our friend Mickey was the 
 proprietor of the only mill, such as it was, in the vicinity ; 
 consequently, at the early part of his life, the hopper was 
 continually going, and the result was a very comfortable 
 living for the thriving miller; but, as he increased in 
 years, instead of growing wise by experience, and hus- 
 banding his present resources, so that, in the event of 
 accident, ill-health, or misfortune of any kind, he might 
 have a trifle laid by to fall back upon, like too many of 
 his countrymen he lived from hand to mouth, spending 
 exactly what he had, be that much or little. To be sure, 
 a little always satisfied him when he had no more; but if 
 it were ever so large a sum, he invariably found a way 
 to get rid of it. It may readily be conceived, there- 
 fore, that Mickey was quite unprepared for a rainy day ; 
 
 23 
 
354 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 indeed, lie never suffered himseK to think of anything be- 
 yond the passing moment. If to-day were only provided 
 for, to-morrow might take care of itself. 
 
 By a singular continuance of equally balanced luck, 
 Mickey Maguire managed for a number of years to scram- 
 ble on tolerably well. The mill was his banker, and it 
 depended upon its yielding much or little as to whether he 
 had a " high ould time," or merely satisfied the few wants 
 to which he could circumscribe himself, if necessary. 
 
 Notwithstanding the carelessness of his general dispo- 
 sition, Mickey was a diligent worker in working hours. 
 'No one ever saw him lounging about in idleness when 
 labor was in demand ; and, moreover, he was possessed of 
 a true, honest, and benevolent heart : the latch of his door 
 was never lifted without a welcome ; rich or poor, it was 
 all the same to him. A bite and a sup, given with pride 
 to his equals, and with joy to the hungry wayfarer, was 
 ever to be had at his table ; a seat by his cheerful chim- 
 ney-corner, and a smoke of the pipe, and maybe a drop of 
 mountain dew, was always proffered to the weary traveller. 
 
 It was a thousand pities that to his many heaven-sent 
 virtues he did not add the worldly one of prudence. But 
 he did n't, and there 's an end of the matter ; nor was he 
 to blame for it either, although some self-satisfied, money- 
 scraping mortals, who, fortunately for their sons and suc- 
 cessors, happen to have that same grovelling virtue to a 
 vicious extent, elevate their eyes, shrug their shoulders, 
 and cry shame upon the open hand, and all the time the 
 would-be philosophers forget that they might as well find 
 fault with an individual for the shape of his nose or the 
 color of his hair as for the peculiarities of his temperament. 
 
 Well, it so happened that year after year Mickey's 
 affairs got worse, and, in the thick of his distress, what 
 
THE FAIRIES' WARNING. 355 
 
 does my bold miller do but take unto himself a wife, — as 
 he said himself, ''fqr to double his joy and halve his 
 sorrow, which was two to one in favor of some comfort, 
 according to the rule of three." 
 
 How it answered his expectations, it is unnecessary to 
 inquire ; suffice it to say that inasmuch as she brought 
 him nothing in the way of worldly gain saving a pair of 
 bright blue eyes and a stuff gown, his prospects were not 
 materially brightened by the alliance. 
 
 At last came the year of the bad harvest ; the crops all 
 failed, and the mill became quiet and desolate ; that put 
 the finishing stroke upon poor Mickey's perplexities, and, 
 for the first time in his life, he began to think that there 
 was such a thing as a future to provide for. 
 
 " Musha ! then it 's time for me to come to my senses," 
 said he, one day, as he took up his pipe after a most un- 
 satisfactory meal. " Many 's the fine night I spint as much 
 as ud last us a month now, and, more betoken, it's suppin' 
 sorra I am for that same, sure enough." 
 
 " Indeed, an' ye are, an' sarve you right, too," continued 
 his helpmate. " But it 's me that 's to be pitied, — me, that 
 niver had the good of it when it was goin', and now it 's 
 gone, it 's me that '11 have to cry salt tears for the want of 
 it. Ah ! if you had only put by ever so little of the money 
 that you wasted in rollickin' about, an' threatin' thim that 
 gives you the cowld showldher now, you might snap yer 
 fingers at the harvest ; an' more betoken, I would n't be 
 shamin' yer name by wearin' the same gownd at market 
 an' at mass." 
 
 "Arra be aisy," said Mickey, " where 's the use in tellin' 
 me what I know mighty well already 1 I 've been a fool, 
 as many 's the one has been afore me; but I 've had my jig, 
 an' now the piper 's to be paid, out of my bones, if not out 
 of my pocket." 
 
356 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 Well, to make a long story short, Mickey went down 
 the hill in a hurry, as easy-tempered people generally do 
 when the light of good fortune does n't show them their 
 way. Puzzled, confused, and blinded, in the thick dark- 
 ness of distress, he made a few ineffectual struggles towards 
 an upward movement, only to plunge deeper into the mire 
 of disappointment; so that, tired at last of endeavoring 
 to breast the current of misfortune, he made no exer- 
 tion to sustain himself, but allowed it to float him where 
 it chose. And it is not to be wondered at that amidst 
 the noisy, reckless revelry of the village whiskey-shop 
 was his general anchorage, and, indeed, misfortune's most 
 dangerous flood-tide could not have carried him into a 
 worse haven ; for when the prospects grew brighter, and 
 plenteous harvests again smiled upon the land, the habits 
 which he had acquired in his despondency rendered labor 
 distasteful, and the old mill, once more in brisk demand, 
 was deserted for the tippling-house. 
 
 Meantime, although the grain was brought as plenti- 
 fully as ever, the business of the mill was scarcely suffi- 
 cient to pay the weekly score chalked up against himself 
 and his gay companions ; for again they gathered round 
 him, laughing outrageously at his maudlin jests, and 
 pounding the tables at his drunken songs. The labor at 
 the mill was neglected, for without the eye of the master 
 work is badly done ; his home was home no longer ; his 
 wife's once beloved voice grew cold and tame to his ears 
 compared with the wild hurrahs of his alehouse friends. 
 
 Matters had nearly arrived at a desperate state when 
 one summer evening Mickey was making triangular sur- 
 veys of the road as usual, his locomotion having been 
 rendered extremely uncertain by copious libations of 
 whiskey-punch, and happened to strike his foot against 
 
THE FAIRIES' WARNING. 357 
 
 something hard. Stopping in the midst of a fragmentary 
 song, he stooped, and found it was a horseshoe. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " shouted Mickey, at the top of his voice, 
 " luck 's come at last ; an', indeed, not before it 's wanted." 
 Por be it understood that, amongst the Irish peasantry, 
 the finding of so commonplace a thing as a horseshoe, 
 under such circumstances, is considered to be the precur- 
 sor of the most illimitable good fortune; and so it was 
 with Mickey Maguire, although not exactly in the way he 
 anticipated. 
 
 " Aha ! " he shouted, in glee ; " won't this fill the ould 
 woman's heart with joyl" for with the certainty of ap- 
 proaching good luck came back all his warmth of feeling 
 for his wife; it was but the pressure of calamity that 
 deadened it for a while. " The blessed heaven be praised 
 for this," cried he, as with the earnestness of a hearted 
 belief he knelt and offered up a prayer of thankfulness 
 for the precious gift which he felt assured would be the 
 instrument of his delivery from distress. 
 
 Eising up, thoroughly subdued by the grateful feeling 
 that pervaded every sense, he dashed the tears from 
 his eyes, exclaiming, " I '11 be a man again now, wid a 
 blessin'." Then another mood came over him, and he 
 kissed and hugged the horseshoe, capering about and mak- 
 ing the echoes ring with his voluble delight. 
 
 Many were the castles in the air poor Mickey built 
 before he reached home, and, amongst other notable in- 
 tentions, I regret to say that almost his first resolve was 
 to give such a jollification to the whole country round, 
 that the whiskey should flow like pump-water, until every 
 soul at the feast was as drunk as a lord. 
 
 He had scarcely made that last resolution when he 
 reached his door, at which, according to his own account 
 
358 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 of what then occurred, he was just about to knock, when 
 he felt a slight tug at the tails of his great coat, which 
 made him hold back for a second. Thinking, however, 
 that it was only his fancy, he lifted his hand again to 
 knock at the door, when a little stronger pull at his coat- 
 tail convinced him that there was something mysterious 
 in it. The most intense fear took possession of him, as 
 he tremblingly cried, " May the blessed saints above stand 
 betune me and all harum ! I do believe the good people 
 is upon me." 
 
 He had scarcely said this when a clear, shrill, distinct, 
 although infinitely small laugh, ascended from the tufts of 
 grass at his feet, simultaneously with which his heels were 
 tripped up, and with another tug at his coat down he 
 tumbled upon a little mound of "fairy clover," his head 
 striking against a soft stone. 
 
 The blow stujmed him for an instant ; but when he 
 opened his eyes again, what was his astonishment to see 
 the whole extent of ground in his neighborhood perfectly 
 alive with diminutive creatures in human form, with hun- 
 dreds upon hundreds of tiny voices chirping out, 
 
 *' Aha ! Mickey Maguire, 
 Luck you '11 have to your heart's desire." 
 
 " Musha thin, may long life to yees for that same, and 
 may yees niver want divarshin yerselves," said Mickey, 
 taking off his hat and making a low bow to the fairies. 
 
 At that instant his attention was directed more especially 
 to three frolicsome elves, who were carrying, kicking, and 
 pushing along what appeared to him to be three very 
 small apples, which were at length deposited immediately 
 before him, when the whole multitude formed a circle 
 round, and pointed to the diminutive fruit. 
 
 " What 's them for, might I ask 1 " inquired Mickey. 
 
THE FAIRIES' WARNING. 359 
 
 Wliereiipon a number of the fairies took up one of the 
 apples, and, presenting it to Mickey, they all shouted, — 
 
 *^ Eat this pix>pin, Mickey asthore. 
 And see what you have seen hefore I " 
 
 Without hesitation Mickey swallowed the little apple 
 at a mouthful, when, lo ! in an instant the house and hill 
 vanished, and in its place appeared the old mill, as it was 
 ten years before. The sound of perpetual industry echoed 
 around, and soon he saw the semblance of himself, but 
 without the careworn traces which the Hi-spent interven- 
 ing time had marked upon his features. The ruddy hue 
 of health was on his cheek, and content beamed from his 
 bright eye. A deep regret smote at Mickey's heart as he 
 closed his eyes upon the happy scene. 
 
 " Take it away from my sight," he cried, " it 's too late ! 
 too late ! for the wasted time once back again ! " 
 
 The voices of the fairies recalled him, as they sung, — 
 
 " The other f Mickey, eat, and see 
 What now is, hut what n£er should he.** 
 
 Mickey did what he was told, but with a sad heart and 
 increasing apprehension. No sooner had he swallowed the 
 second apple, than the mill disappeared, the busy hum of 
 contented labor was hushed ; he found himself within the 
 house, and loud sobs of grief fell upon his ear. He looked 
 around and beheld his wife; she was on her knees, her 
 head buried in her hands, weeping. Presently a drunken 
 uproar was heard, the door was suddenly burst open, and 
 he saw himself when all manhood was obliterated and 
 nothing but the beast remained. He saw himself in that 
 brutal and degraded condition men would blush into their 
 very hearts to behold themselves reduced to, did even one 
 sense alone remain, — the sense of sight. 
 
 " Horrible ! horrible ! " groaned Mickey, as he shut out 
 
360 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 tlie fearful apparition with, his clenched hands. " for 
 the unvitiated mind of other days 1 but it is too late, too 
 late ! " 
 
 Again the fairy voices shouted, — 
 
 "^at, and see now, with the last, 
 The ficture p^crchased by the past." 
 
 Infinite terror took hold of him, and it was some time 
 before he could summon up courage sufficient to swallow 
 the apple, so conscious was he of the recompense which his 
 hitherto wasted life deserved. At last, with a sullen 
 determination to know the worst, he gulped it down 
 desperately. The house vanished, and he saw nothing 
 but a black, impenetrable cloud. Striving to pierce 
 through the- darkness, at last he distinguished a point of 
 light, which spread and spread until it made a large, 
 luminous circle, within which he could distinguish two 
 forms. On looking closer, he saw that it was his wife and 
 himself, but grown very, vc^y old. There were also joyous 
 children, whom he knew not, making up the happy group. 
 The man was reading from the household book, while a 
 warm, glowing sunset illumined the beautiful picture. • 
 
 He could have gazed forever upon that calm, glorious 
 scene, but that the tears coursed down his cheeks so abun- 
 dantly as almost to take away his sight. Suddenly, close 
 by that lovely group, another picture started into view in 
 terrible contrast. It presented the aspect of a bleak, 
 desolate, and dismal heath. Through the dull, misty 
 atmosphere he gazed, and in a few minutes discovered two 
 wretched grave-mounds, the absence of all Christian me- 
 morial indicating that they had been hastily thrown up, 
 and in unconsecrated ground. The strong man shuddered 
 to the heart's core, as in burning letters his own name 
 appeared on the miserable wooden grave-mark. 
 
THE FAIRIES' WARNING. 361 
 
 In dreadful agony he uttered a wild cry, and fell insen- 
 sible. When he came to himself he found that he was 
 in his own bed, and his wife beside him, stanching, as 
 well as she could, a severe cut in his head. 
 
 'Not a word did Mickey say that whole night about his 
 adventure with the "good people." But the next morn- 
 ing, although suffering considerably from his last evening's 
 accident, he made a clean breast of it, and told his wife 
 everything, together with his determination to take warn- 
 ing by the lessons the fairies had given him, — a determi- 
 nation, I am glad to record, that he kept to the uttermost ; 
 for from that time forward there was not a soberer or more 
 domestic and industrious man in the whole country round 
 than Mickey Maguire, the miller. 
 
 Great was the delight he took, in after years, when 
 seated in the chimney-corner, surrounded by a friendly 
 circle of bouncing little Maguires, and listened to by such 
 of the neighbors as might drop in to tea with the rich 
 miller, to relate the incidents which caused his reforma- 
 tion, and which he believed as implicitly as holy writ, 
 although Mrs. Maguire would now and then try his 
 temper by declaring that it was very strange indeed, for 
 she was at the window all the time, and he was n't down 
 a minute before she had him lying in bed with a wet 
 towel on his forehead. 
 
362 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 O'DEAEMID'S EIDE. 
 
 Oj^CE upon a time, a mighty long while ago, when 
 Ireland's green fields and pleasant valleys belonged 
 to those who had a natural right to them, — before her 
 Saxon neighbors overspread the beautiful land, despoiling 
 the rightful possessors of the soil, heaping mountain loads 
 of oppression upon the poor inhabitants, and then derid- 
 ing them because they could not stand as straight as they 
 did formerly, — there happened to live in the town of 
 Clonmakilty a well-to-do, industrious, and kindly-hearted 
 weaver, whose name was.Connach O'Dearmid. 
 
 There was then no country but Ireland which could 
 produce such splendid fabrics of every description, from 
 the heavily woven cloth of gold down to the exquisite 
 linen whose texture was so fine that yards upon yards of 
 it could be drawn through a wedding ring; and amongst 
 all the looms in the land, none turned out the equal 
 of Connach O'Dearmid's, — and mind you, the weaver 
 then was not the hunger-wasted, gaunt, phantom sort of 
 death-in-life object one may now see occasionally peering 
 from a miserable aperture called a window, in the very 
 centre of Ireland's once proud capital. ISTo indeed ! He 
 had his servants and his grooms, and a retinue like a 
 nobleman. 
 
 And if the kings and warriors had their bards to chroni- 
 cle their high achievements, and inspired minstrels to sing 
 them, so had the handicraftsman his, to hymn the still 
 prouder deeds of holy labor. 
 
O'DEARMID'S RIDE. 363 
 
 A fine, high-spirited, happy, and contented people were 
 they then, until the insatiable and cunning English close 
 by, after vainly endeavoring by open warfare to subdue 
 them, secretly introduced the fruitful elements of discord 
 which unhappily divided those who never more can be 
 united. Colonies of a strange and utterly antagonistic 
 blood and breed were planted in their midst ; a new 
 religion brought forth and nurtured with ecclesiastical 
 zeal that most fatal of feads which results from a difference 
 of faith. Is it surprising then, that, robbed of their inher- 
 itance and driven into the woods and savage hiding-places, 
 their hearths usurped and their altars desecrated, the 
 poor, persecuted people, without shelter, without food, and 
 most especially without education, should slowly but 
 surely have retrograded when all the rest of the world 
 has advanced, until centuries of oppression have almost 
 depopulated an entire nation? 
 
 But to go back to Connach. He happened, fortunately 
 for himself, to live in a time when every man held his 
 own, in quietness and peace ; there were no " evictions," no 
 homesteads levelled to enlarge my Lord So-and-So's estate, 
 no damnable middlemen and agents to plunder equally 
 the unfortunate tenant and the absentee landlord, no in- 
 triguing double-faced demagogues, no selfish semi-political 
 priests, — all the accursed spawn of Saxon interference, — 
 but contentment, like an atmosphere of perpetual summer, 
 rested upon the land; and amongst the happy islanders 
 none had more cause to be so than Connach, the weaver ; 
 a benignant fate having placed him in that most enviable 
 of all positions, — cheerful and well-satisfied mediocrity, — 
 too high for privation to reach, and too low for envy to 
 assail, with just sufiicient intellect to comprehend and 
 enjoy everything enjoyable in nature, and thoroughly 
 
364 BUOUaHAM'S SELECTED WETTINGS. 
 
 impressed with that instinctive religion of the heart which 
 causes it to expand in gratitude to the benign Giver of all 
 good; — true, loving, and considerate in his family rela- 
 tions ; free, open-handed, liberal, and conscientious in his 
 friendships. 
 
 Such were the characteristics of the representative of the 
 O'Dearmids living at this time ; and, with but slight modi- 
 fications of temperament, such have they been through 
 succeeding generations, even up to the present time; for 
 amidst the chances and changes of conquest, colonization, 
 and foreign absorj)tion, the old house, land, name, and oc- 
 cupation has been transmitted from son to son, in regular 
 descent, and in the town of Clonmakilty may be seen at 
 this very day — if the tourist should ever discover it — a 
 tolerably good-sized but curiously patched tenement, bear- 
 ing an exceedingly old-fashioned signboard, on which is 
 painted "Connach O'Dearmid, Weaver." 
 
