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TEE LUCKY PENNY, 
 
 ^c. ^c. 
 
THE UM^-THSITY 
 Of ILLIMOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
THE 
 
 LUCKY PENNY, 
 
 MRS. S. C. HALL. 
 
 “All are arcliitects of fate, 
 
 Working in these walls of time ; 
 
 Some with massive deeds and great, 
 Some with ornaments of rhyme.” 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 G. HOUTLEDGE & CO. EARRINGDON STREET; 
 
 ITEAV YORK: 18, BEEKMAN STREET. 
 
 1857. 
 
\ 
 
 V ' ^0 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I HAVE collected into this Yolume several Stories, the 
 majority of which were written many years ago. These, 
 however, I have revised, and in some instances partially 
 re-written. Eew, if any, of them can be known to the 
 general Reader : in this accessible form I hope they may 
 "^nd favour with the Public. 
 
 "" I have selected such Stories as seemed most desirable 
 to give variety to the contents : such as I considered 
 most interesting, and such as I deemed most likely to 
 advance the object which ought always to be kept in 
 view by writers of fiction — = 
 
 r 
 
 0 
 
 I 
 
 1 ^ 
 
 to point a moral, 
 And adorn a tale.” 
 
 ANNA MABIA HALL. 
 
 1 1 5020 
 
(■ ■ 
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive . 
 in 2016 with funding from 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates 
 
 
 - . 
 
 "W ■■ 
 
 
 https://archive.org/details/luckypennyothertOOhall 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Lucky Penny ... Page 1 
 
 PoNALD HeRBEKT, THE SeLFISH MaN ... ... 108 
 
 The Picture ... ... ... ... ... 15Q 
 
 The Woman of the World ... ... ... 166 
 
 Words and Deeds! ... ... 184 
 
 Ellen Doyle ... 202 
 
 The Sergeant ... ... ... ... ... 220 
 
 The Pew Sympathies ... ... ... ... 233 
 
 The Drowned Fisherman... ... ... ... 243 
 
 Madame Eaymotte ... ... ... ... 254 
 
 The Inn at Tkemadoc ... ... ... ... 263 
 
 Edavard Layton’s Eeward ... ... ... 274 
 
 Blanche of Broomside ... ... ... ... 282 
 
 Our Cousin Katherine ... ... 294 
 
 Hidden Treasure 301 
 
> I \ 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 And what will you do with yours, Willy V' 
 
 “ I dimnow,” replied the heavy-looking urchin, while 
 he turned the halfpence over and over in his hand ; two 
 hap’nees ; it’s not much.” Ned pirouetted on one broad 
 bare foot, and tossed a summerset on the pavement, close 
 to the pretty basket-shop at a corner of Covent Garden 
 Market, -while ‘‘Willy” pondered over the halfpence. 
 When “ Ned ” recovered his breath, and had shouldered 
 the doorpost for half a minute, he again spoke : — 
 
 “ And that one, just riding away on his fine responsible 
 horse, thought he’d make our fortunes, this frosty New 
 Year’s morning, with his threepence betwixt three of us 
 ■ — and his grand condition — that we should meet him on 
 this spot, if living, this day twel’months, and tell him what 
 we did with the pennies ! Hurroo ! as if we could 
 remember. I say, Willy, suppose you and I toss up for 
 them — head wins 
 
 “ No, no,” replied the prudent Willy, putting the half- 
 pence into his pocket, and attempting to button the gar- 
 ment — an unsuccessful attempt, inasmuch as there was no 
 button — “no; I’ll not make up my mind jist yet ; I’ll, 
 maybe, let it lie, and show it him this day twermonth. 
 He may give more for taking care of un.” 
 
 “ Easy, easy,” persisted Ned ; “ let tail win, if you don’t 
 like head.” 
 
 “ ril not have it, no way.” 
 
 “But where’s Bichard gone 1” inquired the careless 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 boy, after varying liis exercise by walking on his hands, 
 and kicking his feet in the air. 
 
 “ I dunnow,” replied the other ; it’s most like he’s 
 gone home : that’s where he goes most times : he comes 
 the gentleman over us becase of his edication.” 
 
 He has no spirit,” said Hed, contemptuously ; he 
 never spends his money like — like me.” 
 
 ^‘He got the ^ lucky penny’ for all that,” answered 
 Willy, for I saw the hole in it myself.” 
 
 ‘‘Look at that now !” exclaimed Ned ; “it’s ever the 
 way with him ; see now, if that don’t turn up something 
 before the year’s out. While we sleep under bridges, in 
 tatur-baskets and ‘ darkies,’ he sleeps on a bed ; and his 
 mother stitches o’ nights and days too. He’s as high up 
 as a gentleman, and yet he’s as keen after a job as a cat 
 after a sparra.” 
 
 The two boys lounged away, while the third — the only 
 one of the three who had earned his penny, by holding a 
 gentleman’s horse, for a moment, while the others looked 
 on — had passed rapidly to a small circulating library near 
 Cranbourne Alley, and laying down his penny on the 
 counter, respectfully addressed the bookseller. “ Please, 
 sir, will you lend me the Works of Benjamin Franklin — 
 for a penny ?” 
 
 The bookseller looked at the boy, and then at 
 the penny, and inquired if he were the lad who had 
 carried the parcels about for Thomas Brand, when he 
 was ill. 
 
 The boy said he was. 
 
 “ And would you like to do so now, on your own ac- 
 count was the next question. The pale pinched- up 
 features of the youth crimsoned all over, and his dark 
 deep-set eyes were illumined as if by magic. 
 
 “ Be your messenger, sir ? — indeed I would.” 
 
 “ Who could answer for your character P’ 
 
 “ My mother, sir ; she knows me best,” he replied, with 
 great simplicity. 
 
 “ But who knows her?” said the bookseller, smiling. 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 3 
 
 “ Not many, sir ; but the landlady where we live, and 
 some few others.” 
 
 The bookseller inquired what place of worship they at- 
 tended. 
 
 The lad told him, but added, My mother has not been 
 there lately.” 
 
 ‘‘Why not?” 
 
 The deep flush returned, but the expression of the face 
 told of pain, not pleasure. “ My mother, sir, has not 
 been well — and — the weather is cold — and her clothes 
 are not warm.” He eagerly inquired if he was wanted 
 that day. The bookseller told him to be there at half- 
 past seven the next morning, and that, meanwhile, he 
 would inquire into his character. 
 
 The boy could hardly speak ; tears stood in his eyes, and, 
 after sundry scrapes and bows, he rushed from the shop. 
 
 “Holloa, youngster!” called out the bookseller, “you 
 have not told me your mother’s name or address.” The 
 boy gave both, and again ran off. Again the bookseller 
 shouted, “ Holloa I ” 
 
 “ You have forgotten Franklin.” 
 
 - The lad bowed and scraped twice as much as ever; 
 and muttering something about ‘^joy” and “mother,” 
 placed the book inside his jacket and disappeared. 
 
 Hichard Holland’s mother was seated in the smallest 
 of all possible rooms, which looked into a court near the 
 “ Seven Dials.” The window was but little above the 
 flags, for the room had been slipped off the narrow en- 
 trance, and stowed away into a corner, where there 
 was space for a bedstead, a small table, a chair, and a 
 box. There was a little bookshelf ; upon it were three or 
 four old books, an ink-bottle, and some blotted and used- 
 up pens ; and the grate only contained wood-ashes. 
 
 Mrs. Holland was plying her needle and thread at the 
 window ; but she did not realize that wonderful daguerre- 
 otype of misery which one of our great poets drew ; for 
 she was not clad in 
 
 B 2 
 
 Unwomanly rags, 
 
4 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 though the very light-coloured cotton dress — the worn- 
 out and faded blue ‘^comforter” round her throat, the 
 pale and purple hue of her face, proclaimed that poverty 
 had been beside her many a dreary winter’s day. The 
 snow was drizzling in little hard bitter knots, not falling 
 in soft, gentle flakes, wooing the earth to resignation ; 
 and the woman, whose slight, almost girlish flgure, and 
 fair, braided hair, gave her an aspect of extreme youth, 
 bent more and more forward to the light, as if she found 
 it difficult to thread her needle ; she rubbed her eyes 
 until they became quite red ; she rubbed the window- 
 glass with her handkerchief (that was torn) ; and at last 
 iier hands fell into her lap, and large tears coursed each 
 other over her pale cheeks ; she pressed her eyes, and 
 tried again ; no — she could not pass the fine thread into 
 the fine needle. 
 
 Oh, what an expression saddened her face into despair ! 
 She threw back her head, as if appealing to the Almighty; 
 she clasped her thin palms together, and then, raising 
 them slowly, pressed them on her eyes. 
 
 A light, quick bounding step echoed in the little court 
 — the mother knev/ it well. She arose, as if uncertain 
 what to do — she shuddered — she sat down — took up her 
 work ; and when Richard, in passing, tapped against the 
 window, she met the flushed excited face of her son with 
 her usual calm, quiet smile. 
 
 Here’s a bright Hew Year’s Day, mother!” he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 Where V she said, looking drearily out at the falling 
 snow, and dusting it ofl* her son’s coat with her 
 hand. 
 
 ^•Everywhere, mother!” — he laid the book on the 
 table — “ I earned a penny, and I’ve got a place — there !” 
 
 Got a place!” repeated the woman; and then her 
 face flushed — “ with whom ? — how ? ” 
 
 He detailed the particulars. And I gave the penny, 
 mother dear,” he added, “to read the ‘Works of Ben- 
 jamin Franklin,’ which will teach me how to grow rich 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 1 ) 
 
 and good. I’ll read tlie book to you this evening, while 
 you work.” 
 
 The flush on her cheek faded to deadly paleness. 
 
 I don’t know what’s the matter with my eyes, 
 Richard — they are so weak.” 
 
 Looking on the snow, mother ; mine grow \veak 
 when I look on the snow.” 
 
 How she caught at the straw ! — I never thought of 
 that, Richard ; I dare say it is bad. And what did ye 
 with the penny, dear ? ” 
 
 “ I told you, mother ; I got the reading of the ^ Works 
 of Benjamin Franklin,’ for it, and it’s a book that will 
 do me great good. I read two or three pages, here and 
 there, of it, at the very shop where I am to be employed, 
 when I w^as there for Thomas Brand, before he died. It 
 was just luck that took me there to look for it — the book, 
 I mean — and then the gentleman offered me the place. 
 I’m sure I have worn, as Ned Brady says, ^ the legs oft 
 my feet,’ tramping after places — and that to offer itself to 
 me — think of that, mother ! Poor Tom Brand had four 
 shillings a- week, but he couldn’t make out a bill — I can. 
 Benjamin Franklin — he wrote ^ Poor Richard’s Almanac,’ 
 you know — he says ‘there are no gains without pains 
 and I’m sure poor father took pains enough to teach me, 
 although I have the gains, and he had the ” 
 
 The entrance of his future master arrested Richard’s 
 eloquence. The bookseller made a few inquiries, found 
 his way into a back kitchen to the landlady, and, being 
 satisfled with what he heard, engaged the lad at four 
 shillings a- week. He looked kindly at the gentle mother, 
 and uncomfortably at the grate ; then slid a shilling 
 into Mrs. Holland’s hand, “ in advance.” 
 
 “ It was not ‘ luck,’ Richard,” said she to her son, after 
 the long, gaunt-looking man of books had departed, — 
 “ it is all God’s goodness ! ” 
 
 There was a fire that evening in the widow’s small 
 room, and a whole candle was lit ; and a cup of tea, with 
 the luxuries of milk, sugar, and a little loaf, formed their 
 
6 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 new year’s fUe. And yet twopence remained out of the 
 bookseller’s loan ! 
 
 When their frugal meal was finished, Mrs. Dolland 
 worked on mechanically, and Richard threaded her 
 needle. The boy read aloud to her certain passages which 
 he thought she might like ; he wondered she was not more 
 elated at his success ; she seemed working unconsciously, 
 and buried in her own thoughts. At last, and not with- 
 out a feeling of pain, he ceased reading aloud, and forgot 
 all external cares in the deep interest he took in the self- 
 helping volume that rested on his lap. 
 
 Suddenly he looked up, aroused by a sort of half- 
 breathed sigh ; his mother’s large eyes were fixed upon 
 him ; there was something in the look and the expression 
 he thought he had never seen before. 
 
 Richard,” she said, is there any hope in that book h ” 
 Hope, mother ! why, it is full, full of hope ; for a 
 poor lad, it is one great hope from beginning to end. 
 Why, many a copy my father set from ‘ Poor Richard’s 
 Almanac,’ though I don’t think he knew it. Don’t you 
 remember, ‘ Help hands, for I have no lands,’ and 
 ‘ Diligence is the mother of good luck,’ and that grand 
 long one I wrote in small-hand — ‘ Since thou art not 
 sure of a minute, throw not away an hour.’ ” 
 
 Yes, dear, those were pleasant days ; I mind them 
 well. When he went, all went. 
 
 “Ho, mother,” replied the boy ; “and I don’t know 
 what is the matter to-day, you are not a bit like your- 
 self. You used to say that God was always with us, and 
 that hope was a part of God. And it is New Year’s Day, 
 and has begun so well. I have got a place — and a nice 
 one. Suppose it had been at a butcher’s, or at a green- 
 grocer’s, we should have been thankful ; but among 
 books, and such like, with odd minutes for reading, and 
 every penny of four shillings a week. Mother, you need 
 not work so hard now.” 
 
 “ I can’t, Richard,” she said ; and then there was a 
 ong pause. 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 7 
 
 When she spoke again her voice seemed stifled. I 
 have been turning in my own mind what I could do ; 
 what do you think of ballad-singing, and a wee dog to 
 lead me V 
 
 What is it, mother ? ” inquired the boy ; and he flung 
 himself on his knees beside her, — what sorrow is it 
 She pressed her cheek upon his hea.d, while she whis- 
 pered — so terrible did the words seem — “ I am growing 
 darh, my child ; I shall soon be quite, quite blind.” He 
 drew back, pushed the hair off her brow, and gazed into 
 her eyes steadily. 
 
 It is over-work — weakness — illness — it cannot be 
 blindness ; it will soon be all right again. They are only a 
 very little dim, mother.” And he kissed her eyes and 
 brow until his lips were moist with her tears. 
 
 If God would but spare me my sight, just to hold 
 on a little longer, and keep me from the parish (though 
 we have good right to its help), and save me from being 
 a burden — a millstone — about your neck, Richard ! ” 
 
 How don’t, mother ; I will not shed a tear this 
 blessed Hew Year’s Day. I won’t believe it is as you say ; 
 it’s just the trouble and the cold you have gone through, 
 and the tenderness you were once used to; though I only 
 remember my father a poor schoolmaster ; still he took 
 tender care of you. You know my four shillings a- week 
 will do a great deal ; it’s a capital salary,” said the boy, 
 exultingly. Four broad white shillings a- week ! you 
 can have some nourishment then.” He paused a moment 
 and opened his eyes. I suppose I am not to live in 
 the house ; if I was, and you had it all ! — oh, mother, 
 you would be 50 comfortable ! 
 
 Presently he took down his father’s Bible, and read one of 
 the comforting psalms of David ; it was the first Psalm. 
 
 “ Blessed is the man that walketh not in the council 
 of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor 
 sitteth in the seat of the scornful ; 
 
 But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in his 
 law doth he meditate day and night ; 
 
8 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 And lie shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of 
 water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season ; his leaf 
 also shall not wither ; and whatsoever he doeth shall 
 prosper.” - ‘ ' • 
 
 The boy then paused for a while, and exclaimed, — 
 There, mother — is there not hope in that?” 
 
 There is, indeed — and comfort,” answered the widow ; 
 and I am always glad when you read a book containing 
 plenty of hope. The present is often so miserable that it 
 is natural to get away from it, and feel and know there 
 is something different to come. I have often sat with 
 only hope for a comforter when you have been seeking 
 employment ; and I have been here without food or fire, 
 or anything — but hope.” 
 
 ‘^And I used to think you so blithe, mother, when I 
 came into the court, and heard you singing.” 
 
 “ I have often sobbed through a song, Richard, and 
 yet it was comfort, somehow, to sing it. I dare say there 
 is a deal of hope in that new book of yours, but I wish it 
 may be sanctified hope — hope of the right kind. Your 
 poor father used to talk of unsanctified philosophy, but 
 he was too wise as well as too good for me ; you ought 
 to be good and wise, my child — God grant it !” 
 
 To look at it, mother,” said the boy, with an earnest- 
 ness beyond his years, “ I was so full of joy at being 
 employed, that I thought my heart would break, and 
 
 noio ” his young spirit bounded bravely above the 
 
 trial — no — not now will I believe what you fear ; rest 
 and comfort will make you all right. You need not 
 embroider at nights, now ; you can knit, or make nets, 
 but no fine work.” 
 
 Strangers, to have heard Richard talk, would have 
 imagined that his luxuriant imagination was contem- 
 platiag four pounds instead of four shillings a- week ; ouly 
 those who have wanted, and counted over the necessaries 
 to be procured by pence, can comprehend the wealth of 
 shillings. 
 
 These two were alone in the world j the husband and 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 9 
 
 father had died of consumption. He had been an earnest, 
 true, book- loving man, whose enthusiastic and poetic 
 temperament had been branded as “ dreamy” — certainly, 
 he was fonder of thinking than of acting. He had know- 
 ledge enough to have given him courage, but the natural 
 delicacy of his constitution rendered his struggles for in- 
 dependence insufficient ; latterly, he had been a school- 
 master, but certain religious scruples prevented his 
 advancing with the great education movement beginning 
 to agitate England ; and when his health declined, his 
 scholars fell away, and even his mental strength 
 faded. His wife was nothing more than a simple, loving, 
 enduring, industrious woman, noted in the village of their 
 adoption as possessing a most beautiful voice ; and often 
 had the sound of her own minstrelsy, ' hymning God^s 
 praise, or, on week-days, welling forth the tenderness or 
 chivalry of an old ballad, been company and consolation 
 to her wearied spirit. 
 
 Books and music refine external things ; and born and 
 brought up in their atmosphere. Bichard, poor, half- 
 starved, half-naked, running hither and thither in search 
 of employment, and cast among really low, vicious, false, 
 intemperate, godless children, was preserved from con- 
 tagion. It was a singular happiness that his mother 
 never feared for him ; one of the many bits of poetry of 
 her nature, was the firm faith she entertained that the 
 son of her husband — whose memory was to her as the 
 protection of a tutelar saint — could not be tainted by evil 
 example. She knew the boy’s burning thirst for know- 
 ledge ; she knew his struggles, not for ease, but for 
 labour ; she knew his young energy, and wondered at it ; 
 she knew the devotional spirit that was in him — yet in 
 all these things she put no trust : but she felt as though 
 the invisible but present spirit of his father was with him 
 through scenes of sin and misery, encompassing him as 
 with a halo, so that he might walk, like the prophets of 
 Israel, through a burning fiery furnace unscathed. 
 
 These two — mother and son — were alone in their 
 
10 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 poverty-stricken home — and that New Year’s Day had 
 brought to the mother both hope and despair : but though 
 an increasing film came between her and the delicate em- 
 broidery she wrought with so much skill and care, — 
 though the confession that she was growing dark,” 
 caused her sharper agony than she had suffered since her 
 husband’s death, — still, as the evening drew on, and she 
 put by her work, her spirit lightened under the influence 
 of the fresh and healthful hope which animated her son. 
 She busied herself with sundry contrivances for his 
 making a neat appearance on the following day ; she 
 forced him into a jacket which he had out-grown, to see 
 how he looked, and kissed and blessed the bright face 
 which, she thanked God, she could still see. Together 
 they turned out, and over and over again, the contents of 
 their solitary box ; and Diehard, by no means indifferent 
 to his personal appearance at any time, said, very frankly, 
 that he thought his acquaintances, Ned Brady and 
 William, or Willy ‘‘No-go,” as he was familiarly styled, 
 would hardly recognize him on the morrow, if they should 
 chance to meet. 
 
 “ But if I lend you this silk handkerchief, that was your 
 poor father’s, to tie round your neck, don’t let it puff* you 
 up,” said the simple-minded woman ; “and don’t look 
 down on Ned Brady and William No-go (what an odd 
 name) ; if they are good lads, you might ask them in to 
 tea some night (that is, when we have tea) ; they must be 
 good lads, if you know them.” 
 
 And then followed the prayer and blessing ; and, much 
 later than usual, after a few happy tears, the worn-out 
 eyes, and those so young and fresh, closed in peaceful 
 sleep. 
 
 “ Neddy, my boy !” stammered Mrs. Brady to her son, 
 as she staggered to her wretched lodging that same night, 
 “ it’s wonderful luck ye had with that penny ; the four- 
 pence ye won through it at ‘pitch and toss’ has made a 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 11 
 
 woman of me ; I am as happy as a queen — as a queen, 
 Neddy.” The unfortunate creature flourished her arm 
 so decidedly that she broke a pane of glass in a shop- 
 keeper’s window, and was secured by a policeman for the 
 offence ; poor unfortunate Ned followed his mother, with 
 loud incoherent lamentations, wishing “bad luck” to every 
 one, but more especially to the gentleman that brought 
 him into misery by his mean penny — if it had been a 
 sum he could have done anything with — but a penny ! 
 — what could be done with one poor penny, but spend it ! 
 
 Willy’s penny went into a box with several other 
 coins j his mother lacked the common necessaries of life, 
 — still Willy hoarded, and continued to look after his 
 treasure as a magpie watches the silver coin she drops 
 into a hole in the castle wall. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The next morning saw Richard at the bookseller’s door, 
 full ten minutes before the appointed time. Around his 
 slender throat was the promised handkerchief ; and there 
 was an air of gentility about the lad, though under 
 evident restraint, in his threadbare best clothes. He was 
 neither tall nor large of his age, yet he had outgrown his 
 jacket. To look at him when his cloth cap (from which 
 depended a worn tassel, brown with age) was on, you 
 would have thought that his eyes were too large for his 
 small, delicate features ; but when that was removed, and 
 the pale, full, well-developed brow, shaded by an abundance 
 of light-brown hair, was displayed — then the schoolmaster’s 
 son had, despite his ill-fitting clothes, his patched shoes, 
 his sunken cheeks, and the cold, mercilessly blue hand- 
 kerchief round his throat, an air of the highest and most 
 
12 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 earnest intelligence. What rendered him different from 
 other boys, however, was his frequent habit of uplooking. 
 There was nothing weak or silly in his expression, nor did 
 bis eyes wander away from things around him, as if he 
 saw them not ; his large, quick eyes, bright and grey, 
 were rapid and observant ; but it was as if he carried what 
 he saw helow to be judged above. His leisure looks were 
 ‘^uplooking,” his slight figure was erect, and he never 
 slouched in his gait, or dragged his feet after him, as 
 many lads are apt to do. As he stood at his new master’s 
 door, in the dense fog of a London morning, he longed 
 for the door to be opened ; he wanted to begin work ; 
 he thought the clocks were all wrong, — and though 
 there was hardly a creature moving in the streets 
 except a stray cat or a slip- shod charwoman, he would 
 have it that the entire London population were a set of 
 slug-a-beds, unworthy of the name of Britons ; for he had 
 great veneration for Britons,” and when he used to write 
 impromptu copies on the broken slate, his favourite 
 sentence was Buie Britannia.” 
 
 At last he heai’d doors opening beneath the area grat- 
 ings, and in due time the shop-door was unbarred by a not 
 very clean-faced woman, who inquired — 
 
 Are you the new boy ? ” Bichard said he was. 
 ‘AYell,” added the woman, looking him over carefully, 
 when master had a mind to get a new boy, he might 
 have got something wuth flesh on its bones, and stout 
 arms. Sorra a much joy I’ll have wid a shrimpeen of a 
 child like you in the house. Sorra a helping hand at the 
 knives, or shoes, or messages. I’ll go bail ! ” 
 
 Indeed, I can do everything you want, and bring you 
 all you wish,” said Bichard, cheerfully. 
 
 Bring me all I wish ! ” repeated the Irish servant, in 
 a low, desponding tone. Oh, then, hear to the presump- 
 tion of youth ! May be, you think I’m like yer mother, 
 and that all my wishes end in a half-pint of beer, or a glass 
 of gin?” 
 
 Bichard felt his susceptible blood rush over his face. 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 13 
 
 “ My mother,” he said, never took a glass of gin in her 
 life ! ” 
 
 She looked fixedly at him, and gradually her mouth 
 expanded into a smile. Ye’re a better boy than I thought 
 you, though you can’t bring me all I wish ; you can’t bring 
 my two fine boys from the withered churchyard ; you 
 can’t bring me back my strength, my heart, my youth, my 
 gay, bright youth ! All I wish ! Och, wirrasthue ! if 
 I had all I wish, it’s not in slavery I’d be in an airee all 
 day, with a poor lone man for a master that thinks the 
 world and its sunshine is made out of musty books and 
 newspapers that I can’t get the reading of. Can you 
 read ? ” 
 
 Yes.” 
 
 “Well, if you’ll read me a bit of the news — the raal 
 newspaper, political news — not your po-leece thrash, but 
 the States of Europe — I’ll stand yer friend.” 
 
 Eichard followed her downstairs, wondering what 
 interest such a deplorable looking woman could possibly 
 take in the “ States of Europe.” She told him what to 
 do, concerning knives and shoes and coat-brushing, and 
 left: him to do it ; but the “ all ” was so very little, that, 
 in addition to her directions, he made up the fire and 
 svrept the hearth ; and his habits of order and quickness 
 gave the small, dismal kitchen an air of neatness ap- 
 proaching to comfort, which perhaps it had never before 
 exhibited during the dynasty of Matty Hayes. It was 
 this good wmman’s habit always to speak in a tone of 
 injured innocence. She anticipated that everything must 
 go wrong, and met the evil half-way with a sort of 
 grim exultation. She delighted in contradiction ; and 
 would contradict herself, rather than not contradict at all. 
 There was, however, as is usual with her “ people,” an 
 under-current of good- nature coursing round her heart, 
 which often rendered her speech and action two different 
 and opposite things. 
 
 “ Master’s shoes nor coat ain’t ready of course 1 ” she 
 called from the landing. In a moment Kichard’s light 
 
14 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 feet flew up the stairs, and he laid them on her bony 
 arms. 
 
 Then I’m sure he’s let the fire out, if these are done,” 
 she muttered to herself. “ There never was a boy that 
 did not undo ten things while he did one ! ” 
 
 When she descended, she looked round, silenced by the 
 change Richard had wrought in the den of a kitchen, and 
 hardly knowing whether she ought to blame or praise. 
 
 “ I don’t mean to pay you for all this fine work,” she 
 said ; and there’s no breakfast for you — no, nor bit nor 
 sup — it’s as much as I can do to manage for us three — 
 master, and I, and Peter.” 
 
 I have had my breakfast, thank you ; and as I can do 
 nothing here, I will go upstairs, if you will be so good as 
 to tell me what I can do there” 
 
 Tell you what to do,” she repeated. Are you an 
 apprentice, that you want teaching] A pretty boy, 
 indeed, you are for a place, if you can’t take down shut- 
 ters, and sweep and dust a shop, and clean windows — (I 
 daresay you’ll break ’em when you do) and mop the pave- 
 ment — (always do that in frosty weather, like the doctor’s 
 boy next door, to break people’s legs, and make a job of 
 their precious limbs) — and sweep the snow over the slides, 
 that the old people may slider about for your amusement.” 
 Richard felt a choking sensation at his throat ; and, as 
 usual, he flushed, but tried not to look angry. 
 
 There ! ” she exclaimed, “ don’t give me any impu- 
 dence : quick lads are always impudent. I thought how 
 it would be when you were so mighty neatP 
 
 During this unsavoury dialogue, and in direct opposi- 
 tion to her declared intention, she was cutting a remark- 
 ably thick piece of bread and butter ; and having done 
 so, she pushed it to the boy, saying, ‘‘ There, go to your 
 work now, and don’t say you are starved by Matthew 
 Whitelock’s housekeeper.” 
 
 Richard was a peace-loving lad : he saw the storm 
 gathering in Matty’s face, and notwithstanding his 
 boasted breakfast (he had slipped back one of the pieces 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 15 
 
 of bread bis mother had given him) he could, from any 
 other hands have eaten the bread with great groiii. But 
 the hands that fed him from infancy were delicately 
 clean and white, and — it might be the darkness and 
 murkiness of a January morning, but everything, and 
 above all things Matty, looked fearfully dirty — a favourite 
 proverb of his mother’s took possession of his mind — 
 
 Cleanliness is next to godliness.” 
 
 But he loved peace, and he thanked “ Matthew White- 
 lock’s housekeeper ; ” simply repeating, that he had 
 breakfasted. Matty was a resolute woman ; she had 
 made up her mind he should eat what she had prepared ; 
 and, consequently, laying her massive hands upon his 
 shoulders, she forced him suddenly down upon a chair, 
 from which he as suddenly sprang up as from an air 
 cushion, but not before a most unearthly howl intimated 
 that he had pressed too heavily upon Peter,” a rough, 
 grey terrier, who, in these days, when tangled, ragged 
 dogs are the fashion, would have been called a beauty.” 
 And that’s your thanks, Peter, my darlin’, for not 
 biting him, to have him scrunch down upon you, as if 
 you war a cat,” she exclaimed ; then, turning suddenly 
 upon poor Bichard, she commanded him to eat at once, 
 and be done with it, and not stand there aggravating her, 
 and murdering her dog. 
 
 At first Bichard eat with a feeling of disgust ; but the 
 bread was good, and he was hungry. Peter seated him- 
 self before the lad, rising every second moment on his 
 haunches, and making little twitching movements with 
 his fore-paws. Bichard gave him a piece of the crumb. 
 
 Look at that, now,” said Matty ; ye j usfc give the 
 poor innocent baste the crumb, because ye don’t like it 
 yerself.” 
 
 Bichard presented him with a bit of the crisp brown crust. 
 See, now, if that brat of a boy ain’t trying already to 
 break every tooth in the crature’s head, with his crusts.” 
 
 Bichard finished without offering Peter another morsel. 
 
16 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 Well ! ” ejaculated Lis tormentor; if ever I saw sucli 
 a selfish boy of yer age, and that’s speaking volumes, as 
 master says ; not to give the brute the last crumb, for 
 good luck. But some has no nature in ’em ; and the poor 
 baste bobbing at you, as if you had never scrooged him 
 into a pancake. There, go along, do ; and harkee ! if 
 you run the window-bars through the glass you’ll have 
 to pay for every pane you break ; and mind the trap 
 that’s over the cellar : but sure you war here before, 
 when I was sick. Ah ! I dare say you’ll go off in con- 
 sumption, just as the last boy did : it’s all along the 
 smell of the old books, and the He of the papers, to say 
 nothing of the gas. I wonder how master and I live 
 through it ; but it won’t be for long. I’m certain of that ; 
 I’m a poor fading-away crature.” 
 
 As Bichard ran up the dark stairs, he could not avoid 
 turning to look at the “ fading-away creature.” The 
 cheerful blaze of the fire threw her figure into strong 
 light, and her shadow on the wall grew up into the ceil- 
 ing. She re-called all Bichard had ever heard of ogres” 
 — so gaunt, and strong, and terrible — tremendous people 
 who trouble the world for ever, and never die. 
 
 Bichard entered the shop with the feeling of a gover- 
 nor going to take the command of a new province. Could 
 it be absolutely real, that he was the appointed messenger 
 to go in and out, backwards and forwards, among such a 
 multitude of books ! To him the store seemed more 
 than ever immense. Surely Mr. Whitelock must have 
 added hundreds to his hundreds since he stood upon that 
 threshold to help the poor dying boy. He recalled the 
 feeling of awe with which he regarded that dingy in- 
 terior ; he thought Mr. Whitelock must be the happiest 
 man in the world, not only to live among so many books, 
 but to be their absolute owner ; he wondered how he 
 could bear to sell them : he resolved to count them ; and 
 thrilled from head to foot even in anticipation of the new- 
 born pleasure — perhaps he might be permitted to read 
 them. There was a delight ! to read every one of the 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 17 
 
 books that filled these shelves ! But then came the 
 thought that, however delicious it would be to get all 
 that knowledge into his head, it would do his mother no 
 •real good, unless he could put the knowledge so acquired 
 in practice. Yes, put it in practice, to make money and 
 means sufiicient to keep his mother — his loving, tender, 
 gentle mother — who seemed threatened with a terrible 
 affliction — to keep her from want, from cold, from 
 every apprehension of distress. Bichard never stood idly 
 to muse ; no, he thought. His thoughts were active — 
 strong, too, for a boy of his years ; and they came abun- 
 dantly while he occupied himself with his duties ; fine, 
 healthy, earnest thoughts they were, sanctified by an 
 unexpressed yet fervent prayer to the Almighty, to 
 bless his mother and his own exertions for her hap- 
 piness. 
 
 There is something most holy and beautiful in the 
 attachment between mother and son. It is not always so 
 tender or so enduring as the love of mother and daugh- 
 ter j but when circumstances arise to call forth the 
 affections of a large-hearted, lonely boy towards his 
 mother, there can be no feeling more intense or more 
 devoted. 
 
 Bichard’s habits of order increased his usefulness four- 
 fold. He arranged all things in the neatest way, resolv- 
 ing to ask leave to dust the shelves after the shop was 
 shut, and determined to keep the windows clean j his 
 mother’s window was the cleanest in the court, why 
 should not his master’s be clean also ? 
 
 He w'as finishing his morning’s work by mending one 
 of the old stumpy pens — the last of three belonging to the 
 leaden inkstand — when his master entered. 
 
 “ So you can mend pens ? ” 
 
 Yes, sir, I think I can ; would you be so kind as to 
 try this one h ” 
 
 He good-naturedly did so, and as it suited him he was 
 really pleased ; he then told Bichard where to find some 
 things and where to keep others, until it was time to 
 
 c 
 
18 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 cany out certain library books, and make sundry calls to 
 inquire after those that had not been returned. 
 
 Richard thought it no harm to peep into the books as 
 he went along. The first novel he opened was all about 
 great lords and ladies, and what they did and said, and 
 how they looked and walked and spent their time ; and 
 Richard, when he had read half a page, came to the con- 
 clusion that those grand folk must be different in every 
 respect from any human beings he had ever seen. He 
 had resolved to be very quick in his messages, but as he 
 read, his pace insensibly slackened, and his master (a long, 
 lean man, whose benevolent countenance was somewhat 
 hardened by a firm set mouth) met him at the door. 
 
 You have loitered.” 
 
 I just looked into the book, sir ; and I am afraid I 
 did not come as fast as I intended.” 
 
 I sent you to carry books, not to read them ; and 
 this kind of book would not do you any good, but rather 
 harm.” 
 
 Please, sir, I thought I had time enough.” 
 
 “ Remember what your friend Franklin says, that 
 what we call time enough always proves little enough. 
 Besides, I have a right to your time ; it is all you have to 
 give in exchange for my money, and it is as dishonest to 
 mis-spend the one as it would be to squander the other.” 
 
 I will never look in a book again, sir, without your 
 leave.” 
 
 It was perhaps strange that, though the bookseller had 
 seen as much of what is called the world ” — that is, of 
 his own particular “ world,” with now and then a peep 
 into its higher and lower regions — as most men, and had 
 been, as kind-natured men invariably are, frequently 
 deceived, yet he never doubted the integrity of his little 
 messenger’s promise, believing he would keep it to the 
 letter ; and he turned away without a single additional 
 word of reproof or displeasure ; but Richard heard sundry 
 murmu rings and grumblings on the stairs, ascending and 
 descending, which convinced him that Matty would not 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 19 
 
 be as easily pacified as her master. The bookseller told 
 him he might go down and have his dinner. 
 
 Your room would be more plasing than your com- 
 pany,” said Matty. Without a word he was returning 
 whence he came. 
 
 Where are you going ? ” she inquired, vehemently. 
 
 You did not wish me to stay.” 
 
 “ But yer master did ; he’s never contint but when he 
 fills up this bit of a kitchen with tagrag and bobtail ; 
 but no matter — there, eat your dinner.” 
 
 “ Am I always to dine here ? ” he said, in a hesitating 
 voice. 
 