 The cause of this strange preservation and uninterrupted 
 transmission of name, property, and occupation for such a 
 number of years, is satisfactorily explained in a family tra- 
 dition which I had the pleasure of hearing from the present 
 representative ; and as it appeared to me to be more graphic 
 in his own diction, I shall endeavor to present it to the 
 reader as nearly as I can in his words. 
 
 " You know, sir, I suppose, that at the time luck fell 
 upon the name of the O'Dearmids, makin' somewhere 
 about, it might be, a thousand years ago, — but the date 
 does n't matther a thraween, — the fellow that owned it was 
 a bowld-hearted, rollickin', ginerous, divil-may-care boy, as 
 iver breathed the breath o' life. Well, sir, the fairies, you 
 know, was plintier thin nor they are now ; by raysin, I 
 suppose, that the ground was trod upon by the raal ould 
 stock, an' not by furrin' schamers and yalla-headed inthru- 
 
O'DEARMID'S RIDE. 365 
 
 ders. More 's the pity ! A'most every family of dacint 
 behavior thin had somethin' or another in the shape of a 
 fairy visither ; some had maybe a Puckaun, — them 's the 
 divil's own hounds at mischief; others might stumble over 
 a Leprechaun, and if they looked sharp, for them 's the 
 greatest chates out, would get heaps o' money. Thin there 
 was Phoukas, Fetches, Banshees, and hundhereds of sich 
 likes ; to some families they comes as warnins, to others 
 as luck signs. 
 
 "But I '11 tell you how we got one, sir, — long life to 
 him ! He 's here now, listenin' to every word I say, — [he 
 reverently lifted his hat as he spoke,] — an' if I tell you a 
 word of a lie, he '11 make himself known somehow. 
 
 " Well, you must know, sir, that me great ancesther that 
 brought us the luck was oncet riding home from havin' ped 
 a visit to his sweetheart, for he was a coortin' at the time. 
 The night was murdherin' dark, an' he was a little appre- 
 hinshus of the ' good people ' for the fear of threadin' on 
 a ' fairy circle,' or maybe disturbin' a frolic ; so he rode 
 mighty slow across the turf, for there was no roads at the 
 time. Well, sir, all of a sudden the moon bruck out from 
 the black clouds like a red-hot ball from a cannon, an' began 
 to run wild, as I heerd me father say, right across the sky. 
 He had scarcely gazed an instant with terror and wonder 
 upon the quare capers the moon was cuttin', when on turn- 
 ing round agin he saw a phantom horseman ridin' close 
 beside him, that imitated every action. When he galloped, 
 it galloped ; when he reined up, it did the same. Fear 
 nearly paralyzed him. He tried to say his prayers, but 
 memory had gone. Still, however, he urged his horse 
 rapidly along ; and altho' the sight froze his blood, he 
 couldn't keep his eyes off the black rider. 
 
 "On comin' to a sharp turn in the road, what did he 
 
366 BKOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 see But a little ould woman, sittin' upon a stone, right in 
 the road of the horseman by his side, now grown into a 
 solid substance. Despite of his own terror, me ancesther 
 shouted out to his strange companion, ' Howld hard, you 
 black fool ! Pull in, won't you 1 Don't you see the ould 
 creathur in the road ] You '11 run over her, you black- 
 guard, you will ! ' 
 
 " But not a hand did the other move in restraint. On 
 they went, full gallop. 
 
 '" For the love of heaven, ould woman, clear the road ! ' 
 cried me ancesther, but not a peg would she stir. Another 
 instant, and the black horseman crashed right over the poor 
 ould sowl, and knocked her as flat as a pancake. 
 
 " ' Ah ! you murdherin' villain, you 've done it ; I knew 
 you would ! ' shouted me ancesther, burnin' wid indigna- 
 tion, and reinin' up his horse as soon as ever he could. So 
 did the other. 
 
 " What wid the cruelty and the impidence of the fella, 
 my ancesther could n't stand it any longer ; so, turning his 
 horse round, he let dhrive at him, but unluckily one of the- 
 big black clouds gradually swallied up the moon, an' in 
 the darkness the black horseman cut across the fields and 
 vanished out of sight. As soon as he was gone, my bowld 
 Connach groped his way back as well as he could to the 
 place where the ould woman was run over, an' to his great 
 surprise found her sittin' upon the same stone as quietly as 
 if nothin' had happened. 
 
 " ' God save ye, stranger ! ' said the ould creathur. 
 
 " ' God save ye kindly ! ' said Connach, ' an' I hope yer 
 not hurted much ? ' 
 
 " ' I 'm not hurted at all, Misther Connach O'Dearmid, 
 the weaver ! ' says she. 
 
 " ' What ! you know me then, do you 1 " says he. 
 
O'DEARMID'S RIDE. 367 
 
 " ' Betther nor ye do yerself ! ' says she, * It 's a good 
 fortune that you desarve, Connach, an' it 's a good fortune 
 that ye '11 get, both you an' yours, to the end o' time ; for 
 you're respectful an' kind to the ould an' the helpless. 
 You 're lovin' and dutiful to them, that gav' ye life an' its 
 blessins, your 're open-handed to the poor an' the needy, 
 an' honest-hearted to the whole world besides.' 
 
 " ' Bedad, I '11 come to you for a characther, if ever I 'm 
 in the want of it. Bad-cess to me, av you have n't brought 
 coals of fire into my cheeks, in spite of the cowld weather ! * 
 says Connack, blushin' like a girl at the ould woman's 
 praisin' him. 
 
 " ' I '11 do you a greater sarvice nor that,' says she. * I '11 
 tell ye yer faults.' 
 
 " * Fire away ! ' says Connach ; * let us have them.* 
 
 " ' Get down from yer horse, an' sit by me upon this 
 stone,' says she. 
 
 " * Wid all my heart,' says he, jumpin' off in a jiffy ; for 
 he was a little sprung, you see, — - the curse of Ireland, 
 sthrong drink, was even then in bein'. 
 
 " 'l!^ow for thim faults,' said he, wid a laugh, as he sat 
 down beside the ould woman. *How many have 1 1 ' 
 
 " * One,' says she. 
 
 " ' Is that all 1 ' says he. ' Pooh ! I know betther.' 
 
 " ' Stop ! ' cries the ould woman, ' hear me out. That 
 one, if suffered to remain within yer heart, will soon breed 
 all the rest. For it 's the fruitful parent of every crime that 
 has a name.' 
 
 " Murdher ! how ye frighten me ! ' says Connach. * What 
 the divil is it 1 " 
 
 " ' The love of strong drink / ' says the old woman, seri- 
 ously. ' You behaved kindly to me, an' urged only by the 
 feelins of your kindly nature. I have the power to save 
 
368 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 yoTi, an' I will, from this liour forward, as long as time ex- 
 ists. It will be the fault of you an' yours, if misfortunes, 
 other than those nature imposes, should fall upon yer 
 name; for yer faults an' vicious inclinations shall be 
 pointed out to you, \)j fairy power.' 
 
 " * Lord save us ! ' says my ancesther, frightened a'most 
 out of his siven senses, ' are you a fairy ? ' 
 
 " ' I am,' says she, ' behold the proof ! ' Wid that the ould 
 rags and tatthers melted away, an', instead of a dirty-look- 
 ing heap of deformity and wretchedness, Connach beheld 
 a weeny form, scarcely as big as a blade of grass, but as 
 bright as if it had been made out o' sunbeams, standin' 
 an' kissin' its love to him, while the tiniest an' most musical 
 little voice, like the ringin' of fairy bells, tingled upon his 
 ear, so small, but so distinct : — 
 
 * Farewell, Connach ! thou hast had thy warning ; 
 Profit by it, and be happy ! ' 
 
 " The fairy then vanished, an' me ancesther slept upon 
 that identical stone until mornin'; but when he woke up 
 he did n't forget the fairy's caution ; for not only did he 
 never touch liquor, but he left it in his dyin' directions, 
 to be transmitted from father to son, through every gen- 
 eration, that both house and lands should go away from 
 him who should get the name of drunkard. 
 
 " An' to our credit be it spoke, we have n't had one yet, 
 though some have needed and received the fairy's warnin' 
 for that, as well as other faults, an' it 's very wonderful the 
 various ways they took to tell us of them that 's been run- 
 nin' through the family histhory since that time, some- 
 times in a parable, then again in a dhream, now one way 
 an' now another. Me own grandfather got his warnin' in 
 a quare way. His prevailin' fault was harshness, an' a 
 strong inclinin' to cruel conduct. He threated me father 
 
O'DEARMID'S RIDE. 369 
 
 wickedly durin' his youth, an' at last, because he married 
 unbeknoM'"nst to him, turned him right out of doors. 
 
 " Well, it was n't long afther that, grandfather was sittin' 
 mopin' alone, — for in spite of his hard natur', he missed 
 his child, — when all at oncet, when he was tryin' to nurse 
 up his angry feelin', who should he see come in the door 
 but a favorite cat of his, that had just lost her kittens, 
 tenderly carryin' in her mouth a bouncin' young rat. 
 "Well, grandfather naturally thought the cat was goin' to 
 make her supper off the rat ; but not a bit of it. What 
 does my bould puss do but takes the rat into her basket, 
 an' pets it up an' plays wid it in the most motherly way ! 
 
 " At first, grandfather laughed till the tears run down 
 his cheeks, at the fun of the thing, to see the rat taken so 
 much care of; but when the cat rowled over on her side, 
 singin' ' purr-roo,' winkin' at grandfather, an' puttin' her 
 paw as gingerly over the rat as if she was afraid of breakin' 
 it, he knew immediately that there was some manein' in 
 the thing. It was thin that it struck him all at once, that, 
 if it was an unnatural thing to see a cat nourishin' a crea- 
 thur that did n't belong to her specie at all at all, it was 
 more unnatural a mortial sight to see a father turnin' his 
 back upon his own flesh an' blood. 
 
 " ' It 's the warnin' ! ' says he. 
 
 " Tears that he had never shed afore — for he was a 
 hard man — fell in showers from his eyes, an' he prayed 
 for grace to conquer his faults. 
 
 " WeU, sir, before the night fell, my father an' his purty 
 young wife was in the ould man's arms, an' greater joy and 
 happiness seldom echoed through these ould rafters; for 
 next to never doing any wrong, the most heart-satisfyin' 
 thing in creation is to repent the wrong you 've done ! " 
 
 24 
 
370 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 JASPEE LEECH. 
 
 THE MAN WHO NEVER HAD ENOUGH. 
 
 THE hero of my sketch, Jasper Leech, was, to use the 
 stereotyped expression, born of poor, but honest 
 parents ; his infancy exhibited no remarkable diagnostics 
 by which to illustrate or establish any peculiarity of char- 
 acter, saving, perhaps, the simple fact, that, with him, the 
 process of weaning was protracted to a curious extent, any 
 attempt to cut off or diminish the maternal supply being 
 met with obstinate resistance, in spite of all the ingenious 
 artifices usually resorted to on such occasions to induce a 
 distaste ; still he sucked and sucked, until the female vis- 
 itors, one and all, voted it shameful in a great fellow like 
 that. 
 
 At school, young Jasper was famous for the steady snail- 
 pace at which he crawled through the rudiments, and also 
 for the extraordinary penchant he evinced for anything in 
 his proximity which was, or appeared to be, unattainable 
 at the moment. K one of his schoolmates was in pos- 
 session of a new toy, Jasper would first envy him, then 
 covet it, cunningly waiting the moment when, the novelty 
 being past, the boy was open to negotiate ; then would he 
 chaffer and diplomatize, almost invariably gaining his de- 
 sired end. Thus he went on steadily accumulating, until 
 what, with a natural appetite for trading, and a calculat- 
 ing eye to the profitable side of a bargain, he managed 
 to shut up the market altogether by exhaustion. The 
 
JASPER LEECH. 371 
 
 Yevj spring-time of life, which generally passes by in glee- 
 some sport, was to him a period of anxiety and care ; 
 for while his mates were rioting in boisterous play, he 
 would sit apart, his whole brain wrapped in the maze of 
 speculation, — a swop is in progression, and he must have 
 the advantage. 
 
 Thus passed his boyhood ; his schooling over, with his 
 strong common-sense unduUed by too much book-lore, he 
 was duly inducted into the mystery of shoe-craft. He 
 served out his time with exemplary diligence, working 
 leisurely by day that he might keep reserve of strength to 
 spend the night for his own profit, thereby saving a con- 
 siderable sum from the employment of his over-hours. 
 
 Once his own master, he deliberated long what road he 
 should travel in pursuit of the blind goddess, invisible as 
 well as blind, — that phantom which men wear out life 
 and energy in seeking, only when found to confess with 
 tears of bitterness how misspent was their time. 
 
 At last our ambitious friend ventured humbly into trade 
 on his own account, declaring that, should anything ap- 
 proaching to success crown his efforts, and at the end of 
 five or six years he could command a thousand dollars, 
 he would be the most contented, the happiest fellow on 
 earth. 
 
 He was lucky, curiously lucky; it seemed as though, 
 Midas-like, all he touched turned to gold ; money swept in, 
 so that before he had been three years in business, instead 
 of the limited one thousand, he was master oifive. " ]N'ow," 
 said he to himself, " if I could but make that five ten, I 
 might not only be enabled to enlarge my stock, and there- 
 by increase my returns, but I think I might even venture 
 to look about for a helpmate with an equal sum " ; for Jas- 
 per would just as soon have thought of investing the best 
 
372 BKOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 part of his capital in the establishment of a lunatic asylum 
 as of marrying a portionless woman. 
 
 The sun shone on : in less time than he could possibly 
 have anticipated, ten thousand was at his command. Yery 
 good, thought he ; this, with ten or fifteen thousand more, 
 as a premium for encumbering myself with a comforter of 
 the snarling sex, — for the ungallant Jasper had a thoroughly 
 mercantile business-man's opinion of the angelic species, — 
 will be suf&cient. I must investigate. 
 
 So he set out on a tour of the watering-places, and such 
 like wife-markets, where Cupid, the most wide-awake of 
 auctioneers, — it 's a libel to say he 's blind, — knocks the 
 little darlings down to the highest bidder. Of course, Jas- 
 per stopped at the first-class hotels, where he scrutinized 
 the habitues of the ladies' ordinary with uncommon in- 
 terest. There 's no use in disguising the fact, he sought not 
 a wife, but a fortune. In extenuation, allow me to sa}?-, he 
 was not at all singular : there are plenty of those indi- 
 viduals extant, young, tolerably good-looking fellows, hien 
 gantes and redolent of whisker, who linger about the 
 ladies' drawing-room, in the faint hope of fascinating some- 
 thing available (prudent maternity avoids this class with 
 pious horror), middle-aged beaux, who dress sedulously, and 
 toady chaperons, carry fans, are always so attentive and so 
 obliging, dine regularly, and affect a Burgundy decanter, 
 which looks easy-circumstanced, but which the poor waiter 
 is tired of carrying backward and forward, ticketed some 
 hundred and something. 
 
 Jasper, though indefatigable, as you may well suppose, 
 met with strange adventures during his wife-hunt. Pretty 
 women, after short experience, he avoided utterly, for he 
 found that they were usually too extravagant in their ex- 
 pectations with regard to personnel, and as Jasper could 
 
JASPER LEECH. 373 
 
 not, by any stretch of his imagination, fancy that he ranked 
 in the category of Fredericks and Augustuses, he endeav- 
 ored to make up the deficiency by a liberal display of 
 wealth-prefiguring ornament, a kind of strong-box index, 
 which he shrewdly suspected might tempt some ambitious 
 innocent to investigate the contents thereof. 
 
 Perhaps it would be well at this period, as our hero is 
 got up at no small expense, to give an outline of his 
 appearance. In the first place, he was twenty-eight years 
 old, by his own account; as he coidd scarcely be ex- 
 pected to know exactly himself, it's not to be won- 
 dered at that he and the parish register differed a few 
 years ; but that was of little consequence, for he had an 
 accommodating, curious-colored complexion, which, as it 
 made him look at least forty, will, no doubt, return the 
 compliment by making him look no more at sixty. His 
 hair was about as indefinite, being a factitious auburn, a 
 dry, wiry red, something like the end of a fox's brush in 
 hot weather, crisp and tangible, like fine copper-shavings. 
 One could not help fancying that, if he shook his head, 
 each individual hair would jar audibly against the other. 
 The whole arrangement gave one an idea of intense heat, 
 and an involuntary hope that the poor fellow had but a 
 sprinkle of hydrocephalus. He was of undecided height 
 also, varying from five feet four-and-half to five feet four- 
 and-three-quarters, at the option of his bootmaker; but 
 the most remarkable features, if we may use the expression, 
 in his conformation, were his hands, which were gaunt 
 and bony, of a tanned-leathery consistence, and of a streaky, 
 mottled, castile-soap color, covered with a straggling crop 
 of light, sandy hair, and ornamented with several wedding 
 rings, — evidences of broken hearts, which some men are 
 fond of displaying as certificates of gallantry. Dressed in 
 
374 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 irreproachable black, and capped and jewelled in the most 
 orthodox style, it may be imagined that Jasper was the 
 object of no small solicitude to the anxious mothers of 
 slenderly-portioned daughters ; he certainly had an air hien 
 riche, if not distingue, and that's the marketable materiel 
 after all. 
 
 Months were unprofitably spent, and Jasper was begin- 
 ning to think the time irretrievably lost, when an occur- 
 rence of some little interest varied the hotel monotony. 
 The Blodgerses arrived, en route to the fashionable rural 
 resorts. 
 
 Now the Blodgerses were extensive people in their way. 
 They were originated somewhere in Pennsylvania, and af- 
 fected the tone of the Far South ; travelled with huge 
 trunks, two lapdogs, a parrot, and a liveried African. The 
 head of the family was a pursy, important, chairman-of-an- 
 election-committee-looking man, with a superabundance of 
 excessively white shirt-frill, and too much watch-chain; 
 the latter appendage he invariably swung round as he 
 conversed, its momentum indicating the state of his tem- 
 per during an argument : let him speak upon uninterest- 
 ing topics, — literature, for instance, or any of the useless 
 arts, — you notice but a gentle apathetic oscillation, but 
 let him get upon the tariff, let him hurl denunciations 
 against his political enemies, or eulogize his particular 
 presidential candidate, and round it goes with astonishing 
 velocity. 
 
 Blodgers had been a grocer, or something of the kind, 
 and having, during a life of assiduous saving and scraping, 
 accumulated a very large sum, now flung himself with 
 extraordinary ahandon upon the full stream of gentility; 
 and, to say the truth, most uncomfortable he found it ; for 
 many a time would he acknowledge to his wife that this 
 
JASPER LEECH. 375 
 
 flying about from steam-car to steamboat, "Was far more 
 fatiguing, and far less profitable, than quietly serving out 
 lump-sugar. Then would Mrs. B. indignantly check such 
 compromising thoughts, for she was a person of great pre- 
 tension, and had a slight acquaintance with Mrs. Judge 
 Pinning, and once visited by accident Mrs. General Jolli- 
 kins, so felt herself bound to talk of "society." "They 
 don't do this in our set " ; or, " It 's not the etiquette in 
 societi/'\- and such like side-winded hints of her position, 
 formed the staple of her conversations. As for the heiress 
 to the wealthy grocer's store, there was an indescribable 
 something in her air and manner which plainly indicated, 
 "I am worth looking after!" She talked loudly, stared 
 rudely through a magnificent Parisian double glass, and in 
 fact broke through all the recognized rules of good-breeding 
 with that insolent familiarity which but poorly imitates 
 the nonchalant ease of the really distingue. 
 
 "^o description of deportment could have made so great 
 an impression on Jasper. She looked ingots, she spoke 
 specie, and her prestige was altogether redolent of rouleaux. 
 He was struck, but the stricken deer took the precaution 
 to investigate realities before he advanced a step toward 
 acquaintanceship. Now, thought he, if she but happen 
 to have some ten or fifteen thousand, she 'd be just the 
 wife for me. The result was satisfactory. He discovered 
 that a larger sum was to be her marriage portion, and so 
 laid vigorous siege instanter. 
 
 ]^ow Araminta Blodgers, although decidedly not quali- 
 fied to grace the pages of the book of beauty, had a strange 
 predilection for " nice young men " ; so that at first Jasper 
 met with decided, and not over-delicately expressed oppo- 
 sition. But he was not a man to retire from the first 
 repulse; he persevered, and finally so deceived the sym- 
 
376 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 pathetic Araminta into the belief of his ardent affection, 
 that, one fine summer evening, she sighed forth an avowal 
 that she and her expectations were at his disposal. 
 
 Fresh from this successful attack upon the heiress's 
 susceptibilities, with a feathery heart Jasper snapped his 
 fingers at love, and danced down the corridor of the hotel 
 to the infinite wonderment of the waiters. Either from 
 force of habit, or as a means of tempering the exuberance 
 of his spirits, he plunged into the mysteries of the guest- 
 book, where — alas for Araminta Blodgers and for true 
 love ! — the first name he saw was that of Mrs. Skinning- 
 ton, the rich widow from his own immediate neighbor- 
 hood, — she whom he had sedulously church-ogled from 
 the opposite pew every Sunday, astonished at the vastness 
 of his presumption, — she, the bona fide and sole possessor 
 of nearly half his native town. Here was the shadow of 
 the shade of opportunity. She was alone. Jasper hesi- 
 tated. Araminta's fortune was ample ; but when there 
 was a chance of more, it was n't enough 1 Finally, he 
 determined to wait the first interview with the widow, 
 and be regulated by her manner. 
 
 They met at dinner, and she was singularly gracious. 
 The fact is, those eye assaults had told a little ; and I 'm 
 sorry to say, for the character of the sex, that the widow, 
 in case the siege should be renewed, had predetermined 
 on capitulation. 
 
 The result may be anticipated. The endurable Ara- 
 minta was thrown over for the intolerable widow and her 
 superior wealth. They were married in a curiously short 
 time; and, when Jasper found himself master of the 
 widow's hoard, " N'ow," thought he, with a glowing heart, 
 " a few thousand dollars more, and I shall be content. 
 One hundred thousand is the acme of my desire; let 
 
JASPER LEECH. 377 
 
 me but achieve that, and I shall then retire and spend 
 the remainder of my days in quiet comfort." 
 
 In process of time he did realize the coveted amount ; 
 but did he keep his word and retire 1 No ! he had enough 
 of that. Home was to him the worst of all miseries, — a 
 sort of domestic Tartarus ; the presiding fury his elderly 
 wife, who, incapable of inspiring a sentiment of affection 
 herself, yet assumed all the caprice of a girl. Jealous to 
 very lunacy, she gave vent to the agonizing sensations of 
 her soul by scribbling heart-rending sonnets for the Fiddle- 
 Faddle Magazine. Thin, withered, romantic, and exact- 
 ing, you may suppose that to the unfortunately lucky 
 Jasper home was no dulce domum. 
 
 The consequence w^s, that he, dreading the tete-a-tete 
 domestic, confined his attention to his monetary affairs. 
 Retirement with such an unlovable and moreover intoler- 
 ably suspicious companion as Mrs. L., or, as she signed 
 herself, Sappho, was out of the question ; so he determined 
 to stick to the counting-house. And now a great idea filled 
 his brain, almost to monomania, which was to make his 
 one hundred thousand tivo. Once conceived, every thought 
 and action were merged in that one absorbing idea. Heed- 
 less of the domestic tornadoes that ever and anon swept 
 over his devoted head, he slaved, fretted, lied, I think 
 I may venture to say cheated, but honorably, and in the 
 way of business, until, after a few years of health-destroy- 
 ing worry, he beheld himself within sight of the desired 
 haven. But five thousand more, and the sum would be 
 accomplished ; one stroke of luck, one piece of indifferent 
 fortune, and he would then be really content. 
 
 Worn out by constant exertion, he fell dangerously ill. 
 During his sickness, news arrived which brought him 
 within a few hundred of his maximum. Xotwithstand- 
 
378 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 ing his bad health, and in opposition to all remonstrance, 
 he called for his books, and, with weak hand and weaker 
 brain, attempted to calculate. After many hours' labor, 
 altogether unaware that he was thus unprofitably expend- 
 ing his last flickering of life, he gave a long, sorrowful 
 sigh, and, gasping forth, " l^ot enough ! not enough ! " 
 expired. 
 
 JSTot many days after, a few feet of earth were sufficient 
 
 for THE MAN WHO NJEVER HAD ENOUGH. 
 
A NIGHT WITH THE SPIRITS. 379 
 
 A ISriGHT WITH THE SPIEITS. 
 
 THEEE 's old Tom now, sitting sunning himself in his 
 pleasant, little cottage-porch ! Nearly fourscore and 
 ten years have dispensed their blessings and their curses 
 on the world since he first breathed its air. Yet see how 
 ruddy are his old cheeks, how firm his nerves, how clear 
 his hazel eyes sparkling with healthy life, — his venerable 
 head shakes not an atom, neither is his back bowed. Is 
 he not altogether a marvel of cheery, vigorous age, — 
 
 " As a lusty winter, frosty, but kindly ? " 
 
 Listen to the simple secret of this wondrous preserva- 
 tion. It is comprised in one word, and that word is Tem- 
 perance, for 
 
 ** Kever in his youth did he apply 
 Hot and rebellious liquors in his blood." 
 
 "No; an occasional foaming beaker of "home-brewed" was 
 the only indulgence that his thirstiest moments yearned 
 for, and even that infrequently. Behold the result ! — 
 enjoyable to him, in their every fulness, are the individ- 
 ual delights of each changing season; strong and still 
 active in frame, fresh and unclouded in intellect, with 
 a heart keenly alive to the unnumbered gratifications of 
 this beautiful world, and a soul overflowing with grateful- 
 ness to the Giver of all good, who has vouchsafed to him 
 so liberal a store of earth's blessings, in calm serenity he 
 awaits the coming of the inevitable, but by him undreaded 
 summons. 
 
380 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WEITINGS. 
 
 Old Tom Stoddart, however, has had his temptations, 
 as all men have, by the way. Did you ever hear how he 
 raised the spirits, a few years ago, and what effect the su- 
 pernal visitation had upon him 1 
 
 No ? Then I could n't have a better opportunity of 
 informing you than the present. Let us step into the 
 parlor of the Blue Lion here. This is the identical room 
 where the strange occurrence took place ; that sedulously- 
 cleaned deal table, no doubt, the very circle of his singular 
 incantation. 
 
 Old Tom was in an unusually despondent mood — for 
 cheerfulness was his prevailing characteristic — upon the 
 particular occasion of which I am about to tell you, and 
 with some reason ; he had but just returned from the 
 hurried, and but little cared-for funeral — if it could so be 
 called — of one his sometime companions, early loved and 
 respected, until the maciness for strong drink quelled 
 within him all that was likable, and evoked all that was 
 brutal and degrading, as it never fails to do. 
 
 Estranged though they had been for years, yet, when 
 the miserable parish coffin was rudely lowered into its 
 place by careless hands, the old friendliness returned, and 
 flowed once more into his heart upon a flood of tears, — 
 tears which were checked only by indignation at behold- 
 ing the " maimed rites " indecently hummed through over 
 the wretched clay, which had not left behind it the means 
 of purchasing an ostentatious sorrow. 
 
 It was to his own comfortable home and the world- 
 angel who had made that spot sacred for a long lifetime, 
 his dear good dame, — she who had shared his joys and 
 griefs, and so enlinked her existence with his, that from very 
 sympathy they came not only to look alike, but to think 
 alike, exemplifying that harmonious blending of two natures 
 
A NIGHT WITH THE SPIRITS. 381 
 
 into one, which is the rarest God-gift to humanity, — 
 it was to this haven of his best thoughts, this most cher- 
 ished source of his affections, that old Tom Stoddart always 
 wended his way whenever anything uncommon or impor- 
 tant chanced ; but now he was tempted, in an evil moment, 
 to. take an opposite direction. J^or was this impulse al- 
 together an unworthy one, for it was the disinclination to 
 carry his gloomy load into the presence of his kind old 
 wife, that first induced him to deposit it rather at the door 
 of the Blue Lion, forgetting that she was heaven-sent to 
 relieve him from such perilous burdens. 
 
 Who among us has not deviated from the wiser road, 
 at one period or another 1 
 
 Well, it so happened that old Tom's reflections were of 
 such a sort that companionship was repulsive to him, and 
 he accordingly ordered his tankard oT ale, and sat himself 
 down here — perhaps in this chair — alone, resolving to 
 let his melancholy thoughts have their full scope, without 
 the intrusive commonplace condolements of his general 
 acquaintances, whom curiosity only had urged to be 
 present at the unceremonious burial. 
 
 Left entirely to himself, memory soon began to call up 
 before his imagination the scenes and friendships of the 
 olden time. 
 
 " Poor Sanders ! " said he, the tears again standing in 
 his eyes. " Little did I think, when you and I were boys, 
 and fought in playful battles against each other, — when 
 we were men, and ploughed against each other, and went 
 fishing and shooting together, one heart between us, — 
 that I should see you flung into the ground like a dog ! 
 There 's not many left now " ; — and old Tom took a long 
 gulp at the ale. " Bill Summers is gone : died of a broken 
 heart, too, because his boy, that he doted on, took to evil 
 
382 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 courses; but, above all, to the cursed drink." Alas for 
 human nature ! Here Tom emptied the tankard. 
 
 " How they spring up afore me ! " he went on. "Jolly 
 Dick Ryder, the Squire's huntsman, that used to sing Tom 
 Moody ; and little Jack Miller, with them stories of his 
 that everybody knew by heart at last, — it was gin killed 
 him, tough as he was." Here old Tom rung the bell for 
 another pot of ale. " Well, Jack outlived his stories, any- 
 way, and a chap may 's well die then." The ale came in, 
 and Tom took a heavy bite at it, and then pursued his 
 train of thought. 
 
 " that Dick Ryder, what a fellow he was ! what 
 pranks he used to cut ! Do you remember the way he 
 served the soger-chap that offered to marry his sweetheart 1 
 Ha ! ha ! " and, in spite of his dreariness, Tom laughed 
 heartily at a joke which he had all to himself. 
 
 " But he 's gone, dead and gone j so are they all but me. 
 I 'm the only one left of the lot, and / 'II have to go soon, 
 I suppose. - Ale is no use when a man 's down in the 
 mouth this way. I wonder if a drop of brandy would n't 
 do me good ; I don't feel exactly well ; and, moreover, the 
 doctors say that a little of it is mighty healthy. I — I 've 
 a great mind to try ; and I will, too, — why should n't II" 
 so saying, he pulled the bell, and, in obedience to his wish, 
 the neat little bar-maid placed a bottle of brandy, with 
 some sugar, a glass, and a pitcher of hot water before him. 
 Smacking his lips at the appetizing flavor that escaped in 
 the process, old Tom carefully mixed himself a huge tum- 
 bler of " toddy," and began at first, quietly and slowly, to 
 enjoy the, to him, very unusual treat. Still, however, his 
 thoughts continued to be clothed in sombre hue, and to 
 deepen even in their blackness. 
 
 At last, with a firm determination, come what might. 
 
A NIGHT WITH THE SPIRITS. 383 
 
 to disperse the cloud that encompassed him, he turned 
 eagerly to the intoxicating draught ; his spirits soon be- 
 gan to mount upon the subtle fluid ; a pleasant languor 
 stole over his frame, and, erelong, a golden mist hung 
 before his delighted eyes. Eeflection was at an end, and 
 all gloomy thoughts fled before the powerful influence of 
 the magician. 
 
 It was at this stage of semi-forgetfulness that, as he has 
 often told me himself, with an awe-stricken expression, 
 and, as I think, not knowing exactly at what point the 
 limit of actual circumstance was broken into by the imagi- 
 nary, he heard a knock at the parlor door, — that little 
 door you are now looking at, — and who should walk 
 solemnly in and seat hiro^elf at the table but the identical 
 man he had just seen thrust away to moulder amidst his 
 kindred dust. Old Tom rubbed his eyes, and stared 
 wildly at the new-comer. Sure enough, it was he ; not, 
 however, in the wasted and deplorable appearance he pre- 
 sented in his latter terrible days of degradation and dis- 
 tress ; but in his strong, healthy, youthful form, ere the 
 demon had fastened upon his energies. 
 
 It was some time before Tom could muster up courage to 
 address the phantom ; but when he saw him, quite at his 
 ease, reach forth and help himself to a huge quantity of 
 the brandy, which he swallowed in its burning integTity 
 from the bottle, — " Why, Sanders lad," said he, " did n't 
 I see thee buried to-day ? " 
 
 "Buried, man! mayhap you did," replied the appear- 
 ance, with a chuckle. " What o' that 1 1 'm here again, 
 strong and hearty." 
 
 " That you be, surely," said Tom. " Gi' us your fist. 
 I 'm woundily glad to see thee." With that he grasped the 
 hand of Sanders, and was pleased to find it was real flesh 
 and blood. 
 
384 BEOUGHAM'S SELECTED WETTINGS. 
 
 "Ah! Sanders lad," said Tom, sympathizingly, "you 
 don't know with what sorrow I looked upon the sever- 
 ance of our old acquaintanceship. You had found another 
 friend — " 
 
 " I know what you mean. This fellow," interrupted 
 the other, seizing the bottle again ; " well, we won't talk 
 about that. Here's to the renewal of our past feeling for 
 each other. Won't you drink that, Tom 1 " 
 
 " Won't I ! ay, if it was in pison. Jemmy, which I 'm 
 not sure but it is, but here goes anyhow." So Tom 
 emulated the example of the ghost, and refreshed himself 
 with a long draught of the pure spirit. As he laid down 
 the bottle, he heard another knock at the parlor door. 
 
 " Who 's coming here ? " said he. 
 
 " 0, it 's only that roistering blade, Dick Eyder," said 
 his companion. 
 
 " Eyder ! what ! " cried Tom, in alarm, " Dick Eyder ! 
 Bless my soul, he 's been dead these ten years. It can't 
 be he." 
 
 His speculation was cut short by the abrupt entrance, 
 not only of his old crony, Dick Eyder, but along with him 
 came tumbling in Jack Miller, and half a dozen other 
 jolly dogs, who, in the olden time, used to make the walls 
 of this little room tremble and roar with their outrageous 
 hilarity. 
 
 " This is really very odd," thought old Tom ; " I can't 
 make it out ; I don't of a certainty know whether I am 
 alive or dead, and a ghost as well as themselves. All I 
 do know is that hang me if I did n't see them all under 
 ground years and years ago. Yet here they are, just as 
 natural as life." 
 
 As it was they were now evidently full of life and 
 jollity, for they surrounded old Tom, shaking hands with 
 
A NIGHT WITfl THE SPIRITS. 385 
 
 him, as though they had only been as far as the next 
 county, and were glad to get back. 
 
 " You 're looking well, old boy," cried Eyder, slapping 
 him on the back ; "but come, you 're not going to treat 
 us stingily, now we 're back ? Send out for another bottle 
 or two." 
 
 " O, half a dozen, as he 's about it," added Jack Miller ; 
 " and remember, I stick to gin, — it 's the -wholesomest 
 liquor, — I always found it so." 
 
 Old Tom Stoddart, although much confounded, did as 
 he was requested. He rung the bell; the bar-maid 
 entered, and without betraying the slightest agitation at 
 the presence of so many ghostly customers, received her 
 orders, and, in due time, executed them. 
 
 And now the fun mounted, glass upon glass, until it 
 got to the topmost pitch of excitement. Jack Miller told 
 all his stories ; Dick Ryder sang all his hunting-songs ; 
 and, steeped to the very lips in a glorious atmosphere of 
 enjoyment, old Tom echoed every story and chorused every 
 song, all feeling of awe or surprise obliterated by the 
 intense excitement of the scene. 
 
 Never, in the whole course of his existence, had old 
 Tom Stoddart felt so supremely happy. All external 
 interests and solicitudes were shut out ; the outer world, 
 including home itself, — that home where she, without 
 whose tender ministration it could not bear that blessed 
 name, was even then trembling within her very heart from 
 apprehension at his unaccustomed absence, — was forgotten 
 in the madness of the hour. 
 
 And every now and then one or other of the mad group 
 would pledge the old man in a fresh brimmer, while all 
 shouted, in discordant chorus, " Hurrah, he 's one of us ! " 
 
 Many and many an anecdote and remembrance of the 
 
 25 
 
386 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 past was brouglit up, each serving as food for increased 
 mirth, the most puerile and foohsh of which seemed, as 
 the afternoon waned, to awaken fresh outbursts of merri- 
 ment. There was no cessation to the continuous orgie ; 
 it was as though they all had conspired to prevent old 
 Tom from having an instant wherein he could separate his 
 thought from the present on-rushing current of revelry. 
 