 Just like the rest of them ! Ye’re going to find fault 
 with the blessed food — I knew ye would — I said so to- 
 day ; says I, ^ He was too fond of giving his bread to 
 the dogs, to care for his dinner.’ ” 
 
 The woman’s contradictions perplexed the boy so much 
 that he could not speak. Moreover, he felt a sort of 
 self-reproach for eating all that meat when his mother 
 wanted ; this made him more than once lay down his 
 knife and fork and look upwards. 
 
 Mighty fine eyes ye have, to be sure, and fond oi' 
 showing them, no doubt ; as if the Almighty planted eyes 
 in yer blunderin’ head to be looked at, not to look with. 
 Oh, to be sure, we have mighty fine eyes ! no wonder 
 we like to show ’em. Boys was boys in my time ; now 
 they’re mighty quare,” said the sarcastic Matty. 
 
 I’m quite done, thank you,” he said, after murmuring 
 a grace he truly felt. 
 
 “ Come back : what’s to come of what ye choose to 
 lave on yer plate ? Do you mean that I don’t give Peter 
 enough ? He wouldn’t think it worth his while to ask 
 for all you’d eat in a month. Why ye’ve left the best 
 cut of the silver side ! — the daintiness of some boys ! I’ll 
 go bail ye’ve eat yer own weight of pudding or hard-bake 
 while ye were out ; but as master said, ‘ Give him his 
 dinner,’ I’ve no notion of yer not eating it ; so, put it up 
 in paper, and let me see the last of ye this blessed day.” 
 c 2 
 
20 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 Hichard thanked her so warmly, that she knew, with 
 instinctive feeling, there was some one at home he loved 
 better than himself. Her heart softened — or, rather, her 
 mood changed. But while she paused. Bichard thought, 
 and held the piece of meat on the paper she had given 
 him, without folding it up. 
 
 “ I’d rather not take it, thank you,” said the boy, 
 gently. I’d much rather not take it.” 
 
 Poor and proud — poor and proud,” muttered Matty ; 
 “ but ye shall take it. I’m not to be contradicted by the 
 likes of you.” 
 
 I will not take it,” he said, firmly ; master ordered 
 me my dinner, but did not say I was to take away any- 
 thing ; and as it is his, not yours — so, thank you all — ” 
 
 He dared not finish the sentence ; Matty struck down 
 the knuckles of both hands violently on the table, and 
 advanced her strongly-marked face close to his ; it was 
 illumined by fierce anger, and her small, piercing, black 
 eyes flashed fire. “ Do ye mean to tell me, ye waspeen, 
 that I’m a thief? ” 
 
 Ho — no — no, indeed ! ” said Bichard, backing out as 
 fast as he could. Still the flaming face and flashing eyes 
 followed him ; but something arrested his progress — he 
 could retreat no farther. It was the bookseller, who in- 
 quired what was the matter ? Matty multiplied and 
 exaggerated : the little ‘‘ nagur” had as good as called her 
 a thief. After many fruitless exertions to obtain silence, 
 the master at last succeeded in hearing the truth from 
 Bichard. She gave me a beautiful dinner — a fine din- 
 ner, sir — too good — too much — and I could not eat it all ; 
 so she desired me to take up what I left, and carry it 
 home. It was so kind of her ; but I thought you would 
 not approve of my taking it. It was no longer my din- 
 ner, when I had eaten all I could : it did not appear to 
 me quite hers to give.” 
 
 “ To doubt my right ! ” commenced Matty ; but Mr. 
 Whitelock commanded her to listen, in a tone she was 
 little accustomed to. , 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 21 
 
 “ The lad is right, Matty — it is the proper sense of jus- 
 tice and honesty. I am glad to see it, Matty ; it is not 
 common. You may take what you leave in future, my 
 boy ; Matty was right, and you were right. No words, 
 Matty.” And the master, who was really, like many peace- 
 lovers, fearful of noise, and consequently gave way more 
 frequently than he ought to do, merely to avoid it — see- 
 ing that he had in this instance the advantage, and being 
 well pleased with himself, resolved to make a dignified 
 exit, and withdrew, thinking — ‘^An evidence of truth, 
 and an evidence of honesty, both in one day — both in one 
 day ; very pleasing, very remarkable.” 
 
 Matty, however, had been offended, and she determined 
 to show it. She paced up and down the kitchen, talking 
 loudly to herself. ‘‘I’m not the sort to squander my 
 master’s property on comers or goers — I know what’s 
 enough for a boy’s dinner ; and, whether he eats it or not, 
 there it is, and I have nothing to do with it after, for 
 Peter scorns scraps. There, be off with yerself, there’s 
 nothing keeping ye that I know of, now ye got yer 
 answer. Setting up for honesty, indeed ! as if there was 
 no one ever honest before ye.” 
 
 The boy’s eyes filled with tears. “ I do not know,” he 
 said, “ why every one should be so kind to me.” 
 
 “ You young villain !” exclaimed Matty, with a flourish 
 of a brobdignag poker, which seemed forged by the 
 Cyclops. “ Get out of my kitchen this moment ! What 
 do ye mean by saying I’m hind — kind, enagh ! A mighty 
 fine thing ye are to take away my character. Bothera- 
 tion ! is that what I’m come to ! ” 
 
 Bichard flew up the stairs, finished his evening’s shop 
 work to his master’s satisfaction, again went out to dis- 
 tribute and gather books, and religiously kept his promise ; 
 never paused before a print-shop, nor under a tempting 
 lamp-post to read a sentence j thought it would not be- 
 come him to be proud, so nodded to Ned Brady, at 
 his old corner. Ned hopped after him, first on one 
 leg, then on the other, and after a brilliant summerset 
 
22 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 stood right in his path. Come and watch for a job,” he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 I don’t want it, thank you ; I’ve a place.” 
 
 “ A place ! Britons never should be slaves ! I like 
 odd jobs and freedom 1 Lend us a bob.” 
 
 “ I have not got one.” 
 
 W ell, then, a brown.” 
 
 I have not even that,” replied Richard. 
 
 Ned eyed him closely. “ To think of your turning out 
 like that,^^ he said ; and he then walked round and round 
 him. “We did not think we had such a fine gentleman 
 for a friend, when we said he’d got the lucky penny.” 
 “We were never friends,''* observed Richard, coldly. 
 
 “ Don’t be too up,” was the reply, “ and cut a poor cove 
 because his toggery is not as fine as yourn. Rather 
 small, though, ain’t they? Would just fit me!” He 
 made two or three mocking bows round Richard, and 
 vanished, playing the cart-wheel, turning over and over, 
 along the street. 
 
 “ He carried many a heavy load for me, though, when 
 I was in my former hard place, and it’s a pity he is such 
 a bad boy in some things,” thought Richard, as he trudged 
 on. He left the books, oftering to do anything else he 
 could, at his master’s, and felt all the anticipations of 
 “Aome” more delightfully than ever, when he saw the 
 candle-light glimmering through the chinks of his mother’s 
 shutter. The tiny room seemed to him a paradise. The 
 widow had finished her embroidery, and was netting, so 
 her eyes did not look as strained and weary as usual. 
 There was something simmering and smelling very savoury 
 on the fire ; but Richard put back his hand to pull out 
 his piece of beef. It was gone I 
 
 Richard had no doubt that his quondam “friend” had 
 picked his pocket, more in fun than malice ; and he was 
 confirmed in the idea by* seeing a boy’s shadow on the 
 wall of the opposite house — Ned, doubtless — waiting to 
 see how he bore his disappointment. His first impulse 
 was to run out and thrash the thief ; but the memory of 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 23 
 
 their occasional companionship, and of the loads the un- 
 fortunate lad had carried for him twice or thrice, running 
 off with what Richard had staggered under, harmonised 
 by the perfume of the ])0t an feu, taught him forbearance, 
 and the evening passed, as the widow said, full of hope.” 
 Many such evenings succeeded. Richard well satisfied 
 his master, although he was a reserved, peculiar man, not 
 much known, and less liked. He frequented no public 
 places, and kept little society, spending his evenings in 
 making up his accounts, arranging his books, and reading. 
 Matty had often told her confidential friend, the milk- 
 woman, that one might as well, live in the house with a 
 corpse,'' adding her belief that all would be corpses one 
 day, for certain ; and the sooner she was one the pleasanter 
 it would be for herself, only that, being a lone woman, 
 she thought while people had the holy breath of life in 
 their bodies they might as well be alive — that was all.” 
 Richard had numbered more than fourteen years when 
 he entered Mr. Whitelock’s service. He managed to keep 
 on good terms with Matty, for when she would not talk 
 -to him she talked at him. He frequently remained half 
 an hour after all was shut up to read to her ; and once 
 when Mr. Whitelock called to her to inquire who was 
 below, she answered in a tone of fierce indignation, that 
 it was only “ the state of Europe, the French at another 
 revulsion, and Spain on the top of the Pyramids.” 
 
 Richard’s life passed very happily : he was gaining 
 knowledge, he was assisting his beloved mother, he was 
 inhaling the atmosphere of all others he most enjoyed. 
 He had permission to take home any book at night, pro- 
 vided he brought it back in the morning ; at first he 
 greedily devoured all that came in his way, but the reading 
 stock of a third-class library was not likely to feed a mind 
 eager for actual knowledge and largely comprehensive. 
 Poetry he imbibed fervently ; but whenever he could get 
 biographies or books of science he dispensed with the 
 luxury of sleep, and came with pale cheeks and haggard 
 eyes to his employment in the morning. Sandford and 
 
24 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 Merton,” with its bright lessons of practical independence^ 
 was his favourite relaxation, and frequently, as he told 
 his mother, ‘‘he took a plunge” into Franklin’s life as a 
 refreshment. Then he wrote copies upon stray slips ot 
 paper ; worked sums and problems on a rough piece of 
 common slate, and read what he most admired to his 
 mother ; though he was often grieved that her enthusiasm 
 did not keep pace with his, and that she had little relish 
 for anything that “ had not hope in it.” She would 
 insist on his going to rest, when he was all eager- 
 ness to finish a book or unravel a mystery — not the 
 transparent mystery of a novel, but the mystery of some 
 mighty worker in the business of life ; some giant among 
 men, who achieved greatness though born in obscurity ; 
 some artist, whose fame towered towards the heavens, like 
 the tree produced by the grain of mustard-seed ; some 
 Lancaster, or Washington, or Howard, or Watt, or 
 humble, benevolent AVilderspin, revolutionising sloth into 
 activity, touching the eyes of multitudes with a magic 
 wand, so that they cried out as one man, “ Behold, we see ! ” 
 electrifying nations, calling into existence the dormant 
 powers and sympathies of nature and of art ! 
 
 Often his eyes refused to slumber or sleep, when in 
 obedience to the gentle request which love turned into 
 a command, he lay down beneath the shadow of his 
 mother’s blessing ; and his brain would throb, and his 
 heart beat ; and when she slept, he would creep from his 
 humble pallet, and read by the light of the one lamp 
 which illumined the court, and was (so he thought) for- 
 tunately placed opposite their window. Not that the boy 
 understood all he read, but he imbibed its influence; and, 
 clasping his large brow within his palms, he would weigh 
 and consider, and question within that narrow room, 
 where poverty still lingered (though then, with their 
 simple and few wants, rather as a shadow than a sub- 
 stance), and his heart throbbing as he thought “How shall 
 I work out a purpose — to be great by being useful ? ” And 
 then, as the spring advanced, and night and morning 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 25 
 
 blended sweetly together, he hastened to his work joyfully, 
 for he loved the labour that gave him food and know- 
 ledge. Matty would say his “ food went into an ill skin 
 — never did credit to man or mortial while his silent 
 master, absorbed in his occupations, and pretty much 
 abstracted from the every-day goings on of his establish- 
 ment — having, as he said himself^ an honest curse of a 
 housekeeper and a jewel of a boy — was nevertheless some- 
 times startled by the singular questions Richard asked, 
 meekly and modestly seeking for information from him 
 whom his enthusiastic nature believed one of the ve- 
 ritable lights of literature. 
 
 What will youths who are pampered or wooed into 
 learning say of the circulating boy of a circulating library, 
 performing the menial offices of his station, yet working 
 his mind ardently and steadily onward ? 
 
 One evening, after he had gone out with his books, his 
 mother entered the shop, timidly and with hesitating 
 step, which those who struggle against blindness uncon- 
 sciously assume. Matty was there, removing some papers; 
 Peter, the most silent of all dogs, lay upon the mat, and 
 Mrs. Dolland stumbled over him ; Peter only gave vent 
 to a stifled remonstrance, but that was enough to set 
 Matty into a passion. 
 
 Couldn’t you see the dog ! ” she exclaimed. If you 
 war a customer tin times over you had no call to the 
 baste ; he’s neither pens, ink, wafers, books, nor blotting- 
 paper — no, nor the writer of a book — to be trampled 
 under your feet.” 
 
 “ I did not see him,” she said, meekly. 
 
 Can’t you use your eyes ? ” 
 
 The unintentional roughness was doubly cruel. 
 
 “ I did,” she replied, turning her large, sorrowful, and 
 dimmed eyeballs towards Matty — I did ; I used them 
 night and day until it was the will of God to take away 
 their light.” 
 
 God look down upon you, my poor dear woman ! ” 
 exclaimed the repentant Martha, in a different tone and 
 
26 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 with different feelings ; and I ax yer pardon with all 
 the veins of my heart. Sure, then, dear, it isn’t going 
 blind ye are — a young woman like you, and with such 
 pretty made eyes, too — God bless ’em ; and the dog, dear, 
 had more feelin’ in him than meself, he knew you didn’t 
 intend to disturb him ; he’s more knowledgeable than a 
 Christian. Oh ! never say blind, dear ; keep a good heart, 
 and they’ll be as bright as a diamond yet.” 
 
 I wanted to see Mr. Whitelock,” said Mrs. Dolland, 
 without heeding Matty’s observation, I wanted to speak 
 a few words to him.” 
 
 Matty loved a gossip. She never suspected the fair, 
 frail, trembling woman, going blind,” to be Richard’s 
 mother. He never mentioned his mother’s blindness ; he 
 could not speak of it ; he hoped it would never be worse 
 than it was — she could still read, and do plain work; 
 and so Matty heard not of it. The housekeeper had 
 nothing particular to do that evening, and the sight of a 
 stranger did her good, because she expected a gossip. 
 
 Master can’t always be interrupted,” she replied, 
 particularly by them he doesn’t know ; but if you will 
 tell me your name and business. I’ll see what can be done 
 for you.” 
 
 “ I am Richard’s mother.” 
 
 “ Think of that now ! and he as close as wax. We do 
 our best with him, poor boy ; but he’s an unruly member.” 
 Richard ! ” exclaimed the poor woman, in a tone of 
 dismay — My gentle Richard.” 
 
 “ Aye, indeed ; that is, he’s not so jist at the i^resent 
 time, but he’ll become so, like all the rest of them boys, 
 one of these days.” 
 
 ‘‘ God forbid ! ” ejaculated the lady. 
 
 Amin ! ” said Matty ; but he’ll be sure to come to 
 it at last.” 
 
 Come to what ? ” inquired the alarmed mother. 
 
 To all sorts and kinds of contrariness,” replied Matty, 
 rapidly ; boys can’t help it, you see, it’s their nature ; 
 they’re not patient, bidable, gentle creatures like us — not 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 27 
 
 they ! Mischief, and all kinds of mnrther, and upsetting, 
 and latch-keys, and fidgets, and Yauxhall (the hop, 
 the go, and the finish, it was in my father’s time) — and 
 going out at nights, and throuncing the poleece (I’d put 
 up with a soldier, but the po-leece have no right to suicide 
 the people), and then for ‘prisoners base’ thewroug way, 
 and staying out all day (though that’s a good riddance), 
 and boxing, and apple-stealing, falling in love and kicking 
 up shindies^ 
 
 “ I beg your pardon, but I do not understand you,” 
 interrupted Mrs. Dolland, with more determination than 
 she had exercised for years. She felt as if this strange, 
 abrupt, half-mad woman was stringing together a set of 
 accusations against her child. 
 
 “ I’m obleeged to you, ma’am, for the compliment,” 
 said Matty, dropping a curtsey, “but as that’s neither 
 here nor there, what’s your business with the masther ! ” 
 
 “ That I can only tell himself,” she replied. 
 
 “ Well,” muttered Matty, “ that beats — ! But the 
 women now have no modesty. Them English is all a 
 silent set — no sociability in them. Tell himself ! — as if 
 it wasn’t more natural for a half-blind craythur like that 
 to discoorse a woman than a man. Well, well ! no 
 wonder my hair’s gone grey and my heart hard ! ” 
 
 There was something almost courtly in Mr. Whitelock’s 
 manner of addressing women. People in his own class 
 of life, who observed it, thought it ridiculous, and never 
 speculated as to how this politeness became engrafted on 
 his nature. He placed a seat for Mrs. Dolland in his 
 little parlour, and, though it was a warm autumn evening, 
 he moved it to keep her out of the air that blew over a 
 box of yellowish, stunted mignionette and two sickly 
 wallflowers which graced the sill of his back window ; he 
 also pushed his own chair as far as he could from the 
 widow’s, but, like all persons with impaired vision, she 
 moved nearer to him, and turned her restless eyes towards 
 the door. 
 
 “ It is shut close,” said the bookseller. 
 
28 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 There are some women who never lose the habit of 
 blushing ; it is lovely in the young, and indicates extreme 
 sensitiveness in the old. Kichard inherited his mother’s 
 blushes before they had faded from her own cheeks. The 
 transparency of Mrs. Dolland’s complexion was noticed 
 by Mr. Whitelock ; it contrasted well with the dust- 
 covei^ed pages of his books ; yet he wondered why her 
 colour came and went; and why her lips trembled. 
 
 Nothing wrong with Richard, I hope?” he said. 
 
 I hope not, sir ; and that is what I wanted to speak 
 with you about, if you will be so good as to have a little 
 patience with me. I am a simple woman, I know, sir — 
 my husband (ah ! you would have understood Aim) always 
 said I was ; but the simple are sometimes wise unto 
 salvation. You live, sir, like a Christian — you never 
 keep open after six on Saturdays — so that my boy gets 
 home early, and not too much worn with fatigue to enjoy 
 the rest and perform the duties of the Sabbath ; and on 
 Sundays it does him good (he says) to see you in church 
 before the bell has done ringing. I am sure, sir, you are 
 a Christian.” 
 
 “ I hope so ; I am a believer ; but many a believer 
 does not live as becomes a follower of Christ,” replied 
 Mr. Whitelock. 
 
 ‘‘ My husband, sir, was one of those who suffered long, 
 and was kind, and thought no evil ; in short, sir, you can 
 read his character in 1 Corinthians, chap. xiii. I owe 
 him more than woman ever owed to man. His unfor- 
 tunate attachment to me lost him his position in society ; 
 his father never forgave him for marrying a farmer’s 
 daughter. I thought, then, I did right, because he, just 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 29 
 
 one-and-twenty, said he could bend his lot to mine, and 
 laugh at poverty, and not live without me, and such like 
 things — as, perhaps, you have said yourself, before you 
 were married.” 
 
 I beg your pardon, my good woman,” interrupted 
 the bookseller, but I never was married, and never 
 uttered such absurdities in my life.” Mrs. Dolland 
 coloured, and twisted the end of her shawl round her 
 finger. 
 
 ‘‘ Lucky, sir — lucky for you ; and for — but I beg your 
 pardon ; perhaps you never were in love.” 
 
 Mr. Whitelock fidgeted, and grumbled something ; 
 and the widow’s instinct made her comprehend that he 
 did not relish her conjectures. She continued : — 
 
 I believed every word he said ; I could not under- 
 stand his sacrifice, because I had never moved in his 
 sphere ; I thought it a fine thing to marry for love, and 
 outstare poverty. I did not know that the gaze of its 
 stony eyes and the clutch of its bony hands might drive 
 him to his grave. They said he was consumptive from 
 his birth — I don’t believe it ; I know that labour and 
 want take the form of consumption. I went to his 
 father ; I knelt to him ; I told him I would leave my 
 husband — go where they should never hear my name — if 
 he would only receive him and his son — I did indeed, 
 sir ; but he turned from me with cruel words. And, 
 though he knew he was teaching a few poor scholars just 
 for bread, so he left him — and so he died. I only wish 
 that young poor girls, who think it a fine thing to marry 
 a gentleman, could know the misery unequal marriages 
 bring : the hardest lot can be borne alone ; but to lead 
 another to it, and that other the one you would die to 
 make happy — Oh ! that is the hardest of all things to hear ! 
 I beg your pardon, sir ; but if I did not begin from the 
 first, you could not understand my feelings.” 
 
 She wiped away her tears, and Mr. Whitelock told her 
 to proceed. He was so much interested in the tale, told 
 in her simple manner, in her soft voice — a voice so full 
 
30 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 of that low intonation, which is distinct even in its mur- 
 murs — that he could not help wishing some one of his 
 favourite novelists, people who long ago wrote the most 
 innocent tales in five or seven volumes, were there to 
 hear it. By his own dreamy abstraction she was trans- 
 formed into a young shepherdess tying a blue ribbon 
 round a lamb’s neck ; and the vision, with its adjuncts of 
 green fields and purling brooks — which he never saw 
 more than twice a year — with an enraptured youth lean- 
 ing over a stile and the village church steeple peering 
 above the distant trees, was only dispelled by her re- 
 suming her unaffected narrative. 
 
 And speaking as I was, sir, of understanding the 
 feelings, I know that to the last I never quite understood 
 those of my husband. I can’t tell if it was because of 
 the difference of our birth, or of our bringing up, or of 
 both ; though, as to the birth, his father had been a poor 
 man once, and got rich, some said, not over rightly — 
 though I can’t quite believe that of my dear husband’s 
 father. I never, as I said, quite understood my husband ; 
 for, to the last, I know I gave him pain by little ways 
 which he never complained of, and I knew not how to 
 change \ but what I could understand was his goodness. 
 He lived, the last year of his life, a life of such piety that 
 the world seemed to fold itself away from him like a 
 vapour. He delighted to teach our child texts of Scrip- 
 ture ; and even the wise-like copies which he used to set 
 him from Poor Bichard’s Almanac, faded from his memory 
 towards the last, though Bible words remained with him, 
 and scraps of atts’s hymns, and long passages of poetry ; 
 but what he dwelt upon most was the future of his child. 
 At that time I got constant work as an embroideress, 
 so, thank God, even if I was hungry he had all he 
 required, and the little lad was fat and rosy then. 
 But the last year he might be said to be more in heaven 
 than on earth ; the world was not with him ; only hour 
 by hour he used to call me to him, and say, ^ Bemember 
 our great salvation ;’ and the next minute he would pray 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 31 
 
 me, clasping my hands in his, not to care about the 
 little lad’s learning, so that he could win Heaven. He 
 would go on, adding scripture to scripture, to prove that 
 all this world is nothing worth, without that which 
 ensures eternal life. He desired neither riches, nor 
 honours, nor wealth, nor learning, for that boy — nothing 
 but that his faith should be pure and his hopes holy. 
 Sir, I understood that — that came home to me. Now, sir, 
 the lad is a good lad — tender and loving to me, his mother, 
 and, I believe, dutiful to you, sir j though the person 
 below did hint rather than say things which, I own, gave 
 me concern just now — things which make me fear he 
 may not be altogether what I hope j but he is young, 
 and ” 
 
 It is only Matty’s unfortunate manner,” interrupted 
 the bookseller. She does not mean it ; she has an ugly 
 trick of insinuating evil where she means good.” 
 
 How very strange,” said the meek woman. am 
 
 so glad I mentioned it j I should have made my son so 
 unhappy. What a pity she does not hope, sir; poor 
 thing ! not to have hope is worse than blindness. Well, 
 sir, have I explained how anxious my husband was that 
 this dear lad should become a righteous man — not a 
 formalist, but a vital Christian — abiding continually in the 
 faith, faithful above all things ; believing, like his father, 
 in Christ, and evincing his faith by acts of charity — in 
 word, in deed, in thought — towards his fellow- creatures. 
 That, sir, was the religion in which he lived and died j 
 and I should feel unfaithful to his trust, if I did not, by 
 prayer, supplication, and entreaty, try to keep the lad 
 in the path his father .trod. But he is getting too 
 strong for me : his mind swells like a river after rain. 
 He reads his Bible, to be sure ; but he reads other books 
 more frequently. T don’t know if that is quite right. 
 Oh ! sir, I weary heaven with prayers to teach me how 
 to keep him in the right ; so that, even if he halt or turn 
 aside, he may return.” 
 
 “ The boy is a good boy — an excellent lad : I have 
 
32 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 been turning over in mind what I could do for him, to 
 put him in the way of bettering his position. He is a 
 right excellent lad,” repeated the bookseller ; and I 
 would have you beware of drawing the rein too tight : I 
 think you are anxious overmuch.” 
 
 She shook her head mournfully. Sir, I have lived on 
 hope — a holy hope, a hope above the world — the hope of 
 one day seeing him in the courts of his Heavenly Father, 
 met there by his earthly father. With that hope to light 
 me, I can walk thankfully into the grave — which, if I 
 live a few months longer, cannot be darker than my sight 
 — certain of the brightness which shall be revealed here- 
 after. But, oh ! sir, if he, his child, should be beguiled 
 by too much worldly wisdom, or learning, to forget God, 
 how could I meet my husband — how could I answer to 
 him for the soul which he left to my care upon his bed of 
 death ? ” 
 
 My good woman, all the most righteous parents can 
 do is to letter and bind the book carefully, and let the 
 world cut the leaves.” 
 
 ‘‘Yes, sir,” she answered, “and to pray for him, and 
 keep him away from evil — especially the evil of unbelief ; 
 and that is one great reason of my visit, sir. You lent 
 him — ” 
 
 “ The works of Benjamin Franklin ; I remember.” 
 
 “ Is it the sort of book, do you think, sir, that is fit for 
 my little lad ? I know it is full of knowledge, about his 
 catching lightning, and inventing wonderful things, and 
 contains great and good advice to young tradesmen j but 
 I fear, though a great man, he wanted — ” 
 
 “What the best of us want, more or less, my good 
 lady;” said the bookseller, with unusual briskness, “and 
 had much that few of us possess.” And, then, after some 
 consideration, he added, slowly, rather as if talking to 
 himself, than addressing another, “ Let me see. The 
 early part of his life was stained, like the lives of many, 
 with faults almost amounting to crimes ; and those would 
 have remained untold, unrecorded — indeed, perfectly 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 33 
 
 unknown, even by his most intimate friends — -but for the 
 extraordinary truthfulness of the man’s great nature. 
 In the brief account of his own life he confesses that he 
 was blown about by every wind of doctrine ; and to what 
 purpose ? — to fall into the quagmire of scepticism. ITow, 
 this would be dangerous to read and think over for lads 
 of E^ichard’s age and eager temperament, if the entire 
 honesty of Franklin’s nature — downright, brave, looking- 
 straight-in-the-face truth — had not made him confess 
 and condemn his errors. He was scourged — as all 
 sceptics are, if they would only admit so much — by his 
 error ; he had to endure the bitterness and self-reproach 
 of knowing that the young friends whom his arguments 
 had perverted turned upon and ill-used him ; he recalled 
 his own misconduct, born of, and nurtured by unbelief ; 
 and though his nature was neither pious nor enthusiastic, 
 like that of John Bunyan, he saw, like Bunyan, the evil 
 of his ways. He learned that scepticism was the proof of 
 a weak, not of a strong, nature ; he saw how foolish it 
 would be to call a boy ‘ strong-minded,’ because he would 
 not believe what his father told him ! As he grew in 
 years, he strengthened in truth ; another proof of his 
 great mind. And then his works live in our literature ; 
 they keep their place by their own specific gravity. The 
 lad is old enough to understand this man’s greatness, and 
 the value he was to his country — indeed, to all countries 
 — and to imbibe those lessons of usefulness and industry 
 which are taught in his works, without being tainted by 
 his confessed sin. Infidelity is put, and by himself, at 
 such a disadvantage, that it holds out no temptations ; it 
 shows from first to last the confessed blot upon a radiant 
 memory. Aye indeed, this great man — this man so in 
 advance of his time — this true man, was, as I have said, 
 scourged by his infidelity ; and he shows his stripes. I 
 daresay — (the bookseller was a great phrenologist, and 
 the science engrafted much charity on his simple, yet 
 shrewd, mind) — I daresay the organ was depressed at 
 veneration but large in benevolence, with an almost 
 
34 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 overweiglit of the reasoning faculties. Ah ! if historians 
 would only give us the measurement of heads, and their 
 developments, instead of their own crude or prejudiced 
 analysis of character, we should better know where to 
 render our hero-worship. Don’t you think so ? ” 
 
 The mother looked upwards ; the spirit’s vision was 
 unimpaired, though the sight was fading day by day. 
 Still she always looked upwards, as if all her consolation 
 came from above. “ I do not understand, sir,” she said, 
 simply, “what you have observed has to do with my 
 Diehard ; but if you are sure the book won’t harm him, 
 won’t shake his faith, or make him think too highly of 
 worldly gifts — ” She paused, and then added, “You, sir, 
 being a Christian man, know best. I am certain it 
 teaches plenty of hope for this world, and great reliance 
 upon human gifts.” 
 
 “Your pardon, my good lady,” said the bookseller, 
 “ but which of our gifts is not divine ? ” 
 
 “ Aye, sir, but we must acknowledge their origin ; and, 
 as my dear husband used to say, not be too fond of setting 
 the farthing candle of reason to give light to the sun of 
 revelation. He made me understand that^ 
 
 She rose to withdraw. 
 
 “ I fear you are not satisfied, even now ?” 
 
 She shook her head. “ I pray night and day that he 
 may be so guided as to win heaven. I would fain know 
 what to do,” she continued, still more feebly ; “ you are 
 so good to him, sir ! May God bless you for it. But 
 the lad — and that book. I wish he had taken to it when 
 my sight was strong, I could have read it then : now, if 
 he reads it to me, I think he picks out the passages he 
 knows I would like, and leaves the rest.” 
 
 “ Did he ever read you the great man’s epitaph, written 
 by himself?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir ; there is hope in the last lines, about his ap- 
 pearing, after death, in a new and more beautiful edition, 
 corrected and amended by the Author. Certainly, no 
 bad man (Christianly speaking) could frame that.” 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 35 
 
 Bad man !” repeated the iDookseller. Why there are 
 scores of editions of his works ! ” 
 
 This did not strike the widow as a proof of his good- 
 ness. 
 
 Then, sir, you are quite satisfied with Bichard.” The 
 poor woman’s hands trembled as she folded them together, 
 and the long-suppressed tears flowed over her cheeks. 
 
 I beg your pardon for troubling you — I have no right 
 to do so — you are so kind to him; only, sir, please to 
 remember that he has two fathers in heaven, and that I 
 — -poor creature that I am — ^feel accountable to both, I 
 cannot sleep by night ; I fear I neglect my duty, and yet 
 I fear to overtax his ; he gains knowledge so quickly 
 that I tremble for his faith ; and when I am sitting 
 alone, between the dimness of my own sight and of the 
 twilight a thin, filmy shadow stands before me, and I 
 think that I can see the parting of its lips, and hear 
 them whisper, ‘Where is my child — does he seek to win 
 Heaven?’” 
 
 The compassionate bookseller gazed upon her with 
 deep feeling : the woman, so feeble in body yet so stead- 
 fast in what she believed right, was a mew interest to him. 
 He rose without a word, went to a dingy escrutoire, 
 opened the top, which folded down, and taking out a 
 small bag of gold, selected a sovereign. “ Go home- 
 wards,” said he, and as you go, purchase a bottle of port 
 wine, and what my housekeeper calls a shin of beef. 
 Make it all, mind you, every atom, into beef tea,” 
 
 “For Richard ?” 
 
 “ ISTo, for yourself j the weakness of your body adds to 
 the weakness of your sight, and may, eventually, impair 
 your mind. Pray, my good soul, for yourself as well as 
 for your son. Lay out the money faithfully for the pur- 
 pose I have named ; I know hov/ it is, I know that you 
 feed him — ^but you devote his surplus earnings to pay 
 your little debts. I have seen you, on a Monday morning, 
 enter a baker’s shop, with a thin marble-covered book 
 rolled in your hand. I have seen you pay the baker 
 
 D 2 
 
36 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 money, and you have left the shop without a loaf. Now, 
 mind whab I say.” 
 
 But a whole sovereign ! ” she said, it is too much — 
 might I not pay ” 
 
 “Not a farthing out of that !” he exclaimed; “why 
 you are quite as much of a shadow as when I saw you 
 first. Well, if you are too proud to take it as a gift, 
 your son shall repay it hereafter. And do not be so 
 anxious about Bichard ; have you ever considered that too 
 great an anxiety about any earthly thing is want of faith 
 in Almighty wisdom and goodness ? Has He not taken 
 your husband, as you believe, into His presence for ever- 
 more ? At the very time when you feared most for your 
 boy, did not a door open to him — and was not the 
 crooked made straight ? It has always seemed most un- 
 accountable to me, how people, and good people like you 
 — who have hope for ever on their lips — sufer fear and 
 doubt to enter their hearts.” 
 
 There was so much to cheer and encourage in the 
 generosity and kindness of the worthy man, and in the 
 faithful, yet unpretending, nature of his words, that the 
 widow’s hope returned, at all events for a time, to her 
 heart as well as to her lips. She might again have wan- 
 dered — again have inquired if he thought her “ little lad 
 was quite safe” — for she never in her best of days could 
 embrace more than one subject at a time — but his house- 
 keeper entered with two cups of broth. 
 
 “ You forget the time,” she said, abruptly — “ though 
 I’m thinking it won’t return the compliment to either of 
 you ; I can’t say much for the broth, for the meat is not 
 what it was long ago.” 
 
 “ If the master gets a fit,” she continued, turning to 
 the widow, “ it will be your fault — keeping him without 
 bit or sup — here, take the broth, it ain’t pison, and mas- 
 ter’s noways proud ; I wish he was. If you can’t take 
 your broth here comfortably, come with me to the 
 kitchen.” Holding the cup in one hand, and leading the 
 more than half-blind sempstress with the other she con- 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 37 
 
 ducted her down the narrow, dark stairs, as tenderly as a 
 mother would lead a child ; but before she had seated her 
 by the fire, the bell rang. 
 
 I rang for you,” said her master, knowing that your 
 
 heart and words do not always go together ” 
 
 Then I tells lies ; thank ye, sir,” she said, curtseying. 
 “No ; only I wish you to bear in mind, that Richard’s 
 mother is in a very low, nervous state.” 
 
 “ How can any one passing through this valley o’ tears 
 be anything else h ” interrupted the incorrigible woman. 
 
 Her master seemed as though he heard her not. “And 
 if you speak to her in your usual grumpy, disagreeable 
 manner ” — she curtseyed more deeply than before — “ you 
 add to her misery. I am sure your natural kindness of 
 heart will tell you how cruel that will be.” 
 
 “ Putting live worms on fishing-hooks, or toasting live 
 cockles would be nothing to it,” observed Matty. Now 
 as the bookseller had a piscatorial weakness, was, more- 
 over, fond of roast cockles, and had recently complained 
 that Matty had forgotten his taste — this was a very hard 
 hit ; he looked discomposed, upon which Martha rejoiced. 
 He was by no means ready-witted, but he was occasion- 
 ally readily angered — and replied to the sarcasm with a 
 bitter oath, producing an efiect directly contrary to what 
 he intended. Martha quitted the dusty room as if suffo- 
 cated by satisfaction, and went grumbling and tittering 
 downstairs. 
 
 “ It was a Lucky Penny, sure enough,” she said, “ that 
 brought my master and your son together.” 
 
 “ God bless him 1” 
 
 “ Which him ? ” 
 
 “ Both, mistress ; we hope He will bless what we love 
 best in the world.” 
 
 “ Aye, indeed, true for you. I heard tell of a man 
 once who was hung through a ‘ Lucky Penny.’ ” 
 
 The widow pushed away the unfinished cup of broth. 
 
 “ And of another, who made his fortune by one — ^just 
 as Richard will,” added Matty, relenting. 
 
38 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 And yet, despite this and her other sarcasms, it was 
 curious to see how Martha struggled to keep in her bitter 
 words ; when she looked at the widow’s shrunk and 
 trembling form, and wasted, though still beautiful fea- 
 tures, her better nature triumphed ; but if her eyes were 
 fixed upon her kitchen deities, she became sharp and acid 
 immediately. Had she moved in a higher grade of so- 
 ciety, with her peculiar talent, she might have been 
 
 ‘‘ That dangerous thing, a female wit,’* 
 
 as it was, she kept her master (to whom, from her stern 
 honesty of pocket and purpose, as well as from habit,” 
 that great enslaver of our kind,” she was invaluable) on 
 a species of rack ; while the only peaceful time Richard 
 spent in her society, was while he read to her what she 
 called, “ the state of Europe on the paper.” 
 
 “ He will soon have been twelve months in his place,” 
 said the woman, smiling. 
 
 Come next Hew Year’s day, if we live to see it ; 
 Richard says he’ll watch at the corner for the old gentle- 
 man.” 
 
 “ Bother ! I dare say he’s dead long ago.” 
 
 Ho, he is not dead ; I am sure he is not dead,” re- 
 plied the widow. I should like him to see my boy now ; 
 
 I hope he is not dead ” 
 
 Ay, ay — well ! we shall see,” quoth Matty. Before 
 Peter — (down, Peter, jewel !) — before Peter came we had 
 a dog called Hope — the most desavingest crayture she 
 was that ever stole a bone ; and always brought it back 
 — w'hen there w^as nothing on it.” 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 39 
 
 CHAPTEH IV. 
 
 Matthew Whitelock, reclining in what he called his 
 easy chair,” was musing, rather than thinking, over the 
 inconsistencies of the most consistent, and pondering as 
 to which was the more beautiful to contemplate — the 
 love a mother bears her child, or the devotion a child 
 renders to a parent ; thinking how many instances there 
 are of the former and how comparatively few of the 
 latter ; hoping that the widow would really buy the wine 
 and meat, as he desired ; and having, like all genuine 
 Englishmen, great faith in creature comforts,” by the 
 alchymy of his imagination he converted the worn, 
 attenuated widow into a portly dame. Having arranged 
 this, he indulged in a vision he had of late enjoyed so 
 frequently that it had become almost a reality — that 
 Eichard would turn out something like Whittington. 
 His dreams of the future had gradually taken Eichard in, 
 first as a shadow, then as a substance, until he formed a 
 portion of all his day-dreams — wondering if he could tie 
 up fishing-flies, yet fearing to ask him, lest Martha might 
 make it another subject of complaint ; varying these fan- 
 cies with probabilities as to whether he should have good 
 fishing the first of the following June, when he made his 
 annual journey to Teddington, and, be the day hot or 
 cold, invariably returned with a swollen face, wonderfully 
 helping Martha’s sarcasms during the succeeding summer 
 and autumn months. Indeed, she constituted it a red 
 letter day — everything occurred before or after mas- 
 ter went bothering after the bits of fish that the cat 
 wouldn’t eat without butter, and got the bad face.” 
 Then again his thoughts would dwell upon Eichard, 
 whom he believed — and with fair show of reason — 
 
40 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 endowed wifch a rare capacity for acquiring knowledge 
 and turning it to the best account. He never thought of 
 another power he possessed — that of attaching to him 
 those who seldom form attachments. Some observation 
 made by the lad in a careless, off-hand manner, would 
 frequently set his master calculating what he could do 
 for him. He delighted in lending him books, and to 
 draw forth his opinions upon them ; devising many clever 
 expedients to overcome Richard’s shyness, and make him 
 speak out.” As the lad’s accumulated and accumu- 
 lating knowledge became better known to him, he felt 
 almost inclined to apologize when it was necessary he 
 should take out parcels ; but what especially charmed 
 him was the boy’s unconsciousness of his own book-im- 
 provement and superiority. Had it not been for the 
 unaccountable fear Matthew Whitelock entertained of 
 his housekeeper, which he only overcame by fits and 
 starts, he would have forbidden Richard the kitchen, 
 and seated him at his own little table in the dusty back 
 room ; but he knew that such a movement must lead to 
 open rebellion. He had grown positively uncomfortable 
 at the idea of Richard’s brushing his shoes and cleaning 
 knives — “ a lad capable of writing the Latin names of his 
 books without a dictionary, and who was a better penman 
 than himself ! ” However difficult of belief it may be, 
 considering his calling,” it is a positive fact that 
 Matthew Whitelock reverenced literary acquirements ; 
 and when a clever book did not “ sell,” Matthew would 
 take the part of the author against “ the trade ” — a pro- 
 ceeding which caused him to be considered a fool ” by 
 many who are wise in their own conceits. 
 
 These and such like thoughts were passing through 
 Matthew’s mind, in a half-dreamy way ; now lingering, 
 now rushing onward, and then off, while Peter lay at his 
 feet ; and he began to long, as he often did, for Richard’s 
 return ; for he enjoyed a chat with his messenger, as he 
 used to enjoy a newspaper. Without his perceiving it, 
 Matty entered, and shutting the door, as she always did 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 41 
 
 when she had anything particular to say, placed her back 
 against it, wreathed her bony arms together, and passing 
 one foot over the instep of the other, she stood on one 
 leg, “ shouldering the door-case. 
 
 It’s my opinion, sir, that you make too much fuss en- 
 tirely with that boy, and that he’s forgetting his place.” 
 
 ^‘How?” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, thoughts is thoughts, and it’s hard to put them 
 into words ; but here they are 1 He’d rayther any time 
 stay fiddling after one bit of dust or another, or stitching 
 ould tataration books that’s going to the bad since the 
 year one, or mending your pen — as if you had not eye- 
 sight (the Lord presarve it) to do it yourself — than sit 
 and rest his young bones at his supper ; and as to rubbing 
 over the knives, he does them in no time, without a bit 
 of a stop between ; so that I never have a word out of 
 him. And the paper ! he reads it shameful ! treating 
 poly ticks as if they war dirt ; and so ignorant, that 
 when he’s done, he knows no more of the state of Europe 
 than when he began. His mother says he lives without 
 sleep, or as good as : there’s a heart-break for a tender 
 mother 1 I hate unnatural ways. The truth is. he’s 
 above his business.” 
 
 “ I quite agree with you.” 
 
 “ Then,” said the contradictory Matty, “ it’s a sin and 
 a shame for you to say so, sir. You have nothing to 
 complain of : he’s willing enough to do every hand’s turn 
 for you. I’m nothing in the house — just nothing ! He’s 
 as civil and smooth as crame — with his ‘ good morning,’ 
 and, ‘good evening,’ and ‘ fine day, Mrs. Cook,’ but that’s 
 professional — there’s no love with it. He’s all for lam- 
 ing and books. If he goes on this way, you’ll have to 
 take him into partnership.” 
 
 “ Yery likely !” 
 
 Matty immediately stood erect. 
 
 “Then, sir, you must look for another housekeeper, 
 that’s all : I’m not going to have two masters, and one of 
 them no better than a dog-boy ! Oh ! that I should 
 
42 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 come to that ! He’s bewitched you, so he has — put his 
 comether over you. I shouldn’t wonder if you made him 
 sit down at your table, and printed his poems.” 
 
 His what ? ” 
 
 “ Poems ! Haven’t I heard you say many times that 
 there was no good in books now, since there’s such a 
 many writers ; that a book is no longer a book, only 
 a rubbish ; and that all the half of the writers do is to 
 spile paper and pens, and waste ink. Them’s your words, 
 master, when you war in one of your pleasant humours, 
 discocrsing upon the ruin that’s come into the world. 
 And now this boy goes and writes poems, and you’ll print 
 them ! ” 
 
 Go down stairs, Matty, and bring me those poems.” 
 
 “ And to be made a paper weight in my ould days — 
 just to stand upon papers.” 
 
 Do as I desire you.” 
 
 I can’t : do you think I’d keep ’em in the kitchen % 
 There they are ! ” she continued, throwing a roll of manu- 
 vScript on the table ; there they are ! As if he had any 
 right to set up for a poet — as if his mother and him 
 haven’t gone through starvation enough without that. 
 That’s what comes of his neglecting the state of Europe and 
 hurrying over the knives : his mother wanted to tell you 
 about it, but had no courage ; and no wonder. It’s asy to 
 see what’s before him now ; and his poor mother blind 
 and desolate. Poems ! Oh ! no wonder my hair’s grey ! 
 Put it’s your fault, master — informing his mind ! I 
 wonder who ever troubled about my mind ! ” 
 
 And out she flounced, while her master, not without 
 some secret apprehension — more anxiety, in fact, for 
 Pi chard than he had ever felt before — unrolled the manu- 
 script, and, after wiping and putting on his spectacles, 
 commenced its perusal. 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 43 
 
 CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 In Harley-street — where the houses bear a near rela- 
 tionship to each other, and seem to have been erected by 
 some grave builder who was never ambitious of being 
 considered an architect, but heaped brick upon brick, in 
 the heavy, old-fashioned style, laying down solid floorings, 
 putting in solid windows, bearing in mind that there 
 might be dancing in the first floors, and dinners in the 
 dining-rooms — and so created (giving the walls time to 
 dry, and the plaster to harden — doing, in fact, everything 
 which builders do not do now) the long, solemn street, 
 which so admirably illustrates the term “ respectable ” — 
 in one of the most sedate and self-important houses of this 
 very respectable street, lived Mr. Francis Oldham. His 
 name was upon a brass plate on the door, showing that he 
 was not ashamed of it. The brass plate was as lustrous 
 as if it had been rubbed bright only the previous day, 
 and the door-steps were white and spotless as snow ; 
 the windows were of unstained plate-glass ; the paint was 
 all fresh. Many beggars, well or ill-dressed, passed up and 
 down that street, in sunshine and shower, but few knocked 
 at that particular door or addressed begging-letters to 
 Mr. Francis Oldham, though his name could be read from 
 the opposite side of the gaping street ; indeed, if a beggar 
 did knock at that bright-plated door, the policeman 
 (policemen and dogs know beggars by intuition) on his 
 lonely beat would have set the knocker down as a real 
 case, and no sham — a green oneP No regular beggar 
 would waste time on such an act, it being currently 
 reported amongst the clique that Mr. Francis Oldham 
 never did an act of charity in his life, and never would 
 do one. 
 
44 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 The house without was an index to the house within : 
 it was so well ordered as to be positively uncomfortable ; 
 the bright bars had the effect of ice — it was impossible to 
 imagine they had ever contained a fire ; the polished 
 oaken floor of the dining-room had a small, square Turkey 
 carpet in the centre, upon which stood a solid mahogany 
 table, like a tomb-stone. There was a picture (how such 
 a picture ever came there was a mystery) of Christ over- 
 turning the tables of the money-changers in the temple. 
 It was gloriously treated. The figure of the Saviour in 
 the foreground — calm and erect, the face more than half- 
 turned towards the cowering crowd he had reproved, 
 while withdrawing from a presence whose authority 
 they dared not dispute — was full of the sublime dignity 
 of displeasure ; the effect produced upon the people was 
 the effect of will, rather than of words ; the attitude was 
 in itself all-eloquent — all-powerful. If you looked at the 
 picture before you noted the frozen bars and tomb-like 
 table, and desolate aspect of the room, you would never 
 notice them at all — ^it would absorb your attention from 
 the first to the last moment you passed in the shivering 
 atmosphere of the rich man’s inhospitable chamber. The 
 Saviour’s right arm was outstretched, yet not fully elevated ; 
 is seemed as though the tables of the money-changers had 
 been crushed and broken while he raised it from his side 
 — the arm of flesh being the symbol of the arm of the 
 Spirit ; there was a positive halo, a radiance, around 
 the head, not painted in the ordinary way, as if brought 
 there, but a tender light exhaling the Christ. It 
 
 was impossible to tell how the effect was produced — there 
 it was, a thing to dream of ; inspired, doubtless, after holy 
 prayer and supplication that it might be given to mortal 
 man to show what Jesus was — what Jesus did. The 
 whole picture, in every effect, in every detail, was magni- 
 ficently painted ; and yet it was the Saviour, alone, that 
 riveted attention. You would have given much that the 
 face had been turned away from the multitude, and 
 towards you ; and yet who could look upon the severity 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 45 
 
 of its beauty unscathed ! Oh, rare painter — and wise 
 as rare ! 
 
 The wonder was, how Mr. Francis Oldham could endure 
 the silent reproof of such a picture ; for the tale was 
 whispered that he had been, and was, a money-changer — 
 one who gave gold for bills, and took large interest. It 
 might have been untrue, but so went the tale ; and if true, 
 then it is not to be wondered at that Mr. Francis Oldham 
 rarely dined there, but partook of his solitary meal in a 
 little back room, where the barred window looked into a 
 small square, paved court, surrounded by high, white- 
 washed walls which even the Harley-street cats could 
 never scale. 
 
 The house, despite its glaring and ostentatious cleanli- 
 ness, felt as if uninhabited ; and there was a close atmo- 
 sphere, caused by want of ventilation, which oppressed 
 the spirits of those who were accustomed to breathe fresh 
 air. It was also a silent house, nothing moving about it 
 except a very beautiful little spaniel, of a bitter, unamiable 
 temper, who attempted to bite every visitor without the 
 courtesy of a warning bark. 
 
 Contrary to his usual custom, Mr. Francis Oldham was 
 pacing up and down the drawing-room. The chairs and 
 sofas must have been rare and costly, to match the inlaid 
 tables and buhl cabinets ; but they were all carefully 
 covered with brown holland — cold and glazed ; the rich 
 paper looked as if it had not been hung a week ; and the 
 dreadful holland that shrouded the carpet was spotless 
 and chilly as a field of snow. The little dog paced after 
 its master, pausing occasionally, as if wondering why he 
 walked there at all: it was not at home in the room, 
 seemed to have no place to lie down upon, and was 
 thoroughly uncomfortable. A magnificent jpendule, and 
 two costly, but heavy and tasteless, lustres, were on the 
 chimney-piece ; and the old man (for he was old) never 
 failed to pause before the clock, to see if time lingered as 
 usual. He frequently glanced at the arm-chairs, as if 
 intending to sit down — ^perhaps it was their cold and 
 
46 
 
 THE LUCKY PEKNY. 
 
 comfortless air which prevented his doing so, or perhaps 
 he did not like to crease the covering. A very small fire 
 was burning in a fire-basket within the grate, and yet the 
 short November evening was closing in with more than 
 usual fog and creeping, creeping cold — a cold which 
 rimed the windows and made the street-lamps look dim 
 and wet. Mr. Francis Oldham walked on ; sometimes 
 rubbing his dry, hard palms together, and feeling if there 
 was another button to draw his coat still more closely 
 over his narrow chest ; he coughed frequently — it echoed 
 like a death-knell in that still house. After a long time, 
 a step was heard ascending from below ; it came stealthily 
 up, as if unwilling to disturb the silence. The drawing- 
 room fire was nearly out, only one or two cave-like coals 
 glowing at the back of the basket, and the mystified 
 street lamps cast their palest light into the room ; still 
 Mr. Francis Oldham walked, and his shadow, broken olf 
 at intervals by the piers between the windows, to which 
 the curtains were drawn tight back, and covered with 
 that ghastly holland, came and went — a thin, crazy-looking 
 shadow — now on the floor, now on the wall. How dim 
 and homeless everything appeared in that chill, unsocial 
 room — it was becoming positively spectral ; at last the 
 step paused at the door, and then the handle turned, and 
 a gaunt -looking woman, shading the candle with her 
 hand, said : — 
 
 The cook, sir, declares the rabbits will not be fit to 
 eat, shall she ” 
 
 “ Babbits,” he interrupted, and his voice was hard and 
 grating, I told her, if my brother did not come, she 
 should dress but one.” 
 
 “ I don’t know, I am sure, sir ; that was what she 
 said.” 
 
 “ It is past six.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes, sir. 
 
 “ Then tell her to put the dinner by ; it will do for 
 to-morrow. I cannot eat at this new-fashioned hour ; 
 clear away the things below, and get me some tea.” 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 47 
 
 As if the dog understood the mandate which deprived 
 her of her hones, she leaped up to her master’s hand. 
 He stooped and fondled her ; — No, no. Fan shall have 
 her dinner. Tell the cook to send me up Fan’s dinner 
 — poor Fan.” He took the little animal in his arms, 
 and caressed it tenderly, and his eyes lost their fierce, 
 suspicious look while playing with his little favourite. 
 It was strange how much the cold man and the cross 
 dog were to each other. Mr. Francis Oldham never 
 looked sternly or suspiciously on Fan, never grudged her 
 her food, never withered her by unkindness, or spurned 
 her, as he did his fellow-creatures, with contempt from 
 his heart and door. In a short time, both were seated 
 in the little back room. Tea was the only luxury he 
 indulged in, and this he drank so strong that, if he had 
 taken council of a physician, he v/ould have learned that 
 the excited state of his nerves and the irritable humours 
 from which he suffered were the results of his libations 
 to the Chinese gods. A knock came to the door, single 
 and deep ; the lonely man sprang from his chair as if 
 electrified, and Fan barked furiously. The step from the 
 depths below again ascended the stairs, and in process of 
 time, the gaunt housemaid entered with the newspaper, 
 which Mr. Francis had long since ascertained he could 
 keep for two hours in the evening for the charge of one 
 penny. He read it in less than one, for he was quick of 
 eye and comprehension ; but he calculated on the pos- 
 sibility of not being able to read it in one, and, besides, 
 it was a bargain. I told him,” said the maid, in answer 
 to her master’s angry look, I told him over and over 
 again, he must ring, not knock.” 
 
 Hard, iron-hearted, as that man seemed — unimpressible 
 — his features and expression remaining unchanged while 
 perusing column after column of disastrous warfare, of 
 frightful shipwreck, of murder and rapine, of execution, 
 of marriage, of insanity, of gay balls, of costly city pa- 
 geantry, of advertising misery, of catchpenny falsehood j 
 redeemed from time to time by a burst of honest enthii- 
 
48 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 siasm for a noble cause, or a noble virtue ; or marked by 
 the no less noble sarcasm, shivering a false speculation 
 to atoms, or torturing some hoary sinner by the public 
 exposure of his gilded sins — unmoved as the old man 
 looked — unmoved by wit, or eloquence, or heroism 
 — untouched by misery — stolid, silent, except when 
 shaken by his warning cough, — there was still beneath 
 that mask of wrinkles, within that petrified heart, one 
 eternal pulsation that beat there night and day, that 
 would not, could not rest, throbbing on, gaining strength 
 from his weakness in its fearful monotony — still talking 
 of the past ! 
 
 Another knock by a hesitating hand, followed rapidly 
 by one loud and redoubled — a will-come-in-whether-at- 
 home-or-not sort of knock — and then a tearing ring, 
 vibrating through the house. Fan was paralysed ; she 
 opened her mouth twice or thrice to bark, but could not ; 
 Mr. Francis dropped the paper, clutched the arms of his 
 chair firmly, and gasped for breath. 
 
 Whaf a waste of noise r he murmured, “ thirty years 
 has not changed his knock — another 1 why will not that 
 woman hurry — he will shake the paint off the door.” 
 
 There was loud and joyous questioning in the hall, a 
 voice of boisterous cheerfulness shouting with all the 
 eagerness of fraternal afiection for his brother.” Mr. 
 Francis Oldham was moved, he did not understand it, 
 but he was moved ; he almost staggered to the door, and 
 staggered still more when his brother, after an embrace 
 close as the hug of a polar bear, wrung and shook his 
 hands until they ached again. The old men looked each 
 the other in the face. “ Why, Frank, God bless me, your 
 features are our poor father’s ; your height, size, aU his ! 
 But are you ill, brother — or has any sorrow since the last 
 I know of, come upon you? No ; well, that is good I 
 but you show sorrow — you must brighten up.” 
 
 “ But for your voice, John, I should not have known 
 you. Your hair, however, is not white as mine.” By a 
 dexterous movement John Oldham removed his wig ; 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 49 
 
 ‘Hhere!” he exclaimed, ‘^how do I look now ? — not afraid 
 of the phrenologists. But where are your fellows'? I 
 want my things brought in and taken up stairs. What, 
 no men-servants % — well, my rascal will soon be here, I 
 left him to look after the luggage and take care (don’t 
 be frightened, Frank, my boy) of my monkey ; the nicest 
 creature you ever saw. I hope your dog is good-natured ; 
 J ebb is quiet enough ; but if she teazes him he’ll flay 
 her alive — he will, by J upiter ! ” 
 
 “ He’d better not,” growled Mr. Francis, snatching up 
 his favourite, J ohn, this is my only companion or 
 friend ; she betrays no secrets, tells no tales, and knows 
 a beggar even in the disguise of a gentleman.” 
 
 ‘‘Ah, Frank ! you were always cynical. Make a dog your 
 092 companion and friend, when there are friends to be had, 
 aye, in plenty, if we only deserve them ; and as to the beg- 
 gars, poor devils ! Why, Frank, you remember our own 
 young days ; a broom and a crossing would have been a 
 fortune to me when our luxury consisted in sniffing the 
 savoury steams that loomed from the kitchens of the 
 London Coffee House. Talk of the increased power of 
 steam after that,” and he laughed joyously. “ And then, 
 do you remember how we worked for a supper — ‘Want 
 a coach, your honour ? — here, Frank, hold the link to 
 his lordship !’ ‘ Chairman ! see-dan — ay — ay — all ready!’ 
 Ah ! the days of Banelagh and Yauxhall 1 we were 
 hungry half-starved link-boys, errand-boys, serving-boys 
 then ; but we had youth, and hope, and energy ; strong 
 wills though in tangled ways, and triumphed. Lucky 
 dogs we have been, eh, Frank ?” And again John Oldham 
 shook his brother’s hands, while the proud, rigid brother 
 writhed under the remembrances in which J ohn gloried, 
 and continued, “ Do you, remember, Frank, our unlucky 
 sixpence ? I never forgot the tenderness I felt for that 
 last coin we had in the world ! and how, after a hard 
 day’s fag, and a hard day’s disappointment, we went to 
 the baker’s to buy us a loaf, depending on the change for 
 a bed, and how the sixpence was a had one 1 And how, 
 E 
 
50 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY, 
 
 the baker would have it that we knew it was, and threat- 
 ened us with a constable j but the baker’s wife said him 
 nay — that ‘I looked honesty and ^ you looked starved^ and 
 she gave us a stale roll. That woman’s kind eyes have 
 shone in my dreams many times since then 1 What a 
 living, abiding thing is charity !” 
 
 It was well that John did not then look at his brother 
 Frank. 
 
 The baker’s wife was right ; more than fifty years had 
 gone by since then, grinding its thousands, and its tens 
 of thousands, and its hundreds of thousands, into name- 
 less or forgotten graves; a generation had come and 
 gone, yet her judgment was still true — “ the one looked 
 honest, the other starved.” The children had grown into 
 boyhood, into youth, manhood, age ; had passed through 
 six of the seven ages” with toil and labour; been ele- 
 vated by ‘4ucky hits,” and depressed by commercial 
 changes ; had been both battered and cherished by what 
 the one called Luck,” and the other “ Providence 
 had been stimulated by extraordinary energy, and 
 strengthened by a fixed purpose ; nurtured, they could 
 not imagine how, though they could tell where. They had 
 achieved the same end, by different means, and in dif- 
 ferent hemispheres, and still “ one looked honest — the 
 other starved.” 
 
 Mr. John and Mr. Francis Oldham sat opposite to 
 each other in the little parlour that commanded a view 
 of the small square courtyard with the high walls ; there 
 never before had been such a fire in the grate. The coal 
 seemed endowed with a spirit of life, and crackled and 
 sparkled, resolved to make a night of it.” The spring 
 of the candle-lamp gave an occasional click, a sort of hurra 
 in steel, and a bound, thrusting the candle up so as to 
 form a mimic illumination. Fan did not partake of this 
 dumb hilarity ; she knew the monkey was in the house, 
 and crouched, her nose between her paws, ready to spring 
 forth in a moment. She groaned and growled to herself, 
 wondering, doubtless, in her canine selfishness, what her 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 51 
 
 master could want with a brother or a monkey, when he 
 had her. 
 
 Wine, of marvellous age and flavour, was poured from 
 cobwebbed bottles into glasses which had been dry and 
 dusty for years. It evinced its power by fevering the 
 one and rendering the other still more hard and bitter ; 
 but both men were moderate,” the one from penurious 
 habit, the other from a principle instilled by wisdom and 
 experience. 
 
 “ I wonder, brother,” said Frank abruptly, after many 
 topics had been exhausted, “I wonder you never married.” 
 
 “I think — ” replied John, after a very long pause, during 
 which the thoughts of both had been rushing among 
 memories of the past, long forgotten, — just as the moaning 
 wind of an autumn day steals through the crackling 
 sedges and withered grass ; while some almost obliterated 
 associations started like skeletons from mouldering graves, 
 or arose with all the freshness of mocking youth before 
 them ; trials and turmoils, hopes, disappointments, a 
 mingling of life and death, vapoured through the long 
 vista of time, into which each gazed bewildered ! J ohn’s 
 jocund face assumed now a sad, and then a serious ex- 
 pression, like the long-drawn rays of a winter sunset ; 
 his thoughts had strolled back from the present, laden 
 heavily with the memory of a wrong, revived, cruelly 
 and unnecessarily, by his brother’s question. He felt 
 constrained to speak, and yet feared to give his thoughts 
 or feelings voice. His age was forgotten, or only re- 
 called by the shrivelled, blighted man, whose manner 
 and words had jarred upon the heart that only wished 
 to feel how they, two remnants of the past, were alone in 
 the wide world ; and that it would be wiser never to 
 touch the chord, that already the brother had struck with 
 heartless violence. 
 
 “ I think, Frank,” he said, at last, if your memory 
 does not fail you, you cannot wonder why I never 
 married.” 
 
 “ If,” replied his brother — and his words came hard and 
 
52 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 broken tlirough his compressed lips — if you mean that 
 her memory prevented it, so best. One was quite enough 
 to be ensnared into matrimony. I congratulate you on 
 your escape, brother J ohn.” 
 
 “ This comes ill from you,” replied the brother ; “ she 
 preferred you.” 
 
 “ She marrwd interrupted Frank Oldham, with 
 bitter sarcasm. John rose from his seat, and looked 
 fixedly at his brother. 
 
 If she had not loved you she would not have married 
 you ; there was nothing to induce her but the love of 
 woman — the unselfish love which men so little understand. 
 She sacrificed all for you, Frank ; you were not then the 
 prosperous man you became — she was a blessing !” 
 
 A curse ! groaned Francis Oldham, fiercely, pro- 
 longing the r, grating it between his teeth, while his 
 dark, sunken eyes, glared like those of a tiger in the 
 dark. A cu-r-se,” he repeated ; I wish you had had 
 her, with all the luck she brought to me ! ” 
 
 A variety of contending feelings wrestled in John Old- 
 ham’s bosom ; his distress was suffocating — agonizing ; 
 he gazed on the distorted features of his brother, and 
 thought, “ Was it for this I returned — despite his written 
 words, is he unchanged ? ” And then, terror-stricken, 
 he fancied that Frank must be insane. For a moment, 
 frightful as this was, he would rather have had it so, than 
 know that, in his senses, his brother dared to give lan- 
 guage to such thoughts : he summoned his better angel to 
 his aid, by a rapid supplication for strength, and power 
 to overcome evil by good. After another moment, he 
 felt compassion for the rich, wretched man, who was 
 grasping convulsively the handles of the chair whereon 
 he sate, and muttering. Brother,” he said, more must 
 have passed, during the many years of our estrangement, 
 than I have ever known. We are old men, both ; we 
 exchanged brief letters ; at first they were cold and for- 
 mal — but of late our hearts drew towards each other — 
 mine did, God knows, towards you ! We are, to all ap- 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 53 
 
 pearance, once more together, beneath the sanctuary of 
 your roof, warmed by your cheerful fire, stimulated, per- 
 haps over-much, by your good wine — but we are, in 
 reality, beside the graves which yawn for those who ap- 
 proach three-score and ten. I have given up the associ- 
 ates and associations of forty years, for my heart yearned 
 to be with you, brother, so that we might end our days, 
 as we began them — if it was God’s will — within an hour 
 of each other. For this I have crossed the sea, deter- 
 mined, because of the long estrangement between us, that 
 we should now be all in all to each other ; but while I 
 breathe this air, and have the power of speech, I will 
 suffer no shadow to be cast upon her memory. You 
 wooed her from me, brother, and far-off I bore, silently, 
 unrepiningly, the misery which I believed secured hap- 
 piness to her.” 
 
 Age had failed to paralyse that large heart ! it was 
 beating with the fervour of youth within his breast ; 
 tears overflowed his eyes, and, if he had yielded to his 
 feelings, he would have covered his face and wept ; but 
 there was a stern severity, an unmelting nature about his 
 brother, which brought his years back upon him, and 
 though his purpose remained his enthusiasm faded. 
 
 We will not speak of it,” said Frank, abruptly j we 
 are two old men now, waiting — annihilation ^ 
 
 John Oldham shuddered, and drew back, as if stricken 
 by sudden ague. ISTot so,” he said — “ waiting the per- 
 fecting of a life, commenced here, to be purified and im- 
 mortalized hereafter.” Such was his noble nature that 
 he -could hardly help — as he stood looking down upon the 
 man, ‘‘ the muck-worm,” writhing in the toils of infidelity, 
 ashamed to let his face be seen, so that he covered it with 
 his hands — falling on his knees beside him, and praying 
 that his heart might be changed ; he forgot his indigna- 
 tion in his horror and sorrow at the confession which had 
 escaped from those shrivelled lips ; his sanctified benevo- 
 lence, born of true Christian charity, came forth, and he 
 longed to take him to his bosom as a little child, and 
 
54 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 nurture him with tidings of great joy. The cause of the 
 deformity of his brother’s nature was laid bare before 
 him ; the hideous skeleton of his life was there in all its 
 frightful, fleshless deformity ; the coil of the great sin- 
 serpent was around him, its breath stifled him, its eyes 
 pierced him, its poison mingled with his blood. He was 
 existing without hope ! without faith ! trembling on the 
 brink of the damp, hollow grave, from which he believed, 
 or desperately thought he believed, there was no resur- 
 rection. What availed his heaps of gold, the greetings 
 of men in the market-places, the notoriety achieved by 
 his wealth — he must exchange all for the putrid grave ; 
 for that consummation he had toiled, living his latter 
 years unloving and unbeloved — living without a blessing, 
 dying without a hope ! 
 
 John, the oldest of the two old men by one hour only, 
 laid his hand gently, pityingly, on his brother’s shoulder. 
 ‘^Erank,” he said, ^^this must not be- — this cannot be! 
 My poor brother, what fearful tortures you must have 
 gone through to have come to this!” 
 
 The gentle, tender tone of the voice, the loving pity of 
 the words, touched the stern cold brother ; the wine fever 
 was abating — the bitterness giving way ; he was never 
 otherwise than hard and severe, but he had become a 
 demon under the unusual influence of the old wine. He 
 withdrew his hands from his full but wrinkled brow, and 
 spoke : — “ You do not spurn away your infidel brother ? 
 She learned to shrink from my touch before she died. 
 The preachers got hold of her ; men who cry perpetually, 
 ^ Flee from the sinner — flee from the sinner, and leave 
 him to destruction ; ’ but that was not all — the mother 
 of five children — but one survived — one boy, beautiful 
 as she had been. I looked to that boy to take up my 
 life, and in his turn bequeath it to his child — that was 
 the immortality I sought ! J ohn, she taught that boy to 
 shudder at my voice ; she did more 1 she strengthened 
 him in what she called a ‘ faithful standing up against 
 '^pollyon.’ I will tell you ; I would not have my child 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 55 
 
 think and feel as I do for the universe ! I would teach 
 my enemy to do so, not my friend — not my child,” the 
 old man groaned. 
 
 Speak freely,” said J ohn, soothingly ; “I pity you 
 the more, but do not love you the less, my brother ! ” 
 
 But Margaret thought I would have taken away the 
 stay, the hope, from my own child, though I had nothing 
 to give him in return 1 She made him dread his father. 
 My child shrank from my side ; those eyes of light be- 
 came dark when I drew near ; and when my wife lay 
 dead, that boy watched beside her, lest I should disturb 
 the inanimate clay by my presence. He rose against me 
 when I crept into the room to look my last on her — it 
 might be in love, or hate — he rose against me, upbraided 
 me like a strong man, for having broken her heart. I 
 did not do it, John — women have pined and died from 
 contradiction before now ! I could not help it ! if she 
 would watch and pray by night, and catch consumption, 
 what could I do ? She had a doctor, too ; though the 
 boy upbraided me, and said, ^ not until it was too late 1 ’ 
 My own child taunted me ; and that dreary night I was 
 heated, as I was but now ; for I had drunk much wine 
 to give me strength to look upon the face of death. Thus 
 nerved, he bade me back — dared me to take the seat 
 which he had lejt — stood in my path — I struck him down ! 
 As I am a living man, the dead cried out ! It was no 
 fancy ; for years I have been startled from my sleep by 
 that terrible cry ! ” His shrunken chest heaved con- 
 vulsively, he shuddered so that his after words came 
 trembling from his quivering lips. I raised him in my 
 arms, and laid him in my own bed ; and when I went for 
 help he crawled back, and there again I found him, 
 kneeling beside her corpse. If I had injured her, she was 
 amply avenged by the deep hatred that most beautiful 
 of boys bore to me — to me — his father ! Oh ! how I 
 watched and waited, thinking to win his love ; how I 
 sought to discover his tastes, his fancies, and force them 
 to the one purpose — affection for myself. All spoke of 
 
56 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 his beauty, and congratulated me on having such a son, a 
 scholar and a gentleman, to hold high place in good society. 
 I wish I could have hated him j no ! cold as he was to ihe, 
 he was my pride. But as he grew, his genius was cramped 
 by fanaticism ; he sought conventicles, and took com- 
 panionship with Methodists, little caring what I thought. 
 And then his health failed, and I sent him from his 
 associates into the country, hoping he might be tempted 
 into the manly pastimes of the English field.' What did 
 he then h Married — while a mere *boy, he married a far- 
 mer’s daughter. He, who, I hoped, would have brought 
 family and distinction, enriched our blood by means of my 
 hard-earned wealth, wedded a low-born, silly girl — a 
 loving fool — no more ! And when I questioned him, 
 hoping they were not wed, he said she was good enough 
 for him j that his mother had often told him of the lowly 
 struggles and station of our young life ; and how riches, 
 such as I possessed, never brought honour or honourable 
 distinction. I told him he was no longer son of mine ; 
 and he coolly wished that such were possible ! I never 
 saw him after.” 
 
 “ Did he leave no children ? ” inquired John. 
 
 What care I ! ” said Frank, fiercely. “ If he left a 
 swarm of children, what is that to me ? My heart was 
 closed against him and against all the world ; I have long 
 shut out all human sympathies, and never thought to be 
 moved again as I have been moved to-night. Now, 
 brother John, you know me, or nearly so. It may be 
 that you leave me to-morrow : there is no reason why we 
 should seek to please each other — neither can serve the 
 other’s interests.” 
 
 Enough of this stony creed ! ” exclaimed the stranger. 
 “ I have heard so much, that I can endure no more to- 
 night. I warn you of one thing — if your son left child- 
 ren, I will find them out. I do not seek to exculpate him 
 from the great crime of disobedience, but I will find his 
 widow, and her children.” 
 
 “ Aye, try it ; I knew you would,” said Frank, worn 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 57 
 
 out by his unusual emotion ; they will be Margaret’s 
 grandchildren.” 
 
 ‘‘ And yours.” 
 
 Frank Oldham tossed his arms wildly out, as if he 
 would cast them from him ; and the old men separated 
 for the night. 
 
 CHAPTEE YI. 
 