 The shadows of twilight now began to gather slowly 
 over the land, yet still the joyous laugh resounded through 
 the space; early evening approached, and deeper shade, 
 but louder and louder grew the riotous din ; night, black 
 and solemn, fell suddenly down like a shroud, and yet it 
 quelled not the fearful tumult, — while, stimulated thereto 
 by the wild companionship and the thought-destroying 
 influence of the fiery liquor, old Tom's voice rose high 
 above the rest, and he heeded not the flight of time or the 
 increasing darkness. 
 
 At length it occurred to him that, as there was a candle 
 on the table, he might as well light it ; and, after sundry 
 ineffectual efforts to kindle a match, he at last succeeded 
 in doing so ; but the laugh died away on his lips, and the 
 blood rebounded from his heart, when he beheld the ab- 
 horrent sisfht which the illumination revealed. Simulta- 
 neously with the first flash of light, all symptoms of hilarity 
 ceased, and was succeeded by a silence appalling from its 
 completeness. Not a sound could old Tom hear but the 
 beating of his own heart, which thumped and thumped 
 against his ribs, like the muflied ticking of a large clock. 
 And, heaven ! the joyous companions with whom he had 
 drunk and revelled to such a pitch of insane enjoyment, 
 stark and denuded of their habiliments and their flesh, 
 were nothing but hideous, grinning skeletons, — all but 
 Sanders, whose yet more fearful appearance was that of a 
 
A NIGHT WITH THE SPIRITS. 387 
 
 recent corpse, already green with approaching decay, sit- 
 ting bolt upright in the chair before him, and clad in the 
 garb of the grave ! 
 
 Old Tom, glued to the spot by the most overpowering 
 terror, tried to cry out, but in vain; not the slightest 
 approach to an audible sound could he, by the most violent 
 exertion, force his ^^aralyzed tongue to utter. 
 
 And still those terrible shapes nodded and gibbered 
 at him, occasionally griping the glasses with their bony 
 fingers, and pouring the useless fluid through their open 
 jaws, whence it would splash upon their whitened ribs 
 and sink into the sanded floor beneath. But more awfully 
 horrible yet it was to see that rigid, dead form immedi- 
 ately before his face, the glazed and rayless eyes fixed 
 upon his, and the half-opened mouth settled into a stony, 
 dread-inspiring smile ! Fascinated, as it were, by the 
 frightful spectacle, he had not power to withdraw his gaze 
 from the revolting object, although instantly rendered sober 
 by the horror of the scene, with all his faculties sharpened 
 to their utmost acuteness of perception. 
 
 And now, to his increased terror, the shape opposite 
 rose slowly from the chair, and, standing upright, glared 
 more intently on him with its sightless eyes ; the rigid 
 arms slowly moved into a menacing position, and the thing 
 commenced to make a circuit of the table. Our poor, half- 
 demented friend, old Tom, on witnessing this appall- 
 ing demonstration, with a desperate plunge and a shriek 
 that startled the surrounding neighborhood, dashed him- 
 self through that little door, and fell down beyond, where 
 he lay for some time, deprived of consciousness, and to all 
 appearance as dead as any of his recent companions. 
 
 The considerate bar-maid, however, with the assistance 
 of a pitcher of cold water, a vigorous shaking, and other 
 
388 BROUGHAM'S SELECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 sanitary appliances, had the satisfaction of seeing the 
 russet-brown color deepen over old Tom's cheeks once 
 more. With a prodigious sigh, he ejected the moribund 
 tenant who had taken premature possession of his anatomy, 
 and gazed, but with a haK-fearful look, upon the bright 
 world again. 
 
 " Where are they V he asked, in a trembling whisper. 
 " Are they still there "i " and he shuddered as he inquired. 
 
 " Are who there, Mr. Stoddart 1 " she asked, wath a sim- 
 per that he quailed at. 
 
 "Who?" he continued, "why, the — the shapes, the 
 spirits ! " 
 
 " Why, deary me, what is the man talking about ? " 
 said the girl, with a merry laugh. " Where did you meet 
 with such company, Mr. Stoddart 1 " 
 
 " In that parlor, Mary," replied old Tom, gasping for 
 breath. 
 
 " Then they must be in there now, for there has n't 
 even a ghost left since you had that swound ; 1 '11 see." 
 So saying, she opened the door and peeped boldly in. 
 "There's nothing there but an empty bottle, Mr. Stod- 
 dart, and a tumbler." 
 
 " One bottle 1 " inquired Tom, eagerly. 
 
 " Only one." 
 
 "Thank you, my dear, — here 's a sixpence for you ; and 
 — I believe I '11 go home." 
 
 What conclusion old Tom came to, upon giving the 
 affair his private consideration, I cannot say ; but certain 
 it is that from that day to this he never could be pre- 
 vailed upon to touch a drop of brandy, or on any pretence 
 whatever to enter this little parlor. 
 
V. 
 
 POEMS. 
 ►5* 
 

POEMS. 
 
 ST. PATEICK. 
 
 SOME centuries back — I 'm a little in doubt 
 AA-^ith regard to the date, but 't was somewhere about 
 Four hundred and odd — you can easy find out 
 The year to a day in Giraldis Cambrensis, 
 
 The sage Nubigensis, 
 Or else in Henricus Antiodorensis, 
 
 The Book of Ardagh, 
 
 Or the Cath Fiothragh, 
 The Psalter of Cashel or Comshiorgathagh, 
 The Leabher Gabhala or Eeim Reiogra, 
 Or the famous TJracept, by Cion Pola ; 
 
 In Solinus the specious 
 
 Or Speed the facetious ; 
 In Stanihurst, Spencer, or Hector Boetius ; 
 In Campion, whose streamlet of truth rather shallow ran, 
 Keating, or Leland, or Doctor O'Halloran ; 
 Camden or Strabo, the historiographer ; 
 Pomponius Mela, the great lexicographer : 
 In any of these you have only to look, 
 And thus, on your own individual hook, 
 If you can but make out the archaic philology, 
 Post yourself up in the proper chronology. 
 
 And now to the legend : — In Ireland once. 
 
 Or Scotland — and if I know which I 'm a dunce ; 
 
392 POEMS. 
 
 But that 's not so strange, for a learned inquisitor, 
 
 Master Csesarius, declared, while a visitor, 
 
 " Scotia qu^ et Hibernia discitur " j 
 
 Welsh Nennins and Bede, Macrohius and Stowe, 
 
 Professors, and so, 
 
 Ought surely to know, 
 Wrote tomes without number, all tending to show 
 That Ireland was Scotland a long time ago. 
 Did n't even Orosius, who flourished before 'em, 
 Expressly assert that " Hibernia Scotorum 
 Patria est " 1 And though I seldom make use of hia 
 Book for authority, it so abusive is. 
 Touching the doubt I submit it conclusive is. 
 England herself was first known as Germanica, — 
 Vide Lloyd's Archseologia Britannica, — 
 Scotia as Albion ; and if you but glance 
 At a primitive map, should you e'er get the chance. 
 It will show you Great Britain a province of Erance. 
 So no matter the name, be it Ir or lernia, 
 Heber, Milesius, lero, or Vernia, 
 Ogygia, Eirn, Innisfail, or Juerne, — a 
 Eew appellations of ancient Hibernia, — 
 I love the dear land with the softened affection 
 That springs from the anguish of sad retrospection. 
 So now, in right earnest my task to commence, 
 JN^evermore to diverge upon any pretence, 
 Except when it won't interfere with the sense 
 Or — pshaw ! I won't joromise, for my Eosinante 
 Is wild, and my equine accomplishment scanty. 
 
 In the reign of King Mall, who Ireland swayed 
 And skillfully followed the conquering trade 
 
ST. PATRICK. 393 
 
 In other dominions, (Britannia and Gaul 
 
 He held in his thrall, 
 To his prowess did nine principalities fall, 
 
 And a hostage from all 
 
 He had within call, 
 For his faith in the word of the princes was small,) 
 Eeligion was certainly rather " so-so," 
 And civilization undouhtedly slow. 
 
 The pace it will go 
 In the same time to come will, most probably, throw 
 Very far in the shade all that we moderns know. 
 I wonder what people will think of our lore, 
 
 Our many a score 
 Of adverse credenda, our limited store 
 Of truth and true charity, false to the core. 
 In somewhere about fourteen centuries more ! 
 
 As I mentioned before, 
 Eeligion was somewhat abnormal and mystic ; 
 
 For spells cabalistic 
 
 And rites druidistic 
 In horrid detail were the popular creed j 
 And benevolent bards saw whole hecatombs bleed 
 That carnivorous gods might abundantly feed, — 
 
 JS'ot- always of cattle. 
 
 For after each battle 
 
 1^0 strict devotee 
 
 But would save two or three 
 Of his captives to help the ignivorous spree. 
 These Druids were death upon fighting and fifing. 
 Still harping or harrying, triUing or knifing ; 
 Would just as soon sing a cantata as storm a 
 Fortalice — for more information see " ^Norma." 
 
394 POEMS. 
 
 They hunted up sinners with clerical zeal, 
 
 And with fire or steel 
 In the orthodox manner made heretics feel 
 Humanity's woe for eternity's weal. 
 
 It 's a singular fact that divergence of creed, 
 
 And even, indeed, 
 
 If on that they 're agreed. 
 Some matter of ritual, useless to heed 
 In the vital account, will so frequently lead 
 
 Sane men by the nose 
 
 Till the argument grows 
 
 Prom breath evanescent 
 
 To rage calorescent, 
 And all a man's diaphragm feels incandescent. 
 
 I never could fancy your dons disputatious, 
 
 So very sagacious 
 On doctrinal points, deeming naught efficacious, 
 
 But foul and fallacious, 
 That don't coincide with their humor. Good gracious ! 
 I 'd rather be served with &> fieri facias ^ 
 And lose all my chattels 
 In litigant battles. 
 Than listen to one, whatsoever the merit he 
 Owns, who is swayed by polemic asperity. 
 And what is it all about? 
 What do they brawl about 1 
 Finding, perhaps, some ridiculous flaw 
 
 In the letter of law. 
 Or splitting some thin theological straw, — 
 The thousand and one serried points of disparity 
 Hanged on each side to annihilate charity. 
 
ST. PATRICK. 395 
 
 For my part I have the completest security ; 
 Patent highway there is none to futurity ; 
 
 Through the whole universe 
 Eoads there are more than can come in this puny verse. 
 
 Lector henevole, please to excuse 
 
 My intractable muse : — 
 The fault is n't mine, understand : could I choose, 
 
 She would certainly lose 
 
 !N"o time in digression, 
 
 Absurd retrocession, 
 Or any such anti-climactic transgression, 
 Forgetting the earlier scenes she began among, 
 Straying and playing, delaying the denouement. 
 An for myself I can possibly say 
 
 In the way 
 
 Of excuse 
 
 For this loose 
 
 And diffusive relation, 
 Fatiguing and vile anacephalization, 
 This flow of verbose and ventose etymology, 
 Is — if you 're conversant with female psychology, 
 Think of the sex : that 's my only apology ; 
 Women you know very well. But my office is 
 IN'ot analytic — condone the apophasis. 
 
 What time the bold King Mall swayed 
 lerne's realm, and warfare made 
 With Anglian, Gaul, with Goth and Hun, 
 And Ethiopia's swarthy son, 
 Victorious came he from each fight, 
 With valor's laurelled crown bedight. 
 So peerless in the lists of fame 
 Was this renowned monarch's name 
 
396 POEMS. 
 
 The bravest knight to him might yield 
 And bear no stain upon his shield ; — 
 'T was then that in the regal train 
 St. Patrick wore the captive's chain. 
 
 What time the sage King Logar ruled 
 lerne, and his people schooled 
 To wisdom, industry, and peace, 
 And bade war's fearful woes to cease ; 
 As vital stream that life imparts 
 Lived he within his lieges' hearts, 
 And wheresoever virtue came 
 All honored was this good king's name. 
 So did his praise men's voices fill, 
 Foul crime it was to speak him ill ; — 
 'T was then that with pure faith imbued 
 St. Patrick bore the Holy Eood. 
 
 What time the base and bloody rite 
 
 Of Druidism shamed the light. 
 
 When sacrificial altars blazed 
 
 Throughout the western world, and raised 
 
 Their lurid columns to the sky. 
 
 While ever rose the piercing cry 
 
 From tender youth of beauty rare, 
 
 Or virgin innocent and fair. 
 
 In fearful anguish, yielding life, 
 
 While reeked the archpriest's dreadful knife ; 
 
 'T was then, amid those scenes of ruth, 
 
 St. Patrick spread the light of Truth. 
 
 Would you dictum have and date 
 For the various blessings great 
 
ST. PATRICK. ^ 397 
 
 That St. Patrick caused to smile 
 
 Upon Erin's lovely isle 
 
 During sixty years and four 
 
 That the sacred staff he bore 1 
 
 Are they not inscribed upon 
 
 The old Polychronicon ? — 
 
 All the miracles he wroucjht : 
 
 How the populace he taught 
 
 Senseless idols to detest, 
 
 And the merciful behest 
 
 Of the God of peace and love 
 
 To obey all else above 1 
 
 How, despite of cell and cord. 
 
 He still preached the blessed Word, 
 
 And its excellence maintained 1 
 
 How he with a sign explained 
 
 The mysterious Trinity 
 
 By the shamrock's petals three 1 
 
 How all serpents from the land 
 
 He drove away on every hand. 
 
 Till no poisonous thing was found 
 
 Did they search the country round 1 
 
 A ray of light 
 Beams sunny bright 
 
 Upon my clouded brain, 
 Dispelling quick 
 The vapors thick 
 
 That hung on it amain. 
 I 've found it out 
 Beyond a doubt, — 
 
 The serpents that he banned 
 Were evil men, 
 
398 POEMS. 
 
 Whose doing then 
 Disturbed lerne's land ; 
 
 Who kept the isle 
 
 In squalor vile, 
 And for their selfish end 
 
 The kindly ties 
 
 That mortals prize 
 All ruthlessly did rend. 
 
 Men's thoughts to steep 
 
 In darkness deep 
 It was their only aim ; 
 
 They little recked 
 
 The sad effect, 
 The sorrow and the shame; 
 
 When sword and flame 
 
 With famine came 
 And laid tile country waste, 
 
 Less woe befell 
 
 So hard to quell 
 As from those deeds are traced ; 
 
 For war but gave 
 
 Unto the grave 
 The bold who nobly bled. 
 
 And famine's dart 
 
 Slow reached the heart 
 Where hope was not all dead. 
 
 I argue, then. 
 
 It was such men 
 To whom the Saint did come, 
 
 And frowning say, 
 
 " Exorcite 
 
 Secere haculum ! " 
 
THE SWORD OF FONTENOY. 399 
 
 THE SWOED OF FONTENOY. 
 
 Written for the Haiotliorne Literary Union, of Faith Mission. 
 
 The aged Count de Macmahon, 
 
 Was at the old chateau 
 The founder of his name had won 
 
 A century ago. 
 
 Knowincj the summons had been sent 
 
 That all men must obey, 
 In calm and Christianly content 
 
 He on his death-bed lay. 
 
 His brother's sons stood by him then, 
 
 Three images of ruth ; 
 Two of them were already men, 
 
 The third was still a youth. 
 
 In tears they stood there by his side, 
 
 In tears, but mute as stone. 
 For from the day their father died 
 
 He loved them as his own. 
 
 Then spoke the Count, in accents low 
 
 And weak : " Away with grief; 
 Much must you learn before I go 
 
 And now my time is brief. 
 
 '* Your father, it need not be told, 
 
 Was peer amongst his peers. 
 He died as die the bravest, old 
 
 In honor, not in years. 
 
400 POEMS. 
 
 " A Frenchman, though, his name and blood 
 
 Their origin proclaimed, — 
 The Irish name that while he stood 
 
 In life no falsehood shamed. 
 
 " A soldier, with the soldier's creed, — 
 
 Aid and relief to bring 
 His country first, whoever bleed, 
 
 And after her, the king. 
 
 " 1^0 matter who Lutetia throned, 
 
 The puppet of an hour, 
 His heart's allegiance always owned 
 
 France as the regnant power. 
 
 Before the heights of La Eothion 
 
 He fell in the advance, 
 A soldier of the Empire, for 
 
 The Empire then was France. 
 
 *' Long had he been from home away, 
 When his brave death occurred, 
 
 Leaving two sons. Ah ! fatal day. 
 He never saw the third. 
 
 " For when the sad news came, his wife, 
 
 An angel of true love. 
 Gave for his being life for life. 
 
 And sought her home above. 
 
 " Had he but known the truth, this will 
 Would never have been made ; 
 
 Unfatherly, unjust, yet still 
 His wish must be obeyed. 
 
THE SWORD OF FONTENOY. 401 
 
 "The injury was undesigned: 
 
 Through ignorance 't was done ; — 
 Surely fraternal love will find 
 
 Some way the ill to shun." 
 
 The will was read. The eldest son 
 
 Their home was to receive ; 
 And for his share the youngest one 
 
 The wealth that he might leave. 
 
 And that was all. The two sons stood, 
 
 With eyes bent on the ground, 
 " They '11 speak ! " the old Count hoped they would, 
 
 But there was not a sound. 
 
 And then he turned, as if ashamed. 
 
 And with a kind of fear. 
 To Patrick, — so the youth was named. 
 
 Such tale who had to hear. 
 
 But there he saw so proud a head 
 
 It made his heart rejoice. 
 And to the landless youth he said. 
 
 In clear and ringing voice : — 
 
 " 1 have a heritage for thee, 
 
 That beggars house and hoard, 
 If thou art of our blood, bring me 
 
 Yon old, time-rusted sword. 
 
 " That glorious weapon look upon 
 
 With veneration, boy ; 
 Thy grandsire's grandsire bore it 
 
 On the field of Fontenoy ! 
 26 
 
4:02 POEMS. 
 
 " When English, Dutch, and Austrian 
 From dawn till set of sun 
 
 Contended against Frenchmen 
 All unaided, all alone. 
 
 " ]^o, not alone ! — what was it then 
 The tide of battle stayed ? 
 
 A handful of brave Irishmen, — 
 The famous Green Brigade, — 
 
 '* Exiled for loving their old land, 
 Their faith, and landless king. 
 
 Stern retribution nerved each hand 
 To deadly reckoning. 
 