 “ And so, mother, as this is the first day of the new 
 year, after I have given my good friend and master the 
 best wishes a grateful heart can offer, and presented to 
 Martha the gift you prepared for her — ” 
 
 “ Let me see it— let me Jeel it, I mean,” interrupted 
 Richard’s mother. “To me the shawl looks dull and 
 spotted ; yet it is of good substance, a nice soft shawl, 
 and green, you say ; what green 1 is it the bright green 
 green which the young larch puts forth, when the first 
 showers of April hang upon it like diamonds ; or the 
 blue green of the infant wheat, clothing a field in velvet ; 
 or the deep, dark, indigo green of the solemn pine trees ? 
 Richard, my child ! ” and she laid her hand on his 
 shoulders, closing her eyelids over her dim eyes ; “ Rich- 
 ard, this blindness has its blessing ; I never, until I be- 
 came dark, would think of the scenes of my early days — 
 when the farmer’s daughter danced for joy in the first 
 beams of summer, or watched from the hayfield the 
 soaring lark, or gloried in the rich harvest-home or the 
 merry-making round the Christmas fire — I did not dare 
 to shut my eyes and recal those childish things, when I 
 knew they must open on all the cold, cruel, wants of 
 poverty ; but now, when you are out, and happy — bless 
 you, my darling ! happy in industry — it is quite cheerful 
 to close them against the wall of motes, and specks, and 
 swimming things, that mingle with the daylight. I have 
 but to shut my eyelids, and recal all I ever saw, or lived 
 among ; and there they are, the trees ! such trees ! and 
 
58 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 the flowing river fringed with rushes and floating bunches 
 of forget-me-not ; and the nest of the green-footed water- 
 hen, the skimming swallow, the glancing fish, the heavens 
 so blue, so full of light ; our own farm-house, where first 
 your father came for health, and loved to read to me, and 
 hear me read, and tried to teach me all things good and 
 holy, and made me see the beauty of the trees, and clouds, 
 and flowers, and blossoming grass ; and would ask ques- 
 tions, which, as I could not answer, my tears would 
 come ; and then he would call me a very silly village girl, 
 and say, with hope, and faith, and love, I needed nothing 
 more, and that his learning would do for both. I see 
 him now, not as you remember him, a pale, dying man, 
 but full of youth and beauty. I gave him (God forgive 
 me) idol worship, I gave him as much love, as much 
 devotion, as I gave my God, and did not think what he 
 would have to suffer from marrying without his father’s 
 leave. I did not know what poverty or sickness were, 
 nor think what it would be to see him and you want 
 food.” She shuddered, and then added, “ But God took 
 him from me — so best.” 
 
 The boy looked all the time upon his mother’s eyes, 
 and yet she could not read his passionate gaze of love 
 and admiration 1 Boy though he was, he had arranged her 
 cap, and smoothed her glossy hair beneath its borders, 
 and joyed in the tint of returning health upon cheeks no 
 longer thin and wasted; the prescribed diet had done 
 well, but repose had done better. Bichard had acted on 
 his master’s instructions, and spent more time in reading 
 what she loved best to hear ; he had also written a hymn, 
 ■which, in her own way, she had set to an old child-loved 
 tune ; and, frequently, while her fingers plied her netting, 
 or her knitting, she would croo7z over those words, dearer 
 to her than all that Milton ever wrote, and conjure up 
 the scenes of her girlhood, mingling them with the har- 
 mony of her son’s verses. 
 
 How is it, mother ? ” inquired Richard, forgetting his 
 purpose, his master, and Martha’s shawl — how^ is it, that 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 o9 
 
 when you speak of those past days, you speak so differently 
 from what you do about other times and things, and look 
 so handsome, dear mother ? I only wish you could see 
 how different you look, from what you did this day twelve- 
 month, before I got my luchy 'penny r 
 
 God has been very gracious, Richard. I dare say I 
 do speak differently, particularly when I speak and think 
 of your father ; he took such pains with us ; but poverty 
 lowered me every way, and it is only when I think of 
 those days I rise again.” 
 
 “ But, mother, you always hoped.” 
 
 Yes, dear — ” and Richard saw her old look return — 
 yes, -dear, I should have died without hope j but I don’t 
 want the hope that you will be a great writer; your 
 master thinks it is better to print books than to make 
 them.” 
 
 “ Perhaps better than either, to carry them out,” 
 answered the boy, somewhat petulantly, and while his 
 cheek flushed, a very different expression passed over his 
 features from that which pressed upon his earnest brow 
 the morning that he waited for his master’s door to open. 
 
 No, Richard, you cannot mean that,” replied his 
 mother, in simple faith that he meant what he said ; you 
 have done a great deal more than carry out books or 
 parcels ; but I believe what Martha says is true, that you 
 are a spoilt boy,” and she passed her hand fondly over his 
 head. 4^ Now take the shawl to Martha, and don’t laugh 
 at her odd English, or mind her unkind words; she 
 means well.” 
 
 “ And so did the old gentleman, who gave us the 
 pennies ! Surely I have had a good master since then ; 
 I only wish he was poor, that I might work for him 
 and after some more words, and a promise to return to 
 their new year’s dinner, mother and son separated. With 
 her head a little bent, like a listening bird, she hearkened 
 for the sound of his footsteps in the court; and when they 
 were no longer audible, she heaved a sigh, as those who 
 love sweet music often do when it is ended. 
 
60 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 4 ^ 
 
 Kichard bounded on with the freedom of a sunbeam 
 over the snow which had fallen as a shroud on the grave 
 of the old year ; even at that early hour it was soddened 
 and trampled, but the youth heeded it not ; it is doubtful 
 whether he thought he walked upon snow or upon pave- 
 ment. 
 
 Though his master had advised him to avoid poetry as 
 he would a pestilence (resolving in his own mind that he 
 should emulate Benjamin Franklin, and become, in due 
 time, one of the first booksellers and printers of the world), 
 yet he had praised one poem, and sent it, very unwisely, 
 to a periodical. The bookseller thought it would keep his 
 vanity down, if he signed it ‘‘ an Errand-Boy.” Alas ! 
 it had made him but the more vain; ‘Hhe pride that apes 
 humility ” is the most dangerous of all prides. For some 
 days afterwards, Martha and his master had reason for 
 discontent ; the boy, when his thoughts were in the 
 shop,” was as anxious as ever to please, but it must be 
 confessed he now and then built castles which over-topped 
 St. Paul’s and rendered him oblivious of his duties. No 
 mean or sordid visions disturbed his mind ; he did not 
 dwell on the wealth, or city honours, or bewildering 
 dinners, or pause before large houses, thinking he should 
 like to dwell therein. He might have altogether longed 
 for fame, had not the life of Franklin inclined him to 
 utility, and taught him lessons which recalled him from 
 the dream land ” whose threshold he had but just past. 
 
 He longed to found charities, to build schools, to erect 
 monuments ; and then came the hope and prayer that his 
 mother might live to hear him spoken of as ‘‘ the great,” 
 the good.” He treasured up anecdotes of those whose 
 fortunes had grown as from the grain of mustard seed ; 
 but all his utilitarian views, all his benevolent projects, 
 all he thought of or about, were poetized — the divine 
 essence pervaded his nature — all was steeped in the poetry 
 which may not harmonize in rhyme, and yet impregnate 
 every thought and feeling. After one of these fashions 
 ran Bichard’s thoughts, while he pushed eagerly through 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 61 
 
 the streets, when he was suddenly seized by the arm, and 
 Martha’s unmistakable brogue attacked him. 
 
 “ Passing the doore ! is it passing the doore you are, 
 this blessed New Year’s Day ? and ye’re as good as a fut 
 taller than you war when you bothered the ears and the 
 heart out of me to come in ; passing the doore — there’s 
 gratitude ! Not that I think of myself, but your blessed 
 master within there, that’s made a fair fool of you and of 
 himself, too, so that you should honour the ground he 
 walks on ; for many a fine boy has been led to transpor- 
 tation, at the very least, and may be a great deal worse, 
 through his means (I mean the means he takes to set you 
 up as a walking gentleman). Passing the doore ! without 
 a ^ God be with ye,’ to the fine ould year that found yer 
 mother in light, and left her dark; or a ‘welcome kindly’ 
 to the new, that may see you as badly off, before it’s six 
 months ould^ as ye war in the days of its grandfather.” 
 
 Kichard’s spirits were so buoyant that he laughed. 
 “ It was stupid of me, Martha, to pass the door — a door 
 I know so well, and love so dearly.” 
 
 “Love an ould doore dearly,” repeated the torment- 
 ing Martha; “ listen to that ! it’s something else you’ll be 
 loving some of these days.” 
 
 The boy looked at her stolid, unsympathizing features, 
 her hard, stony, glittering eyes ; he had grown used to 
 them, and knew that though her words were often cruel, 
 her acts were always kind. “ Whatever I love,” he said, 
 “ I shall never cease to feel the deepest gratitude for your 
 kindness.” 
 
 “ You might name the master first.” 
 
 “ Well, master and you are one.” 
 
 In an instant a storm gathered and burst forth. 
 “ Master and I one ; take care what you say, or I’ll have 
 you before the lord mayor himself, for defamation. One I 
 we’re no such thing ; them clouds full of snow are not 
 more free from spot or blemish this very moment than 
 me, Martha Conner — an O’Brian by the mother’s side, 
 and one grandmother a born O’Donoghoo. Me ! one 
 
62 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 with a tradesman ! I am a servant, free to come, free to 
 go ; a servant is no slave, I can cast service off when I 
 like — but stick a trade, with lawyer’s indentures on a 
 man’s back, and there it is to the day of his death, and 
 will sib on his grave, like a black cat, to the end of time. 
 Me ! you’re an ungrateful, unchristian boy, to even that 
 to me ; and I want to know what you mean by 
 
 itr’ 
 
 E-ichard assured her he meant they were one in all kind 
 deeds and thoughts, and that was all. 
 
 Then you should learn English,” she said, “ you 
 should learn your own language, before you write verses ; 
 but that’s what none of them poets do, nor never 
 did.” 
 
 Eichard then offered his present ; Martha took it 
 graciously, shook it out, looked at it, and smiled. 
 
 I thought you would like green,” he said, unfortu- 
 nately, because yours is the ^ green isle.’ ” 
 
 In an instant the smile vanished. Did I ever take a 
 pistol to shoot the queen — God bless her ? Did I ever 
 change a whole shilling into penny pieces, to break the 
 Duke of Wellington’s windows, as my cousin Judy did? 
 Did I ever blow up the parliament house ? Did you ever 
 hear me whistle ‘ Garry o wen ’ or ^ Orange, lie down ? ’ 
 Haven’t you heard me tune up the ^Protestant Boys’ of a 
 Sunday morning ? Did I ever wear a leaf of a shamrogue 
 of a St. Patrick’s day ? ” These questions followed eaoli 
 other with startling rapidity. ‘‘ Will you answer me ? ” 
 she continued, having worked herself into what people 
 call “ a temper “ will you answer me, and not stand 
 there, aggravating ? ” 
 
 “ I’m sure, Martha,” replied the boy, gently, “ I never 
 intended to aggravate you, I only thought — 
 
 That I was a rebel h thank you, young sir, that’s just 
 what all the English think of all the Irish, little knowing 
 the loyalty that beats hard and fast in the heart’s blood 
 of the country ; but I think you need not put the mark 
 of a rebel on me with a green shawl, I didn’t see your 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 63 
 
 dirty meaning at first — I see it now ; but I’ll keep the 
 shawl, though I am a queen’s woman and my lather was 
 an Orangeman, I’ll keep it just to show — ” 
 
 Not knowing exactly what it would “ show,” Martha 
 did what was with her very uncommon — she paused ; 
 she was at fault, though but for a moment j the youth 
 caught at the opportunity. 
 
 No, Martha, I bargained with the shopkeeper that if 
 you did not like it, he should exchange it ; shall I get 
 you an orange one ^ ” 
 
 This kindness made matters worse ; nothing irritated 
 Martha so much as proffered kindness. She ‘‘ rose at it,” 
 as critics say the pit of a theatre does at a favourite 
 actor; but this “orange” proposition added insult to 
 injury. Her wrath was a study, though not a pleasant 
 one ; her indignation touching the green shawl was 
 assumed. Martha cherished thfe green too fervently to 
 permit it to be supposed she cared for it. Like many of 
 her country and class, she loved the Queen while she 
 hated the laws, and reconciled rebellion to her conscience 
 as a royal movement. “ Sure it wasn’t against the Queen 
 at all they would stand up, but against them murdering 
 ministers, who never let the darlint lady do as she liked, 
 and she so heart-fond of ould Ireland ; but to propose an 
 orange shawl to her ! ” 
 
 “ Orange ! ” she hissed forth two or three times, 
 “ orange ! oh, the curse never fell heavy on my country 
 till now ! What did I ever do to you, to make you think 
 rd go out into the world with an insult to my country 
 lapped about my shoulders ? Didn’t my father’s being 
 an Orangeman make him murder my poor mother every 
 day of her life for twenty years ? Didn’t his being an 
 Orangeman instigate him to fall down and worship that 
 brazen king on Dublin College Green, as if he was a saint ? 
 Didn't orange, bad luck to it, make him turn me out, 
 the way he did, upon the wide-wide world, because I 
 liked the ways of my mother’s people better than his 
 ways. And you ! who are you, to ask me to give up my 
 
64 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 religion, and all I love and care for in the wide world, 
 for a bit of an orange shawl ? ” 
 
 “But indeed, Martha — ” 
 
 “ Will you hould your tongue ? I never can open my 
 mouth when you’re to the fore — small wit many words ! 
 Well, can’t ye spake? did you never see me before, that 
 you stand there staring the eyes out of your head for 
 nothing — who do you think likes to be stared at, in that 
 way ? ” 
 
 Bichard turned to leave the kitchen without speaking; 
 she flew to the door, and locked it. “ You shan’t go, you 
 shall spake,^ she exclaimed ; “I’m not going to be in- 
 sulted by you this way.” 
 
 “ Then,” said Bichard, his eyes flashing fire, “ if you 
 want to make me speak, I will speak, and you shall 
 listen ; ” he laid his hands on her shoulders, and pressed 
 her into a chair. Her eyes became fixed, her mouth 
 opened, she was paralysed with astonishment. 
 
 “ You shall listen to me, and learn. In England, we 
 do not care for your party colours ; I thought your heart 
 would warm to the green, and I hoped to begin the new 
 year kindly. If you knew my real name, you would not 
 easily forgive yourself for the way you have sometimes 
 behaved.” 
 
 Martha sprang to her feet, rushed back, pointing her 
 long, lean arm towards him, and screamed — 
 
 “ An imposther, an imposther ! I knew he was an 
 imposther, none but an imposther could do it. I’ll tell 
 the masther, the masther shall know it ! ” and before 
 Bichard could prevent her, she rushed into the book- 
 seller’s little dingy sanctum, where he was calmly thinking 
 of his messenger, and wondering if the stranger would 
 keep his penny tryst. 
 
 It was, as I have said, the first day of the new year. 
 Long before its arrival, the worthy bookseller had pon- 
 dered, more than booksellers usually do, over Bichard’s 
 poetry ; he would have been well satisfied had it been 
 plain, wholesome prose, or files of figures — problems — 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 65 
 
 translations — anything but poetry ; and yet, as he was a 
 seller, not a publisher of books, and some poems sold in 
 these days, he read such volumes as achieved popularity, 
 and enjoyed them after his own fashion. And though he 
 kept on shaking his head over Richard’s poems, still he 
 read them also, and turned them over and over, and 
 wondered if sympathy could be enlisted for the young 
 author, and if they could be got out by subscription — 
 there was a great deal in them. Patronage,” the mil- 
 dew of genius, had converted good farmers’ boys and 
 worthy peasants, gifted with small talents, into popular 
 poets” — wedded their verses to sweet sounds, led them 
 ostentatiously forward as the lions ” of a party, made 
 them discontented with their cottage homes, showed them 
 the gates of an inflated paradise into which they could 
 not enter — and, after a few show days and nights 
 (during which they were treated as stalled oxen rather 
 than thinking, feeling men), voted them bores ; ” and — 
 having fostered their vanity, uprooted their self-respect, 
 robbed them of the dignity of their peasant nature — cast 
 them back to their homes rifled of their sim})licity, and 
 tainted with all the bad of the clique ” which had 
 dragged them from obscurity, to be with, though not of, 
 their own particular class or coterie. Matthew ^Vhitelock 
 knew nothing of this ; he saw in the papers that the 
 Northamptonshire Peasant,” or the “ Parmer’s Boy,” or 
 the Ettrick Shepherd,” had been at some Lady Blue- 
 bottle’s conversazione ; he saw the new volume with an 
 overwhelming list of five shilling patrons ; had frequently 
 thought how beautiful B;ichard’s head would look as a 
 frontispiece to his poems — it was such a fine head — and 
 he had more than once commenced a sort of fiddling cal- 
 culation with his pencil, as to what would be the trade 
 cost of a volume (supposing Richard did write a whole 
 volume). It was just a pastime to ascertain what it 
 would cost, bound and lettered, with gilt edges and a 
 famous list of subscribers. And then Richard would be 
 sure to be lionized ; and he was so well bred, naturally, 
 F 
 
66 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 lie would never be awkward, like the Shepherd or Farmer’s 
 Boy. Mr. Whitelock was a worthy, honest man — a good 
 man — who hated slavery and Smithfield, and would have 
 given a large donation to the baths and wash-houses if 
 such things had been thought of then ; but it was not 
 given him to understand the inspirations of country life. 
 He had a great idea that people must congregate together, 
 and talk over their poetry to each other to make it good ; 
 and Bichard would never talk of anything he had 
 written. Mr. Whitelock knew nothing of the true dig- 
 nity, and silence, and solitude of genius ; he fancied 
 country folk must be ‘‘ dull ; ” he could not have compre- 
 hended the holy happiness of a peasant poet on the 
 mountain watching the coming of the stars, as first alone, 
 and then in countless multitudes, they glorified by their 
 beauty, the blue firmament of heaven. He knew nothing 
 of the excursive soul winging from star to planet, and 
 pouring its inspirations into the warm and breathing clay, 
 wherein, for a season and a time, God had commanded it 
 to dwell. He knew nothing of the whispering voices 
 which breathe into the poet’s ear from moss and harebell, 
 from the leaping brook and the mysterious cells of the 
 butterfly and the ant. His cheek had never been 
 brushed by the transparent wing of the wavering bat, 
 nor did the grave moth ever sit upon his hand as if it 
 had been the sheltering leaf of the early primrose. He 
 had never seen the sun rise, not even from Highgate — how 
 could he tell what it was for, the shepherd to see from his 
 mountain throne the earth flooded in glory, while every 
 insect and every leaf quivered with joy, and the lark, all 
 confiding and nothing daunted, his innocent faith casting 
 out fear, rose to meet the morning, while every other 
 bird chorused his anthem — and he, poor town -bred man ! 
 would deem it a distinction for him who had heard God 
 in the thunder and watched him in the whirlwind, yet 
 knew that He would not smite the young lambs, and that 
 the brood of the wild bird should continue in safety — he 
 would consider that man, upon whom the sacred fire 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 67 
 
 descended, and over wliose dreams angels watched and 
 wondered, a great, free, spiritual man, God-like, God- 
 gifted — he would, in his own money-working way, think 
 him honoured by an invitation, to be stared at by a 
 sweltering multitude, or by his name being mingled with 
 the time-serving, bought and sold paragraphs of a news- 
 paper ! 
 
 But the subscription list was, so to say, the coronet of 
 Matthew Whitelock’s hopes ; yet, with it, to do him 
 justice, came no one feeling of selfishness— it was all for 
 Bichard, and Bichard’s blind mother. And now, mark the 
 inconsistency, the worthy man’s imagination had elevated 
 Bichard — the boy Bichard — into a poet, a celebrated hoy 
 poet. At all events, he had been invited and feted, his 
 beautiful head was engraved, the book was open in all 
 the shop windows at the portrait ; and with the money 
 realized by the sale of the poems, Bichard, forgetful of the 
 glitter and celebrity of his feted life, forgetful of sweet 
 smiles and bright eyes, forgetful of his portrait, was to 
 enter the murky, greasy, inky atmosphere of a printer’s 
 office, and become a second Benjamin Franklin — as if 
 Benjamin Franklin had begun life as a poet, with the 
 millstone of a subscription list round his neck to drag 
 him into the mire of dependence ! 
 
 Still Matthew Whitelock reasoned rather according to 
 his knowledge than according to his ability, for he was a 
 kind man, shrewd in some things, and seemingly simple 
 in others — simple, because his ways and means of obser- 
 vation were limited. It was his New Year’s Day, also, and 
 he sat in his little parlour absolutely making out the 
 subscription list for his protege, wondering if the gentle- 
 man would come to his penny tryst, and also wonder- 
 ing if he should hear as good a sermon that New Year’s 
 Da}^ as he did the last ; for he liked to begin the year 
 well, and would not have missed church that day upon 
 any consideration. He felt in a contented, happy mood ; 
 the world had gone well with him, and he had gone well 
 with the world. Peter, too, looked as fat and as sleek 
 F 2 
 
G8 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 as he had looked five years ago ; and Martha, when 
 she wished him ‘‘ a happy new year, and a great many of 
 them,” had not marred it with her heretofore observation, 
 of “ praise to the holies that you was not found dead in 
 your bed this blessed N^ew Year’s morning, as you may be 
 the next, who knows — and we all grow nearer death 
 every year of our lives ! Man’s but a shadda or woman 
 either.” In fact he was disappointed when Martha dis- 
 appeared without an unpleasant observation of any kind, 
 but his disappointment was not to continue. He had 
 just counted up two-and-thirty names, when Martha 
 rushed into the room — 
 
 I thought I was right, sir,” she exclaimed ; indeed, 
 I knew I was — an imposther — a regular town-built 
 imposther ! a false name, and an orange shawl on the 
 back of a green one, think of that ! insulted both ways — 
 and he to say, if I knew who he was — ^ if ! ’ I wonder 
 is it Henry the Eighth, or the pope of Rome, or the lord 
 mayor of London, he Avants me to think himi Well, 
 I’m sure ! and here he is, hot foot after me. But I may 
 be insulted ! — I’m nothing but an Irishwoman, such as 
 they put in the paper, ^ Yo Irish need apply;’ orange 
 and green — one on one shoulder, the other on the other ! 
 to live to see it, and hear it, all of a Hew^ Years Hay ! 
 there’s only one comfort — only one ; here we are, three, 
 one ould, one middle-aged, one young ! and wm may never 
 see another ! ” 
 
 I am so sorry, sir, Martha should misunderstand a 
 little token of kindness I offered her,” said Richard, 
 apologetically, from behind the door. How those who 
 knew Matthew Whitelock best, never could say that he 
 was given to jesting, but when the words, “ she mis- 
 understood a little token of kindness I offered 
 her,” were spoken, the quiet bookseller glanced up, 
 and inquired in a voice sufficiently loud not to be 
 mistaken — 
 
 “ Was it a kiss 1 ” 
 
 Martha answered by a scream, and tossing her arms 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. G9 
 
 wildly in the air, dived at once into the lower regions, 
 declaring she would not remain in the house. 
 
 “ A shawl, sir,” replied Richard, blushing — only it 
 was unfortunately a green one, which I chose in com- 
 pliment to her country ; and when she objected to that, 
 I offered to exchange it for an orange one, which seemed 
 to make it worse. I lost my temper, I fear, a bit, which 
 was very wrong, and said, that if she knew who I was, 
 she would be sorry for her words.” 
 
 The bookseller’s face lit up ; he knew, as the keeper of 
 a circulating library, the value of a mystery, and that 
 Richard should he a mystery was quite beyond liis hopes. 
 “ And who are you 1 ” inquired Matthew. 
 
 The clock broke into a little click, to notify it was 
 going to strike, which it did ten times. 
 
 ^‘May I tell you when I return, sir? it is now something 
 about the time I promised to meet the old gentleman at 
 Co vent-gar den . ” 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Ned, who, be it remembered, had received one of the 
 “ trysting” pennies from the old gentleman, on the first 
 of January that commenced our tale, was shuffling his 
 way to the appointed corner, among the market baskets 
 and decayed vegetables which crowd the entry to Covent- 
 garden. It was New Year’s Day, and Ned had advanced 
 astonishingly in rags and laziness since that day twelve 
 months. 
 
 Still on the hattlier, chicken,” said an Irish basket- 
 woman to him ; but where’s your come-a-rade ?” 
 
 “ You know,” was the curt reply. 
 
 Ay ! in jail ! where you ought to be your own self, 
 you spalpeen, if right was right ; why couldn’t you take 
 pattern by the other — he’s a credit to look at, and no 
 ways proud — he helped me up with a basket last week, 
 and that in the public street — and you ! you’ve looked 
 
70 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 at me slaving at this for ever so long, and never offered 
 me a hand.” 
 
 It’s too bad,” grumbled the boj, without heeding her 
 hint, here am I, a poor lad, as poor as I was last 
 year ; and there’s he, grow’d stout and tall, and with an 
 air ! — I hate them getting up ways ! ‘ Crabs’ and ^ Jim 
 Crows’ ain’t what they was — I’m too big for them — or 
 for standing on my head either. If mother Imow’d I’d 
 have grown out o’ that, she’d have given me more gin 
 than she did, to keep me little 1” 
 
 God help you ! ” said the poor woman, whose 
 withered, wrinkled face beamed with good nature — “ God 
 help you, and such as you — ^who are cast, not born, into 
 the world. Your first sin — God help you, agra — was 
 coming into the world not wanted ! And sure this is 
 the first of the blessed new year, and may be the Lord 
 Avould look down upon you, and put some light or sense 
 into you — it’s too much trouble I have of my own, to be 
 bothered with other people’s. And yet it’s the troubles 
 of the world that bother me most, so it is ! God help me, 
 and every poor sinner, this blessed !N^ew Year’s Day ! ” 
 
 I wonder,” muttered the boy, while the brisk little 
 woman, her load on her head, trotted off — I wonder 
 what makes the days be blessed to little Molly — she’s 
 always talking of blessed days, she is and he lounged 
 on, so degraded as to be hardly ashamed of his rags or 
 conscious of his having descended lower and lower in the 
 scale of humanity — them that promise me pennies for 
 holding their horses,” he continued, I never sees them 
 again ; but the old gentleman promised me nothin’, so I 
 suppose he’ll come back.” He lounged to the corner, 
 close to the basket shop, and stared in at the window, 
 but soon turned away in disgust ; there was nothing 
 available there ; but a sharp, keen, sleet was descending — ^ 
 cutting and cold. The boy slunk away, and took shelter 
 under the portico of St. Paul’s, just as the brothers Old- 
 ham came up Tavistock-street — Mr. Francis looking 
 purpled, pinched, and frozen, his double-breasted coat 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 71 
 
 buttoned up to his throat, his narrow shoulders '^shrugged” 
 to his ears, his long withered hands encased in warm 
 rough gloves, his step, still firm and rapid ; he carried 
 an umbrella open. Nothing could suggest a more perfect 
 picture of sour discontent, of a man at odds witli the 
 world — as much from bitterness as eccentricity — than did 
 his face, and figure, and general bearing ; not the pinch- 
 ing misery of want and hunger, but the still poorer misery 
 a man entails upon himself — the working of a powerful 
 but self-harrowed mind, soured rather by wilfulness than 
 circumstances. Mr. Francis seemed gathered together 
 against the world ; he was condensed into a human icicle. 
 John walked beside him, the hail beating and melting 
 against his jovial ruddy face ; and he met it with jovial 
 good humour — lie might be said to welcome the hail as 
 an old friend, so earnestly was his face upturned to meet 
 it — his strong muscular figure enveloped in a sort of 
 roquelaure lined with a still more foreign-looking fur, or 
 it might be feathers — for men (and women too) come 
 home with such strange tiring” from the far east, that 
 it is difficult for an untravelled citizen of London to 
 define their dresses or draperies : one thing was certain, 
 he carried a pink silk umbrella in his hand, which he 
 sometimes whirled round like the sails of a windmill, at 
 others, thrust out before him, as a sort of pioneer. When 
 he passed a woman, young or old, rich or poor, he made 
 instant and immediate way ; but he walked in general in 
 that free and easy manner, as if the houses,” right and 
 left, were his own, and he was attached to them all. He 
 looked even at the bricks and mortar with loving eyes — 
 dogs peered up into his face and wagged their tails — 
 children gazed into his eyes and smiled. 
 
 Mr. Frank was sullen and out of humour ; and he was 
 particularly so because his brother — despite the weather, 
 the hail, rain, and wind — persisted in being so happy. 
 He did not quite believe in his happiness, and every now 
 and then he glanced at him in a sideways, uncomfortable 
 manner. If Mr. John saw it, he did not heed it. The 
 
72 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 liail v/as so sharp and bitter and distinct, that the street 
 was almost deserted ; it glittered in round shining 
 globules upon the pavement, one running a race with the 
 other, and hopping fiercely against the shop windows — 
 old women said the new year was coming in like a lion, 
 and would go out like a lamb. 
 
 Brother !” said Mr. John, still more to his brother’s 
 disgust, “ I can’t tell you how this hail revives me ! I 
 have not felt anything half so invigorating for twenty 
 years ! it puts me in mind of a storm we met once on 
 Snow-hill, when we were little starvelings ! — Ah ! I meet 
 it differently now, thank God!” he added, reverently, 
 wrapping his warm cloak more closely round him, — 
 thank God for that, and all other mercies 1” 
 
 “ I can’t think,” muttered his brother, calling to mind 
 his tryst, how I could have been such a fool, or in such 
 a humour — one of my speculations in human nature, fond 
 of delving and diving — but having promised, I must come 
 — never broke my word in my life, that’s something 
 to say — never 1 Ah 1 here’s one of the boys 1 but no — ^it 
 can’t be 1” . 
 
 We need not say that it was Mr. Francis Oldham who 
 had invested the sum of threepence in an experiment on 
 the three boys, with whotn we also at the same time 
 made acquaintance; Bichard Dolland knew Mr. Francis 
 at once ; but his qidck eye rested for more than a moment 
 upon his brother, even while he took ofi* his hat to Mr. 
 Francis. Bichard never appeared to so much advantage, 
 cold though it was, as at that moment ; his features had 
 developed into beauty and intelligence, his fair white 
 brow gleamed beneath the rich masses of his folded hair, 
 and his uplooking eyes were filled with the triumph 
 of success. 
 
 Put on your hat,” exclaimed Mr.. John. “ Stay!” 
 said Mr. Francis, with his usual suspicion — What 
 brought you here ? ” 
 
 “ You gave me a penny, sir, this day twelve months ; 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 73 
 
 you may remember there were three boys ; you gave each 
 of us a penny ; and ” 
 
 “ Ay — ay ! — but where are the other two 
 I have not seen either of them to-day, sir.” 
 
 That’s not true,” said Mr. Francis, rudely, while he 
 backed into the basket shop for shelter, you boys always 
 herd together — herd together.” 
 
 And is that all you have to say to him F’ inquired 
 Mr. John. Mr. Francis shook the sleet from his coat, 
 and while doing so, Ned, having crept up to the door, 
 shivering in his rags, made a sort of harlequin pirouette 
 —a half starved approximation to hilarity. Here am 
 I ! ” he exclaimed, while Richard stood back to make 
 room for him. 
 
 ‘‘ Hunt in couples, eh!” said Mr. Francis, his eye 
 gleaming and glittering from one to the other, while the 
 sight of the rags and wretchedness seemed to do him 
 good. 
 
 “ Hunt in couples,” repeated Mr. John, in a tone of 
 voice conveying dissent — “ hunt in couples !” Richard 
 had been changing from red to pale. It was a singular 
 group. 
 
 Well, and what did you do with your penny '?” in- 
 quired Mr. Francis, addressing Ned. 
 
 “ Why, yer honour, I made more of it ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Good,” said Mr. Francis, “ but how *?” 
 
 I had a run of luck, and turned it into four browns, 
 and would have traded it, only mother spent it all in 
 lush, and beat me afterwards; he knows the sort she is,” 
 he added, “ it’s all along of his having a tidy mother, he’s 
 such a swell.” 
 
 “ So you have a good mother, have you inquired Mr. 
 John, of Richard. 
 
 “ Thank God, I- have, sir 1” 
 
 Richard’s warmth and confidence returned under the 
 influence of Mr. John’s genial smile ; “ and the penny the 
 gentleman gave me was ^ the lucky penny’ of my life 1” 
 
74 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 It had a hole in it,” interrupted Ned (pointing with 
 his thumb) ; he always got the luck.” 
 
 Mr. Francis chuckled ; the evident rascality and starv- 
 ation of Ned, seasoned by his quaint coarse humour, had 
 attracted him. The boy upheld his theory as to the 
 wretchedness of humanity ; it was pleasant to find all as 
 vile as he argued they must be ; it was pleasant to know 
 that, though the penny multiplied, the canker was at the 
 root, and it did not prosper. 
 
 ‘‘But tell me how was itV’ said Mr. John, whose 
 sympathies went with Bichard. Before the youth could 
 reply, Mr. John espied a somewhat discontented expres- 
 sion in the eyes of the good-natured shop woman. 
 
 “ Ah ! ” he said, smiling at her, “ so many damp 
 strangers : boy, has your mother a dog?” 
 
 “ No, sir.” 
 
 “A cat?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir.” 
 
 “ Then here’s a house for the cat, and a basket for your 
 mother.” Having thus gained the good graces of the 
 shopwoman, who was not very clear as to the sanity of 
 either of the old gentlemen, yet offered a chair to Mr. 
 John, as seemingly the saner of the two, she with- 
 drew to the communicating door of the second shop, 
 keeping her attention fixed on “Ned,” and wondering 
 how any one could notice such a “ rubbish ! ” 
 
 “ Now, my lad, what of your ‘ lucky penny ? ’ ” inquired 
 Mr. John of Bichard. 
 
 “ I had long desired to read the life of Benjamin 
 Franklin, sir — and I went to a bookseller’s where I had 
 seen it, and offered the penny for the privilege. He 
 wanted an errand boy, and took me into his service.” 
 
 “ Without a character ?” 
 
 “ No, sirl” replied Bichard ; and he drew himself up a 
 little — “ I was never without that.” 
 
 “ Oh, oh ! proud I see — good — and why did you want 
 to read the life of Benjamin Franklin?” 
 
 “ Because, sir, long ago, when my poor father was alive. 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 75 
 
 lie used to set me copies — sentences composed by. Ben- 
 jamin Franklin — and I wanted to read the life of a man 
 who was so wise and so useful, and who did so much for 
 himself as well as for mankind.” 
 
 “ Good ! — and were you quite satisfied with the book 
 There is a great deal in it I should like to do, and 
 much I should like to be. My mother objected to some 
 things ; but she would have me to read only one book — 
 the Bible, sir.” 
 
 “And you?” 
 
 “ Oh, sir, I should like to read all the books in the 
 world.” 
 
 “ Ah, youngster ! did you ever read men ? ” 
 
 The boy looked down ; and, after a moment or two, 
 said, “ It is perhaps pleasanter to read books.” 
 
 “ Complimentary ! — you try, them” 
 
 “ I do, sir ; every face is a book — is it not, sir ? ” 
 
 “ Ah I well, I suppose so — the young are the Pleasures 
 of Hope — now I, what should I be?” 
 
 “ The Pleasures of Memory, sir, I should think, you 
 look so happy.” 
 
 Mr. Francis had dismissed his boy, and was watching 
 the progress of the acquaintance between his brother and 
 Bichard. 
 
 “ A flatterer ! ” said he. 
 
 “ Oh, sir, truth is not flattery : I only thought so.” 
 
 “ You said you v/ere an errand boy,” observed Mr. 
 Francis, advancing. 
 
 “ Yes, sir, at first, quite ; but my master is very kind 
 to me — very ; he lends me books, and of late I sometimes 
 sit with him and read to him, and might do so every 
 evening if I liked ; but my mother, sir, she is quite a 
 young woman, but she is blind.” 
 
 Mr. J ohn spoke to Mr, Francis apart ; while they did 
 so, Bichard went to the door, and looked out into the 
 sleet, which was thickening into snow. “ And why did 
 you make the appointment with the boys, if you did not 
 mean to help the deserving?” said Mr. John. “I am 
 
76 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 deliglited with this lad : the penny, brother, can be made 
 as lucky to you as it has been to him, if you only take 
 advantage of it ; his voice has a strain of music in it 
 which recals ” 
 
 ‘‘Nothing!” interrupted Mr. Francis; “what should 
 it recall ] You are still given to seeing visions and 
 dreaming dreams. Now, boy,” he added, sharply, “ where 
 does your master live ” 
 
 Nichard told him. “ And your name ?” 
 
 “ My father was the only son of a gentleman — I fear 
 a cruel gentleman — who was angry and unforgiving be- 
 cause he married my mother. He changed his name some 
 time before his death ; but I am called Kichard Holland.” 
 
 “And what was your father’s real name?” inquired 
 Mr. John. 
 
 “ What have we to do with that ?” said Mr. Francis. 
 
 “ I have,” replied Mr. John ; “ I do not like changed 
 names.” 
 
 “ Ah 1 if he changed one I dare say he changed 
 forty,” said Mr. Francis, with a bitter sneer. 
 
 “ No, sir,” answered the lad, while an indignant flush 
 overspread his face. “ No, sir ; he changed his name 
 because of the cruelty of his father ; his real name was 
 Richard Oldham.” 
 
 Francis Oldham sprang at the lad’s throat, as a tiger 
 would spring upon a fawn. 
 
 “It is false I ” he screamed ; “ it is false 1 — false ! — 
 
 false 1 — he left no child ; and if he did ” His grasp 
 
 relaxed, he fixed his strong eyes upon the panting boy, 
 who returned his gaze with more indignation than terror. 
 There was something, to the looker-on, positively fearful 
 in the expression of both ; one so blighting, so cruel ; the 
 other so defying — the look which youth should never 
 give to age. 
 
 “ Come ! ” said Francis to his brother, in a deep, hoarse 
 voice — so deep that it seemed a voice from the grave, hard 
 and untrembling as from a tongue of stone. “ Come, 
 come ! I say ; why do you look at him ? There might be 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 77 
 
 twenty Richard Oldhams. Come, John — brother — if 
 you touch him, or hold any communion with him, I will 
 never grasp your hand in mine. Never — do you hear 1 I 
 will never, never give my thoughts back for yours ; never 
 rest (if there are spirits) in a grave near yours ! Touch 
 him not, brother — brother, if you touch him I will curse 
 you both ! Do not speak to me,” he added passionately — 
 not the frail flickering passion of an old man, feeble even 
 in its violence — but with deep, concentrated, ungovern^ible 
 rage ; his eyes flashing, his thin lips quivering, his long, 
 blue Angers impotent in strength, grappling the air con- 
 vulsively — do not speak to me but follow me, idiot 
 though I have been ; what had I to do with new readings 
 of human nature — follow me, brother ! ” 
 
 Mr. John saw the present was no time to combat his 
 brother’s will ; and so, without another word, he followed 
 him out of the shop, much to the relief of the basket- 
 seller, who told Richard he would have a good action 
 against that awful old gentleman, who was the biggest 
 Turk she had ever seen ; beginning the new year after 
 that fashion, and at his age, too, when every additional 
 day was an especial mercy. 
 
 There he goes, tearing down the street,” she con- 
 tinued, the wind has carried off his hat, but he does not 
 heed it ; the hail mingles with his grey hair, and streams 
 over his shoulders, yet he feels nothing but his own 
 passion ; his strong, hearty brother can hardly keep pace 
 with him. I judge he hasn’t the same devil within to 
 urge him on. Why don’t you follow, and find out who 
 they are '? it may be worth while.” 
 
 Richard did not tarry either to hear or answer the 
 question ; he had disappeared through the other door. 
 “Well, I declare,” continued the woman, “this is as 
 strange a new year’s prank as ever I saw played ; and as 
 I live, the boy hasn’t taken the baskets ! ” 
 
 Heedless of the frozen snow and the pitiless wind 
 which drifted it against his bare head, Mr. Francis rushed 
 on. The few passengers who were sheltered beneath their 
 
78 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 umbrellas, or bent half blindly to tbe blast, felt some- 
 thing pass them on the pavement so rapidly that visions 
 of accidents and deaths troubled their minds ; others 
 stepped from beneath the shelter of doorways or hooded 
 lanes, and thought the old man just escaped from a 
 lunatic asylum, and that his keeper was following. More 
 than one policeman asked Mr. John if he wanted help ; 
 but he waved them back, and they looked half perplexed 
 and half offended at their assistance being thus declined. 
 Mr. Francis’s knock made the old door shudder again. 
 Though the servant did not know that it was her master 
 who thus broke the quiet of Harley-street, his little dog 
 was aware of his presence, and flew to meet him ; but 
 his savage mood permitted of no tenderness, no sympathy, 
 even from a dog. He kicked it madly from his path ; 
 the little creature howled piteously ; but the moment 
 after it limped to the door, which was banged and bolted 
 against all the world, stretched out its half-broken limb, 
 and with that look of patient agony which a dog’s face 
 so well expresses, resolved to watch and wait for the 
 returning love which was all the hapj^iness it ever knew 
 or anticipated. 
 
 Mr. John could hear his brother pacing up and down 
 the room, and when his step came near the door the dog’s 
 ears moved, and it uttered its little whine of recognition 
 and entreaty. “ How much love,” thought Mr. John, 
 “we cast to the winds and waves, which, if garnered and 
 nurtured — if even received and suflered to enter into the 
 recesses where it would be content to dwell and fructify — 
 would multiply the sweetest and tenderest blessings of 
 existence around our hearths and homes. The sympathy 
 we give to the small demands of others returns fourfold 
 into our own bosoms.” And then, again and again, he 
 murmured — “ Her grandchild, her grandchild — such an 
 unaccountable sympathy drawing me towards him ! ” He 
 tried to read ; the letters escaped from their positions, 
 and resolved themselves into silhouettes and outlines of 
 the face and figure of the youth he had seen; he looked 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 79 
 
 up at the ceiling — out of the window — shadows, and 
 visions, and memories were all about him. The present 
 and palpable world was the dream — the shadows the 
 reality. He repeated over and over again to himself the 
 youth’s address, as if it could by any possibility be for- 
 gotten ; his eagerness to visit the boy’s master could 
 scarcely be restrained, and yet he must wait — he must 
 not go ALONE. How his long life in the Indian world 
 seemed but a day, an hour, so forcibly did the time 
 previous to his leaving England return to him ; how he 
 recalled it, and reviewed it ; and what strong claims did 
 nature assert within his bosom to enable him to remember, 
 during those feverish hours, that Francis was his brother, 
 born of his own mother — that mother whose image, 
 beautified by the lapse of years, was so often present in 
 his dreams ; and how mysterious it was that Hichard 
 mingled with his thoughts, few as they were, of the 
 future. The boy had suddenly given him a new interest 
 in life. His thankful, righteous spirit was more than 
 once lifted up in gratitude to God, not because of any 
 certain good, but of the promise which he felt had been 
 given him since the morning, that his old age would not 
 be childless. Childless ! ” had it ever been so ? — never ! 
 He had taken to his bosom, during his long life, orphans 
 and deserted little ones, children who would, at all events, 
 have morally perished but for the strong hand which 
 gathered them into a home and the warm heart which 
 opened to receive them ; fed, and clothed, and educated, 
 he had placed out many such in the world. He had a 
 perpetuity of children, and children’s children, whose 
 prayers daily and nightly rose to the throne of the 
 Almighty for his good ; no wonder that his ways prospered, 
 that his sleep was sweet, and his blithe old heart happy. 
 Some who did not profit by their blessings, he tried either 
 to hope for or forget ; the wild and the wayward he 
 sufiered for a time to be scourged by their own whips, 
 and the whips of the world ; and when satisfied that 
 their chastisement had been sufiicient, he had made a way 
 
80 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 for them to escape. He had engraved on brass, over the 
 door of a school he had founded and endowed, a motto 
 which should be engraved on every Christian heart — 
 
 While there is life there is hope ! ” 
 
 He had even scoffed at the idea of natural affection,” 
 instancing the love borne to him by, and the love he bore 
 to many of these adopted children, as a love which could 
 not be surpassed ; but the lad Richard tugged so strongly 
 at his heart, that he might have doubted his favourite 
 theory, though he would have answered, ‘^kindred has 
 nought to do wdth it — but Richard’s father was her 
 child?” Oh ! deep and priceless love ! bearing the toiler 
 company through the rugged years of a rugged life, 
 living after the life which gave it life has perished — a 
 memory, yet strengthening the strong manly heart, to 
 conquer in the battle with the world — a fragrance, shed- 
 ding perfume all along that world’s thorny ways — a jDre- 
 sence, in the toilsome day and silent night — an active, 
 earnest influence, rising from a little mound of daisy- 
 covered earth — a faith, strengthening the faith by which 
 eternal happiness is gained. Oh, matchless love ! the 
 joy and theme of angels ; when purged of earthly passions, 
 it lives 
 
 “ Bright as a star, when only one 
 Is shining in the sky.” 
 
 Blessed are they whose hearts by thy power become 
 altars ! Even so it was with Mr. John Oldham ; and 
 those who observed his refinement and his benevolence, 
 little wot of how it came, and wondered how it was that 
 he did not marry, that his own children might inherit the 
 wealth he lavished (so always prate the thoughtless) upon 
 those who were not kith nor kin to him. 
 
 At last his brother’s door was opened and the little 
 dog permitted to enter, which it did with a joyous bark, 
 looping up its poor leg the while, but not heeding its 
 suffering in delight at the murmured words which crept 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 81 
 
 into its little palpitating heart ; and he was sorry — Mr. 
 Francis was both sorry and ashamed that he had injured 
 the faithful brute, who had imbibed from him whatever 
 of ill-temper disfigured its canine nature. In a short time 
 the dinner was served, and Mr. Francis, self-conquered, 
 met his brother with a firm step. Two hectic spots, as if 
 dashed on by a fire-brand, burned beneath his eyes ; they 
 were the only vestiges of his recent emotion. “ I bade 
 two of our old friends to meet you,” he said, but they 
 were engaged,” Mr. John made no reply — he could not 
 speak. His brother then helped him and himself; nor 
 did Mr. Francis seem to observe that John’s plate was 
 removed untouched. The brothers had changed natures. 
 Mr. Francis was terribly gay and grim ; it was the 
 fearful attempt at mirth of an evil spirit — the death’s 
 head crowned with a upas branch. When John spoke 
 at all, it was in monosyllables dropped by accident ; once 
 he attempted to caress the little limping dog, but the 
 creature would have bitten him. Mr. Francis laughed. 
 There was something terribly desolate, worse a hundred 
 times than lonely, in this new year’s feast — for in Mr. 
 Francis’s frugal housekeeping it was a feast. The cloth 
 was removed, wine and dessert were placed upon the table ; 
 the servant vanished. 
 
 ‘‘I did not forget even your monkey, brother John,” 
 said Mr. Francis, ‘‘ here are some nuts for him ; but let 
 us drink to this happy new year, brother — happy new 
 year — hah ! hah ! Come — happy new year.” 
 
 John sprang to his feet, and pushed back the wine ; 
 as I am a living man,” he exclaimed, I will neither 
 break bread nor taste wine until we — mind, brother, I 
 say WE — it is my duty as well as yours — before we render 
 justice ! Food would suffocate me, wine would poison 
 me, until this is done. I followed your footsteps — waited 
 till your feelings subsided — acted like a child, instead of a 
 man, at your command. But now I call upon you — put 
 that wine from your lips — put down the wine, brother 
 Francis. Let us out through the night, find the lad’s 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 THE LUCKY PENI^Y. 
 
 master, and, if it be that his character is clear, let ns 
 render justice ; let us receive him as a new year’s gift 
 from God !” 
 
 ‘‘ Perjury 1” said Francis; ‘‘I swore no child of my 
 child should ever touch coin of mine.” 
 
 ‘‘ He 1ms touched it : the ^ lucky penny’ was given by 
 you to him ; but away with so poor a subterfuge. Shall 
 man swear to the author of all evil to do evil — and may 
 not God set the compact aside, and teach him to repent 
 and do well % We are commanded not to do evil that 
 good may come of it : how much stronger is the com- 
 mand not to let evil become the parent of evil ! ” 
 
 There is somewhere,” replied Francis, with scorn and 
 calmness, mention made of a deaf adder, that will not 
 hear the voice of the charmer.” 
 
 ‘‘ Ay, because he is deaf, but you are not so ; nay, you 
 shall not parry me. Look at it as you will, I see that a 
 fearful wrong has been done ; nay, more than one, a suc- 
 cession of wrongs ! leaving you, the inflicter, a greater 
 sufferer than those upon whom you inflicted punishment — 
 I know it is the time and the hour to see to this ; if, in- 
 deed, the lad would accept retribution from your hands.” 
 If — if — he would accept retribution from my hands,” 
 repeated Mr. Francis bitterly ; “ if ! — if ! — you know he 
 has been taught (should he he the boy) to curse his grand- 
 father ; and yet, were I to advance a step — were I to 
 advance hand or foot towards him — were I to look upon 
 him as I would upon a thing I loathe (he knowing who I 
 was, and what I have), the young serpent would coil, and 
 cringe, and smile, and flatter, and lurk, and fawn : the 
 old man’s gold — see if he would not plunge his soul into 
 perdition to grasp it. Do I not know the world h — do I 
 not know the mammon-worship of old and young 
 
 ‘^Test him, try him,” rejoined Mr. John, “brother, 
 that is all I ask ; try if he be the thing you say ; if he 
 be, I will absolve you.” 
 
 Mr. Francis ransr the bell. “ My coat, and hat, and 
 stick.” 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 83 
 
 “ It rains, and blows, and snows, from all points of the 
 compass, sir,” said the astonished servant ; shall I call a 
 coach f’ 
 
 ^^No ! Now, brother John.” He cast a look of such 
 exultation towards him — such a look as Satan cast on our 
 first parents when they departed from Eden. Going 
 down the steps, Mr. Francis turned round, and laid his 
 hand upon Mr. John’s arm — If he accepts, you do not 
 give him any claim on me ? ” 
 
 ‘^No ; not on you,” was the curt reply. They proceeded 
 silently, those two old men, battering on against the blast, 
 trembling both ; the one secure in his belief of the pre- 
 dominance of that cringing evil which would lick the dust 
 for gold ; the other hoping in the good, and confiding 
 with most unworldly wisdom in the independence of a 
 young boy, whose loving and beloved mother was blind 
 and helpless, and who, with higli aspirations, had suffered 
 from the bleakest poverty. 
 
 An empty coach hailed them- — they entered. Mr. 
 John heard through the blast, and amid the rattling of 
 the once courtly carriage, the low chuckling laugh of his 
 brother ; he enjoyed the infliction he suffered because of 
 its anticipated fruitage. They drew up at the bookseller’s 
 door, and knocked. By degrees the light vanished from 
 the area window and ascended the stairs, standing still in 
 the hall ; again they knocked, and Martha slowly undid 
 the door to the length of the chain, and poking her lace 
 out, asked what they wanted. 
 
 W Oman ! undo the door,” commanded Mi*. Francis ; 
 it needed no second word — the chain fell, and Martha, 
 shading her candle from the wind and rain with her hand, 
 stood open-mouthed gazing at the old man. 
 
 Ask, ask ! ” he repeated, to Mr. J ohn. 
 
 Mr. John did so — “ Was this Matthew Whitelock’s 
 People generally, even when they come by daylight, 
 say Mr. Matthew,'' was the reply to him, though her gaze 
 was riveted on Mr. Francis ; but he was not at home, 
 he was gone out — gone to Bichard Dolland’s ; why 
 G 2 
 
84 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 slionldn’t lie, if he liked it, go to his messenger, Dick 
 Dolland’s, who had grown into Richard, and might into 
 Mr. Richard — who could tell She gave the widow’s 
 address, and away lumbered the carriage, stopping at the 
 entrance to the little court. The two old men prepared 
 to cross the threshold of the widow’s lodging ; they saw 
 from the shadows, as they passed the window, that there 
 were three in the little room. Mr. Francis knocked, 
 Richard opened the door, and turning suddenly round, 
 exclaimed, as people do at the sudden fulfilment of a 
 dream — ‘‘ They are here !” 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The widow was seated in her usual corner ; her Bible 
 lay in her lap, for though she had ceased to be able to 
 read the Word, it was her inexpressible comfort ; it streng- 
 thened her feebleness — nay, it restored her sight ; it was 
 her friend, her faith, her love, her devotion. Her fingers 
 knew all her favourite chapters, and could trace them 
 verse by verse ; seldom did she sit down that her Bible was 
 not in her lap ; never did she lie down that it did not 
 companion her pillow. Matthew Whitelock sat at the 
 table, upon which he had placed the rough-looking book 
 in which he had made calculations as to the probable 
 success of Richard’s poems. Oh, fallacious hope ! that 
 could cause a bookseller to miscalculate, and believe in 
 the profits of poetry ; yet it is a positive fact, that 
 Matthew Whitelock was telling off, bit by bit, the ex- 
 j)ected “ trade profits.” The widow’s early bloom and 
 beauty was of course gone ; there was little trace of that 
 remaining ; but there was something so sweet, and calm, 
 and patient, in the expression of her face, so lovely in the 
 hot-house delicacy of her complexion, so fragile and help- 
 less in the transparency of her hands, which, since the 
 brothers’ entrance, trembled upon her Bible ; something 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 S5 
 
 so appealing, not to man, but to God, in those upturned 
 eyes — that John felt as if the presence of an angel was in 
 that small room. Francis looked and wondered, and 
 mentally cursed all beauty, but he could not speak. Mr. 
 John briefly explained to Mr. Whitelock why they had 
 sought him, and how much they desired to know if 
 E,i chard’s tale was true. Gradually, during the brief and 
 (to Mr. John) most satisfactory conversation, the widow 
 rose from her seat, and passing one arm round Richard, 
 drew liim towards her. As word after word of praise 
 passed from the bookseller’s lips, the mother became more 
 and more erect. I have only learned this evening,” said 
 the worthy man, that, for reasons rather to be felt than 
 understood, his mother bore the name her husband chose, 
 and the lad seems to think that one of you gentlemen 
 knows more about his family than they themselves have 
 been able to ascertain.” 
 
 hTo, sir,” said the widow, ^^not able to ascertain — be- 
 cause we never inquired ; never, since my poor husband’s 
 death, did we wish to know aught about the cruel parent 
 who abandoned him on his death-bed. Sir, I offered to 
 leave my husband, though I knew it would have killed me 
 —if that could have induced his father to forgive him — for- 
 give him his only crime, the crime of marrying me. No ! 
 we have starved since, and laboured until these eyes wept 
 and worked themselves into darkness ; but we never, in 
 our bitterest days of want or weakness, desired to hear 
 the name of Mr. Francis Oldham.” 
 
 Mr. John feared to look at his brother ; nor did he see 
 the door partially open, or the strong profile of the book- 
 seller’s Irish servant resting against its frame. 
 
 “ And yet,” said Mr. Francis, I believe I am the 
 grandfather of that boy, whose father’s perverse will dis- 
 placed him from my heart.” 
 
 Richard felt his mother press heavily against him ; it 
 seemed as if she felt, by strong instinct, her husband’s 
 S})irit rising within her son. Keep still,” she whispered, 
 keep still I hear him to the end ; it may be he repents ; 
 
86 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 we must forgive him if he repents.” The boy was swelling 
 into a giant. 
 
 I will now acknowledge him, take him from his low 
 associates, and place him properly in the world,” continued 
 Mr. Francis. 
 
 Don’t think of me, Kichard, don’t, dear j ” again 
 whispered the mother, perhaps he repents.” 
 
 The lad passed his arm round his mother’s waist, and 
 looked as though no earthly power could separate them. 
 “ I have no low associates, sir,” he said, and having work, 
 I am already well placed in the world.” 
 
 A pang shot through the heart of Mr. Francis ; could 
 it be that he was wrong, that the boy would not accept 
 the golden bribe he offered ? Fie now became more 
 anxious to succeed. But I am rich, boy, very rich ^ 
 instead of carrying parcels you shall ride your own horse, 
 you shall go to college, and become (if you are clever, as 
 this good man says) celebrated ; think of it, this narrow 
 room, these poor clothes will pass away ; you have a rich 
 grandfather who can’t live long — ^you have but to obey 
 him — to love him.” 
 
 Love him !” repeated Bichard, his voice came full of 
 melody and power — and the torrent of his feelings broke 
 forth. “ Love ! — sir, I could not love you — I could not for 
 a hundred times your wealth ; obey you, I could not — 
 you, sir, you, who might have saved my father’s life and 
 would not j whose unforgiving neglect has sealed my 
 mother’s eyes in blindness — love you / Can I not now 
 recal my father’s wasted form, and the words of patience 
 under affliction, of praise to God, and the breathings of 
 memory, mingled together, and how he spoke of his 
 mother, and the cruelties she received at your hands — 
 love you I ” 
 
 The lad,” interposed the bookseller, “ has a highly 
 poetic temperament, and no knowledge whatever of the 
 world, as you may observe, sir ; you have taken him un- 
 awares — he will see his advantage soon, he cannot help 
 seeing it.” 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 87 ' 
 
 “ I see,” said Kicliard, I see, Mr. Wbitelock, the ad- 
 vantage you gave me : I feel that, and am grateful for 
 it. I see how I can work mj way. I do not fear for 
 myself or for my mother, now.” 
 
 You are excited ; do you not know that your grand- 
 father has a right to your duty and obedience ; do you 
 not see the hand of God in bringing you together ? ” said 
 Mr. Whitelock. 
 
 I see,” replied Kichard, my dying father, my starv- 
 ing mother — I see her now — I remember what I was my- 
 self.” 
 
 ‘^But also remember the hand which gave you the 
 ^ lucky 'penny ^ ” interrupted the bookseller. 
 
 Richard covered his face. 
 
 Battery and brutality,” muttered Matty to herself, 
 I thought I knew the ould tyrant through the hoary 
 shroud of age ; and good right I have. Didn’t I nurse 
 his wife through her dying — and to think of our Richard 
 being her grandchild ; no wonder my heart went to him 
 so tinderly, and prepared him for all the misery he’ll meet, 
 and the hardship that will shiver his young heart into 
 nothing ! Sure I did my duty by him, and many a 
 sleepless night he’s had, I’ll go bail, conning over mee 
 words ! Oh, sure I did mee duty ! He can’t turn and 
 say I ever desaved him into comfort or happiness. Oh, 
 the deceitfulness, murdering, and dreadfulness of the 
 world, day and night, day and night — God help us all ! 
 we are all bad together !” 
 
 Were my father’s father poor,” said Richard, after a 
 long pause, ‘‘ were he poor and I rich, I would help him — 
 he should not starve, nor work himself to blindness ; but 
 I will never put my neck into a yoke I cannot carry. I 
 could not love him — I could not obey him. His help 
 would be to me a millstone. I will not even bear his 
 name.” 
 
 Speak to him,” said the bookseller, addressing the 
 widow. If all be real that I have heard, he is thrusting 
 fortune from him.” 
 
88 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 “ Let it be,” slie said, “ according to tbe book he loved.” 
 
 The widow drew herself np and stood quite erect, her 
 Bible pressed firmly to her bosom ; her face became posi- 
 tively radiant. “ My husband !” she whispered in a soft, 
 low voice, “ my husband — oh, if thou wert here, surely 
 there would come a text to thee that would direct our 
 words and ways ! Bichard, my child, you are right, you 
 will not want his wealth ; let him go forth, I cannot 
 breathe, his presence troubles me ! I have the text now, 
 the right text ; it is for you. ‘ And thou shalt eat the 
 labour of thine hands. Oh, well is thee, and happy shalt 
 thou be.’ Happy shalt thou be, my child,” she repeated, 
 exultingly, his wealth has not made him happy ; there 
 is no HOPE in his voice ; and if he came to make the offer, 
 it was because of the unquietness of his own spirit ; he 
 has said naught of the sorrow, naught of the repentance, 
 that would sanctify the gift. Oh, poor, old gentleman, 
 how I do pity him ! his cruelty killed the sweetest lady 
 that ever loved a tyrant, that was one desolation ; and 
 then, when his son loved me, that was another. I do 
 pity the old gentleman whom even we, poor as we are, 
 desire to depart from our poor house.” 
 
 The bookseller was pulling at Mr. John’s arm. He 
 has such talent, sir, poetic talent,” he whispered, a won- 
 derful lad, sir ; I saw it from the first, sir ; he is proud 
 and wilful. Ask the gentleman to give him time ; you 
 know it is sheer madness — quite the spirit of a gentleman.” 
 This eloquence was lost on Mr. John, whose feelings had 
 been, and were, too strong for words ; he had altogether 
 lost sight of the actual motive why his brother had ac- 
 companied him there. He took the widow’s hand, “ You 
 mistake — you both mistake,” he said, gently, ‘‘ we came 
 here to render justice, and I — I ought to have long since 
 inquired concerning my nephew.” 
 
 ‘‘Then,” said the widow, “you are Mr. John; ah, my 
 poor husband always said, you ought to have been his 
 father 
 
 A fearful groan burst from the lips of Mr. Francis, the 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 89 
 
 straightforward avowal struck like a spear into his heart. 
 The widow heard the groan. 
 
 “ The poor gentleman is ill,” she said ; adding, with her 
 usual simplicity, Richard, though we will not have his 
 money nor his help, we must render him respect ; he has 
 nothing to love him — nothing ; no one in the wide, wide 
 world.” 
 
 Hardened and cynical, avaricious, cold, and calculating, 
 as Mr. Francis had been for years, labouring to stifle all 
 human emotion — that scene was more than he could bear. 
 A victim to the contending and stormy passions which 
 for years had rendered him the terror of his household 
 and a mystery to the world ; disappointed by the inde- 
 pendence which, though he could not comprehend, he was 
 forced to reverence, he was so suddenly struck by the 
 widow’s words that, as the room felt whirling round, he 
 grasped the door, falling literally into the arms of the 
 woman who had watched with deep devotion the fading 
 away of his gentle wife. Matty was silenced by both 
 the terror of that moment, and the memory of the past. 
 She flung off his cravat, loosened his throat and chest ; 
 and while he lay in a fearfully -prolonged state of insensi- 
 bility, they saw, resting upon the shrivelled skin that 
 barely shrouded the bones and muscles of his frame, the 
 miniature of his wife, 
 
 No one but Matty knew why, when his eyes rested 
 upon that picture, poor Mr. John sank upon his knees, 
 close by his brother’s side, or why tears — large tears — - 
 streamed through his fingers. That night Mr. Francis was 
 carried home to his cold and stately house, a stricken man. 
 A sluggish attack of paralysis had seized upon him, not 
 fiercely, but fatally, withdrawing motion and feeling 
 gradually, bit by bit, from the worn-out frame, but 
 leaving the brain, after a time, clear and active, although 
 the heavy tongue could not give words to his thoughts or 
 his desires. When, after that fearful interview, conscious- 
 ness fully returned, it was evident that the stubborn 
 spirit rose in rebellion against the Mercy which had 
 
90 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 borne so long with his caprices and his misdeeds. His 
 angry looks and stammering words were ever rushing 
 against those who ministered to his wants ; sleepless and 
 restless, he wearied even Mr. John by his thankless and 
 turbulent spirit. He would get up ; and when his feet 
 refused to do their office, curse in broken accents the 
 poor limbs that could neither move nor support his frail 
 weight. Gradually his speech returned, and long did 
 Mr. John, with the patient, loving kindness of the ten- 
 derest woman, minister to his wants. How he prayed 
 for that brother daily and hourly 1 he wearied heaven with 
 prayers, entreating that grace might be given even at 
 the eleventh hour ; that he might but call upon that 
 name, in spirit and in truth, of which only cometh salva- 
 tion ; how, sometimes in the night-watches, sometimes 
 in the grey morning light, he fancied that a murmured 
 petition, an entreaty for peace and pardon, trembled on 
 those adamantine lips. Oh, how his old heart beat with 
 joy and thankfulness, when Mr. Francis asked him to 
 read the Lord’s Prayer. “ He knew,” he said, ‘^as far as 
 the petition for daily bread, and was curious (so his pride 
 masked his desire), to hear the remainder ; ” he listened 
 to it with wild, questioning eyes : if he joined in that 
 prayer, it is recorded in heaven. 
 
 It was not often that J ohn slept upon his watch, but 
 a few nights after this occurrence he was awakened from 
 the slumber which in age is frequently as light as in 
 childhood — Brother, brother ! ” It was the voice of 
 Mr. Francis — asking his brother to pray for him I 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 91 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 fliCHARD, anxious to prove his perseverance in the 
 sturdy course of independence, he had so bravely marked 
 out for himself, was at the bookseller’s door half an hour 
 before the usual time : but, capable as he was of forming 
 and adhering to a purpose, more than once during his 
 half sleepless night the offer he had so decidedly rejected 
 arose before him, to mock him with its promised glory. 
 
 The evil influences that love the night whispered into 
 his drowsy ears, suggesting riches and honour ; 
 
 Sparkles of golden splendour” 
 
 glittered in his imagination j but the dread reality of the 
 old man, fearful in all his persevering cruelty, grim and 
 gaunt, grappling earth while spurning heaven, made him 
 shrink and shudder ; and as the dim morning brightened 
 into something like day, he thanked God for an escape. 
 The fresh, clear morning air revived him, and dispelling 
 all chimeras, braced him for his duty. 
 
 “ Good morning, Martha,” he said, cheerily, as she sud- 
 denly opened the door ; Why, you are early up.” 
 
 Them that never go to bed generally are,” was the 
 reply. She looked pale and haggard, and her eyes were 
 red from abundant weeping. “ What is it, Martha — 
 something I see is wrong — what is it ? — quick !” 
 
 “ You’ll hear it soon enough, agra ! — quite soon enough ; 
 ill news has wings to its head and its heels. The poor 
 master’s took bad — oh, so bad ! and meeself afeard it’s one 
 of them murderin’ doctors he must have ; he’ll never live, 
 never get over it, if he has a doctor, and he’ll die dead if 
 he hasn’t — so what will I do, at all, at all?” 
 
92 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 I will go for his friend, Dr. Lacy, at once,” exclaimed 
 Richard. 
 
 “ A purty friend he is 1 reads every book in the 
 library when and where he pleases, and never pays a 
 brass farthing for the liberty ; but he’s as good as any — 
 or as bad. May the Lord deliver us out of their hands ! 
 Oh, my own dear master! if ye had been a gentleman, 
 bred aud born, you couldn’t be a finer man than ye are. 
 And not a drop of mee beautiful tay would he touch. Oh, 
 but the Lord’s hand is heavy on me this morning !” 
 
 I’ll go at once,” exclaimed Richard. 
 
 Stop, agra, while I think 1 — but where’s the good of 
 stopping ; if the doctor must come he must — and then, 
 the Lord have marcy on our souls 1 ” The physician 
 came on the instant, for Matthew Whitelock was respected 
 and esteemed by all who knew him ; he felt his pulse, 
 and having gone through the usual routine of inquiries, 
 descended to the bookseller’s sanctum to write his pre- 
 scription. 
 
 He has caught a feverish cold, my good woman,” he 
 said to Martha. 
 
 “ I knew that before you come,” muttered Matty. 
 
 ‘•He must be kept very quiet, take these draughts 
 regularly, and — ” 
 
 “Not have a bit or sup of anything through his blessed 
 lips. That’s it I’ll go bail — get well on draughts and 
 starvation.” 
 
 Doctor Lacy looked up smilingly at Richard. “ You 
 will see that my patient obeys orders, and — ” 
 
 “ I turn meeself into a paper boy,” interrupted Martha; 
 and then ashamed of having undervalued Richard, she 
 added, “ not but what he’s too good for it ; and though 
 master has always treated him as a companion like, I 
 think no one so fit to attend him as meeself, that has 
 understanding, and no dread of fever, or mad dogs, or 
 anything under the sun.” 
 
 After this pretty piece of eloquence the physician 
 departed, smiling again at Richard, and touching his brow 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 93 
 
 with his forefinger with an air of inquiry, to ascertain if 
 Matty was in her senses. 
 
 The draughts soon arrived, one was given, and E-ichard, 
 as usual, went to the kitchen for his breakfast ; it was not 
 there ; he turned to go upstairs. 
 
 “ Your breakfast is in the little room, dear,” said the 
 Irish woman. I know better now, than to put your 
 father’s child down to table with the likes of me ; had I 
 known who you were it would have been better for us 
 both — blood’s stronger than water. I wish from my 
 heart you had followed the hackney home last night — got 
 on the box, or hung on behind ; don’t stretch up so I 
 many a boy hangs behind the step of a hackney, and none 
 the worse for it, barrin’ the spatters ; and now, dear, we 
 may all go down to our graves, and never get sight of the 
 ould nagur again.” 
 
 Don’t call names, Martha!” said the high-spirited 
 Richard, ‘^please to remember you are sj^eaking of my 
 father’s father.” 
 
 What fine English you set it in to be sure ! But I 
 expect better from Mr. John ; at least the poor mistress 
 used to say in her sweet innocent bear-all way — lovely 
 as she was in sickness and in health, alive or dead — she 
 loved to say how wonderful good he was ; only to be sure 
 age and the Indies hardens a man. But you gave up a 
 dale ; and your mother, dear, she seems fading away ; 
 and when she’s gone, maybe you’ll wish for the 
 wealth.” 
 
 You are really cruel, Martha. My dear mother is 
 wonderfully better — her face so round.” 
 
 “ Many fall into flesh, dear, just before death.” 
 
 “ She can walk any distance. Why last Sunday, after 
 church, I got her into the Regent’s Park ; and when she 
 inhaled the sweet blossoms of the hawthorn, tears of 
 positive delight rolled down her cheeks.” 
 
 “ Just the way the whiff of a pipe would set off my 
 poor father (the heavens be his bed I) when he was 
 struck.” 
 
94 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 ‘•'And as to netting! — ^you should see how light her 
 fingers go.” 
 
 “ Och hone 1 that’s a bad sign 1 ” 
 
 Hi chard looked distressed for a moment ; but Matty had 
 lost the power to irritate him as in former days, and he 
 was too anxious about his master to mind her. 
 
 “ And now,” she added, “ I don’t care whether you’re 
 rich or poor, but I’ve been servant to yer people, and you 
 shall never again do my bidding. I dare you to do my 
 bidding. Never do a thing for me in that way if I 
 should forget myself to ask you ; so go upstairs now, and 
 take your breakfast. I wouldn’t be hampered with a 
 gentleman’s son in the kitchen, bringing back ould times 
 upon me to the breaking of my heart — go up, go up 1 — 
 bitter as I am, and contrary. I took glory in you, when 
 you said his help would be a millstone round yer neck ; 
 only, dear, you’ll be sorry for it. It was hard to bear, the 
 poverty long ago ; yes, the poverty was hard to bear when 
 you knew there was no help for it — but now — when you 
 know what you have lost. And worse than all, the poor 
 masther here, he that grew into loving you — and mighty 
 angry I was about it, at first, because the love of age is as 
 foolish as the love of youth — and says he, only yesterday 
 says he, ‘ Matty, that boy will be a great poet yet.’ ‘ Oh, 
 then,’ says I, ‘ don’t even the likes of that to him ; a 
 broom and a crossing is a living, but from all I ever heard 
 tell, the other’s a starving.’ Poor dear master 1 you know 
 his little kinky laugh ; as usual with all men — no good 
 what I said. Of course he went on thinking his own 
 thoughts, as if there was no Matty in the world — and now 
 he’s struck, and you’ve thrust away the full hand ; 
 and when the dear master is laid in earth, sure you’ll 
 be on the batther again ; and I to see it now that I 
 know who you are — and I shall never raise my head 
 afther it ! — never — from this minute, Matty, honey, 
 ye’re nothing but a poor depraved broken-hearted 
 woman 1 ” 
 
 Martha had worked herself into a fit of weeping, and 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 95 
 
 I^icLard’s solitary breakfast was not enlivened by hearing 
 her sobs and ejaculations. When the doctor came again, 
 he looked pained and thoughtful ; Matthew Whitelock 
 was evidently worse, and Richard’s hope fluttered feebly 
 within his bosom, when in less than four-and-twenty 
 hours, he saw life and death struggling for mastery. His 
 father’s illness, his mother’s bereavement, had been so 
 gently borne — the sufferings were endured with so much 
 Christian meekness — that the strong man’s struggles, the 
 strong man’s ravings, were all the more terrible to witness. 
 The affections of Richard’s full warm heart, had grosvn 
 and twined round his master, taking hold of every little 
 resting place to cast forth fresh fibres, strengthening the 
 whole of love — he was his friend — his only friend. He 
 remembered and recalled the past, with true generosity 
 of spirit, dwelling upon the abundant kindnesses shown 
 him, the still more gratifying trust that had been placed 
 in him, the gentle reproof, the forbearance, the instruc- 
 tion bestowed upon the boy lifted from the streets into 
 the sanctuary of a home ; and should he never be able to 
 show his gratitude ! — never, never prove what his feelings 
 were towards his benefactor ! That night and the next day, 
 sleepless — almost without food — he attended to his 
 master’s business, and to the calls of the sick room ; in 
 this time of great peril and great trial, Martha became 
 helpless from her very anxiety. 
 