 " That battered piece of sturdy steel 
 In mean and sordid eyes 
 
 And hearts that no emotion feel 
 "Would be a sorry prize. 
 
 " A thing of profitless renown. 
 By such 't would only be 
 
 In some neglected corner thrown, 
 I give it, boy, to thee ! 
 
 ** Take it, and keep its record bright, 
 That thy grandchildren may 
 
 In after time to theirs recite 
 The story of to-day ! 
 
 Silent the youth stood for a space, 
 Oppressed by feeling great ; 
 
 Then, lifting up his glowing face, 
 With joy and hope elate, 
 
POLLY O^CONNOR. 403 
 
 He said, as ou the blade he wept, 
 
 " Go, wealth, and home, and land ! 
 This precious treasure I accept, 
 
 From thy more precious hand. 
 
 ** His name and sword are all I have 
 
 Ambition to retain : 
 And Heaven so aid me as I strive 
 To guard them both from stain." 
 
 The old Count smiled ; in loving grasp 
 
 Their hands were joined awhile, 
 Till death released the feeble clasp, 
 
 But spared the parting smile. 
 
 Sad only for that loss, the youth 
 
 Turns from his father's land ; 
 His fortune, faith and hope and truth, 
 
 And that time-rusted brand. 
 
 Honor's bright pathway he selects, 
 
 Like hero of romance ; 
 And now that homeless boy directs 
 
 The destiny of France. 
 
 POLLY 0'C0I^:N'0II. 
 
 I. 
 
 I WILL not venture to compare 
 
 Those flashing eyes 
 
 To sunny skies ; 
 To threads of gold thy wealth of hair ; 
 
404 POEMS. 
 
 Thy. cheek unto the rose's glow ; 
 Thy polished brow, 
 To lilies glancing in the light, 
 Or Parian white ; 
 Thy bosom to the virgin snow ; — 
 Eor these 
 Are weak and well-worn similes. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thine eyes are like — like — let me see ; 
 
 The violet's hue, 
 
 Eeflected through 
 
 A drop of dew ; 
 
 No, that won't do. 
 
 'No semblance true 
 In ample nature can there be 
 To equal their intensity, — 
 
 Their heavenly blue. 
 'T were just as vain to seek. 
 Through every flower to match thy glowing cheek. 
 
 No gold could shed 
 Such radiant glory as ensaints thy head. 
 
 Besides, I now remember, 
 That golden tresses are but flattered red, 
 
 And thine are living amber, — 
 As, when 't is ripest, through the waving corn 
 The sunbeams glance upon a harvest morn. 
 
 III. 
 
 To the pale lustre of thy brow, 
 The lily's self perforce must bow ; 
 Thy bosom as the new-fallen snow 
 
LA FILLE DU REGIMENT. 405 
 
 Is quite 
 
 As white, 
 And melts as soon with love's warm glow. 
 
 But then, 
 "While that receives an early stain, 
 Thy purer bosom doth still pure remain. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Since, to my mind, 
 I cannot find 
 A simile of any kind, 
 I argue hence 
 Thou art the sense 
 And spirit of all excellence ; 
 The charm-bestowing fountain whence 
 
 Fate doth dispense 
 Its varied bounties to the fair, 
 The loveliest of whom but share 
 A portion of the gifts thou well canst spare. 
 
 THE OPEEA OF "LA FILLE DU EEGIME:t^T," 
 
 DONE INTO ENGLISH. 
 
 The Twenty-first Eegiment marching one day 
 
 In an orderly way. 
 
 To sack and to slay 
 An inadequate mass for their limited pay, — 
 
 For, though victory may 
 
 Be the sunniest ray 
 That over a Marechal's caput can play, 
 
406 POEMS. 
 
 I '11 venture to say, 
 
 Till the world turns gray 
 The doUarum dibs will hold paramount sway, — 
 Well, this regiment marching in valiant array, 
 
 With colors so gay, 
 
 They 
 Happened to meet with an overthrown chay. 
 With a baby inside of it, trying to pray ; 
 
 So the enfant trouvee 
 
 They carry away. 
 And adopt as their daughter, sans ceremonie. 
 
 Dear reader, you '11 please to remember this case 
 
 Of abduction took place 
 A long time before the first scene of the piece ; 
 And Sulpice the sergeant, moreover the bass, 
 
 Has had many a chase, 
 
 In trying to trace 
 Out her father and mother, or aught of her race, 
 
 That they might embrace 
 A daughter so lovely in figure and face ; 
 But vain his endeavors ; so now you may see 
 
 That pretty Marie 
 Is contented and happy as happy can be, 
 With a step as light, and a will as free. 
 As a sweet little bird in the boughs of a tree, 
 Or a nice little fish in some beautiful sea. 
 Or a frolicsome fawn on a meadowy lea. 
 
 Or a bee 
 
 Full of glee. 
 
 Or a little fairee. 
 Or anything else that occurs unto thee, 
 That will with those characteristics agree. 
 
LA FILLE DU EEGIMENT. 407 
 
 And t"he soldiers adore their young daughter, for she 
 Makes most undeniable coffee and tea, 
 And warbles, moreover, magnificently. 
 
 Now our little friend Marie, a short time ago, 
 Contrived to inveigle a bit of a beau, — 
 
 One Tonio, — 
 A dapper young Tyrolese peasant, although 
 
 He 's rather so-so. 
 
 As pecuniaries go, 
 And I 'm angry with Marie for stooping so low ; 
 
 But love's rapid flow 
 
 Will frequently throw 
 Strange parties together, for weal or for woe, 
 Let the atoms surrounding them like it or no. 
 Now Toney and Marie, one day you must know 
 Were singing great love to each other, when, lo ! 
 The sergeant observed them, and he was n't slow 
 In detecting how matters were going. " Oho ! " 
 Said he, rushing down with his gills in a glow, 
 " The pearl of the vingt unieme must n't bestow 
 Her hand on a maudit paysan and a foe." 
 
 But the sergeant stout 
 
 Was soon put to the rout. 
 Love had carried the poorly defended redoubt 
 Of the heart of Marie, and no menace or shout 
 Can send such a conqueror right about ; 
 
 " Eor," said she, with a pout, 
 " If my amiable mother don't know that I 'm out, 
 
 What is it to you. 
 
 Whatever I do "? 
 So please, Mr. Sergeant, I '11 follow my gout." 
 
408 POEMS. 
 
 " Mille d'yeux, 
 
 Sacre hleu ! 
 
 Quelle une aicdacieuse ! " 
 Said the grande rmlitaire, in a deuce of a stew. 
 In a most unavoidable passion he flew, 
 
 For Marie was true, 
 
 To her new 
 
 AmoureuXf 
 And stuck to her point like a gallon of glue ; 
 So they compromised things in a minute or two. 
 ' By putting him through 
 
 An inductory few 
 Mere matters of form, to a soldier he grew. 
 
 And now I expect 
 
 In the tricolor decked, 
 His comrades consider that he might affect 
 
 A duchess elect, 
 Or a queen, if her majesty did n't object. 
 Now the fun 's what I think I may venture to call 
 
 Uncommonly tall, 
 When a slice of good luck nearly ruins them all, 
 Making Toney the brave sing prodigiously^ small. 
 A Marchioness something, bah ! what is her name ? 
 I really forget, but it 's all the same, — 
 Suffice it to say she's an elegant dame. 
 
 Of the old regime. 
 All powder and hoop, a la Louis Cinquieme, 
 Has come to claim 
 
 The glory and pride of the viJigt unieme ; 
 She calls Marie her niece, and she takes her away, 
 And, as matter of course, there 's old Harry to pay. 
 
LA FILLE DU EEGIMENT. 409 
 
 You '11 please to remember, some time has passed 
 
 Since line the last. 
 
 Marie having cast 
 Her merino for satin that can't be surpassed, 
 And a natural fund of good breeding amassed, 
 GroAvs into a lady remarkably fast, 
 And she lives in a beautiful palace among 
 A magnifique aristocratical throng ] 
 But you plainly perceive there is something wrong, 
 For instead of the light-hearted ran-tan-plan, 
 A feeling of sorrow pervades her song. 
 
 A nobleman grand ' 
 
 Has offered his hand. 
 With the wealthiest dower that ever was read. 
 But Toney, the peasant, still runs in her head. 
 
 So the Marchioness said, 
 " To Toney, the peasant, you cannot be wed, 
 For a very good reason — because he 's dead ; 
 So oblige me, and marry the Duke instead." 
 And the dutiful darling, though tears she shed, 
 
 And her little heart bled, 
 Prepared to encounter the nuptials dread ; 
 And they leave her alone, and she gazes around 
 Those beautiful walls, and declares she has found 
 But little content on nobility's ground, 
 When her startled ear catches a well-known sound ; 
 
 With a rapturous bound 
 She flies to the window, and, marching by, 
 Her beloved old regiment blesses her eye ; 
 
 And her pulse beats high. 
 
 And she fain would cry. 
 
 But her brain is dry. 
 
410 POEMS. 
 
 And the tears won't come, and she does n't know why, 
 
 No more do I — 
 But oh ! her delight 's inexpressihle, when 
 The company enters the chamber, and then 
 She embraces the flag, she embraces the men, 
 David and Robert, Thomasse and Etienne, 
 She kisses them over and over again : 
 But where is poor Toney % — alas ! now her tears 
 Mow freely and fast — when she suddenly hears 
 A voice well remembered through changeable years, 
 And fancy her joy, when, saluted with cheers. 
 In an officer's dress her old lover appears. 
 
 Dear reader, there is n't much more to disclose. 
 The Duke has his conge as you may suppose. 
 
 The Marchioness 'shows 
 
 Inclination for blows. 
 And does n't seem willing the matter to close ; 
 
 When Toney just tlirows 
 Out a delicate hint that a secret he knows, 
 A mistake into which she once happened to fall. 
 She thought she was married, but was n't — that 's all, 
 A slight error that gave them a mother apiece. 
 Making Marie her daughter, instead of her niece ; 
 So she gives her consent, but I really must say, 
 'T was brought about in a most scandalous way. 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD. 411 
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 Bead at the convention dinner, of the Theta Delta Chi Society^ at the 
 Metropolitan Hotel, New York, February 2\st, 1873. 
 
 ** Aurum omnes, victa jam pietate, volunt." 
 
 I AM expected — by the bill it seems — 
 To read " a Poem." I hope no one dreams 
 Or has the most remote anticipation 
 That I 've attempted any such creation. 
 I only promise a few random rhymes, — 
 Glancing occasionally at the times. 
 
 • • • • • . • 
 
 In this dilemma, what am I to do 1 
 
 I would call on the Muse, but, entre nouSj 
 
 We do not visit, — I have oft before 
 
 Eung most politely at the Muses' door. 
 
 But always found that they were " not at home," 
 
 And back, abashed, of course I had to come, — 
 
 A most conclusive proof, to my own mind. 
 
 That the acquaintance is by them declined. 
 
 And such a simply personal rebuif 
 
 To a retiring rhymer 's hint enough, 
 
 Especially when they are more compliant 
 
 In other quarters : — William Cullen Bryant 
 
 Is hand and glove with them ; quite at his ease is ; 
 
 Can call on them or not just as he pleases. 
 
 The intimacy is not at all affected, 
 
 E'en by the shameful way they 've been neglected. 
 
 To many others they 've been most polite ; — 
 
 The classic Longfellow has but to write 
 
412 POEMS. 
 
 A single line, to bring them to his side : 
 
 Indeed, so lovingly are they alhed, 
 
 And so complete their intimacy is, 
 
 That now they scarcely know their home from his, 
 
 And wonder very often where the deuce it 's 
 
 Placed, — in Macedon or Massachusetts. 
 
 Adventurous Taylor through the arctic roves, 
 
 Yet they, forgetting their Pierian groves, 
 
 Shame not to travel with him side by side, 
 
 As through untrodden fields his footsteps guide. 
 
 They heed titanic Whittier, — honored soul, 
 
 That spurns oppression's infamous control, 
 
 And in life's terribly unequal fight, 
 
 Whate'er the cause, still battles for the right ! 
 
 A youthful poet of the present hour. 
 
 Strikes with sure hand the chords of western power. 
 
 A Theta Delt, we glory in his fame, 
 
 And twine this votive garland round his name. 
 
 The lowliest subjects, by his pen refined, 
 
 Like Zeuxis' paintings, show the master mind. 
 
 And what a broad humanity the whole 
 
 Pervades, — the true religion of the soul ! 
 
 The sun shone brilliantly upon the day 
 
 The world had garnered in that crop of Hat ! 
 
 Another form appears, — the wise and witty 
 
 Dr. 0. W. Holmes, of Boston city, — 
 
 Who, by the will of most capricious fate. 
 
 Must his true intuition abrogate. 
 
 Enforced to turn on the prudential hose 
 
 Above the bright flame that within him glows. 
 
 Alas that he should make such great concession 
 
 To the requirements of his grave profession ! 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD. 413 
 
 'T is seldom, in their day, the olive crown 
 
 Is given to those who best deserve renown. 
 
 Great names come filtered through the sands of time 
 
 That, in their time, those very sands obscured; 
 Even he whose genius was the most sublime 
 
 In his own day the world's neglect endured. 
 
 Great IS'ature's arch-magician, to whose spell 
 The varied passions of the human soul 
 Must quick obedience yield, — a myriad minds 
 In one conjoined, a universe of thought 
 Within the compass of one mortal brain, — 
 Obscure, untitled, from the laboring mass 
 The hand of fate raised up this paragon 
 To overtop the highest ! Kings will pass 
 And their whole lineage be forgotten dust ; 
 Empires will rise and fall, new worlds be found, 
 Where knowledge now declares a void ; and yet, 
 While there exists one record of his land 
 Or language, and mankind would think of one 
 Who has pre-eminently honored both. 
 Spontaneous to its lips will rise the name 
 Of William Shakespeare ! 
 
 What shall his crown be ? Not the laurel leaf. 
 
 That, blood-besprinkled, decks the warrior's head, 
 Who grasps at glory as destruction's chief, 
 
 A living monument to thousands dead. 
 Bequeathing a vast legacy of grief ; 
 
 Some pest incarnate, fed with human life, 
 
 Born of ambition or the lust of strife ! 
 
 In regal diadem shall we proclaim 
 
 Him monarch ? That would circumscribe his worth. 
 
414 POEMS. 
 
 A kingly coronet would only shame 
 
 The kinglier thought, whose realm is the whole earth ! 
 Such petty vanities but mock his fame ; 
 
 Profane it not, He is all crowns above, 
 
 Hero of Peace ! Evangelist of Love ! 
 
 Erewhile we 've heard how throbbed the mighty heart 
 
 Of Pegasus, yoked to a village cart ; 
 
 How strained his trembling limbs to drag the load, 
 
 While his frame quivered from the piercing goad ! 
 
 But only for a space : the indignant soul, 
 
 Spurning the savage husbandman's control, 
 
 With one prodigious effort burst the traces. 
 
 And, as is usual in all such cases, 
 
 Smashed up the wagon, and contrived to pitch 
 
 The dolt who drove into a muddy ditch ; 
 
 Then, pawing with disdain the vulgar ground. 
 
 Snorting detiance to the crew around, 
 
 Clove with strong pinion the congenial air, 
 
 By Phoebus mounted, to the hind's despair, — 
 
 Who saw no miracle, nor marked the rise 
 
 Of the enfranchised courser to the skies, 
 
 But cursed the fate that prompted him to buy 
 
 A beast with such a tendency to shy. 
 
 This truth, however, his experience told, — 
 
 In a horse trade one party must be sold. 
 
 Our modern Pegasus is not so nice ; 
 
 Though now and then he may possess a spice 
 
 Of the old spirit, and be somewhat restive. 
 
 He 's kept in wholesome check by the digestive ; 
 
 For he no more ethereally feeds 
 
 On Heliconian dews, but rather needs 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD. 415 
 
 Eobuster fare, and is — the fates deliver us ! — 
 
 Amazingly inclined to the carnivorous. 
 
 His wings are clipped, and now he seldom soars 
 
 Beyond the sphere of advertising stores. 
 
 His bated breath no more salutes the gales, 
 
 But fills with languid puffs trade's flagging sails, 
 
 Lauds, without stint or sense, hats, boots, or coats, 
 
 Contented if he earn his daily oats. 
 
 And there are many in this " Gradgrind " age 
 
 Would rather see him harnessed to a stage, — 
 
 Fourteen inside, and just as many more 
 
 As can squeeze in or hang upon the door, — 
 
 Than have him from his slavery arise, 
 
 To range at will the unproductive skies. 
 
 Ours is a money-ruled, commercial age, — 
 
 Its acts the substance of a ledger's page ; 
 
 Its deeds by the prospective profits swayed ; 
 
 The universal aim — to make a trade. 
 
 The world is one great mart — not over nice — 
 
 And nothing is but has its market price ; 
 
 Fame, power, pleasure, nay, we have been told. 
 
 That even freemen's votes are sometimes sold. 
 
 'T is said — of course by some enormous blunder — 
 
 That place is but a synonym e for plunder ; 
 
 That politicians have been sometimes known 
 
 To public welfare to prefer their own; 
 
 And only fools, who don't know how to win. 
 
 Go out of office poor as they went in. 
 
 'T is hinted — but that must be defamation — 
 
 That even in the council of the nation 
 
 There are some statesmen who — the Press has said it — 
 
 Took shares in schemes not greatly to their credit, 
 
416 POEMS. 
 
 And many long thought honorable names 
 
 Were sullied by disreputable aims. 
 
 In fine, did we believe what they impart, a 
 
 J^ew Lycurgus rules another Sparta, 
 
 And the most honored in the common weal 
 
 Are those who most successfully can steal. 
 
 J^To change there can be while the money power » 
 
 Tyrannic rules, the idol of the hour. 
 
 Each sordid worshipper his fellow mocks, 
 
 Nor counts his worth, except it be in stocks, 
 
 And to the glittering apex lifts his eyes, 
 
 Nor heeds the mud-heap whence its altars rise. 
 
 Its reflected page — 
 The printed transcript of the passing age — 
 Is with the weird and terrible so rife. 
 So filled with images of blood and strife, 
 That men the daily catalogue of vices 
 Peruse as calmly as the market prices. 
 Erewhile, in distant climes, the trumpet's blare 
 "Wakes slumbering War from forth his hideous lair, 
 For cause most causeless ; haply the desire 
 To give some princeling a baptism of fire, 
 Or else some crafty knavery of state 
 In wholesale carnage to obliterate ; 
 Meanwhile, as thousands upon thousands bleed, 
 Eeligion's dignitaries bless the deed, 
 Chanting Te Deums, too, from time to time. 
 As though they 'd fain, with impudence sublime. 
 Make Heaven itself abettor in the crime. 
 Thus, to my mind, the anthem's form should be — 
 The real import of such blasphemy : — 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD. 417 
 
 THE HYMN OF PEINCES. 
 
 I. 
 
 Lord ! we have given, in thy name, 
 The peaceful villages to flame. 
 Of all the dwellers we Ve bereft, — 
 Iso trace of hearth, no roof-tree left. 
 Beneath our war-steeds' iron tread. 
 The germ of future life is dead. 
 We have swept o'er it like a blight ; 
 To Thee the praise, God of right I 
 
 II. 
 
 "We have let loose the demon chained 
 
 In bestial hearts, that unrestrained 
 
 Infernal revel it may hold, 
 
 And feast on villanies untold. 
 
 With ravening drunkenness possessed. 
 
 And mercy banished from each breast j 
 
 All war's atrocities above. 
 
 To Thee the praise, God of love / 
 
 III. 
 
 Some hours ago, on yonder plain, 
 There stood six hundred thousand men, 
 Made in thine image, strong and rife 
 With hope, and energy, and life. 
 And none but had some prized one, dear. 
 Grief-stricken, wild with anxious fear : 
 A third of them we have made ghosts ; 
 To Thee the praise, Lord of hosts ! 
 27 
 
418 POEMS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thy sacred temples we 've not spared, 
 For they the broad destruction shared j 
 The annals of time-honored lore, 
 Lost to the world, are now no more. 
 What reck we if the holy fane 
 And learning's dome are mourned in vain ? 
 Our work those landmarks to efface : 
 To Thee the praise, Lord of grace ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Secure, behind a wall of steel, 
 
 To watch the yielding columns reel, 
 
 While round them sulphurous clouds arise, 
 
 Foul incense wafting to the skies. 
 
 From our home-manufactured hell, 
 
 Is royal pastime we like well. 
 
 As momently death's ranks increase : 
 
 To Thee the praise, God of peace ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thus shall it be, while human kind, 
 
 Madly perverse or wholly blind. 
 
 Will so complacently be led 
 
 At our command their blood to shed. 
 
 For lust of conquest, or the sly. 
 
 Deceptive, diplomatic lie ; 
 
 To us the gain, to them the ruth. 
 
 To Thee the praise, God of truth ! 
 
 age insensate, that for petty crime 
 Outwears with verbose laws the ear of time ; 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD. 419 
 
 But when, self-gorged, crime swells to monstrous growth, 
 Law and the grovelling world, besotted both. 
 Hail it with frantic shouts, until the shame, 
 Tossed upward on their breath, mounts into Fame ! 
 
 J^ow to conclude my unambitious rhyme, 
 (I think I hear you say, 't is almost time,) 
 I Ve but a few more words to say, and those 
 Eeserved, like sweetest morsels, for the close. 
 How beautiful, amid the cares of life. 
 The transient bitterness of party strife, 
 The thousand devious, separated ways 
 Through which men journey in maturer days, 
 A scene like this, that for a space renews 
 On life's meridian the refreshing dews 
 Of its young morn ! to see hands grasping hands 
 With equal ardor, while the clogging sands 
 That time has heaped up, since the days of yore, 
 Are swept away, and we are boys once more ! 
 What is the mystic power that can compel 
 Such joy as this 1 'T is Friendship's sacred spell, 
 Friendship, that death's keen arrow cannot quell ! 
 For, while the eternal stars night's purple robe 
 Begem, while swings in space the pendent globe. 
 Friendship must live ! Ah ! may its impulse high 
 Still guard and guide the Theta Delta Chi ! 
 
420 POEMS. 
 
 EOSALIE. 
 
 I. 
 
 My Eosalie, 
 So dear to me, 
 I weep for thee 
 
 Left here alone. 
 They say 't is bad 
 To feel so sad, 
 As if I had 
 
 A heart of stone. 
 O, if they knew. 
 As I well do, 
 How fond and true 
 
 Thou wert to me. 
 They 'd silent keep 
 At grief so deep, 
 And let me weep 
 
 For Eosalie. 
 
 The winds are sighing o'er the plain, 
 The skies are weeping tears of rain ; 
 All nature seems to grieve with me, 
 For thou art gone, my Eosalie. 
 
 II. 
 
 My Eosalie 
 
 JSTo more I see, — 
 
 So full of glee. 
 
 So fresh and gay ! 
 iNo more I hear 
 Those accents dear. 
 
EOSALIE. 421 
 
 That were so near 
 
 Me yesterday. 
 Thou art not gone, 
 My darling one, 
 For pictured on 
 
 Life's memory, 
 When in repose 
 My eyelids close. 
 Ah 1 then it shows 
 
 Me Eosalie ! 
 
 My Rosalie, 
 Since thus to thee 
 My soul can flee 
 
 When day is o'er, 
 0, it were best 
 To be so blest 
 That I should rest 
 
 For evermore ! 
 I humbly wait 
 The wiU of fate 
 From sorrow great 
 
 To set me free : 
 The end I 'U greet. 
 However fleet, 
 Again to meet 
 
 My EosaHe ! 
 
422 POEMS. 
 
 MACSWI^-EY'S FEAST. 
 
 A EEMINISCENCB. 
 ''Duos qui sequitur lepores, neutrum capit." 
 
 THE ARGTJMENT. 
 
 [The Right Honorable Peter Paul Macswiney, being Lord Mayor 
 of Dublin, upon the arrival of the new Viceroy, who has the privi- 
 lege of bestowing knighthood on the then incumbent, resolves, 
 although an ardent nationalist, to placate his Excellency by ten- 
 dering him a grand banquet ; but when Bacchi plenus, the truth 
 which is in wine asserts itself, and patriotism triumphs over am- 
 bition.] 
 
 It was night, and the Macswiney tossed restless on his 
 
 bed, — 
 Ambitious thoughts pervading his right honorable head ; 
 He saw, amid the darkness, flashing on his mental eyes, 
 The tributary fount of Irish dignity arise ; 
 He saw the pomp and panoply of chivalrous parade, 
 And felt upon his shoulder the viceregal accolade. 
 * Of temporary honor,' murmured he, ' I Ve had enow ; 
 The sable crown municipal is slipping from my brow ; 
 It may not be, for this alone, the story shall be told. 
 That I wore the Saxon fetters, though their links are 
 
 beaten gold.' 
 
 l!^ow a brilliant inspiration rained this manna on his soul. 
 That honor's shining bubbles sometimes sparkle in the 
 
 bowl. 
 And the stony heart of power, touched as by the prophet's 
 
 hand. 
 Oft yields to vinous impulse what next morning might 
 
 withstand. 
 
MACSWINEY'S FEAST. 423 
 
 * Within the gorgeous mansion-house I '11 haste me to pre- 
 
 pare, 
 And bid the new lieutenant to a banquet rich and rare. 
 What boots it that with battle-scars I purchase not this 
 
 meed, 
 For, keener than the body's pain, my purse will have to 
 
 bleed. 
 Meanwhile in courtly minever my breast I will enfold. 
 And hide the Saxon fetters, with their links of beaten gold. 
 
 * Full many a belted knight, I ween, that stomached not 
 
 the wars, 
 By freely shedding blood-red wine achieved his golden 
 
 spurs. 
 Have I not been in peril great with harmfulness imbued, 
 For what the battle s fury to the rage of party feud ? 
 And in the brunt of such a storm who ever saw me flinch. 
 Or from the people's side fall back one perdurable inch 1 ' 
 When sudden he bethought him that such souvenirs as 
 
 those 
 Had best be kept at present underneath his castle clothes, 
 Till he could fling them from him, and in freedom as of old 
 Disdain the Saxon fetters, with their links of beaten gold. 
 
 Came the feast, and the Macswiney sat in superceltic pride ; 
 For in rosy bonds he held the Saxon ruler by his side. 
 Passed he quick the brimming amphorae with civic nectar 
 
 full; 
 Spoke he much in downy accents, soft as double-carded 
 
 wool; 
 Though he felt within his midriff that his honeyed words 
 
 were naught. 
 On his silent coadjutors he relied for what he sought. 
 
424 POEMS. 
 
 " Mel in ore, fel in core," was his motto on that night, — 
 Monkish, mediaeval Latin, hut 't will do if read aright ; 
 Tor amid the heat of wassail came the feeling icy cold 
 That he wore the Saxon fetters, with their links of beaten 
 gold. 
 
 Came the morning : and the revelry, fast drawing to a close, 
 
 Began to show some symptoms of satiety's repose, — 
 
 The extemporaneous speeches to the papers sent away 
 
 For the special delectation of the city's dejeuner. 
 
 The tempest of hilarity had softened to a breeze, 
 
 And those who had the strongest heads were weak about 
 
 the knees. 
 Hands were clasped that never touched before, and hearts 
 
 were welling up. 
 As passed the proud Amphitrion the mollifying cup ; 
 Wrapped in measureless content was he, and, as the 
 
 moments rolled, 
 Forgot the Saxon fetters, with their links of beaten gold. 
 
 Breathes there no better Irishman, none better work has 
 
 done. 
 Than he who led the feast ; but there are spots upon the 
 
 sun. 
 Both heart and head were armor-clad in patriotic zeal, 
 But, like the Grecian hero, he was shaky in the heel. 
 Those golden spurs ! those golden spurs ! the racers of his 
 
 brain 
 So galled, they bolted reason's track and madly broke the 
 
 rein. 
 Upon that wild idea he, Mazeppa-like, was bound, 
 And in circuses Tartarean galloped round, and round, and 
 
 round. 
 
MACSWINEY'S FEAST. 425 
 
 Until a wilder thought arose, that could not be con- 
 trolled, 
 
 AU about the Saxon fetters, with their links of beaten 
 gold. 
 
 I^ow, well-a-day ! and woe is me such tale that have to 
 
 teU! 
 'Twas through seductive womankind the primal Adam 
 
 fell. 
 A legacy of paradise his children still inherit. 
 " Nulla fere causa est, in quae non femina moverit." 
 "What wonder the Macswiney, in the obfuscating haze, 
 Took rashly for his guiding star the hght of other days ! 
 By pitiless Mnemosyne his soul was tempest-tost. 
 And, thinking of his grandam, he his mental rudder lost, — • 
 Thinking how she would have suffered could she only have 
 
 foretold 
 That he'd wear the Saxon fetters, made of old King 
 
 William's gold. 
 
 And he, the famous Jacobite, who had so often bled, — 
 Macswiney, of the Gallowglasses, — what would he have 
 
 said] 
 That ancestor whose battle-axe was crimsoned o'er and o'er 
 From the blade down to the handle in a flood of Saxon 
 
 gore? 
 This spirit 't was that fired his eye and caused his teeth to 
 
 crunch ; 
 Mixed with a little usquebaugh, it made a lovely punch. 
 Forgot he then the party men, the Ghibelline and Guelph,— 
 Forgot the spurs, but, most of all, forgot he then himself 
 It angered him to think that even phantoms might behold 
 On him the Saxon fetters, with their links of beaten gold. 
 
426 POEMS. 
 
 Up rose he, and like Jupiter Ferretrius appeared, 
 While quivered every hair upon his patriarchal beard; 
 Glared he round on the assembly, in a strange and startling 
 
 way; 
 Ah ! Tribus Anticyrus, caput insanabile ! 
 The collar of his servitude from off his neck he tore ; 
 * This glittering badge of slavery,' cried he, * I '11 wear no 
 
 more/ 
 Away 't was flung, and if the act no deep impression made 
 Upon the viceroy's heart, it only just escaped his head. 
 Then hurrah for the Macswiney, who in word and action 
 
 bold 
 Abjured the Saxon fetters, with their links of beaten gold 1 
 
 PEACE AND WAR. 
 
 Peace everlastingly with those 
 Who still the perfect truth disclose, 
 And, in all places, nobly dare 
 The mask from speciousness to tear ; 
 Who not by words, but actions, show 
 The attributes of heaven below ; 
 Who never with presumption scan 
 The failings of their fellow-man. 
 But those who've fallen in evil ways 
 By gentle admonition raise. 
 And thus in deed true homage give 
 To Him who died that we might live ; 
 Peace everlastingly with those 
 Who still the perfect truth disclose. 
 
NEBULA. 427 
 
 War to the uttermost with all 
 
 Who hold the human mind in thrall ; 
 
 Be they bold villains, who appear 
 
 With bolder faces, scorning fear, — 
 
 Who, in their mastery of evil, 
 
 Were there a chance, would cheat the devil ; 
 
 Or be they fat " professors," sleek. 
 
 Soft, placid-voiced, and seeming meek, — 
 
 Their aspirations worldly greed. 
 
 And selfishness their only creed, — 
 
 Who in deceit so long have trod. 
 
 The}'- fain would hope to cheat their God ; — 
 
 War to the uttermost with all 
 
 Who hold the mind of man in thrall ! 
 
 NEBULA. 
 
 I FEEL a strange upheaval of the chest, 
 To me, at least, a singular sensation, 
 
 A pent-up something, — truly, at the best, 
 A most unpleasant kind of perturbation. 
 
 The difficulty is to solve the question. 
 
 If inspiration 't is, or indigestion. 
 
 At times I fancy that I 'm big with thought, 
 And labor hugely in the parturition ; 
 
 But for the life of me can bring forth naught 
 In anyway presentable condition. 
 
 I 'd like to know of what it is symbolic. 
 
 The true afflatus, or the windy colic. 
 
428 POEMS. 
 
 Just now a flock of small ideas flew 
 
 Across my brain, but I 'm afraid I 've missed 'em. 
 It puzzles me to know what I shall do, 
 
 In such severe derangement of the system j — 
 Take up my pen, all cod sequences scorning, 
 Or take a pill and seidlitz in the morning. 
 
 ' Throw physic to the dogs,' quoth gentle Will, 
 
 And so say I, my rule is dietetic. 
 'T is fixed, I '11 scribble ; so come, friendly quill 
 
 (Steel pen it is, but that 's not so poetic). 
 Shall I invoke the Muses' aid, or flout them ? 
 I '11 independent be, and do without them. 
 
 Such antique dames I 'm not inclined to woo 
 As those old dowagers ; besides, the fact is, 
 
 Courting nine women would be, entre nous, 
 Infringing, rather, on the Mormon practice. 
 
 To subjugate so many white-souled creatures 
 
 Would task your Brigham Youngs or Brooklyn teachers. 
 
 They 've jilted, too, so many a poor wight. 
 
 Who, hapless mortals, thonght that they had won 'em, 
 Oft at the first approaches taking flight, 
 
 There 's no dependence to be placed upon 'em. 
 To tell the honest truth, I 'm not so smitten 
 As thus incautiously to risk the mitten. 
 
 But if the least of all the nine should chance — 
 For women now and then have strange caprices, — 
 
 To cast on me the slightest friendly glance, 
 Or even introduce me to her nieces, 
 
 I must confess that I'd have no objection 
 
 To cultivate the family connection. 
 
NEBULA. 429 
 
 As such a prize I dare not hope to win, 
 
 For me, alas ! there 's no such sweet communion ; 
 
 It 's pretty nearly time I should begin 
 To consummate a less unequal union. 
 
 I 'm at the age when love is not potential, 
 
 But kept in wholesome check by the prudential. 
 
 It just occurs to me there is a dame 
 
 The world, and very righteously, accuses 
 Of kindling in unnumbered hearts a flame 
 
 For each one lighted by the modest Muses. 
 A flaunting Jezebel, old, bald, and wrinkled, 
 Though her false tresses are with gold-dust sprinkled. 
 
 Her name is Impudence, and, sooth to tell, 
 No place so sacred that her footsteps falter j 
 
 Even where genius worships, she as well 
 
 Kneels, side by side, before fame's glorious altar, — 
 
 Not to assist devotion, but to mock it. 
 
 For while he 's wrapped in thought, she picks his pocket : 
 
 With dextrous fingers filching the great thought 
 To which he, haply, gave a life's endeavor, 
 
 Deeming celebrity thus cheaply bought, — 
 For on time's scroll will he not live forever 1 
 
 Delusive hope, she claims the new invention. 
 
 Like — well, the names I do not choose to mention. 
 
430 POEMS. 
 
 SUMMEE rEIE:N'DS. 
 
 As the bee is to the rose, 
 While the honey-treasure flows, 
 Gently singing songs of love 
 To each blossom in the grove, 
 Pausing only in his flight 
 Where the sweets of life are bright, 
 All unwilling to depart 
 Till he reach the very heart, 
 And, when all the luscious store 
 Is exhausted, sings no more ; 
 As the bee is to the rose. 
 While the honey-treasure flows, 
 Are summer friends. 
 
 As the shadow to the boat 
 On a changeful lake afloat, — 
 When the lake is in repose. 
 Like a second boat it shows, 
 But, when tempests gather round. 
 Can no longer there be found ; — 
 As the shadow to the boat, 
 On a changeful lake afloat, 
 Axe summer friends. 
 
PAULINE. 431 
 
 LOVE'S MISSIOK 
 
 "Whither dost thou go, gentle wind 1 
 
 If thou hast naught to do, to thy mind, 
 
 0, betake thee to the west, 
 
 To the girl that I love best. 
 
 Heavy-laden with those sighs, 
 
 To the cottage where she lies ; 
 
 There, without a living sound 
 
 Let them softly hover round ; 
 
 Let them fan her brow so fair. 
 
 Let them stroke her silky hair. 
 
 Let them play at hide and seek 
 
 Through the dimples on her cheek, 
 
 Let them linger but to sip 
 
 Heaven's dew upon her lip ; 
 
 Then commingle with the air. 
 
 She is calmly breathing there 
 
 That within her gentle breast, 
 
 Eor an instant they may rest 
 
 In her heart to whisper deep 
 
 Thoughts of me while she doth sleep. 
 
 PAULIIs^E. 
 