 “ Save him, doctor, dear ! ” she would implore. Save 
 him ! and I’ll never say a word against any doctor in all 
 my born days — I’ll live upon physic, and die by it j and 
 leave my body and bones to it, if you’ll only save him 
 — sure ye can, sir. Oh, my grief! what’s the good of 
 all yer learning, if it’s only to bother the world, and not 
 save life ; sure if you’ve no power over life, where’s the 
 good of ye h Why need any craythur be bothered with 
 ye, if ye can’t keep life in ? do, sir, say he’s better ; it ’ll 
 put the strength in me, if you’ll only say he’s better I ”” 
 But the doctor could not say it ; poor Matthew White- 
 lock, to all human thinking, seemed drawing, not softly 
 
96 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 and noiselessly, but by great suffering and long strides, 
 towards the end of earthly care. 
 
 If, during his pains and pantings, when his feverish 
 dreams evaporated, there were moments when his memory 
 enabled him to look back upon the past, it afforded him 
 a retrospect in which, according to his means, he might 
 find abundant comfort. 
 
 The duties of his station were filled to overflowing ; 
 his cliarities were many — his publishings small ; and in 
 the latter, he had been so fractionally honest, that his 
 brethren of the trade ” said he would never be rich. If 
 his spirit wanderings had been in a higher sphere, his 
 really generous nature would have become more exalted ; 
 as it was, the snatches of prayer which escaped his fever- 
 ish lips proved to whom he looked for help. 
 
 So thoroughly was Richard engrossed by his master’s 
 illness, that he hardly bestowed a thought upon the great 
 event of his young life ; and during the dreary and solitary 
 hours his mother passed, she offered up a greater number 
 of prayers for Matthew Whitelock than for Francis Old- 
 ham. Prayers for the latter came cold and slow as duties ; 
 but for the former, they welled up from her anxious and 
 grateful heart. At last the physician suggested that Mr. 
 Whitelock’s relations might be written to, and Richard 
 addressed a niece, somewhere at Chatham, a young woman 
 who had displeased her uncle by a rash and foolish mar- 
 riage, and yet was his only relative. She came imme- 
 diately, with her husband ; she, soft and silly, fine and 
 dirty ; he, bold almost to brutality, with a dull eye, a 
 heavy foot, and a loud harsh voice — his first act was to 
 attempt to turn Martha out of the house; in that he did 
 not succeed — his next to remove Richard from his place 
 beside his master’s bed. It was in vain that the youth 
 entreated to be left there, only for a few hours longer, 
 until the ])oor patient awoke, as the doctor had said he 
 would, either in this world or in the next ; but Richard’s 
 prayers were scorned, he was insulted, dismissed, and 
 ordered when the shop was shut to go home, the man 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 97 
 
 repeating in a loud and angry tone, that *4t was only 
 natural his relations should remain witli the old gentle- 
 man — the boy was not wanted ; in fact he was not to 
 return ; he need not fear losing his wages, they were safe, 
 whether his master lived or died.” 
 
 After closing the shop, poor Kichard stole gently up to 
 the half-open door, and nearly stumbled over Matty, who 
 could not be displaced, without actual violence, from the 
 top stair. He saw his master still sleeping ; his damp grey 
 hair had been suffered, even in that little time, to mat 
 upon his brow, and no refreshing moisture had cooled 
 his black and swollen lips ; the sheet lay in heavy folds 
 around his throat, and the pillow was crushed and un- 
 even ; his niece was reading a novel, and her husband was 
 fast asleep, with his feet on the fender. Hichard turned 
 away with a breaking heart ; Matty seized his hand and 
 kissed it — it was wet with her tears ! 
 
 How coldly fell the heavy rain, how bitter and cutting 
 came the blast, as, with lagging steps and downcast head, 
 the poor youth’s steps, for the first time in his life, bent 
 unwillingly homeward. He had a perfect consciousness 
 that he was again without employ — that, if his master 
 died, he would have no character ; but these considerations 
 were as straws in his great weight of misery. When he 
 thought of the two he loved best in the world, more than 
 once the beaming face of Mr. John broke like the sun 
 through a dense London fog, seen and obscured at the 
 same moment. Faint from watching and anxiety, he could 
 not restrain his tears, and passing beneath the light of a 
 lamp his quondam associate, ragged and filthy as usual, 
 peered into his face with a taunting laugh and shout, and 
 assaulted him in his usual jargon. 
 
 Is the cove, the pet, a-crying ? Where is its lucky 
 penny now 1 Tip us a bob. Maybe the wind has changed. 
 What ! would you strike yer old playfellow ‘I good night 
 to gentleman Eichard ! Who’s gayest 1 I can raise my 
 heart any time as high as a king’s with a penn’orth of 
 gin — it costs more than that to raise yours. Come, give 
 H 
 
98 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 US the browns.” He placed himself directly in Richard’s 
 path, but catching sight of a policeman, disappeared 
 rapidly. 
 
 More than once did Richard retrace his steps ; he 
 could not bear to leave his master ; he meditated a dozen 
 ways of gaining access to him. At last, it occurred* to him 
 that he would tell the good doctor the conduct of Mr. 
 Whitelock’s relatives ; and he felt wonderfully relieved 
 when the physician drew on his boots, called for his cloak, 
 and declared he would not leave the bookseller until the 
 crisis was over. Thus assured, Richard sought his mother, 
 and found within their narrow home the sympathy and 
 consolation he so much needed. She felt that her son’s 
 brow was hot, and cooled it with her thin hands. She 
 searched her memory, according to her custom, for those 
 texts, short but rich in consolation, which pass from the 
 ear to the heart and take root therein — ^pearls indeed of 
 great price ! 
 
 One of this simple-minded woman’s greatest blessings 
 since her blindness, was that her privations and poverty 
 were entirely forgotten. She lived among the sunshine 
 and flowers of her youth ; and of the future all was clear 
 and heaven-bright. She shuddered when she spoke of 
 Mr. Francis Oldham, but at the same time regarded him 
 as an object of the greatest pity — earth-bound, spirit- 
 bound as he was. Even when Richard told her how he 
 was driven forth by the new influence which had usurped 
 power in his master’s house, and how it might be that 
 again he should wander to seek employment — when, his 
 head resting on his mother’s lap, and her cool hands were 
 pressed on or passing round his brow, she felt the swollen 
 veins and the moist eye-lids — still her unvarying hope 
 prompted the sweetest consolations. 
 
 I can look back, my child, and acknowledge that 
 every trial, every privation brought its blessing ; the 
 darker my eyes become, the more light is shed upon my 
 inner life. Forgive your mother, my own child ! if she 
 cannot share your anxieties. She knows that a door will 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 99 
 
 be opened ; and be the passage to which it leads bright 
 or dark (according to God’s judgment), I know there is 
 light beyond. It will be hard to bear if you lose this 
 friend ; but, dearest, I often ask what is life, that we 
 should so wish it prolonged — what is death, that we who 
 live by faith should fear it % — it is but the foreshadowing 
 of that which is to come.” 
 
 “ The world has chastened you, dear mother ; I can 
 only feel what we shall be if this friend is taken. To 
 think of his being stricken the same night that hard 
 old man came here — came but to look upon, and insult 
 our poverty ! — but we repulsed him bravely ; and poor 
 Mr. Whitelock so anxious that I should (for the sake of 
 money — mere money) shelter beneath that roof. At all 
 events, mother, we can never be as poor as we have been 
 — I have so much more knowledge than I had this time 
 last year ; and as Franklin says, — 
 
 Set him aside, set him aside, my child — set him aside ! — 
 death is struggling just now with the just and the unjust ; 
 it is no time for precepts of mere worldly wisdom. I have 
 been looking back and looking up, all day — praying, dear, 
 for both ; and surely the days are all too short for prayer 
 and praise — only the body’s weakness so often comes be- 
 tween me and my duties ; and it is late now, and you are 
 weary, I feel your eye-lids closing while I speak. To- 
 morrow, dear, you must go as usual ; but believe, child, 
 that it will all come uiGHT-^all right !” 
 
 Another morning crept laggingly from the lap of night, 
 stealing over the house-tops, and then slowly, slowly 
 into the wide streets, but casting no shadows — the 
 pale and haggard phantom of light, rather than light 
 itself. The trees in the noble parks were misshapen 
 masses ; strange and mysterious sounds came muffled, as 
 from a great distance ; a damp noisome atmosphere 
 revelled in churches and chimneys — in the latter it 
 wrestled with the stifling smoke, which it beat down 
 into sufibcating chambers. Could it be the ‘‘jocund rosy 
 morn ” of the poet’s song, that hung above the close 
 
100 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 alleys and the noisome courts ? Wearily, wearily — as if 
 the drowsy and ill-favoured day was scared by its own 
 presence ; heavily, heavily, inch by inch, it descended, 
 clinging round the soiled windows, rendering their dust 
 and murk perceptible ; welcomed only by those night- 
 watchers, to whom even the semblance of day promised 
 change, if not rest. 
 
 The poor widow awoke, and called it morning,” — and 
 imagined sunshine, though the chill air clung around her 
 like a shroud. She felt for the door of Richard’s bedstead 
 
 a bed by night, a chest of drawers by day”) ; her 
 quickened ear told that he slept soundly, as though mid- 
 night, not morning, pressed upon his eye-lids. 
 
 ‘‘Ah !” thought the widow, “ how sweetly he sleeps, 
 though I have twice heard the clocks strike eight ! ” 
 She moved about with the noiselessness of careful sight, 
 — the blind woman knew every nook of her little room, 
 and her household goods did not perplex her by their 
 quantity. She lit her fire, and placed the kettle on, 
 and neatly and softly laid the cups and saucers, the bread, 
 all ready ; and then sat down by the bed-side, to listen 
 for her son’s waking. “ They told him not to return,” 
 she murmured, “ or I could not let him sleep thus ! ” A 
 quick step passed her window — it stopped at the outer 
 door, and came along the passage — then the latch of her 
 door was lifted, and some one entered. She arose, and 
 pointed to the bed, while her sightless eyes turned to- 
 wards the stranger. 
 
 It was a calm and beautiful picture — the sleeping boy, 
 watched by his blind mother — the waking ears guarding 
 the sleeping eyes ; a sculptor might have modelled that 
 throat and head to place it on the shoulders of a young 
 Apollo. The proud curved lip quivered, and the boy 
 moved uneasily. 
 
 “ He is waking — whom will he find here when he wakes 
 from sleep?” whispered the widow, while her groping hand 
 found the stranger’s arm. 
 
 “Is he ill ?” enquired a half stifled voice. 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 101 
 
 “ Not ill, thank God, but wearied ; his dear master has 
 been ill, and night after night he watched him, and then 
 — but, perhaps you are the doctor, sir. Oh ! is Mr. 
 Whitelock better ? ” 
 
 “ I am John Oldham the voice kept down its cheery 
 tones, not to disturb the sleeper, My poor bi’other 
 would not spare me from his sight, or I should have been 
 here before,” he whispered. I knew you had a friend 
 in the good bookseller, and though longing to see the lad 
 again, I waited. I prayed for Francis — hanging as he is 
 over his open grave — I prayed that he might bid me seek 
 and find the boy. I trusted that his heart might open — 
 his lips just frame the words ; but whatever the heart’s 
 yearnings may be during the dim hours of existence, they 
 have hardly strength to come forth ; they lack words ; 
 yet his heart and his eyes hunger for the lad — the son of 
 his son. I came not to make terms with you or the lad ; 
 I came to ask if he would perform the duty of his birth- 
 right 
 
 Mother,” murmured Fichard, waking, ‘‘ dear mother, 
 I wonder if it is quite morning ; I have had such a 
 dream ! and if it is morning, morning dreams come true, 
 you know.” 
 
 The fire-light cast two shadows on the wall, where 
 E-ichard always looked for one ; they quivered in fantastic 
 lengths like the illusions of a magic lantern, now in 
 broken lines over the book-shelf, then undulating on the 
 smooth wall — then one advanced cautiously. Pdchard 
 knew that the substance of the portly shadow was avoid- 
 ing the stool and the fender and the tiny round work 
 table which “ mother” had treasured for years. 
 
 Matty, during one of her eccentric visits, had called 
 that table a relic of ould dacency.” 
 
 I will return in an hour,” said the visitor, “ and ex- 
 pect you, as I have told your mother, to perform your 
 duty.” 
 
 Sir — my poor, good, kind master !” stammered Eichard. 
 
 ‘‘ I have been there already ; the physician says the 
 
102 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 crisis is past, and lie is better ; we will go there 
 together before you go horned The boy’s anxious eyes 
 rested on his mother; while he drew the drapery of the 
 clean sheet around him, he stretched one arm towards 
 her. “ Her home is where I am,” added the old gentle- 
 man, and with a full heart he quitted the room. 
 
 Strong in wind and limb ! ” he muttered to himself as 
 he rapidly passed through the grim grey morning mist, and 
 his breath mounted and meandered through the thick 
 air, floating on like a peunon. “ Strong, for I never in- 
 sulted my bodily gifts — sobriety, temperance, chastity — 
 man’s three guardian angels, abroad and at home ; and, 
 bless me, how I am rewarded ! To have found her grand- 
 child a pampered minion of ease and luxury would have 
 been a trial; but what would it have been had my wretched 
 brother been his trainer ? Cunning, grasping, grovelling ! 
 What a life to cater for a death-bed! No remembered 
 acts of charity to sooth his pangs — no recorded blessings 
 to whisper him to rest — no orphans fathered — no charities 
 done openly for the sake of example, or privately for the 
 sake of the purest happiness an embodied soul can taste, 
 I must have turned from the boy, had Francis been his 
 schoolmaster. And that not the worst — no faith — no 
 hope ! My poor brother ! Oh, that I had but known, 
 when he cast off her son John Oldham walked faster 
 than ever when that memory rushed into his mind ; then 
 he paused, and renewed a wholesome converse with 
 himself. 
 
 I could not have subjected the lad to such an educa- 
 tion ; yet how first-rate it has been : early childhood in 
 the country — the pure, fair, fresh country ; what a place 
 for impressions to sink deep and take root, undistracted 
 by noise and tumult where one sensation uproots an- 
 other 1 What a place to brace the infant growth, and 
 lay in a stock of green young memories that will blossom 
 like a rose upon the bed of death. 
 
 “ His poor father’s refined knowledge and early death ! 
 My poor fellow — to die from the hardness of his own 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 103 
 
 father’s heart ; and this poor woman keeping right where 
 wise men go astray — strong in that simple, unreasoning, 
 and yet faithful instinct, which chains the brooding ring- 
 dove to its nest, and teaches the lark to soar and sing. 
 And her beautiful faith and hope have sown good seed 
 in that proud boy’s soul ; for proud he is, and it was well 
 he had to contend with that practical poverty through 
 which, a boy, I fought my way. We will compare notes 
 some day, when he has grown used to his new position. 
 
 The penny — the lucky penny ! — strange it should 
 pass from his hand to the boy’s hand ; how wonderful !” 
 
 John Oldham was so apt to muse, and moralize, and 
 compare the past with the present, that he might have 
 continued his soliloquies much longer, though the streets 
 were filling and the workers in the human hive forth on 
 their business, but his attention was attracted by a big 
 boy bullying a little one ; that at once called for his inter- 
 ference, which was of so decided a kind, that the lout 
 went grumbling and whimpering on his way, and the 
 little urchin grinned over a sixpence. 
 
 John Oldham found frequent occasions to exercise his 
 love of justice and fair play, in the London streets. 
 
 He had hardly concluded a remonstrance against bru- 
 tality towards a donkey, which, but for the timely inter- 
 ference of a policeman, might have terminated in a 
 personal combat, when St. Clement’s full-toned clock 
 struck the hour, and, as the full hearted man hastened 
 to his tryst, he could not help congratulating himself 
 again. “ Just from India, and yet, thank God, strong in 
 wind and limb. May live to see him married, and nurse 
 his children — who knows ? — perhaps his children’s chil- 
 dren — hardly 1 and yet men have lived and flourished at 
 a hundred ! ” 
 
104 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 MPt. John was too considerate to carry Ricliard to Iris 
 grandfather, without visiting his old master, who was 
 decidedly better. And here he had one of the lessons 
 learned sooner or later during life’s journey ; those v/ho 
 had spurned him from the house, became as civil as they 
 had been insolent, when he came with a rich uncle in a 
 hackney coach. 
 
 Had it not been for her blessed angel of a master,” 
 Matty’s happiness would have been poured forth in gusts 
 of joy and sarcasm ; and Peter was obliged to be turned 
 out of the carriage. 
 
 Has he asked for us?” inquired Mr. John, when the 
 hall door in Harley-street was opened. 
 
 He has been most impatient for his grandson,” was 
 the reply ; and yet when he stood by his bed-side, though 
 the still bright eyes followed his movements, there was 
 no attempt at speech. In this new found interest he 
 seemed to have forgotten Mr. J ohn ; he saw, or thought 
 but of Pichard. His withered faculties were becoming 
 more and more torpid — drying out ; but still his eyes 
 were bright and restless, and once his hands approached, 
 as if the shrivelled palms sought to press each other in 
 prayer, but they would have fallen helplessly on the 
 coverlet had not Pichard joined them ; so they remained 
 for a brief time. The thin, blue lips moved, and there 
 seemed a film over his eyes ; had there been tears he 
 might have shed them, but none came — tlie open lids 
 looked hard and dry; gradually they closed, and he slum- 
 bered uneasily. The only thing in that large uncomfort- 
 able house, the only living thing that mourned the rich 
 man’s passing away, was his little dog. It would neither 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 105 
 
 eat nor drink, but crouched at the foot of the bed, echo- 
 ing its master’s moans, as if suffering its master’s pains 
 and sharing its master’s trouble. 
 
 “Oh, my brother, my brother!” said Mr. John, while 
 he paced the desolate drawing-room, “ how hard it is that 
 I, who have wept the loss of an old servant, can shed no 
 tear for thee !” 
 
 Suddenly, Mr. Francis woke ; his faculties seemed re- 
 stored. With a superhuman effort he tried to raise himself 
 — the effort failed, but his nurse lifted him, as if he were an 
 infant ; then his eyes did not rest on Richard, but wan- 
 dered. “ J ohn 1 John ! ” he called his brother in a loud, 
 shrill, unearthly tone. Mr. John was by the bed-side in 
 a moment. “John, my will — quick 1 — my will I there, in 
 the iron safe ; the key — here ! ” the key was in his purse. 
 Again and again, “My will!” he screamed. Mr. John 
 quickly found the key ; and the withered hand, wdiicli 
 had been so feeble in prayer, writhed its fingers round 
 the purse, grasj)ing the silver and the gold. The paper 
 was brought. “ J ohn, if I destroy this will, he will in- 
 herit. He — lift — lift me to the fire that I may burn it 
 —quick ! ” 
 
 “ Do not disturb him,” said Richard, “ I do not want 
 the inheritance — let it remain.” 
 
 “ Fool ! idiot !” gasped the dying man, “ not want gold ! 
 you must want it — its want is an unquenchable thirst! 
 I feel it STILL — HERE ! — the fire ! — take me ! ” Firmly 
 
 he grasped the will in one hand, the purse in the other, 
 his breath heaved forth, he tossed the covering back 
 while they lifted him out of bed. What life remained 
 was bound within a narrow compass ; still he crushed the 
 will, and clutched the purse, repeating, in a hoarse, grating 
 whisper — “the fire — the fire !” 
 
 It was but across the room ; his arms outstretched, his 
 eyes burning in their sockets with a resolution which he 
 had never used for noble purposes ; another moment, 
 their light was quenched — the will fell upon the floor, the 
 purse into the smouldering ashes ! 
 
106 
 
 THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 I am glad,” said Kichard, as pale and shuddering he 
 clung instinctively to Mr. John, ‘‘I have not been led 
 into the temptation of using his wealth.” 
 
 Then Mr. J ohn burst into tears. “ Alas ! alas ! my 
 brother ; at the last, but too late, you sought to render 
 justice. I knew not of the existence of this will.” 
 
 After the funeral, when it was found that the rich Mr. 
 Francis Oldham had divided his large amount of wealth 
 amongst the most popular charities, how the people 
 praised him ! what encomiums possessed the newspapers ! 
 what paragraphs and anecdotes were circulated. What in 
 living men (if poor) would be considered ^^vice,” was 
 glossed over in his case as eccentricity ; and when “ the 
 magnificent bequest of the late lamented Francis Oldham, 
 Esq.” was alluded to, how the knife handles rattled on the 
 festive board !” 
 
 Well,” observed the widow, after hearing of one par- 
 ticular dinner, where her father-in-law was lauded after 
 the usual fashion, it will do good, and his memory 
 deserves their gratitude ; and had it not been for his 
 Oucky penny,’ my Richard would not have been found 
 by Uncle John.” 
 
 Matthew Whitelock has migrated into the neighbour- 
 hood of Piccadilly, and yet does not seem quite at home in 
 his very showy double-fronted shop. He has been heard 
 to say, that “ fine feathers make fine birds, but fine shops 
 cannot make fine books ;” in fact, Matthew is old fashioned, 
 and hates cheap literature — he will not believe that a 
 novel is as good in one volume as in three, though the 
 reprint should be word for word ; and has been nearly 
 driven out of his senses by cheap newspapers. Last season, 
 however, he published a poem by an Oxonian,” which 
 has attracted a great deal of attention, and been nearly 
 as much read as the articles ‘Hrom our own correspon- 
 dent.” People wondered at first why the poem had not 
 been published by a more aristocratic house : one old 
 lady said, “ it would be a lucky penny to Mr. Whitelock.” 
 
THE LUCKY PENNY. 
 
 107 
 
 The bookseller is rendered very uncomfortable at times 
 by the ill-temper of his Irish servant, who, as his house- 
 keeper, objects to do the work, and yet will not suffer 
 any one else to do it. 
 
 She has grown fond of poetry, and sleeps with a copy 
 of the Oxonian’s poems under her pillow, and says she 
 considers the book equal to any breviary that ever came 
 from Rome ; but sometimes she hazards an opinion that 
 poetry is unlucky, and that no poet was ever born with a 
 silver spoon in his mouth. At this Mr. Whitelock smiles. 
 Matty’s outward woman is as much improved as very 
 gaudy dressing can make it ; she has been seen with 
 three shawls at once draping her spare form ; but none 
 of them were orange or green. Can our readers guess 
 whence they came ? 
 
 Mr. John Oldham is frequently at Oxford. It is a 
 matter of regret to our old favourite Richard, that his 
 uncle should not appreciate as they deserve the advan- 
 tages of a college education ; indeed, the magnates of the 
 university consider him a perfect lord of misrule — for 
 instead of behaving with the dignity and gravity that 
 best become his years, he is perpetually giving dinners 
 and dances; declaring that he is sound in wind and limb, 
 and as Richard is going into the church, he hopes to live 
 to huy him a bishopric I Richard is far more sedate and 
 elderly than Uncle John. At the last Commemoration, 
 Uncle John was accompanied by a lady — no longer 
 blind — of so youthful an appearance, that Richard’s com- 
 panions would hardly believe she was his mother ! 
 
 Uncle John (what things that Uncle John does manage 
 between the power of his gold and the might of his 
 goodness) had the operation performed without Richard’s 
 knowledge ; and only imagiue the scene when the widow 
 saw her boy changed from the bookseller’s messenger into 
 the scholarly gentleman — how she wept — how she 
 thanked God — how she enjoyed seeing her son walking 
 arm-in-arm with his dignified tutor ! — and how eloquently 
 she discoursed (in private) of The Lucky Penny.” 
 
108 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I WAS born to v/bat is termed the good fortune of 
 large possessions ; the only son of an ancient house, 
 and endowed beyond my associates with the dangerous 
 gifts of beauty and talent. An old man, who has num- 
 bered seventy and five years, may be pardoned for 
 dwelling upon personal advantages, which have left no 
 trace of their existence save in his own memory ; for 
 those who bestowed upon them real or affected admira- 
 tion are dead, or else in that state of selfish dotage which 
 leaves them remembrance only of their own. 
 
 I looked upon the fortune I inherited as the natural 
 right of a being of high and rare endowments. I trod 
 the earth as if it were my slave ; and marvelled that any 
 should fail to do me homage. My father died a few 
 months after my birth, and my mother’s sole care was 
 centered in her son : I may well say her sole care,” for 
 my sister, though but two years older, was neglected, 
 and often insulted, the better to minister to my caprices 
 and whims. 
 
 I pass over the years of my earlier indulgences, my 
 petty tyrannies, the subservience of my relatives, the 
 obedience of my tutors, the deference paid me by younger 
 brothers at the university, and the tribute I exacted 
 from all of my own age and pretensions, by the exercise 
 of abilities, which, while they procured me admiration, 
 gained me no friends. An amiable man is seldom for- 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 109 
 
 given his success by his compeers, who believe the 
 injustice of fortune only prevents their being equally 
 distinguished ; what, then, has a clever, but unamiable, 
 man to expect h The honey of the lip, the hatred of the 
 heart. I saw and felt this, while I despised them ; yet 
 flattery was my food, and I cared not what hand it was 
 that ministered the deadly nutriment. But I must 
 return to my sister. 
 
 She was a kind, gentle creature, and offered little 
 resistance to the authority I assumed, from the first 
 tyrannical manifestation which struck her to the floor 
 of our play-room, to the last, which, bad as it is, must 
 be recorded by me, writing as I do for the instruction of 
 others. 
 
 I had property to the amount of £11,000 a year, 
 besides a large sum accumulated during my minority ; 
 and yet I grudged Lucy the paltry £12,000 left her by 
 my father’s will. Ample as was my allowance, I had 
 learned to value money, not for itself, but for its in- 
 fluence ; and I found myself everlastingly recurring to 
 the question, what could she possibly want with so much] 
 — :my connections, my establishment would certainly pro- 
 cure her an excellent marriage — what did a woman need 
 with money under such circumstances ? — what could she 
 desire better than a brilliant alliance ] And one of my 
 friends — friends 1 how I loathe the prostituted word ! — 
 would, I knew, be delighted to secure my sister without 
 her fortune, or with, at least, half its amount : he 
 appeared rich — was, certainly, well connected — yet looked 
 to my interest in a particular quarter to establish him in 
 a high official situation. I believed him to be a man of 
 dissipated habits, but he was by no means worse than his 
 companions ; and to them, at that time, was limited my 
 knowledge of human nature. He knew how much I 
 valwed money, and had often heard me execrate the folly 
 that gave my sister so large a claim on my estate. Boldly 
 he talked of his friendship for me, of his love for her. 
 Will it be credited that I calculated upon this, and forced 
 
110 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 Lucy into a marriage she abhorred ; at the very time, 
 too, when her heart was devoted to a mild, conscientious, 
 excellent man — Edward Lawrence, the young rector of 
 our parish ? I could not understand his disregard for 
 what I considered the means of pleasure, of self-gratifi- 
 cation — the only thing worth living for ; I called his 
 disinterestedness cant ; and, if the truth must be con- 
 fessed, I was ashamed to make the bargain with him 
 which I made so easily with my fashionable friend — 
 ashamed to offer him six, when I knew he ought, by right 
 unquestionable, to have twelve, thousand pounds. I had 
 not been many weeks of age when I thus sold my sister. 
 Poor Lucy ! she had been taught to consider me, the 
 Son — according to the blessed law of primogeniture — as 
 a being set apart for exclusive enjoyment, neither to be 
 thwarted nor contradicted. I had told her that my 
 happiness depended on her making my friend happy ; 
 and she gave her spotless hand to a profligate, who, six 
 months afterwards, prosecuted me on the ground of my 
 father’s will, for the very half he had pretended so 
 generously to refuse. He gained his cause ; nor did the 
 lawyer he employed fail skilfully to show the meanness I 
 had been guilty of — to expatiate upon it — to set it forth 
 in characters of horrid blackness, until I gathered my 
 cloak around me, and shrank into a corner of the crowded 
 court, imagining that every eye was fixed upon me in 
 hatred and contempt. As I crept forth, I heard an old 
 servant of my sister’s anxiously inquiring for his master; 
 the reply was that he had gone not five minutes before. 
 The man appeared greatly troubled, and from what he 
 said, I learned that my sister was exceedingly ill — my 
 poor sister ill, and at that time, too ! A feeling approaching 
 to kindness came upon me, and I resolved to call and say 
 — I knew not what. She was perfectly innocent of all 
 combination against me. I found myself at her door — 
 in her drawing-room ; and when I looked into her pallid 
 face, her blue eyes were sunk within their sockets, and 
 tears had worn deep channels on her cheek. In a 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 Ill 
 
 moment of remorse I cursed my utter selfishness ; I 
 pressed her to my bosom, and told her if she were not 
 happy, to come to the home of her childhood, and be at 
 peace. She smiled faintly, and replied, that “ though her 
 husband had used us both ill, he was still her husband ; 
 and she would ’bide with him till the last.” — “ The last, 
 the last r the words grated on my ear. I gazed on her 
 again ; she was no longer pale ; a bright and glowing 
 colour rested upon her cheek, and her eyes beamed with 
 superhuman brightness; I thought she seemed quite 
 beautiful, and, for the first time, felt proud of my sister 
 Lucy. Her husband, she feared, had left town ; but, not 
 liking to remain longer than I could help in his house, I 
 prepared to leave her, promising another visit. As I was 
 about to depart, she called me back, and, putting her arm 
 round my neck, pressed her lips to my brow, and then, 
 half hiding her face on my shoulder, murmured, If I 
 should die, ask Mr. Lawrence to perform the burial 
 service.” I endeavoured to laugh at her request ; but 
 she repeated it so earnestly that I did promise ; and, 
 with a vague apprehension of I knew not what, deter- 
 mined to see her early in the morning. I sat down, 
 wrote to my mother touching Lucy’s illness, and felt so 
 dispirited that I remained at home, pondering over past 
 events, and getting more out of self than I ever did before 
 in my whole life. I remembered the gentleness, the good 
 temper, the forbearance of my sister. There is a human 
 chord in every heart ; mine awoke to the real state of 
 her feelings by her request that Lawrence should perform 
 her funeral service — her funeral service I Gracious 
 Heaven ! the thought was like a dagger to my heart : so 
 young — so near her end ! — but one little year, and she 
 had been healthful, and comparatively happy. If she 
 should die, who would be her murderer? I paced the 
 apartment in wild distraction ; I rang the bell until its 
 summons knelled through the house, and the pendant 
 cord remained in my hand. I directed the servant, who 
 was but too well accustomed to my impetuosity, to order 
 
112 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 two of the great physicians of the day to attend at her 
 house immediately, where I would meet them within an 
 hour. I repeated, with impotent and blasphemous fury, 
 She shall not die!” until I almost convinced myself ot 
 the impossibility of such an event ; and, subduing my 
 feelings, I went forth to ascertain the opinion of those 
 whose assistance I had commanded. 
 
 As I was crossing Piccadilly, I met two of my gay 
 companions strolling from the club to the Opera — Mara, 
 Billington, in conjunction ! They declared I was ill — ■ 
 hipped — that the music would raise my spirits (theirs had 
 been sufficiently elevated). I told them where and why 
 I was going. Prom my soul I believe it was the first 
 time they suspected me of the possession of human feel- 
 ing j for they stared at me, and then at each other, with 
 an expression of astonishment I can recall even now. 
 They persisted in their temptation j and either from igno- 
 rance of the fact, or from a better feeling, made no allusion 
 to my recent defeat, but declared that both my sister and 
 myself were suffering from weak nerves ; that a second 
 visit would only make her think herself worse than she 
 w'as ; that I could do her no good ; that the opinion of the 
 doctors could be known in the morning ; and, above all, 
 that Mara and Billington were to sing together 1 When 
 had I ever denied myself a gratification for the good of 
 another % I went to the Opera. 
 
 The grey light of morning was putting to shame the 
 pale twinkle of the feeble lamps ; the streets were damp 
 and chill from the effects of an April shower ; yet my 
 brow was burning, and my step trembled with the self- 
 inflicted fever of intoxication. I reeled towards my house 
 (it was splendid enough for princes), a debased, disgusting 
 example of human degradation. There, on the steps of 
 my own dwelling, stood my sister’s servant, a tall, thin, 
 old man, who had served her father, and loved her from 
 her birth, for a simple reason — she reminded him, in her 
 infancy, of his own dead child. 
 
 ‘‘ My mistress, sir,” he said — for the palsy of drunken- 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 113 
 
 ness was on my tongue, and I could not speak ; the old 
 man’s voice faltered ; I grasped his arm, and stared at him 
 with lack-lustre eyes : My mistress is — in heaven.” 
 
 “ ’Tis a false lie ! ” I roared ; madness taking the place 
 of its provider ; and I dealt the whiteheaded man a blow 
 which laid him at my feet ; then, springing over his pro- 
 strate body, in ten minutes, I was in — the chamber of 
 death. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Addison somewhere observes, and the remark is cha- 
 racteristic of the man, “ That we are naturally, and not 
 improperly, averse to launching out into a man’s praise 
 until he is dead ; because,” adds the mild man of morals, 
 whilst living he may change his conduct, and thereby 
 force us to retract our opinions,” This is not the reason; we 
 are loath to praise, lest we should be ultimately the means 
 of lessening the good thoughts which others may form 
 of ourselves ; we consider praise as a wide river, flowing 
 and fertilizing, which, if subdivided into many streams, 
 becomes less glorious, though it may be more useful. We 
 would have it splendid, and keep its wate^rs to ourselves. 
 We are in a measure safe from the dead ; we laud them 
 fearlessly, because we know that whatever they may have 
 done, they can do no more. It is like talking of the 
 delights of heaven, while we are living and gloating over 
 the pleasures of earth j one interferes not with the other ; 
 one is present with us ; the other, and we rejoice at it, 
 perhaps unconsciously, is afar ofi*. 
 
 When I saw the sister I had left but a few hours before 
 able to speak, and move, and look — white, livid, extended 
 before me cold and senseless, a chilliness crept over my 
 frame as if I had been enwreathed with earth-worms ; my 
 lips clung together, as if the cold clammy kiss of death 
 were on them ; I could hardly breathe, though my senses 
 I 
 
114 
 
 KONALD HERBERT, 
 
 were actively alive to every sound in that lone chamber. 
 Her servant was wailing in a corner of the room, and 
 between the pauses of her grief, the low ticking of a 
 watch sounded as full of import as if one fi;om the dead 
 had spoken ! I ordered her attendant forth, and for the 
 first time in my life was alone with the records of mor~ 
 tality. I approached the bed ; I called on my sister ; I 
 knelt by her side ; I implored her to forgive me ; I pro- 
 mised to cherish and protect her ; once I fancied her eye- 
 lids moved ; I laid my hand on her cheek ; my fingers 
 felt frozen by the ice of death. I have seen many since, 
 near ones, and, despite my selfishness, dear ones, within 
 their coffins, but never shall I forget the first time I knew 
 what death was. How I loathed the daylight that came 
 peeping and prying through the half-closed shutters, as 
 worldlings seek to spy out the miseries of their fellow- 
 beings. I drew the window-curtains still more closely; 
 but it would not do ; there was the daylight still. I braved 
 its scrutiny, and, flinging back the drapery, it burst into 
 the apartment — every corner, every nook was illumined by 
 its rays, and I became forcibly aware of the want of those 
 comforts which so abounded in my own luxurious cham- 
 ber ; the very pillow that supported her head was cased in 
 the coarsest linen, and the coverlet on the bed was rent in 
 many places. Had Lucy, then, endured such degrading 
 privations without a murmur, without a solitary appeal 
 even to her wealthy mother for assistance ? I felt she 
 had. Her jewel-box lay upon the table ; I opened it ; 
 there were no jewels there : I afterwards learned that her 
 husband had sold them. I sat in a moth-eaten chair, 
 at the foot of the bed ; and, after gazing for some time 
 upon her tranquil and gentle features, and contrasting 
 them with what they had formerly been, it first occurred 
 to me, that woman was not only a creature of acute feel- 
 ing, but of patient endurance ; more especially born to 
 sorrow, and acquainted with grief. 
 
 Those who live in the present day (for my own part, 1 
 am in it, but not of it) are little aware of the small quan- 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 115 
 
 tity of mental respect tendered to females when I was 
 young : — regarded by one class of men as servants, by 
 another as worse, and, despite the defects of education, 
 painfully alive to the inferiority which was put upon them. 
 When my female readers take this into consideration, and 
 remember that a selfish man then must have been, from 
 the peculiar circumstances under which women were 
 placed, many degrees worse than a selfish man now, I 
 hope they will not throw away my narrative in utter dis- 
 gust. Hitherto I had only looked upon the other sex as 
 ministers either to man’s comforts or man’s pleasures. I 
 had known woman only in one of the two characters. 
 My mother had never been more to me than the upper 
 waiter on my wants ; her weak and narrow intellect com- 
 manded no reverence from her son, and I had never loved 
 aught but myself. Poor woman 1 she had felt this fre- 
 quently ; as every mother must, who, forgetting the 
 place and the duty assigned her by nature, sleeps at her 
 post, either from the indulgence of simple indolence, or a 
 blind attachment to a headstrong child. 
 
 I still gazed on Lucy ; and the more I gazed the more 
 I wondered that my parent should have preferred me to 
 one so infinitely superior in all that gives worth or interest 
 to human nature. I called to mind the small sacrifices she 
 had made for me in my boyhood — small sacrifices as 
 regarded the benefit they conferred — great from the con- 
 sequent privations to which she submitted ! How ill do 
 we estimate such services ! — how little comprehend them ! 
 We reckon everything by the actual good arising to our- 
 selves — not by the cost it is to others ; this is one of the 
 great evils of our education. I panted to revenge a 
 death which I knew was the result of ill-treatment ; but 
 upon whom must vengeance fall ? My mother, it is true, 
 had neglected her ; by her husband I believed she had 
 been ill-used ; but where had been the root of that neg- 
 lect ? — who had given her to that husband h and — bitter- 
 ness on bitterness — why had I so done ? I had not 
 numbered two-and-twenty years, yet the measure of my 
 I 2 
 
116 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 iniquity appeared so full that I wept thick and scalding 
 tears for my offence. I bathed her cold emaciated hand 
 in the waters of penitence, and when the thin small bone 
 of her delicate arm looked so fleshless before me, I 
 remembered having noted on the previous night when 
 that poor arm encircled my neck, that it felt like an iron 
 ring, so sharp, so acute was its pressure. In the midst of 
 my reverie a thundering knock vibrated amid my shat- 
 tered nerves. It was her husband : I would gladly have 
 avoided him, but it was too late ; we stood, facing each 
 other, on the threshold of her chamber door. Bad as 
 men may be, there is something in the presence of death 
 that chills their impetuosity, and cools their blood. I 
 could not speak ; and he, too, entered the room wherein I 
 stood, and fell on his knees by the bedside. This was to 
 me another lesson in human nature : I had been too fond 
 of the theory that men are either demons or angels ; 
 here was a proof to the contrary : this man — double- 
 dealing and false — was, nevertheless, capable of feeling ; 
 and, after all, he was not as bad as I was ! I felt the 
 sacredness of even his grief, and left him to indulge it in 
 solitude. 
 
 As I turned Hyde Park Corner, two men jostled, as I 
 thought, rather rudely, against me. I turned somewhat 
 fiercely upon them ; and one of the fellows, a clerk (for I 
 recognised his countenance) to the lawyer who gained my 
 betrayer’s cause, assured me ^^that he did not mean to 
 jostle me ; he thought I had had enough of that in court 
 yesterday.” Before I arrived opposite Park Lane, a brace 
 of my fashionable acquaintances congratulated me on my 
 success (the sneering vagabonds !), and assured me they 
 had no idea I had been so fond of money. How closely 
 I shut and double-locked my library door ! with what 
 feelings of disappointment did I regard a bust of Pitt, and 
 think of the flattering eulogium the young but extraor- 
 dinary minister had pronounced on my abilities ! I had 
 hoped to distinguish myself in the senate ; now the thing 
 was impossible. Doubtless my expose would furnish a 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 117 
 
 subject for the pencil of Gilray, and tlie clubs would be 
 edilied at my expense by a squib from the brain of some 
 mighty coxcomb. Could I bear to be baited and sneered 
 at by my companions '? When my sister’s death was 
 known, it would only increase the odium already heaped 
 upon me. My resolution was at once taken — to set off 
 immediately for the Continent. 
 
 I ought to have thought of the misery this resolve 
 would })roduce on my weak but affectionate mother — 
 bereaved of the child she so loved at the moment the 
 other was a corpse ; to leave her alone at such a time was 
 another proof of my selfishness, though I knew it not ; 
 and at the very moment when I was indulging this pro- 
 pensity to the uttermost, I flattered myself into the belief 
 that I was acting a most noble part, for I wrote to Law- 
 rence to perform her burial-service, and penned my for- 
 giveness to her husband. I ought to have been present 
 at her funeral ; I ought to have both comforted and re- 
 proved my parent ; I ought to have remained in England, 
 and encountered, like a man, the taunts of my acquaint- 
 ances, seeking by some great and good act to blot out the 
 remembrance of what had been evil in my ways ; but I 
 lacked moral courage, and shrank from any task that was 
 likely to give me bodily or mental exertion. I returned 
 into myself, and embarked for the Continent. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Lovely, yet most radiant Florence ! Even now I hail 
 thy palaces, thy wide and silent streets, sleeping in 
 beauty : — 
 
 “ Beautiful Florence, all within thy walls, 
 
 Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers,” 
 
 are hallowed by remembrances which have outlived my 
 
118 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 youth and my maturer years, and haunt these hours of 
 wearisome old age with visions far too glorious to be of 
 much longer continuance. 
 
 It was in the great hall of the gloomy Palazzo Vecchio 
 that I first saw Eosina de Lozetta, not engaged in con- 
 templating the showy frescoes of Yasari, but wrapt in 
 admiration of Michael Angelo’s unfinished but powerful 
 group of Victory. She was pointed out to me by my 
 companion as the most beautiful and most learned woman 
 of her time. Learned I ” the word grated on my ear ; 
 I felt it only another term for pedantry — affected, ignor- 
 ant, upstart — a learned woman and a beauty! what a 
 strange union 1 I looked carefully on her with the eye 
 of a connoisseur, and felt disappointed ; there was nothing 
 of the Venus, but rather too much of the Minerva in her fine 
 classic features ; there was, I noted, a certain tightness, a 
 compression of lip, a tutored expression of countenance, a 
 want of colour upon her olive complexion that did not 
 accord with my ideas of beauty ; the forehead was so high 
 and broad, that it gave me the notion of mental strength 
 — a sad foe to female delicacy; then I fancied she appeared 
 anxious to command attention, and I was turning from 
 my scrutiny with feelings of disapproval when — she spoke ! 
 It is impossible to convey an idea of the music of her 
 voice — so soft, so thrilling, so pathetic ! I looked again ; 
 the lip was not compressed ; it was parted, and parted by 
 a smile the most captivating I ever saw ; it was, moreover, 
 a natural smile. I was too deeply read in such matters 
 to be deceived ; there was nothing arranged about it ; it 
 was neither the smile playful, nor the smile coquettish — 
 nor the smile magnified, nor the smile condescending — 
 nor any one of the hundred smiles that art and societ}’’ 
 plant on the lips and cheeks of those who smile under 
 tutelage : it was a gentle and serene smile, beautiful, but 
 not bright, yet having a spell with it that forced the gazer 
 to await breathlessly for another. I did wait, and I did 
 listen ; I waited for another smile, I listened for another 
 sentence ; the party she accompanied approached, and a 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 119 
 
 mutual acquaintance presented me to the learned Italian. 
 I felt somewhat embarrassed at the moment ; I hardly 
 knew why, though the sensation returned in after life — 
 at intervals, it is true — and latterly at more distant inter- 
 vals than at first. I have little vanity left me now, and 
 yet the confession of the source of that sensation is not 
 without its pain. I felt myself in the presence of a superior 
 being ; of one whom I must respect ; and to one valuing 
 self as the god of his idolatry, there was something new 
 and humbling in the fact. Its novelty was, however, a 
 charm ; for I thought that, having exhausted most plea- 
 sures — proved (as all single young men with large fortunes 
 invariably do) the infidelity of love and the heartlessness 
 of friendship — I had little to look forward to in the way 
 of novelty. I was struck and impelled by the sensation 
 to seek a repetition of the feeling ; nor was I without the 
 hope, which at that time amounted to positive belief, that 
 I should discover, upon more intimate knowledge, some- 
 thing in the character of Rosina de Lozetta that would 
 unveil her weakness, and set me once more at ease with 
 myself. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Rosina de Lozetta was conscious of her superiority, but 
 she exacted no homage thereto. She looked like a supe- 
 rior being, but it was nature, not art, that had made her 
 so. I knew not whether most to admire the delicacy of 
 her feelings or the strength of her intellect, the brilliancy 
 of her imagination or the correctness of her judgment. 
 Her wit was as sparkling as the sunbeam on her own 
 Arno, but it was directed against things not against per- 
 sons ; it was pure, genuine wit, not sarcasm, which is the 
 over-boiling of the bitterness of grosser natures. Her ac- 
 complishments — for she was accomplished — were as the 
 cap of the Corinthian column, the ornaments of the 
 
120 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 temple, not its prop. In tliis particular she essentially 
 differed from my own countrywomen. 
 
 She inquired of me, but without pedantry, the progress 
 of the arts in England, and showed an intimate know- 
 ledge of English literature ; she also seemed interested in 
 our manufactures, and was astonished at my non-acquaint- 
 ance with the subject. I could speak of the arts, for they 
 were the fashion, and men of taste and birth cultivated 
 them ; of literature, except my college tasks, I knew but 
 little ; and as to the manufactures of England ! — did the 
 fair Italian imagine we were in reality a nation of 
 tradesmen — yet was I mortified and embarrassed at my 
 own ignorance, of which I was, for the first time, aware. 
 My accomplishments sunk into insignificance when con- 
 trasted with the acquirements of those by whom I w^as 
 surrounded. Did I sing ? so did they. — Did I dance ? 
 how superior to mine were both their ease and grace of 
 manner ! My wit, my bon-mots, so often praised and 
 quoted at the clubs, were thought, generally, untranslat- 
 able j and if I did venture to render a brilliant idea, how 
 fiat, stale, and unprofitable, it became before I could give 
 it utterance ! thus baffled, like every Englishman who is 
 disappointed in his hopes of creating a sensation, I sank 
 into sullen silence, and should have remained compara- 
 tively unnoticed in the splendid saloon, had not the 
 beautiful hostess drawn me from myself. With that 
 admirable tact, which only a woman can possess, she 
 avoided the subjects which her quickness discovered and 
 her kindness noted as disagreeable, and requested I would 
 speak English, as serviceable to her in the study of a 
 language she so ardently admired. Heavens ! how I 
 hung upon her accents ! how musical were her tones in 
 that sweet mingling of Italian with my native tongue 1 
 I forgot her learning, her superiority ^ — everything did I 
 forget in those honeyed moments, except herself. At night 
 the remembrance of this fascinating and illustrious woman 
 haunted my pillow ; and when the beams of an Italian 
 sun burst upon my sight, and drove slumber far from my 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 121 
 
 burning eyelids, I cursed the light that banished her 
 shadow from my trembling senses. I arose from my 
 couch an altered man ; I felt a new sensation, different 
 from any I had before experienced. At first I had hoped 
 that I should find Rosina other than she appeared ; I 
 now as fervently hoped that she might remain the same. 
 I hastened to her Palazzo ; her servants said she was in 
 the garden ; I descended the marble steps, and appeared 
 absorbed in the contemplation of a fountain that played 
 and sparkled while catching the rays of the sun, which it 
 reflected in all the prismatic colours of the rainbow ; but 
 my eyes wandered towards those delicious bowers, where 
 the tones of her soft voice freighted the air with melody. 
 She came forth ; but who was her companion ? Could I 
 believe my senses ? Could it be that the man of all 
 others the most perfectly acquainted with my foibles and 
 my faults was really in Italy, communing, and evidently 
 in habits of intimacy, with the one, the only one, in whose 
 opinion I longed to be exalted h I had injured him too ; 
 and dared I expect he would remain silent when he knew 
 so well the inmost workings of my heart ? Jealousy, 
 with its thousand attendant devils, took possession of my 
 soul, and I returned the cold salutation of Lawrence with 
 feelings of bitter hate. I did him injustice ; but when 
 were the selfish just ? He knew of my being at Plorence, 
 he knew that I was to spend the previous evening at the 
 Palazzo, and from a delicate and noble feeling, which I 
 certainly did not deserve, abstained from being there. 
 He felt his presence must recall what I must have wished 
 forgotten, and generously denied himself a gratification 
 for my unworthy sake. Posina regretted that we had 
 not before met, and, turning to Lawrence, inquired why 
 he had not stated that I was of his acquaintance. “ You 
 knew,” she added, that any friend of yours would be 
 doubly welcome here.” How I cursed the chance that 
 brought us together ! His calm eye and perfect self-pos- 
 session was a continual reproach to my hot and impetuous 
 spirit ; and, for my life, I could not have awarded him 
 
122 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 common civilities. I was not as well practised in decep- 
 tion as I have since been, and retained, at least at that 
 time, one of the virtues of youth — sincerity. After this 
 period we met frequently, both at her Palazzo, and in the 
 public walks ; in the latter he always avoided me ; and 
 though I hated the man, I felt mortified by his neglect. 
 What would I of him who was once so truly attached to 
 poor Lucy ? The more I saw the more I was forced to 
 esteem his character ; but at the same time came the 
 bitter consciousness that there was another who estimated 
 it also. I used every advantage which nature had 
 bestowed, and art perfected, to gain the affections of the 
 beautiful Italian. Enough of woman’s weakness lingered 
 around her heart to prompt her to receive homage from 
 all mankind ; but had Lawrence not been there, I should 
 certainly have obtained the preference which I hesitated 
 not to believe was given to another. It was a cruel 
 credence, and for a time I wondered that madness did 
 not come with the fatal knowledge ; but at length mad- 
 ness did come ; although my eye was calm, my step 
 measured, and my words weighed, madness did come — the 
 perilous and destroying madness of revenge. 
 
 A powerful illustration of the depravity of our nature 
 is, the ease with which we reconcile ourselves to our own 
 faults, the facility with which we excuse our crimes. We 
 do not extend these merciful feelings towards our fellow- 
 beings ; we weigh their imperfections in a separate balance 
 from our own, and generally bring in their good qualities 
 — as wanting ! 
 
 “ Why,” I argued, “ should Lawrence presume to over- 
 turn my projects 1” Comparatively, he was poor, while I 
 was rich. The pride of wealth urged me to thwart his 
 views. I claimed kindred with the nobles of my own 
 land. The pride of aristocracy loudly applauded ray 
 intention. He was not only a Protestant, but a minister 
 of Protestantism. I fancied myself — the Lord help me ! 
 — most suddenly religious, and called upon to prevent a 
 union so disgraceful to the church. Were not his atten- 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 123 
 
 tions, his devotion to the beautiful creature of my idolatry 
 an insult to the memory of my sister who had loved him? 
 I decided that they were ; and my fraternal feelings were 
 up in arms with my prejudices and my plans. I took 
 every opportunity that offered of insulting Lawrence, and 
 endeavouring to draw forth his foibles ; once I had the 
 hardihood, the cruelty, to allude to Lucy. Lawrence had 
 been singing the beautiful duet of Yedrai Carino with 
 Rosina, the Italian, and I withdrew from her harp, not so 
 as to avoid observation, but rather to attract attention. 
 I sighed heavily at its conclusion ; and the fair mistress 
 inquired if I were ill. I replied N o ! — that the sigh 
 was a mingling of regret and envy ; regret for the loss of 
 a beloved sister, who had often sung that duet with 
 Mr. Lawrence, and envy of the self-possession which 
 enabled him to execute it with another ! ” Rosina de 
 Lozetta changed colour, and Lawrence, fixing his dark 
 eyes upon me with an expression I remember to this day, 
 said, in a clear, but trembling under-tone, “ Self-posses- 
 sion, signor, as you are pleased to term it, is the result of 
 innocence, not of guilt ! ” 
 
 I could have felled him to the earth, for he had spoken 
 truth. My respect and my hatred of the man increased 
 at the same moment. How mysterious are the contradic- 
 tions of our nature ! 
 
 “And you had a sister, signor?” inquired the Italian 
 that very evening, as we stood together under the light of 
 an Italian moon on one of the terraces of her Palazzo. 
 
 “Lady, I had.” 
 
 “ And you loved her, signor ! ” 
 
 I gave forth the lie in a trembling voice, — “ Lady, I 
 loved her dearly ! ” 
 
 “ And Lawrence,” she continued, at the same time 
 drawing her veil over her face, with the consciousness of 
 a woman who wishes to conceal her feelings, even from 
 the eye of night, — “ he knew and loved her also ! ” 
 
 “ Lady, he did ; he loved her deeply, truly. Never 
 were two so knit in one ; you would have deemed that 
 
124 
 
 RONALD HERBERT,* 
 
 but one soul animated, one heart warmed their several 
 bodies, and how, — would that I could forget like him ! 
 Some men there are who change from love to love, and 
 yet are of an admirable temper, kindly, and good withal, 
 like our friend Lawrence : yet he did love my sister with 
 most surpassing fondness.” 
 
 The hot Italian blood stirred in her veins with more of 
 violence than I deemed possible, though I knew that her 
 spirit was proud and lofty ; indeed, I have never met a 
 woman who could patiently endure the idea of the man 
 she worshipped ever having worshipped at any shrine but 
 her own. As she pulled a branch of the pomegranate 
 tree that was laden with flowers, and whose blossoms 
 contrasted beautifully with the snowy column against 
 which she leaned, Lawrence stood before us on the lower 
 terrace ; he had left the saloon soon after my unfeeling 
 observation, which then I considered not ; I only thought 
 of his reply, and felt it as another cause for hatred. 
 Slowly and calmly he ascended the steps, and when he 
 joined us I felt a thrill of triumph, for Losina de Lozetta, 
 although she trembled violently, made no reply to the 
 question which he asked : it was about some trivial matter 
 — the moon, or stars, or some such foolery. He spoke 
 again ; she turned away to enter the Palazzo ; he followed, 
 and, attempting to take her hand, inquired if she were 
 ill ; she flung his hand from hers, and some low, but 
 earnest words of bitterness came from between her lips. 
 I heard something of a “former love” as she passed into 
 the saloon. I had turned towards the garden, when 
 Lawrence’s hand was suddenly pressed upon my shoulder. 
 
 “ Sir,” he exclaimed, “ I wish to know by what right 
 you interfere in what concerns you not ; I feel assured 
 you have been speaking to that lady of — of — of ” 
 
 He could not pronounce poor Lucy’s name. I cloaked 
 myself in hardened villany, and concluded the unfinished 
 sentence. 
 
 “ Of my sister — granted !” I replied. “ And may not 
 a brother speak of a departed sister to a dear sympathizing 
 
THK SELFISH MAN. 125 
 
 friend, like the Signora, without incurring your reverend 
 censure *?” 
 
 Hypocrite ! ” he shouted ; and the magnificence of 
 that ill-fated young man struck upon my senses like a 
 sudden burst of thunder ; for I had before only regarded 
 him as meek, and gentle, and forbearing. Hypocrite ! 
 I would long since have unmasked you to the uttermost, 
 had it not been for the respect I bore her memory. I 
 have loved, I do love another — and dare not to call her 
 
 dear sympathizing friend;' sympathy with you — 
 you, whose cold selfishness could sell a sister as she were 
 a slave, — you, who had not the courage to meet the cen- 
 sure you so richly deserved for your most loathsome 
 avarice, — you, who could fly from an aged parent when 
 she most needed your support ; it is not with such as you 
 that the bright, the glorious creature who has just parted 
 from us can have sympathy !” 
 
 It is well,” I replied, stifling my feelings of resent- 
 ment under an external calmness of demeanour — it is 
 well ; and reproof comes well from an apostate, whose 
 clerical title enables him to sneak from the chastisement 
 which brave men endure.” 
 
 Some demon inspired him with the desire to punish 
 my bravoing as it deserved ; he lost sight of clerical for- 
 bearance ; amid the sufferings of man, he forgot the 
 minister, and, with mad impetuosity, struck me a blow, 
 which, O God 1 I more madly returned loith my sword. 
 Will it be credited, that I stabbed and stabbed again % 
 yet then, when his fine form lay at my feet — when, upon 
 drawing forth, for the last time, the weapon of death, the 
 warm blood rushed from its caverns and crimsoned the 
 snowy marble — then, when I saw what my desperate 
 passion had effected, I declare before the Almighty, I 
 would have given my own life to have restored his. I 
 could neither fly nor speak ; I felt — but why attempt to 
 recall the feelings which have shrouded me in remorse 
 during a long and lingering life of overwhelming troubles, 
 brought on, it is true, by an over-indulgence of those 
 
126 
 
 EONALD HERBERT, 
 
 passions, wliicli, if under proper control, tend to good and 
 not to evil, but whose bitterness is not rendered more 
 palatable by the remembrance that they are self-inflicted ? 
 A loud, loud scream, appealing to the stars and their 
 mysterious powers for vengeance on the murderer ^ aroused 
 me from my misery. 
 
 E-osina de Lozetta had thrown herself upon the pro- 
 strate form of my victim, and the upper terrace was 
 sparkling with lights which the servants bore towards 
 the garden, alarmed by the awful cry the unhappy lady 
 had sent forth. In an instant I was surrounded as a 
 prisoner by the menials, who, an hour before, would have 
 kissed the dust from off my feet ; but the spirit was in 
 me still. I was no longer paralyzed ; I waved the sword, 
 reeking with warm blood, and the descendants of the 
 once noble Florentines shrunk from before me like curs. 
 I plunged deeper and deeper still amid the orange-grove, 
 and quickly scaled the wall which divided the Palazzo 
 from the great square. 
 
 Perhaps it was only imagination — I cannot tell — it is 
 awfully mysterious to this hour ; — nay, on my soul I 
 swear that the spirit of my sister Lucy passed through 
 the clear air as I fled from the garden ; there was her 
 form floating, and floating onward ; the outline perfect — 
 the features, too, all perfect ; yet so transparent that the 
 moonbeams shone through, or rather mingled with their 
 beauty. I crouched to the earth, yet watched her pro- 
 gress j it seemed as she looked upon me that reproach 
 and horror changed her countenance j I thought she was 
 about to curse me ; I held my hands in supplication to 
 the heavens, and bent my head on the cold pavement ; 
 the stillness of death was on those streets in that lone 
 hour ; and when again I looked towards the skies, she 
 had passed from my sight. 
 
 I am an old man now, and must pause in my narration. 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 127 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Matrimony ! Disappointment ! Why does a selfish 
 man think of matrimony % Why should a being devoted 
 to himself expect to find another disinterested enough 
 to minister solely to his pleasures? From what theory 
 does he reason ? — from whence are his conclusions drawn ? 
 Men, I observe, do not improve in this respect. They go 
 on just as I went on, too much occupied in condemning 
 others to bestow one thought on their own moral im- 
 provement. 
 
 Men marry. Why ? To gratify a passion. What pas- 
 sion ? Selfishness ; which, before Heaven, I believe to 
 be the ruling passion with all MANkind. Do they covet 
 beauty? — they wed it. Is wealth their object? — they 
 contract for it. But, when secure in the possession of 
 either, or both, what are they but heavy and wearisome 
 incumbrances ? 
 
 Italy had grown hateful in my eyes ; the sun scorched 
 my fevered brain ; and the perfumes of the orange -groves 
 were as a very stench in my nostrils. I cursed my des- 
 tiny : I ought to have cured myself. We are our own 
 destiny ; yet how few have the courage to grapple with 
 and guide it ! I went I knew — I cared not — whither. 
 Gold greases the chariot-wheels, and buys the good ofllces 
 of peer and peasant in all civilized lands. 
 
128 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I AWOKE one morning, disturbed from my repose by 
 tbe overturning of my carriage ; I swore at the postilion 
 in a style exclusively English, and he sacred in return. 
 I used the same language to my valet — a faithful creature 
 — perhaps the only being who, in the whole course of my 
 life, with one exception, loved me for myself And he 
 reminded me that the postilion had told me the horses 
 would be unable to arrive at the point I wnshed ; but 
 that I had commanded they should proceed. It was just 
 like me, careless of advice in all things, thinking only 
 of self and the gratification of the moment. I walked 
 slowly forward, along a road broken and dangerous, for 
 Napoleon had not then commanded the mountains to 
 obey his mandate, and become easy as the level plain. 
 So irritated was I at the accident, that the scenery, 
 beautiful and superb, excited no admiration. I was in 
 Switzerland — I breathed the air of liberty — the magnifi- 
 cence of nature towered around me : still I remained 
 sullen and discontented. The national air of the Eanz 
 des Yaches, chaunted by many voices, and the occasional 
 lowing of the cattle were mingled in harmony — harmony 
 to the senses if not to the cultivated ear. Several 
 peasants passed me on the road, vfhen I had nearly 
 descended the mountain ; and many village-girls, with 
 baskets of fresh- gathered flowers, and in neat holiday 
 dresses, were hurrying forward on some peculiar mission. 
 I at length inquired, and was told it was the birth- 
 day of M. le Cure’s only daughter, and the villagers were 
 hastening, with their several tributes, each apparently 
 eager to present the first gift. After a wearying walk, 
 I arrived at a small assemblage of cottages, denominated 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 129 
 
 a village, I requested them to send assistance to my 
 servant, concerning whom I had grown anxious. 
 
 What !” exclaimed one sturdy peasant — go to the 
 mountain on Mam’selle Adela’s birth- day? — such a fine 
 morning, too. Old Madeline would make monsieur’s 
 breakfast, but he must follow the rest to “ Mam’selle 
 Adela’s.” In fact, only the old and helpless were to be 
 seen ; and they were employed in decking the houses 
 with laurels and flowers, as much intent upon doing 
 honour to the birth-day as the younger portion of the 
 community. 
 
 It needed no inquiries, on my part, to draw forth my 
 hostess’s opinion of Mam’selle A dela. The daughter of a 
 Swiss cure was not likely to attract the attention of a 
 practised roue : and, though her beauty was praised, and 
 her goodness extolled, I felt neither curiosity nor interest 
 in the subject. What were they to me ? The day passed 
 on, and still my servant came not. I became seriously 
 uneasy, succeeded in obtaining a messenger to look after 
 my baggage, and at last the carriage made its appearance, 
 drawn by one horse and a mule — the other poor animal 
 had absolutely perished from exhaustion. To proceed 
 was impossible, as the vehicle needed repair, and no one 
 in the village would work. From my heart I cursed 
 Mam’selle Adela, the cure, and the cure’s popularity ; 
 and wandered out amid the freshness of mountain scenery, 
 disposed to quarrel with all I might meet. I sat down 
 on a fragment of old ruin : it had been most likely the 
 pillar to a gateway, for there were vestiges of wall, with 
 here and there — 
 
 '^A garden-flower grown wild.” 
 
 And a channel had been formed, evidently with some 
 care, for a mountain rivulet, which, however, had, like the 
 stubborn-minded of this world, preferred its own path, 
 and went foaming and rippling on its way, battling with 
 the many obstacles it had to overcome, animated by the 
 natural desire the elements possess to conquer whatever 
 K 
 
130 
 
 EONALD HERBEET, 
 
 they encounter. Air, fire, water, all are tyrants ; earth 
 only ministers to our comforts ; with a parent’s cheerful- 
 ness supplies our wants ; and finally, receives us into her 
 bosom, where only we are at rest. I took from my 
 pocket a small volume of poems ; they were Shakspeare’s j 
 I read : — 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, 
 
 I summon up remembrance of things past, 
 
 I sigh the lack of many a thing 1 sought, 
 
 And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste.” 
 
 My dear time’s waste,” I repeated aloud — my dear 
 
 time’s waste : alas, I have wasted ” 
 
 “And what we have wasted we may want !” exclaimed 
 a voice from behind me. I turned round in astonish- 
 ment, somewhat displeased at the interruption ; but the 
 feeling was only momentary. I shall never forget the 
 appearance of the venerable person who had thus dis- 
 turbed my reverie. He was tall and thin — pallid, without 
 the character of illness — and of a most kind and bene- 
 volent aspect. He literally leaned upon the top of his 
 staff, but more from habit than weakness ; his bearing 
 was noble, and his voice of manly sweetness. He re- 
 quested my pardon for the liberty he had taken, and 
 assured me it was the delight of seeing his favourite 
 author in my hand that unsealed his tongue. 
 
 “ It is the birth-day of my only child,” he continued ; 
 “ and, having thanked the Almighty in my closet that she 
 has been spared me, amid the wreck of most other things 
 I loved, I came forth to repeat my gratitude to God in 
 his most glorious temple, not made with hands. These 
 mountains, sir, are magnificent pillars to the celestial 
 dome ; and the song of the bird, and the hum of the bee, 
 are heartfelt melody.” At this instant a single pipe from 
 the valley beneath our feet poured forth the national air ; 
 the notes floated on the breeze up the ravine, and even 
 my tutored ear thought the strain faultless. 
 
 “ I suppose,” continued the cure, turning to me, “ you 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 131 
 
 will scarcely call that music ; and yet it is sweeter in my 
 ears than the mingled harmony of a thousand tutored 
 instruments.” As he spoke, a young and singularly 
 graceful man emerged from a group of pine-trees, and 
 informed my companion that his presence was required, 
 as the villagers had assembled at his dwelling. The cure 
 requested me to accompany him ; and as the proposal 
 promised more gratification than I could experience by 
 remaining alone in a solitary hostelrie, I accepted it ; 
 wondering at the hardihood which prompted a humble 
 cure to ask the society of a man of rank and fashion. I 
 little thought, or rather could little understand, that the 
 feeling which prompted him was one solely of good nature — 
 the benevolent anxiety to rescue a stranger from suffering 
 loneliness in a foreign land. 
 
 I saw his daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Let it be remembered that I had but recently luxuri- 
 ated in the society of one of the most beautiful and most 
 accomplished of Italian women ; of one who, moulded in 
 the bounty of nature, had been perfected by the extrava- 
 gance of art. The superb Hosina had seized upon my 
 heart ; I relinquished it because I had no power to resist ; 
 but, after one delicious week spent in the Swiss valley, I 
 found that Adel a Miradon had stolen — crept, as it were 
 — into my affections ; and that I thought her the most 
 delicious creature I had ever met. Did I say, Adela crept 
 into my affections ? I should have said she mingled her- 
 self v/ith my selfishness ; her nature was so sensitive, so 
 yielding, that she unconsciously became that which was 
 most desired by those she loved. She had hitherto existed 
 only for her father and the simple-minded people who 
 composed his flock ; but there was one who lived exclu- 
 sively for her — the youth I had seen on my arrival, and 
 whose extraordinary likeness to the unfortunate Lawrence 
 
 K 2 
 
132 
 
 EONALD HERBEET, 
 
 naade me feel a very unpleasant sensation on our first 
 meeting ; tlieir voices, too, were similar ; and although I 
 inquired as to who or what this gentleman was, I received 
 no satisfactory answer : one thing was evident, he Avas 
 beloved by all who knew him ; and though the beautiful 
 Adela treated and regarded him as a brother, yet even 
 that circumstance was sufficient to make me dislike him j 
 for every attention paid, and every kindness shown to 
 others, I had been from my youth upwards accustomed to 
 consider as a f)ortion withdrawn from myself. I can 
 hardly tell why I ling red at Linnard after the first even- 
 ing, unless, indeed, it was the novelty that fascinated my 
 imagination ; Adela was of so fresh, so simple, and yet of 
 such perfect loveliness ; so fair, so innocent, yet gifted 
 with an intelligence that rendered her almost as valuable 
 as she was lovely ! I had imagined the cure’s daughter a 
 rosy-faced Swiss, full of the importance which is generally 
 assumed by village damsels — vulgar and uninformed. Can 
 you imagine the Yenus which deserved and obtained the 
 admiration of the universe, called into life by the touch of 
 a magician’s wand, and placed amid a tribe of dingy slaves, 
 whose habits and appearance are as a mockery of beauty’s 
 fair and finished proportions ? Even so I considered 
 Mademoiselle Miradon, and almost fancied myself an ex- 
 perimental philosopher, while drawing forth opinions 
 which, of rare and simple excellence, may readily be sup- 
 posed at variance with the sentiments and feelings of one 
 hackneyed in the ways of a vicious world. 
 
 I remember telling her one morning that I was un- 
 happy. She appeared astonished. “ You say,” she replied, 
 ‘Hhat you have wealth enough to purchase the whole 
 valley of Linnard, make all the people rich who dwell 
 therein, and yet have abundance and to spare. Why do 
 you not become the author of great good to others, and, 
 by diffusing, create happiness within yourself? We are 
 happy, yet have not half your power of dispensing good.” 
 Poor Adela ! She imagined no enjoyment apart from the 
 gentle and affectionate duties of her life ! 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 133 
 
 It was an exquisite picture of simple and useful virtue ; 
 so lovely a being in the daily and hourly exercise of bene- 
 volence towards creatures who, in my eyes, excited only 
 disgust. For Rosina my love was the love of admiration ; 
 she was a brilliant thing to worship ; but Adela was a 
 creature formed for the good of others. My selfishness, 
 at the time unknown to myself, seized, as it were, upon 
 her ; and I vowed her mine. I saw she was beloved by 
 the youth to whom I have before alluded, and that her 
 father sanctioned his affection ; but it was evident she 
 regarded him with nothing more than the friendship and 
 tenderness of a sister ; indeed, had the case been other- 
 wise, I flattered myself it would have led to nought. I 
 had not been more than three days at Linnard, when this 
 aspirant was summoned to attend a near relative and 
 friend, who was suffering from some sudden illness ; I 
 cared not what was the cause of his absence, but I re- 
 joiced at it most sincerely — I saw he departed with evi- 
 dent regret. It chanced that I had a fall from one of the 
 mountain crags, which, added to the unskilful manage- 
 ment of a country empiric, brought on a low and lingering 
 fever ; it continued for some time, and I can call God to 
 witness, during that period much that was good and holy 
 occupied my mind. My bad passions were never excited 
 by contradiction, and my selfishness was so pampered by 
 the attention I received, that it ceased to remind me of 
 its existence. Men are always more disposed to virtue in 
 the country than in the town ; our associates, as well as 
 associations, have there a greater power over our minds 
 than we are willing, in the proudness of our hearts, to 
 admit. All men wish it to be thought that they guide 
 themselves, while, in nine cases out of ten, they are led, 
 passive slaves of circumstance or opinion, which they do 
 not originate, but simply adopt. 
 
 I cannot, looking back on this period of my life, and 
 knowing how many years have since passed, be expected 
 to recount how it was that Adela, gentle, beautiful as she 
 certainly was, attained so great an ascendancy over me. 
 
134 
 
 EONALD HERBERT, 
 
 but — I married her ! I, Ronald Herbert, married tbe 
 daughter of a Swiss cure j and then was ashamed of the 
 only honourable act of my worthless life. I was resolved 
 that Ilosina should not live and triumph in the belief that 
 I was so enslaved by the power of her charms that I could 
 not think of any beauty save herself ; and I caused an 
 account of my marriage to be circulated abroad, carefully 
 concealing the rank of the lady I had chosen, but wording 
 the paragraph so as to convey a brilliant idea of her 
 beauty and acquirements. I resolved to return to Eng- 
 land, feeling assured that with such a wife — a wife not 
 only young but new — new to my world, and possessed of 
 grace beyond the reach of art,” I might create a sensa- 
 tion. Adela sung delightfully, but I was not quite as 
 satisfied with her style of singing as I had been ; I felt 
 that it wanted improvement, and urged her to study so 
 much at Paris that she nearly practised herself into a 
 consumption ; but she conquered, and never did a more 
 divine creation give voice and expression to the melodies 
 of Haydn and Mozart. I shall never forget the timid 
 look with which she used to turn to me after concluding 
 a solo ; no matter how great, how continued the rapturous 
 applause she met with from the most crowded company, 
 her ear drank in my smallest word of praise with a 
 delighted thankfulness ; as if my approbation, and mine 
 only, was what she desired. At times, I perceived that 
 her spirit wandered back to her father, and her love of 
 cottage-life came upon her in the midst of the brilliant 
 society to whom she was as a new treasure. And then, 
 I hated the remembrance of her parent and her native 
 valley — and why ? Because she loved them, and because 
 I hated aught that took from me a fraction even of her 
 devotedness. 
 
 It is an old and a trite saying, that no empire is sub- 
 ject to so many changes as that of Fashion. But in this 
 world, nothing has more than an ephemeral existence ; 
 few beauties reign more than two seasons, few authors 
 survive three, few modern artists are permitted to enjoy 
 
THE SELFISH MAH. 
 