 If you have n't yet been 
 
 To visit PauHne, 
 Its representation at Wallack's I mean, 
 
 While memory 's green. 
 Let me tell you the terrors of sweet Laura Keene 
 
432 POEMS. 
 
 Fresh now in my mind — brouglit about by the hein- 
 ous offences of Lester, whose role is between 
 A dove and a hawk, if you know what I mean ; 
 The most elegant scoundrel that ever was seen, 
 A Chesterfield cut-throat so aristocratical, 
 Graciously rude and indeed problematical, 
 
 Pale and piratical, — 
 Just such a "creature " as causes lymphatical 
 Boarding-school misses to feel quite ecstaticaL 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 Seriatim, the plot to unfold, 
 
 Which without any doubt is remarkably bold. 
 
 And new, we are told, 
 (For the matter of that, it will never be old,) 
 You '11 please to imagine a brilliant and rare 
 
 Pavilion somewhere 
 In France, looking out on a pleasant parterre. 
 
 Seated quietly there 
 Are a daughter and mother, affectionate pair 
 (Mrs. Stephens, La Fille, Mrs. Cramer, La Mere). 
 It 's a beautiful scene. By the way 't is but fair 
 To let it be known, as his truest well-wisher would, 
 All the fine pictures are painted by Isherwood. 
 It must be confessed that with wonderful skill 
 
 The son of a quill 
 Who fashioned the drama begins it so dosily. 
 
 Quiet and prosily, 
 Every one thinks he '11 attend to it cosily. 
 
 Placid and pleasantly, 
 Little expecting the row we 'U have presently. 
 And now to continue, the pretty Pauline, 
 
 Miss Keene, 
 
PAULINE. 433 
 
 I mean, 
 Bursts out like a sun-ray upon the dull scene, 
 And for a few moments it 's very serene j 
 
 Till a jockey in green — 
 Appropriate colors — requests her to tell 
 A story that sounds like a regular sell, 
 
 About tigers and jungles ; 
 A Count, too, who most unaccountably blunders 
 
 In killing the " critter," 
 
 The way that he " fit " her, 
 
 And hit her. 
 And how that it was n't convenient to quit her 
 
 Except on a litter. 
 She piles it all up in a deuce of a twitter. 
 And then she proceeds quite correctly to faint a bit. 
 Thinking him dead, but the fact is he ain't a bit. 
 Meanwhile the neighbors, surrounding the place. 
 Prepare to assist in the " joys of the chase "; 
 
 And in beating around 
 
 The contiguous ground, 
 'T is evident something alarming they 've found, — 
 A boar very likely, such monsters abound 
 In such pieces, — pshaw ! bless me, I mean in sueh places. 
 
 There's fear in the faces 
 Of pretty Pauline and her cousin and mother. 
 
 For somehow or other 
 The animal 's rude to the son and the brother. 
 By Eeynolds enacted, who bravely to lick him meant. 
 Had n't the best, and is in a predicament ; 
 Up and down fighting they have on the sward. 
 And the brute is decidedly running him hard. 
 When in comes De Beauchamp or Mr. Bernard, 
 
 A little mite " scared." 
 28 
 
434 POEMS. 
 
 Unsteady, and shaky, and queer in the wrist, 
 From terror, or toddies he'd taken at yest- 
 erday's banquet, a hundred to one but he'd missed, 
 When in glides the Count, and right out of his fist 
 
 He snatches the musket. 
 
 And up to liis " weskit " 
 He raises, and iires it, when riglit through the tusk it 
 Is safe to suppose Mr. Boar has the bullet in. 
 Slap through the gullet, in 
 
 Eushes " the crowd " with " the cousin and son," 
 And De Beau vale, that's Lester, says, "Very good gun." 
 
 The meeting between 
 
 The Count and Pauline, 
 To duly appreciate has to be seen ; 
 
 She shivers and shakes, 
 
 And quivers and quakes, 
 "While d, la seigneur, the Count haughtily makes 
 Love in a manner 't is perfectly certain ain't 
 Anything else but extremely impertinent ; 
 
 Using his eyes, 
 
 To the lady's surprise. 
 As if he had meant to anathematize 
 The whole of the family, says — but he lies. 
 As the sequel will prove — he 's a capital prize 
 
 In the marrying lottery. 
 
 Choose him she ought, or he 
 Knows what he '11 do — then her eyes become watery, 
 
 Seeing he 's caught her, he 
 Grins, like a good-looking vampire in fun, 
 
 Upon every one, 
 
 While the " cousin and son," 
 Young Lucian de Nerval, looks nervously on. 
 For his recent delivery not at all grateful, he 
 
PAULINE. 435 
 
 Strokes his imperial and scowls on him hatefully ; 
 And this being all that is proper to know, 
 The curtain descends on a brilliant tableau. 
 
 You '11 understand here 
 There 's a lapse of a year, 
 During which 't would appear 
 The Count marries Pauline. Eut I won't interfere 
 With the thread of the narrative now waxing queer. 
 
 ACT THE SECOND 
 
 Discloses a small Cabaret, 
 A broken-down groggery out of the way, 
 Where pretty Pauline soon arrives with her " shay.'^ 
 
 She 's going to pay 
 
 A visit to-day, 
 
 Quite extempore, 
 To Horace, her husband, and wants a relay, — 
 An order, the hostess, I 'm sorry to say, 
 Is really unable just now to obey. 
 For there 's not a postilion, though brave as he may, 
 
 Will venture his clay. 
 Through fear of becoming to brigands a prey, 
 Who lately in murder have made a display. 
 Pauline, very properly, says that she '11 stay 
 Where she 's safe, and is thinking to order a quail 
 For supper when Harriet comes in (I.Irs. Hale), 
 
 And they quietly rail 
 
 At their lords, and assail 
 Their faults and their weaknesses ; each has her tale, 
 Pauline's is enough to make any one pale, 
 
436 POEMS. 
 
 Thougli it mainly embraced 
 Count Horace's — her husband's — equestrian taste. 
 
 It happened that she 
 
 Discovered that he 
 Directed one horse should in readiness be, 
 
 Perpetually, 
 All saddled and bridled, and ready to flee ; 
 
 And when Max and Henri 
 
 (Messieurs Chandler and Lee) 
 Once paid him a visit, why then he had three ! 
 
 She can't make it out, 
 
 Or know what it 's about, 
 Although of his honor she has n't a doubt. 
 But there is n't much time to discuss the thing here, 
 For, talk of the fiend, the whole trio appear. 
 Count Horace de Beauvale,, and Henri, and Max, 
 
 With guns at their backs ; 
 But 't is easy to see that their courtesy 's lax, 
 
 For Horace attacks 
 The Countess for coming without his permission, 
 And she 's in a very distressing condition ; 
 So, thinking 't is better her grief to disperse, he 
 Talks blandly enough, though he feels vice versa. 
 
 And quelling a curse, he 
 Conveys her right off to the " Chateau de Burcy." 
 
 This awkward rencontre it 's evident suits 
 
 Not the men in the boots. 
 But they 're quickly consoled by a brace of cheroots ; 
 And one of them — Max, I think — rudely salutes 
 Mrs. Walcott, who calls them a couple of brutes. 
 
 And now we 're transported to " Normandy's shore," 
 Where the brother of Pauline has come to explore, 
 
PAULINE. 437 
 
 Some remarkable ruins he 'd heard of before ; 
 
 And he will not give o'er 
 His purpose, though thunder will probably roar, 
 And the threatening heavens a cataract pour. 
 (This scene is so real, one prudent old fellow 
 Looked close, to be certain he had an umbrella.) 
 
 Anon to intense and remarkably slow 
 
 Music we go 
 To the room of Pauline, in the lonely chateau, 
 "Where she 's sitting in spirits remarkably low ; 
 The little distinction 'twixt husband and beau 
 
 She 's beginning to know, 
 And has a suspicion she 's somewhat de trop. 
 For certainly though 
 Touts a fait, comme il fatd, 
 Her brilliant boudoir can but scantily show 
 Available means of amusement, and so. 
 As in spite of herself she 's beginning to grow 
 Excited, and nervous, and very distrait, 
 She rings up friend Eea, 
 The Milesian Malay, 
 Costumed in a strikingly picturesque way, 
 All turbaned and braceleted up to the life, 
 
 A kind of a hyf- 
 alutin " tame tiger " to Horace's wife. 
 With a double bass voice and an '' ell " of a knife. 
 She endeavors to pump him, to cross him and wind him, and 
 Can't get a word from the cunning East Indiaman. 
 Putting on airs, 
 She sends him down stairs. 
 Reads " Uncle Tom's Cabin " awhile and declares. 
 It does n't amuse her, and therefore prepares 
 
438 POEMS. 
 
 To find from the bookcase a volume that bears 
 A pleasanter character. Doing that thing, 
 She touches somehow a mysterious spring, 
 When slowly the bookcase commences to swing 
 
 Right round on its axis, 
 And she upon one of Count Horace's tracks is ; 
 For, dreadful to see ! there 's a hole in the wall. 
 
 To be sure it 's but small. 
 
 Though enough to appall — 
 'T is so chilly — a lady without any shawl. 
 With the tact of a woman she fathoms it all, 
 Exclaiming, " Whenever he happens to fall 
 In love," as is likely with every new face, 
 
 This must be the place 
 
 Where he takes his disgrace- 
 ful companions, good heavens ! if that be the case, 
 I '11 soon give him " caudle " for conduct so base. 
 Meanwhile though the tempest is raging without, 
 Despite of the lightning that flashes about. 
 She imprudently will at the window look out, 
 Where she sees what immediately banishes doubt : 
 Her husband. Count Horace, with Max and Henri, 
 
 And the reprobate three 
 Are carrying something wrapt up in a cloak ; - 
 By the aid of a vivid electrical stroke. 
 She perceives H is a female, a very bad joke 
 To Pauline, who now seizes the light with temerity, 
 
 Then with dexterity 
 Touches the spring, and to test its sincerity, 
 Down to the cellar descends with celerity ; 
 "Where she arrives just in time to take part 
 In a scene that to view merely makes the blood start 
 
 Right away from her heart, — 
 
PAULINE. 439 
 
 Possessing the very peculiar traits 
 Of a salad of horrors dressed a la Franc^aise, 
 Consisting of crimes of so fearful a texture 
 That murder 's the least in the awful admixture. 
 
 True it is the act ends 
 With a splendid effect that makes ample amends 
 
 For whatever offends 
 True taste, and imbues with a ray of vitality 
 This gallimaufry of Galhc morality. 
 
 Perhaps 't is as well to inform you that here 
 There takes place another delay of a year, 
 
 Or near. 
 So, being apprised of that fact, 
 I '11 take you at once to 
 
 THE THIRD, AND LAST ACT, 
 
 Where Count Horace de Beauvale appears once again, 
 
 The sweetest of men, 
 A delicate plant from the uppermost ten. 
 
 Pauline has departed, 
 
 And he 's broken-hearted, 
 And now he 's come back to the place where he started, 
 To rouse up his spirits the best way in life, 
 
 By taking a wife. 
 Mam'zelle de Nerval he 's been able to win ; 
 It 's a good speculation we know to begin ; 
 
 For Lucian comes in, 
 And, curious enough, only twenty-five min- 
 utes before the betrothal. As nearest of kin, 
 He 's to give her away and to settle the pin- 
 
 Money, titles, and tin, 
 And the style he goes on is to Moses a sin. 
 
440 POEMS. 
 
 He comes it so grand, 
 He '11 not condescend to take Horace's hand, 
 
 Who won't understand 
 The cut, 'till he 's put all the husiness through. 
 
 Because, entre nous, 
 She 's, as Lucian insinuates, rich as a Jew. 
 Now the notary comes, and the witnesses too, 
 
 And there 's iiothing to do, 
 But the contract to sign and distribute the u- 
 sual kisses and bKsses and comphments due. 
 
 Now, heedless of guile, 
 La helle fiancee writes her name on the file. 
 Then Horace- advances in drawing-room style. 
 His single eye upon Lucian the while, 
 
 In a manner to rile 
 The sweetest of tempers right up to the bile. 
 'T was as much as to say, " Now I 'm sure of the pile." 
 Lucian immediately waxes irascible, 
 Horace's features are pale and impassible. 
 " Scoundrel ! " the former cries, " would you then dare 
 
 To write your name there, 
 
 And doom to despair 
 Another poor victim 1" That makes Horace stare. 
 Then Lucian berates him with might and with main. 
 
 Declares he 's the bane 
 Of his household, and if it so happened the twain 
 Had been married, 't would never get over the stain. 
 To which Horace replies, " I 'm afraid we '11 have rain." 
 
 Though mad with vexation. 
 
 Concealed perturbation, 
 And rage at the incomplete solemnization, 
 
 Without hesitation. 
 Or manifestation of slightest sensation, 
 
PAULINE. 441 
 
 From Lucian he placidly asks explanation ; 
 Who, looking all mystery, goes to the back. 
 And leads in Pauline, dressed in very deep black. 
 The people all gaze in dismay, and with reason, 
 Eor she was supposed to be dead a whole season. 
 
 But our hero's sang froid 
 
 Even this cannot thaw ; 
 
 He looks at the new-comer 
 
 Cool as a cucum'er, 
 Plainly implying he cares not a straw. 
 
 The ladies go out, 
 With the notary too, and the rest of the rout. 
 And Horace says, seemingly not a bit nettled, 
 To Lucian, " This little account must be settled." 
 A sudden and singular duel they fight, — 
 And further description would hardly be right. 
 But if you are curious to know how they do it, 
 Just purchase a ticket and see them go through it. 
 
 W^hat we privately think of this drama so terrible, 
 We '11, with permission, expound in a parable. 
 A lion once thought he would give a great feast 
 
 To every beast 
 Within his dominion, some hundred at least j — 
 
 So sent for his cook, 
 An excellent one, who 'd read Soyer's great book, 
 And told him to furnish it on his own hook, — 
 
 To spare no expense 
 
 On any pretence, 
 But to get up a banquet in such sort of way 
 As the palate to suit of each ferine gourmet. 
 
 The cook then retired, 
 
 And, duly inspired 
 
442 POEMS. 
 
 With love for his drt, 
 
 Invented a carte 
 
 Of such complex variety 
 That every guest in that mingled society 
 On his favorite dish might regale to satiety. 
 
 When the lion was led 
 
 By his chef, as he said, 
 To see if he liked how the table was spread, 
 
 He gazed with deliglit 
 
 On the beautiful sight 
 Of silver and gold, that reflected the light 
 
 In a manner emphatic, 
 
 Through pendules prismatic. 
 Till his leonine majesty grew quite ecstatic. 
 
 Suf&ce it to say, 
 
 The brilliant display — 
 To look at — was perfect in every way. 
 Such exquisite napery naught could surpass, 
 Such cutlery, china, and monogram glass ; 
 All well-regulated appointments were there, 
 From centre-piece floral to houtonniere, 
 And the gratified lion — he could n't do less — 
 His pleasure was graciously pleased to express. 
 
 But, lifting a cover, he 
 
 Made a discovery, 
 Startling and strange, for a sight met his eyes 
 That caused him to roar out in angry surprise, 
 " What garbage is this ? " " Why, my lord," said the cook, 
 " It 's a thistle ! Some folk, ay, and very genteel. 
 Would rather have that than aught else for a meal." 
 He lifted another, — 't was nothing but mud ! 
 
 It fired his blood. 
 " Off with it ! " he cried ; " I have seen quite enough 
 
 Of this feculent stuff." 
 
HONEST MEN. 443 
 
 But the cook, unaffected by sucli a rebuff, 
 
 Eeplied, " My good lord, 
 If lions alone were to dine at your board. 
 To your own individual taste 't would be stored. 
 Pray wait till the banquet is over, and deign 
 To form your deductions from what will remain." 
 The lion consented, and found the cuisine, 
 Although the unwholsomest ever was seen. 
 The very best fare for the animal host, — 
 For the filthiest dishes were relished the most ; 
 Indeed, it was said he himself, on the sly. 
 
 Had a little put by, 
 Eather liking the taste ] but that must be a lie. 
 
 HONEST MEK. 
 
 I^OT a time is this for lethargy ; give party to the winds, 
 With all other petty questions that the better .judgment 
 
 blinds, 
 Thinking only of the infamy throughout the country rife. 
 And that, like a mordant cancer, slowly eats away her 
 
 life, — 
 The infection of jail graduates, distillation of the slums, 
 That from its own impurity pestiferous becomes ! 
 'Tis with you the power rests, though it has slumbered 
 
 hitherto. 
 To save the patient victim from the whole pernicious crew. 
 One decisive course is left, the deadly virus to retard, — 
 Let it be your war-cry now : Put none but honest men on 
 
 guard ! 
 
444 POEMS. 
 
 Cast aside the old indifference, begotten of your scorn, 
 That shrinks from contact with the scum to degradation 
 
 born ; 
 Or its rascal-featured progeny, abhorrent to men's eyes, 
 That the seething mess political makes to the surface rise. 
 Do your duty while there 's time, and by stalwart action 
 
 show 
 Far and near to every traitor knave, in office high or low, 
 That his shameless malefactions must henceforward have 
 
 an end, 
 And the ballot to oblivion all its branded felons send. 
 In the conflict which is coming, while your blows fall fast 
 
 and hard, 
 Let your battle-cry be this : Put none but honest men on 
 
 guard ! 
 
 Surely, surely, there are patriots enough within the land 
 The base butchers of her credit in their shambles to with- 
 stand ! 
 Do not suffer the assassins of her once exalted fame 
 In their lust of greed to make it but a monument of 
 
 shame ! 
 Up, then, all who hate rapacity ! Assemble in your 
 
 might ! 
 Your mere numbers will dismay and put the vulture horde 
 
 to flight. 
 If you would not see your country's glory vanish like a 
 
 dream. 
 And her name among the nations be of fraud a synonyme. 
 You must see to it yourselves in every city, town, and 
 
 ward — 
 In all quarters — that there shall be none but honest men 
 
 on guard ! 
 
SYLVIA. 445 
 
 MADRIGAL. 
 
 TO THE PRINCESS ROYAL OF PRUSSIA. 
 Paraphrased from Voltaire. (1743.) 
 
 Amid the wild delusion of our dreams 
 
 Faint glimpses of the truth sometimes appear, 
 When from absorbing thought, the fancy teems 
 
 With images of one who is most dear. 
 Ah ! how enchanting then the vision seems ! 
 
 But all too brief ! — I had a dream last night, 
 A dream like that, as transient and as bright ! 
 Meth ought I was a king, and madly dared 
 
 To love thee. Princess ! Bold indeed is sleep : 
 My soul's desire while sleeping I declared ! 
 
 The gods soon punished an offence so deep ; 
 For my awakened sense the treason shared : 
 
 My crown and kingdom vanished before day, 
 
 My love not even gods could take away ! 
 
 SYLVIA. 
 
 AN IMITATION. 
 
 Upon some sly affair 
 
 Connubially dishonest — 
 Vide Lempriere — 
 
 Jupiter was non est, 
 And dame Juno thought 
 
 Scandal and ecarte 
 Consolation brought, — 
 
 So gave an evening party. 
 
446 POEMS. 
 
 First, Venus came, and son, 
 
 Who labored to deserve a 
 Birching, for the fun 
 
 He made of sage Minerva ; 
 Eut sooth to say, the boy 
 
 Deems it no great treason 
 Sometimes to enjoy 
 
 A laugh at sober reason. 
 
 Next came a mundane guest 
 
 By special invitation, 
 And, among the rest, 
 
 Created a sensation. 
 My Sylvia 't was, and she 
 
 Perfection so resembled, 
 For her sovereignty 
 
 The queen, of beauty trembled. 
 
 "When they were all supplied 
 
 With nectar and ambrosia, 
 To taste undeified 
 
 The mildest of symposia. 
 Betimes the cards were brought, 
 
 And with them the admission 
 Celestial skill was naught 
 
 'Gainst mortal intuition. 
 
 For my Sylvia soon. 
 
 Playing with discretion, 
 From each goddess won 
 
 All her rich possession. 
 Olympia lost her youth, 
 
 Her regnant form and feature, 
 Everything, in truth, 
 
 Except her jealous nature. 
 
SYLVIA. 447 
 
 Minerva lost her mind, 
 
 With wit and wisdom glowing ; 
 Fair Paphia resigned 
 
 Her cestus, charm-bestowing. 
 Young Cupid then she sought, 
 
 The while with anger swelling, 
 And from his hand she caught 
 
 His arrow, love-compelling. 
 
 She seized the golden gage 
 
 And on the table tossed it. 
 But, blinded by her rage. 
 
 Played carelessly, and lost it. 
 "When, to yield back the toy. 
 
 Dame Juno interceded. 
 She gave it to the boy, 
 
 In fact she did not need it. 
 
 When on this earthly ball 
 
 My Sylvia thus alighted, 
 With the gifts of all 
 
 The goddesses united. 
 It is not strange that she, 
 
 Without much endeavor, 
 Quickly won from me 
 
 Heart and soul forever. 
 
448 POEMS. 
 
 THE EIVAL ARCHERS. 
 
 Young Cupid one day, with his quiver well stored, 
 
 Sallied forth, upon wickedness bent. 
 Right and left his insidious love-tokens poured, 
 And hearts by the hundred were shamefully scored, — 
 
 To the mischievous archer's content. 
 
 He chanced to encounter King Death on his way, 
 
 Whose arrows more fatally flew : 
 In vain all his skill did the love-god display: 
 His merciless rival made all hearts his prey, 
 
 For his shafts were, as destiny, true. 
 
 Boy Cupid, annoyed at the other's success, 
 
 Invoked cousin Mercury's aid, 
 Who, having for mischief a talent no less, 
 Changed their quivers so deftly that neither could guess 
 
 Such a strange transposition was made. 
 
 That they 're still somewhat mixed may be easily seen ; 
 
 Eor if wintry age feel love's smart, 
 Cupid's arrow by Death surely wielded has been ; 
 But when youth is struck down while its spring-time is 
 green. 
 
 Death's quiver has furnished the dart. 
 
STEAM vs. TIME. 449 
 
 STEAM vs. TIME. 
 
 A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 Ho for the Pacific ! 
 
 Three thousand miles away, 
 Weather beatific 
 
 And our spirits gay. 
 Two grand steeple-chasers 
 
 Are about to start, 
 And the mighty racers 
 
 Eeady to depart 
 
 Little, for good-bying, 
 
 Time can we aJGford : 
 Hark ! the man is crying, 
 
 " Passengers aboard ! " 
 Laggards, hotly hasting. 
 
 Frantically rush ; 
 Girls, their kisses wasting, 
 
 On each other gush ! 
 
 'Mid the cheering hearty 
 
 On the road we are, — 
 A cosy little party 
 
 In a palace car. 
 Elegant and spacious 
 
 Carriages throughout, 
 Airy and capacious, — 
 
 Room to walk about. 
 29 
 
450 POEMS. 
 
 Or, if you repose would, 
 
 Tempting to the view, 
 Couches framed in rosewood 
 
 Flecked with ormolu. 
 Here you rest un jaded, 
 
 Stretched out at your ease, 
 Backbone uninvaded 
 
 By your neighbor's knees. 
 
 Every berth a chamber, 
 
 Linen snowy white, 
 Reading lamps to slumber 
 
 Pleasantly invite. 
 Carpeted from Brussels, 
 
 While, in ample swell, 
 All around, you rustles 
 
 Gorgeous brocatelle. 
 
 ISTow the iron courser 
 
 Settles to his w^ork ; 
 Steam, the great enforcer, 
 
 Will not let him shirk ; 
 Onward swiftly speeding, 
 
 While the backward scene, 
 Eapidly receding, 
 
 Closes like a screen. 
 
 Thundering over rivers, 
 
 While, as if in dread. 
 Solid stonework shivers 
 
 Underneath our tread ; 
 Up the stiff grades dashing, 
 
 Flying o'er the plain, 
 Into mountains flashing, 
 
 Flashing out again ! 
 
STEAM vs, TIME. 451 
 
 Ever changing phases — 
 
 ' Hill, and dale, and stream, 
 
 Lovely as the mazes 
 
 Of a poet's dream— 
 Momently evolving, 
 
 As we fleetly pass, 
 Like the views dissolving 
 
 In a magic glass ; — 
 
 Pass the cities crowded, 
 
 Scintillant with trade ; 
 Pass the forests shrouded 
 
 In impervious shade. 
 Thickly interwoven 
 
 Fir and leafy oak, 
 Save where seared and cloven 
 
 By the lightning's stroke ; 
 
 Pass the homesteads nestling 
 
 In their place of birth ; 
 Pass the clearings wrestling 
 
 With primeval dearth ; 
 Pass the cornfields yellow, 
 
 Teeming with their grain j 
 Pass the regions fallow 
 
 Of the vacant plain ; 
 
 Pass the walls titanic. 
 
 Where, stupendous, rise 
 Pile on pile volcanic 
 
 Upward to the skies, — 
 Heaven's architecture, 
 
 Barrier and stay 
 Of our country's structure, — 
 
 The mighty vertebrse ; 
 
452 POEMS. 
 
 Pass the deserts reaching ! 
 
 The horizon's line ; 
 Pass the reUcs bleaching — 
 
 Horse, and mnle, and kine ■ 
 On the track they fell in, 
 
 Years on years ago, — 
 Mute historians, telling 
 
 Tales of want and woe ; 
 
 Pass the petty log towns, 
 
 Future cities planned; 
 Pass the prairie-dog towns, 
 
 Where devoted stand 
 Sentinels Pompeiian 
 
 By each earthy door. 
 Though the, empyrean 
 
 Trembles at our roar. 
 
 Pass thy stony border. 
 
 Too uxorious Young, — 
 Pocks in wild disorder 
 
 On each other flung : 
 And the Echo Canon, 
 
 Journey worth alone , — 
 The cataract's companion, 
 
 Niagara in stone ! 
 
 By, like darting arrows, 
 
 Donner's fateful lake ; 
 Pound the steep sierras 
 
 Coiling like a snake ; 
 Cresting lofty summits, 
 
 Where the miners show 
 Small as clustered emmets, 
 
 Down the vale below. 
 
KISTORI. 453 
 
 All ! this is existence, — 
 
 Flying like the wind ; 
 Time, left in the distance, 
 
 Lingers far behind : 
 Long compelled to leave us, 
 
 That antiquated team, 
 The four-in-hand of Phoebus, 
 
 Can't run ahead of steam. 
 
 Hark ! the bell gives warning 
 That the race is won ; 
 
 On the seventh morning 
 Five hours we beat the sun ! 
 
 RISTOEL 
 
 AN ACROSTIC. 
 
 Art has but little share in thy renown ; 
 Direct from heaven the sacred radiance came 
 Enkindling intellect's celestial flame. 
 Lady, born wert thou to the starlit crown 
 At whose effulgence all the world bows down, - 
 Imperial genius thus compelling fame, 
 Despite itself, to glorify thy name. 
 Enforcing homage thou alone canst claim. 
 
 Eesist who can thy soul-subduing sway, 
 In rapt and sympathetic thraldom bound. 
 Smiling or sorrowing by turns with thee. 
 Through every phase of peission's varied round, 
 On waves impulsive tossed, as on a sea, 
 Responsive to the deep heart love that we 
 Instinctive yield to nature's sovereignty. 
 
454 POEMS. 
 
 A¥ OPENIITG ADDEESS. 
 
 Delivered at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, Monday Even- 
 ing, SepteTTiber 13, 1875. 
 
 An opening address ! The phrase is fine, 
 
 But then the thing itself 's not in my line : 
 
 Yet, as it 's promised, why, I must go through it, — 
 
 Though, on my life, I don't know how to do it. 
 
 When hy our chief this task to me was set, 
 
 Out of the scrape there was no way to get ; 
 
 Eemonstrance were but waste of words, for he 
 
 Is autocratic — as he ought to be. 
 
 I thought at first, not being very apt 
 
 At this, that I would sieal — I mean adapt — 
 
 The thought of those who, from its first invention 
 
 Down to the latest copyright contention. 
 
 The drama's progress watched, its hopes and fears, 
 
 Through the long lapse of intervening years. 
 
 While the resounding corridors of time 
 
 Echoed their footsteps who made it sublime. 
 
 Those crowned victors, in the Olympic games, 
 
 Have left to us their still undying names ; 
 
 Nor shall their memory e'er pass away 
 
 Whose genius glorified a later day, 
 
 When, in the very boyhood of our stage. 
 
 It showed more power than its after age 
 
 Could equal or approach, — for giants then, 
 
 Not pygmies, wielded the dramatic pen 1 
 
 My fancy was to interview all these. 
 From Rip Van Winkle to Euripides ; 
 
AN OPENING ADDRESS. 455 
 
 But, on reflection, I 'm afraid the past 
 
 And present would unhappily contrast. 
 
 The change is not more grievous than grotesque, 
 
 From lofty poetry to low burlesque j 
 
 Where poor Thalia, in her antic days, 
 
 Her scanty wardrobe's poverty displays, 
 
 ** Small by degrees and beautifully less," 
 
 Aggrieved at her abbreviated stress. 
 
 On her last legs sues vainly for redress. 
 
 Yet this is but an episode in art ; 
 
 The drama has to play a nobler part 
 
 Upon life's stage. I am not one of those 
 
 Who either doubt its friends or fear its foes, — 
 
 In the abiding faith that, though obscure 
 
 Its light at times may be, it must endure ; 
 
 With justice, truth, and rectitude to side. 
 
 And strip the sheepskin from each wolfish hide. 
 
 It strikes me now that something I should say 
 
 About the recent much-disputed play ; * 
 
 And so I would, but it is hard to tell 
 
 The facts : what with Michaelis and Michel, 
 
 The French in France and French here in l^ew York, 
 
 And all the legal, enigmatic work 
 
 Of affidavits and injunctions many 
 
 (1 wonder if they 're understood by any). 
 
 So warped the case is, that, beyond a doubt. 
 
 The rights or wrongs no fellow can make out. 
 
 Old York and Lancaster once came to blows, 
 And the fierce conflict from two roses rose. 
 
 * "Our Boys." 
 
456 POEMS. 
 
 One Eose, through agents and sub-agents, now 
 
 Arouses a right royal kind of row 
 
 By selling to two parties, nothing loath, 
 
 And in the sale, of course, including both. 
 
 The very smartest salesman you might get, or 
 
 Colonel Sellers, could n't sell them better. 
 
 Why they don't pass a law such things to stop 
 
 And simplify the literary swap, 
 
 Leaving no loophole for chicane to use. 
 
 But plainly say what 's what and which is who's, 
 
 Not fill with gall the managerial cup, 
 
 Is — a conundrum, and I give it up. 
 
 Meanwhile our chief to all this adverse luck 
 Opposes his indomitable pluck, 
 Untiring industry and active brain. 
 With courage resolute, to yet maintain 
 The fight against all odds, and will prevail : 
 His lexicon " knows no such word as ' fail.' 
 
 > 7f 
 
 MY Am DONALD. 
 
 I. 
 
 Hey Donald, my ain Donald ! 
 
 The sun is sinkin' doon, 
 The weary songsters, ere they rest, 
 
 Have piped their gloamin' tune. 
 The dew is fallin' on the leaf. 
 
 The breezes stir the flower. 
 And nature's heart is beatin' calm, - 
 
 It is the evenin' hour. 
 
MY AIN DONALD. 457 
 
 You 're all my dreams by night, Donald, 
 You 're all my thoughts by day ! 
 
 But, ah ! they baith are full of care 
 Whene'er you are away. 
 
 Hey Donald, my ain Donald ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Hey Donald, my ain Donald ! 
 
 You '11 soon be hame wi' me, 
 And ilka darksome cloud will fade 
 
 Before your sunny e'e. 
 The mither bird that frae the nest 
 
 Can never dare to flee, 
 Greets not its mate wi' blither breast 
 
 Than, Donald, I do thee ! 
 
 You 're all my dreams, etc. 
 
 III. 
 Hey Donald, my brave Donald ! 
 
 I know that, leal and true. 
 Your thought is never turned frae me, 
 
 As mine ne'er falls frae you. 
 Thus, hand in hand and heart in heart. 
 
 We '11 share life's joy or gloom, 
 And, when the night comes, gently sleep 
 
 Beneath the bonnie broom. 
 
 You 're all my dreams, etc. 
 
458 POEMS. 
 
 THE FIDGET'S SEND-OFF. 
 
 TO THE CITY OF CHESTER. 
 I. 
 
 In the old days of gallant chivalry, 
 
 When the last bumper to the health was drained 
 Of some loved voyager, by land or sea. 
 
 And in the cup no drop of wine remained, 
 A higher mark of honor could not be 
 
 Than to dash down the goblets to the floor, 
 
 That they the same heart-service should do nevermore. 
 
 II. 
 
 The steam-yacht Fidget, having on her deck 
 
 Some anxious souls eager to wish God-speed 
 To those most dear, inspired by " Extra Sec," — 
 
 The boat, I mean, for she held much indeed, — 
 From that old custom did example take : 
 
 Eesolving all such homage to surpass, 
 
 She courtesied her farewell, and smashed up every glass. 
 
 Coney Islai^b, June 29, 1878. 
 
 THE VISION OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 Time onward passes, and my mental gaze, 
 
 O'erleaping centuries, falls on the days 
 
 Of the far future. Lo ! I see a land 
 
 Where nature seems to frame, with practised hand. 
 
 Her last, most wondrous work ! Before me rise 
 
THE VISION OF COLUMBUS. 459 
 
 Mountains of solid rock that rift the skies ; 
 
 Imperial valleys, with rich verdure crowned, 
 
 For leagues illimitable smile around, 
 
 While through them, subject seas, fair rivers, run 
 
 From ice-bound tracts to where the tropic sun 
 
 Breeds in the teeming ooze strange, monstrous things. 
 
 I see, ups welling from exhaustless springs, 
 
 Great lakes appear, upon whose surface wide 
 
 The banded navies of the earth may ride ; 
 
 I see tremendous cataracts emerge 
 
 From cloud-aspiring heights, whose slippery verge 
 
 Tumultuous oceans momently roll o'er. 
 
 Assaulting with unmitigated roar 
 
 The stunned and startled ear of trembling day, 
 
 That wounded weeps, in glistening tears of spray ; 
 
 I see, upspringing from the fruitful breast 
 
 Of the beneficent and boundless West, 
 
 Unnumbered acres of life-giving grain 
 
 Wave o'er the gently undulating plain. 
 
 Within the limits of the southern zone 
 
 I see plantations thickly overgrown 
 
 With a small shrub, whose modest flower supplies 
 
 A revenue of millions. 
 
 ~ • • • • • 
 
 I see a river, through whose limpid stream, 
 Pactolus-like, the yellow pebbles gleam, 
 Flowing through regions where great heaps of gold 
 Uncared for lie, in affluence untold. 
 Thick as autumnal leaves. I see within 
 My vision's scope small villages begin. 
 Like twilight stars, to peep forth timidly. 
 Great distances apart ; and now I see 
 Towns swollen to cities burst upon the sight. 
 
460 POEMS. 
 
 Thick as the crowded firmament at night. 
 I see brave science, with inspired soul. 
 Subdue the elements to its control ; 
 On iron ways, through rock and mountain riven, 
 Impelling mighty freights, by vapor driven, 
 Or with electric nerves so interlace 
 The varied points of universal space, 
 
 Thought answers thought, though leagues on leagues be- 
 tween : 
 Time is outstripped, and naught is that has been. 
 But now a form majestical appears, 
 O'ertopping all, and the obedient years 
 Proclaim him master, lifting him above 
 The Past, and the To-come, with reverent love ; 
 For when mankind would think of him whose fame 
 Surmounts the highest, one beloved name 
 IJp from their hearts will come uncalled, alone. 
 The immortal name of glorious Washington ! 
 For every heart will be a separate throne 
 Where that remembrance will forever rest 
 While the bright stars begem heaven's azure breast, 
 Or the red flashes streak the clouds, made bright 
 E'en by their own intensity of light. 
 
 FALLmG LEAVES. 
 
 When winter winds are wailing. 
 And death rides on the breeze, 
 
 With icy breath assailing 
 The stark and sapless trees. 
 
FALLING LEAVES. 461 
 
 It grieves us not to see — 
 
 For 't is their time to die 
 And with all nature wither — 
 
 The leaves that round us %. 
 
 But when the day is teeming 
 
 With life, and love, and light, 
 And in our path is beaming 
 
 The sun-ray of delight. 
 It saddens us to see — 
 
 P, 't is a mournful thing, 
 They should untimely perish — 
 
 The leaves that fall in spring. 
 
 What though young life has parted 
 From earth, ere spring has passed, 
 
 Or old and weary-hearted 
 ' It yields to winter's blast 1 
 
 Grieve not, but humbly bend 
 Submissive to the call 
 
 Nor scorn their simple teaching, — 
 The leaves that round us faU. 
 
 University Press : John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 
 

 
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