 135 
 
 more than a seven years’ lease of public favour. Adela 
 was losing in Parisian estimation. A young red Indian 
 had been brought out by some person of rank, and sud- 
 denly the ladies drew lines upon their foreheads, and 
 tinted their skins in imitation of the new star. She 
 danced the war-dance, and gave the war-whoop to admira- 
 tion j Adela, therefore, might sing to the wastes. This 
 change in popularity amused her, but it mortified me. I 
 desired admiration for my wife, because she was part of 
 myself, and was indignant when I found it withdrawn. 
 However, her situation demanded retirement, and I 
 hailed with no small feeling of delight the birth of my 
 first son. 
 
 The world called me a most tender father, and extolled 
 tlie anxiety I displayed during the period that Master 
 Ponald Augustus Herbert was teething, and suffering 
 from croup and measles j and marvelled, moreover, that 
 Adela did not herself perform the usual maternal office. 
 They could not suppose that I prevented her doing so ; 
 but, much as my ambition was fixed upon my son, and 
 much as I desired him honoured, because he also was part 
 of myself, still I could not s|3are any portion of the atten- 
 tion I had been accustomed to receive from her. And 
 when another boy came, far more rapidly than I desired, 
 my character for parental tenderness would have marvel- 
 lously diminished, if the world could have understood the 
 small portion of affection I had to give this second 
 pledge of our love.” 
 
 You will let him be called Adolphe, after my 
 father?” murmured Adela, as she placed the infant in 
 my arms. 
 
 Call the child after your father, Adela !” I repeated ; 
 no ! though, as my second son, his name is of small im- 
 port, I cannot call him after your father.” 
 
 ‘^Adolphe,” she persisted, “is a name dear to my heart, 
 and a pretty one to the ear ; and when my father comes 
 to us to London he will be so pleased to find a child 
 called after him.” 
 
136 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 My. dear Adela, your father is a worthy, amiable 
 roan ; a delightful person amid his mountains ; but I 
 thoughi your own good sense would have pointed to you 
 the utter impossibility of presenting him to our London 
 circle. Methinks you have seen enough to show the 
 absurdity of introducing a Swiss cure as the father-in-law 
 of Konald Herbert ! ” 
 
 Were I to live a thousand years, I never can forget 
 her look, when I ceased speaking. It was at once dig- 
 nified and pathetic — the flush of offended feeling mantled 
 to her brow, while tears glistened in her eyes. “ And 
 you are ashamed of my father !” she replied, pressing 
 her infant to her bosom ; ashamed of — my — father ! 
 and perchance ashamed of me 1 I am a cure s daughter ; 
 I never denied it. I told your mother so j I told it her 
 when she accused you of selfishness, to prove that you 
 were not selfish ; for you married me, dowerless and 
 humble though I was ! ” 
 
 A curse upon your honesty ! ” I replied heartlessly : 
 I concealed your real station most cautiously from her, 
 because I knew her excessive pride ; and now I shall 
 have the satisfaction of finding that she has communi- 
 cated her knowledge to all our friends. Send that brat 
 to its nurse,” I continued, seeing that her tears were 
 falling on the child’s face ; and remember that the less 
 time you spend in your nursery, and the fewer tokens you 
 give of domestic tenderness, the less peril will arise from 
 your plebeian origin.” 
 
 I left the room, and on the great stair-case encountered 
 my mother. 
 
 I would have called every day to inquire for Adela,” 
 she said ; but of course her constitution must be so 
 hardy, that she does not require such constant attention. 
 I am so sorry it is a boy, and not a girl ; I should have 
 liked to have it called after your sister.” 
 
 My sister ! — my poor sister! What a multitude of 
 thoughts did her name recall ! I felt I had treated my 
 wife with unprovoked cruelty ; but, in nine cases out of 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 137 
 
 ten, when we are angry with ourselves we visit our dis- 
 pleasure upon others. I turned sullenly from my mother, 
 and pushed the little spaniel that followed her so rudely 
 with my foot, that the creature howled in agony. I 
 heeded it not, but passed into the street. I had not gone 
 many yards, when, as if a spectre stood before me, there 
 was Lawrence. I forgot to mention that I had heard he 
 lived ; but to meet him then^ and in England ! He 
 looked thin and pale ; yet his firm step — the proud and 
 dignified bearing of the gentleman — was more evident 
 than ever. Kosina leaned upon his arm, and Adela’s old 
 lover was engaged with him in earnest converse. They 
 looked up at the same moment ; and I stood like a cul- 
 prit before them. Had I been rooted by magic to the 
 spot I could not have remained more still and statue-like. 
 They were in my path j the sound of their footsteps was 
 as distinct in my ear, as if theirs, and theirs only, had 
 sounded in the universe, at the moment when scores of 
 people paced around us : yet there they were ; and I 
 remained, until, as the accomplished and beautiful, but 
 fierce Italian passed me, she uttered between her teeth 
 the one word, ‘^murderer 1” I heard no more; my 
 brain whirled, and I fell senseless on the pavement. I 
 learned afterwards that Adela’s former lover conveyed 
 me to my house ; but when I recovered from the scorch- 
 ing agony of a brain fever, my blessed wife, worn and 
 pallid as a spectre, was bending over me. It is to be 
 hoped that some kindly feeling returned with returning 
 consciousness, for the first words I uttered were, Adela, 
 do you forgive me Oh, how sweetly she smiled, as 
 she replied, in a half-broken, but delicious whisper, Do 
 I not love you !” 
 
138 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 How deplorably does the besetting sin mingle with 
 every action of a selfish mind 1 How nakedly must it be 
 exposed to every accurate observer of human nature ! 
 Selfishness ! — What is it but a species of moral jaundice, 
 recognized the instant it is looked upon h There is no 
 mistaking it : it is developed in the school-boy, who cuts 
 the sunny side off the apple, and leaves the unripened 
 half to his companion ; it is encountered in all public 
 places of amusement, where the collegian elbows his way 
 to the best seat to the exclusion of every unprotected 
 lady ; but it is met with only in the circle of private life 
 in all its unholy completeness, luxuriating amid the 
 inconvenience and misery it creates, extending its 
 influence from the smallest trifle to the greatest event, 
 and crushing the feelings and interests of kith and 
 kindred. Now that I am an old man, I can descant 
 upon the evils with which I overwhelmed others ; and 
 yet, if I have become less selfish, it is only because age 
 has diminished my powers of enjoyment. I know that 
 the spirit I deprecate is still powerful within me. 
 
 My next child was a daughter. How foolish are men 
 to say, when they behold a flower or a woman fading, 
 that beauty is departing from earth ! It is only beauty 
 changing form. Time, which tears away one, brings on 
 another. Years passed, and the spring-tide loveliness of 
 my wife ripened into a wise and glorious autumn, while 
 the fair form and countenance of Miranda became fresh 
 and fragrant as a morn of May. Did I say the autumn 
 of Adela was glorious ? Alas, it was not so ! It was sad 
 as a beautiful landscape overshadowed by clouds ; the 
 canker was busy with a heart which, if I had not broken, 
 
THE SELFISH MA.N. 
 
 139 
 
 I had crushed. I had worked myself into a belief that 
 she had provoked my jealousy. What I had ceased to 
 value for myself I could not part with to another. 
 Strange anomaly! Her former lover might well have 
 recalled Lawrence to my mind. I learned that they 
 were sister’s children ; and though I could not avoid 
 inviting him to my house, because of the humanity he 
 manifested when my agitation betrayed me on meeting 
 that strange group in tlie street, still I was annoyed, 
 more than annoyed, that he came. He never mentioned 
 either his cousin or his cousin’s wife, and called only to 
 communicate intelligence from the Swiss valley ; still 
 there was something to me peculiarly disagreeable in his 
 visits, although I knew Adela had never loved him ; yet 
 his Argus eye had surely perceived that I did not treat 
 her as she merited. Lawrence had resigned all church 
 preferment, and resided abroad, so that I was in no 
 danger of again encountering him. Could I have been 
 equally safe from his cousin’s visits, I should have been 
 satisfied. Well might my poor wife wonder at the 
 sudden and violent bursts of passion in which I now in- 
 dnlged ! — well might she watch my humours ! — pray that 
 they might alter, and weep at their cruel consistency I I 
 could not hide it, I did not seek to hide it, from myself — 
 my feelings towards her were changing. I felt that her 
 declining health — her sobered spirits — her diminution of 
 beauty, and, above all, her increase of intellect, rendered 
 her not so much my slave as she at first had been. I had 
 desired popularity, and, despite the early prejudice excited 
 at the commencement of my career, I had achieved it ; 
 but how ? through her means. Every day proved to me 
 it was to the gentleness, the wisdom, and the cultivated 
 mind of Adela Herbert that attention was paid, — paid 
 even by the English world of fashion, despite her obscure 
 birth and rigid virtue. Every hour pressed the convic- 
 tion upon my soul that I was second in my own house j 
 and this I attributed to her — to her, whose earnest study 
 was to conceal my faults, or, by the magic of affection, 
 
140 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 distil them into perfections. I was absolutely jealous of 
 the affection shown by my children for their own mother ; 
 angry that they loved her better than me ; yet, all the 
 while, the world talked of my excellencies as a father — of 
 the sums lavished on my sons’ education, and my daugh- 
 ter’s accomplishments. How little do we know of each 
 other in this sad world ! I think I should have been 
 more satisfied if Adela had complained — had given vent 
 to her feelings instead of stifling them in her own bosom. 
 I scrupled not to accuse her of coldness, and to miscon- 
 strue her forbearance into poverty of spirit. I had for- 
 bidden the cousin of him I would have murdered the 
 house ; I had forbidden my wife to speak to him ; and I 
 had also forbidden my sons to hold any communication 
 with the eldest son of Mr. Lawrence, who had followed 
 up the highest character at Eton by additional distinc- 
 tions at Oxford. I thought that my commands would be 
 to them as laws. Fate, however, appeared arrayed against 
 me. I was driving with my wife and daughter in an 
 open carriage near the Kensington gate when the horses 
 took fright ; and but for the interposition of the very 
 man I had insulted by my suspicions, we should have 
 been inevitably dashed to pieces. He dragged me from 
 under the horses’ feet, and extricated my wife, not, 
 however, before she was very severely injured. I shall 
 never forget to my dying-day the agony with which he 
 hung over her as she lay pale and motionless on the 
 grass ; and I also remember how earnest and eager were 
 the attentions of a gentleman, a mere youth, who sup- 
 ported my daughter, to whom I was unable to tender any 
 assistance. Jealousy for imagined wrong, and gratitude 
 for real service, combated within my soul; and I believe 
 the better feeling would have triumphed had it not been 
 for the extreme haughtiness of manner evinced by our 
 preserver. 
 
 I was confirmed, or rather I confirmed myself, in the 
 suspicions which mingled feelings had excited, and treated 
 my poor wife with a coldness and sarcasm amounting 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 141 
 
 almost to brutality. Our eldest daughter, who grew in 
 beauty, with a high and proud spirit took her mother s 
 part ; and I saw that I had still less and less to expect 
 from her filial afiection. My sons also rebelled against 
 my authority ; and I found that the youth who had 
 assisted in rescuing us from our peril was the son of Law- 
 rence and Rosina, the very person against whose society I 
 had in vain cautioned them. 
 
 The health of my wife grew worse and worse ; my 
 domestic comforts were destroyed ; she was unable to 
 leave her chamber, and there was no one to do the 
 
 honours or support the dignity of my house. I was 
 
 shunned at the clubs, and exiled by the sickly quiet of 
 my own home. I was told my wife was dying, but 
 
 the unhealthy state of my mind compelled me to the 
 
 belief that it was an assumed indisposition ; every one 
 sympathised with her — but who sympathises with the 
 selfish ? 
 
 My sons became loud in their complaints of my pre- 
 vailing sin, and my younger children, as they passed me 
 on the stairs, hid their cakes and fruit within their 
 frocks. 
 
 CHAPTEB IX. 
 
 One morning I was accosted during my ride by a gen- 
 tleman, who, amongst other matters, inquired if it were 
 true that Miss Herbert was engaged to young Lawrence ? 
 I started with astonishment. Could it be possible that 
 my daughter had really met this person ? Could it be 
 true, that, despite the warnings she had heard her 
 brothers receive, she had listened to his addresses ? 
 
 They will be the handsomest couple in London, 
 depend upon it,” added tut/ friend. 
 
 How many wounds are opened by the prattle of fools ! 
 That newsmonger did not mean to insult me, and yet, had 
 he plunged a thousand daggers in my heart, he could 
 
142 
 
 EONALD HEEBEET, 
 
 not have v/oimded me more deeply. I returned home, 
 resolved to question my daughter, and condemning myself 
 for leaving my house so continually as to admit the possi- 
 bility of her forming an unapproved attachment. Despite 
 ail my self-esteem, I felt that I had grossly neglected the 
 children God had given me, and more particularly my 
 eldest girl ; her cold and lofty spirit had never bent before 
 me ; and though I was proud — exceedingly proud — of her 
 beauty, and of the admiration it excited, still I disliked, 
 because I could not manage her. Usually, she was with 
 her mother, who, feeble from the effects of bodily weak- 
 ness, and trembling beneath injustice, leaned upon her 
 child for that support which she ought to have derived 
 from another. 
 
 One day my mother, old and infirm, having passed 
 the limits — the three-score years and ten — of life, was 
 seated in the breakfast-room with flaxen ringlets sporting 
 over her wrinkled brow, and a false colour rendering the 
 ravages of age more visible upon her cheek. There she 
 sat, like a painted sepulchre ; and from her I learned two 
 pieces of information, delivered in the same tone of voice, 
 and in the same breath — namely, that my wife was much 
 worse, and that she herself was fatigued by looking over 
 some French flowers that were, beyond everything she 
 had seen, beautiful. I did not wait to inspect the flowers, 
 but proceeded directly to the room of my wife. 
 
 Miranda was kneeling by the bedside, her face flushed 
 and anxious, her eyes upturned to her mother, whose thin 
 transparent fingers were grasped within the round fair 
 palms of her daughter’s hands : they had both been weep- 
 ing ; the tears lingered in the furrows which care, not 
 time, had worn upon Adela’s face, while those of her child 
 beamed like dew upon the rose. I entered with a quiet 
 step, and they heard me not ; upon the coverlet lay a note 
 and a miniature. The miniature I knew at once — it was 
 a likeness of young Lawrence ; the note directed to my 
 wife was open : I snatched them both. Miranda made a 
 violent effort to wrest them from me, but in vain ; with 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 143 
 
 an affected calmness I sat down to read. Adela I did 
 not look on, but fixed my eye for a moment upon my 
 daughter ; she folded her arms over her bosom, and stood 
 — perhaps I do her injustice, but I thought more with an 
 air of defiance than submission. I had never before 
 seen her so unlike her mother. My eyes did not grow 
 dizzy, nor did my head swim while I read that letter : it 
 stated that although he had availed himself of his ascend- 
 ancy over my daughter, and prevailed upon her to con- 
 sent to a private marriage, which had been solemnized 
 some days past, he humbly and earnestly entreated the 
 forgiveness of her parents ; bidding her consider that my 
 conduct had driven my daughter to seek another protector. 
 There was much more — professions of affection, devotion, 
 high ambitious hopes of future distinction, and many allu- 
 sions to meetings which I could hardly call stolen, because 
 sanctioned by my wife. Twice did I read over that fatal 
 letter, and at first Miranda stood, as I have said, by the 
 bedside of her mother, stern and erect ; but, as I con- 
 tinued silent, I saw it was more than she could bear, her 
 lip quivered, she grew pale, and slid her hand into her 
 mother’s, as if the pressure of those poor fingers could 
 recall her strength. Still I spoke not ; but tore their hands 
 asunder ; and, lifting Miranda from the bed to which she 
 clung, heedless of my wife’s entreaties — even after this 
 lapse of years, they knell upon my senses — I forced her 
 from the chamber ; I did more, I dragged her down the 
 stairs, and, commanding the porter to open the door, I 
 thrust her into the street. I did this at the high hour of 
 noon, when the sun was shining above me, and all nature 
 was in the glory of summer, and when the roads and 
 malls were crowded by our acquaintances ; — and I flung 
 the door to with a violence which made the grey-headed 
 servant regard me as a maniac. 
 
 I returned to my wife’s chamber ; I heeded neither her 
 weakness, nor the tears which rained from her sunken 
 eyes. I upbraided her with deception ; I called her by a 
 name too vile to repeat j I assured her that I would post 
 
144 
 
 EONALD HERBERT, 
 
 her and her daughter in the public streets. I had never 
 been what is called a coldly selfish man ; all I said and did 
 was violent ; and now I was worse than mad. She fixed 
 upon me her eyes, that looked both cold and glassy ; so 
 glassy and so cold, that as my wrath abated, and I be- 
 came more under the dominion of reason, I turned away 
 from the solid stillness of their gaze. Presently she 
 called, Herbert, Herbert ! ” in a voice low but perfectly 
 distinct — I could not avoid moving to the bed. Merciful 
 heaven ! is it possible that the agony of that moment can 
 atone for what had past ? — I saw she was dying ; I felt it 
 — in my heart I felt it ; her livid lips settling into marble 
 stiffness over her pearly teeth, the huge death-drops stif- 
 fening on her brow, her hands clenched. I tried to bend 
 towards her, but was paralysed. 
 
 Again she spoke ; Herbert, Herbert ! say that I am 
 not what you called me — one word — ” I could not speak; 
 she tried to clasp her hands, “ In pity say you know you 
 did me wrong ; and my poor child — my children ! — what, 
 not a word ! Kiss me, I am dying ! ” Then, suddenly 
 she raised herself, clenched her hands with the last 
 strength of life, and exclaimed, But I forgive you, 
 Herbert ; and may God forgive you 1 ” Her head sank 
 down upon her pillow^ — she was dead. 
 
 The room soon filled ; Miranda, too, was there ; and 
 she, my own child, cursed me. There needed not that 
 curse. My boys, too, they spoke loudly of their mother’s 
 virtues and her wrongs ; one little urchin clasped its 
 mother’s hand, and when I would have taken it within 
 mine, said, while the tears trickled down its innocent 
 cheeks, Leave it me, it is dead now, papa, and can do 
 nothing for you.” I could descant for hours upon my suf- 
 ferings, when I knew my wife was dead. Yet I followed 
 the slowly-pacing funeral, and one of my sycophants (for 
 I was still master of ten thousand a year) threw his coat 
 upon the damp earth, that I might stand thereon, and not 
 feel the chills which came from the vault of death. When 
 all was, indeed, over — when I returned to my home and 
 
 \ 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 145 
 
 walked through its silent apartments — when each chamber, 
 each nook, reminded me of some act of her excessive ten- 
 derness, and my over-weening selfishness — the book- 
 shelves bending under the weight of my favourite books 
 — the conservatories filled with the fruits and flowers in 
 which I delighted — the music-stands weighed down with 
 the sonatas and the songs which she would never sing 
 for me again — I opened her writing-table. There were the 
 withered leaves of many mountain-flowers, with little 
 scraps of writing signifying when and where they were 
 gathered in her own Swiss home. There was a miniature 
 of her father, and one of myself, which I had given her 
 during the first months of our marriage ; enclosed with it 
 was a small myrtle-branch— a present, too, from me. A 
 slip of paper enfolded this faded memento, and on it was 
 written, Changed, but still dear.” I found she had kept 
 a journal ; the events of many days were noted therein ; 
 and upon the last page was written, a mirror of my 
 thoughts'' I read ; and though some of my severities 
 were mentioned, they were palliated, and I v/as prayed 
 for ! 
 
 I read on ; there were records of many fears for her 
 daughter’s happiness, lest she should become a victim to 
 my selfishness ; “ not possessing,” as she truly said, 
 the strength of gentleness that was necessary to 
 sustain it.” 
 
 Miranda had quitted my house immediately after her 
 ^ mother’s death ; and I resolved to consider the best means 
 to regain the afiections of my elder children, and compel 
 the younger ones to love me in deed and in truth. I 
 resembled a man who, first having sown a crop of tares in 
 a fertile meadow, throws in a few grains of wheat, ex- 
 pecting them to increase and overcome the evil plants. 
 
 My name had gone abroad ; my reputation for wrong 
 was established. The very measures I wisely and calmly 
 recommended my sons to follow they were sure to 
 avoid, satisfied by past experience that their father 
 had some covert motive of his own in tendering advice — 
 L 
 
146 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 sometliing in view to bring about bis own objects. My 
 eldest son possessed a strange mixture of philosophic 
 thought and trifling speculation ; he was, at the same 
 time, thoughtful and gay, and alternately laughed at 
 himself and all the world. At me he laughed not, how- 
 ever ; and with us, at least, the adage was true, that 
 neither does a rich man love his heir, nor the heir his 
 father. He studied Kant, and trifled with Kousseau. 
 My own moral conduct, as the world calls it, had been 
 correct, and though I had been an unjust and cruel 
 husband I had never been an unfaithful one ; he was a 
 libertine, and was entrapped into marriage by a woman 
 of loose character. I lived to see him sink into a green 
 grave, and heard his last words, Father, if at an early 
 age you had commanded my respect, you might have 
 guided me with a willow wand !” My second — but what 
 avails it to recapitulate ? They all hated — all thwarted 
 me ; and when I would have changed — when I would 
 have been different — I was thrown back upon myself by 
 the very practice of that selfishness in others which my 
 own example had inculcated. How completely is a father 
 at the mercy of his oflspring when they are grown up 
 and have the ear, and interests, and opinions of the 
 world in their favour ! Men forget that those whom they 
 have known and loved in eaidy life are continually 
 dropping around them, while with their children spring 
 up a new race who know not their elders nor are known 
 of them. Never was man so cursed in his children ; my 
 second daughter — she was most like her mother — she bore 
 with me ; but God took her to himself in her fifteenth 
 year. She died with her head upon my arm, sighing. 
 Who will love you, papa, when I am goneV Who, 
 indeed ! Oh, that my experience might enter into the 
 hearts of men, and teach them to lay up treasures for 
 themselves by benefiting others ; so that the holy incense 
 of prayers and blessings might mount to the Almighty’s 
 throne. I envy the man whose ears drink in the grateful 
 looks and words of the poor and needy. I have never 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 147 
 
 been a miser ; that is, I cared not for the accursed coin 
 which bears the kingly stamp — often the sole chronicle to 
 after ages that such a royal nothing existed. And yet, 
 during years three score and ten, I could number on my 
 fingers the blessings I have had ; they have neither been 
 many, nor of rare quality. Three of my sons have been 
 open profligates, and I have discharged their debts to 
 avoid the shame of public disgrace ; still I did it so 
 grudgingly that the creditor saw I paid it not from 
 honest principle. Yet I have gold, ample for the wants 
 and luxuries of a hundred such as I — ^but what of that % 
 No one cares for me j and I am served with a service in 
 which the heart has no share ; I know that those who 
 must have my property after my death think the old 
 man lives too long, and grudge me the use of my own 
 w^ealth — some of which I came unjustly by. I strove to 
 remedy that also, and sent to young Lawrence the sum 
 which his father would have received with my sister had 
 they been united : the proud youth sent it back. 
 
 Miranda is rich and happy, but stern and cold ; she 
 holds no sympathy with me, and remembers with fidelity 
 the harshness, but not the tenderness I showed her : thus 
 it is, that men’s faults overturn, while their virtues scarce 
 weigh in the balance. She will not suffer me to see her 
 children. In former times they used to visit me occa- 
 sionally; but she thinks I kept one reading so long that 
 it became consumptive, and that, while walking round 
 the flower-garden, I leaned so heavily on the shoulder of 
 another that it grew awry. It is impossible for a man 
 at my time of life to think of those little matters. After 
 all, I have no loss, for children are very troublesome, 
 and I think very selfish — a vice which I hate ; as well 
 I may. 
 
 * ik 45 - * 
 
 I fear that I myself grow childish, for trifles weigh 
 
 upon and overcome me frequently. 
 
 % ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 The house feels very lonely ; and the laughter, the 
 L 2 
 
148 
 
 RONALD HERBERT, 
 
 senseless laugliter I sometimes hear from the servants’ 
 hall grows strangely offensive. I will forbid it. Why 
 should they laugh, while I, who give them bread, am 
 miserable ? 
 
 * * * * j|« 
 
 Is it possible, then, that the sole companion of Ronald 
 Herbert is his idiot son — one, whose existence he Avould 
 fain hide from the whole world ? And yet that poor, 
 harmless, mammering boy is truly the only living creature 
 who feels towards him an atom of affection. 
 
 Poor lad ! he loved his dog too dearly ; but I think 
 loving a brute makes us more brutal. I sent the dog 
 away, and the boy wept for days. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 It is very, very lonely here, in the home where my 
 sires and grandsires have lived for centuries. The spiders 
 weave their eternal webs without the painted glass while 
 the blue flies buzz within, and look upon each other 
 undisturbed, calculating, for aught that I can tell, upon 
 the nature of the glass which separates them. A giant 
 might stride the court-yard through, yet his foot would 
 not be heard upon the long soft grass which overgrows^ 
 the tesselated pavement. Why should it be removed? 
 Why should I lay out money to benefit those who will 
 not bid ‘ God save’ when I do pass ? Yet the birds and 
 bees seem happy ; and there’s a goat beneath the window 
 that skips and bleats from morn till night in the very 
 abundance of a joyful spirit ; but then her Icicls are with 
 her, and they are not fools, 
 
 •9C* vS- •vi' * 
 
 I have seen a funeral — it was a dim and misty No- 
 vember morning — and this funeral passed through a 
 crowded and populous village ; and it was, what is called 
 in the world’s heartless phrase, a grand funeral. There 
 was a splendid hearse ; and the noble black horses might 
 have drawn the dismal car of darkest night, so proudly 
 did they pace beneath their trappings. And there were 
 many, called mourning, coaches ; but they were filled 
 
THE SELFISH MAN. 
 
 149 
 
 with some disputing earnestly about the probable division 
 of the dead man’s goods, while others talked of JHes and 
 mournings in the same breath. And the pageant, as I 
 have said, passed through the crowded village, and the 
 people thought it a very fine sight j but I noted that 
 there were neither sighs nor tears, so I said, That must 
 be the funeral of a stranger.” 
 
 “ Oh, no 1” was the reply, “ He was our landlord — a 
 rich and a mighty gentleman ; hut who never did any 
 body any goodP 
 
 I passed to the house where the great man had quitted 
 a useless life. Everything was in confusion ; but what 
 chiefly attracted my attention was a young man, shouting, 
 in extravagant joy, over a dog which seemed as wild as 
 himself, and which he called by every endearing epithet. 
 I learned that he rejoiced because his old father was dead, 
 Avho prevented his having his dog constantly with him ; 
 and there was joy throughout the household. I read the 
 last page of my own life ; for even then the hand of 
 death was upon me. 
 
 * * * -x- * 
 
 And I must die, and leave behind me this noble house, 
 and these rich lands. Already I see my habitation in the 
 church-yard of my own estate : it is taller, wider, and 
 more richly decorated than those around it ; but the rude 
 nettles and coarse thistles that surround it are higher 
 than the tomb ! 
 
150 
 
 THE PICTURE. 
 
 It was an old lady who related to me the following 
 mcident. As it supplies evidence how strong a moral 
 may be inculcated by a picture, I will endeavour to record 
 it in her own simple words. When I knew her she was 
 very aged ; her sitting-room was adorned by paintings, 
 generally of the higher class ; but sometimes the senti- 
 ment, the conception of a subject, was so superior to its 
 execution, that I imagined she had more feeling than 
 knowledge with regard to works of art. She moved 
 about her apartment leaning on the arm of her grand- 
 niece, and pointing out her favourite pictures by a mo- 
 tion of the large, old-fashioned fan that dangled from her 
 arm. She was in truth a chronicle of the past — had sat 
 to Sir Joshua when quite a child, and been the com- 
 panion of West and Opie and ITorthcote and all the 
 great men of ancient times, seen David Garrick, 
 been patted on the head by Dr. Johnson, laughed 
 with Oliver Goldsmith, and spoke of Queen Charlotte 
 and George III. as a handsome young couple. She was 
 both rich and benevolent, and, despite her age and the 
 infirmity of deafness, she was the best physician that ever 
 entered the close atmosphere of a pale student’s cham- 
 ber : the ease, and grace, and gentleness with which she 
 developed truth added to its beauty but did not lessen 
 its power. She was a sound critic, yet a kindly judge. 
 Sir Thomas Lawrence used to say of her that her very 
 look, at ninety, was inspiration ! 
 
 Her general sitting-room was in admirable keeping 
 with its mistress ; old chairs, old carvings, old china, 
 old bits of tapestry — with here and there a drapery of 
 
THE PICTURE. 
 
 151 
 
 golden yellow, a cushion or cliair covered by rich, deep- 
 toned crimson velvet ; and when the sun shone through 
 a little painted window, illumining an angle of the apart- 
 ment with its fine tints, it threw a sort of halo over 
 these silent but sure indications of pure taste, and made 
 the artist feel at once at home. Then the delight with 
 which, when she found an attentive listener, she would 
 draw forth from an old cabinet some cherished and ex- 
 quisite miniature — the gem of her treasure-house — and 
 have a little tale to tell of everything she possessed. 
 Latterly she had, as I said, become deaf ; but this did 
 not diminish the cheerfulness of her well-toned mind. 
 Set her talking, and it was like a happy voice from the 
 graves of those mighty ones who now live but in their 
 works. 
 
 “ You said, my dear madam, you would tell me the 
 story of that picture yonder,” I observed one evening. 
 
 Ah, yes ! ” she replied ; “ that, my dear, was painted 
 by a young man ! Poor fellow, I shall never forget what 
 old ISTorthcote said to me about him ; but that does not 
 matter now. It was April — a few days before the pic- 
 tures went in for exhibition to Somerset House, and I 
 was sitting in this very chair, as I have done for the last 
 five-and-forty years, about noon — when Haney — (ah, we 
 have no such servants now-a-days !) — Haney told me 
 that an artist, she was sure from the country, wanted to 
 show me a picture. I admitted him immediately. He 
 placed his production in the best light, and, apologising 
 briefly for his intrusion, stood opposite to that very pic- 
 ture whose ‘story,’ as you call it, you wish to hear. 
 Young men, my dear, in those days were more ambitious 
 of painting than dressing like Pafiaelle ; they did not 
 wear their hair over their shirt-collars, cultivate a mous- 
 tache, and scent of cigars ; and yet I never saw any 
 human being look more like a creature of glorious inven- 
 tions than the poor pale boy — for he was little more — 
 who painted ‘ The Unjust Judge.’ His orb-like brow 
 would have rightly worn a crown of laurel ; and though 
 
152 
 
 THE PICTURE. 
 
 he was so singularly handsome that for a few moments 
 he was the picture upon which I looked, I felt sorry at 
 heart for what was stamped upon his features.” 
 
 What ? ” I inquired. 
 
 “ Death ! ” was the solemn reply. The old lady rose 
 from her seat, and taking the arm of her beautiful rela- 
 tive, who resided with her, tottered opposite to the pic- 
 ture. Observe,” she continued, ‘‘ the hard, stern coun- 
 tenance of the magisterial-looking man, who, seated at 
 the head of the table, has decided that the widow — the 
 young widow of an old and faithful tenant — has no 
 further claim on the land, which she imagined secured 
 to her by virtue of a letter, the fragments of which are 
 upon the ground. Observe the look of purse-proud satis- 
 faction the new tenant casts upon the friendless woman, 
 whose faded mourning is evidence that she has no means 
 to apply to a higher court. Note how full is the leathern 
 purse he has ostentatiously placed upon the table ; do you 
 not see the convulsed clutching of the widow’s fingers, as 
 she stretches forth her hands to implore mercy where she 
 might demand justice ? The veins of her small white 
 throat are distended by suppressed emotion — her eyes 
 are heavy with unshed tears ; and observe also how indig- 
 nant the boy looks ; he has just ceased to grasp the crape 
 shawl that has nearly fallen from his mother’s shoulders ; 
 his little fists are clenched, as much as to say, ‘ See how 
 I will be revenged when I become a man ! ’ The acces- 
 saries also are well, yet not too strongly, developed. The 
 fat and insolent cat has driven the widow’s timid little 
 dog into a corner ; his eyes in utter helplessness are raised 
 to his mistress’s face, whose agony is too great to heed the 
 distress of her puny favourite ! I do not often look upon 
 it,” she added, returning to her seat, “ though it conveys 
 a fine moral ; yet whenever I do, I turn my eyes into 
 my own breast, lest I also may have been an unjust 
 judge ! ” 
 
 The old lady paused, and her last observation found 
 an echo in my heart. Alas ! how true this is : how apt 
 
THE PICTURE, 
 
 153 
 
 are we to sit in judgment on each other — how apt to 
 pronounce sentence on a sister’s frailty or a brother’s 
 crime — without a knowledge of the temptations which 
 led either to the one or the other ; without even inquir- 
 ing whether what we have heard be true or false ! How 
 outrageous we become if we are judged — how careless in 
 judging! 
 
 But the story 1 ” I said at last ; “ it is not ended ? ” 
 
 Hardly commenced,” she replied, and then continued, 
 
 “ I expressed my approbation in a few words, for the 
 subject touched me. There were faults in the colouring; 
 but the moral was so true, that I saw at once the youth 
 had the elements of high art within him. It is an admi- 
 rable thing to do justice to nature, to copy faithfully the 
 immortalities amid which we live ; but it is still more 
 glorious to embody the workings of the mind — to create, 
 to lead as it were the inventive faculties of our fellow- 
 creatures into a higher world. The avarice of the unjust 
 judge is stamped upon that face for ever, and the suppli- 
 cation of the widow seems bursting from her lips. After 
 looking at it for some little time, I inquired what value 
 he put upon his production. He said, ^ he had never 
 thought of that, he only wished it to be exhibited.’ 
 
 ‘ And why, then, did you bring it here V His pale 
 cheek flushed, while he replied, ‘ that he resided in 
 Northumberland ; was not acquainted with any one in 
 London ; and feared that if he sent in his picture it 
 would not be exhibited, unless some one were good 
 enough to speak for it ; so that it might obtain a place 
 — a place where it could be seen, particularly by one 
 person.’ 
 
 “ I told him I would purchase it. He thanked me ; 
 but that, he said, was not what he wanted. He wished 
 it to be seen at the Boyal Academy. He had heard that 
 I knew a great many of its members. Would I, if I 
 liked the picture, say a kind word for it to those who 
 had power ? His only wish was to see it hung where 
 one person would be sure to see it. The request was so 
 
154 
 
 THE PICTURE. 
 
 strange, tile picture and the youth both so interesting, 
 that I desired much to unravel the mystery. I soon 
 gained the young man’s confidence, and his story was 
 quickly told. 
 
 “His father had been one of those upright. God-fearing 
 tillers of the soil from whom many of our great men have 
 sprung. His life was the last in the lease of his land, but 
 he had received a letter from his landlord, promising, in 
 case of his death, a renewal of it on the old terms. His 
 father died, and in less than a week after his father’s death, 
 the landlord died also. His mother had so firm a depend- 
 ence upon the letter, that she never thought of the lease ; 
 indeed, as the young man said, she was too much absorbed 
 in her own grief to think of worldly matters, until a notice 
 to leave what had been so long her home was served upon 
 her. It was in vain she endeavoured to see the landlord, 
 he would not admit her : she wrote — no notice was taken 
 of her application. ‘ Beaten down,’ he said, ‘ by circum- 
 stances, she would sit day after day looking at a small 
 defaced water-colour drawing of my father, which had been 
 done by some itinerant artist, and seemed her only conso- 
 lation. I was too young to share her griefs, but not to 
 observe them ; and I remember the desire I felt to make 
 a picture like the one she loved, that it might be caressed 
 by her. One morning she had been weeping bitterly ; and 
 urged as it were by some sudden resolution, she took my 
 hand, and we walked together in silence to the Hall, re- 
 gardless of the rebuffs of the servants. My usually gentle 
 mother forced her way into the squire’s library, and dis- 
 covered, what I afterwards knew she expected from the 
 information she had received, her landlord in the very act 
 of signing the lease that was to deprive us for ever of the 
 cherished dwelling of our ancestors. Boused by a sense of 
 his injustice, she placed before him the letter from his father 
 to mine ; in an instant he tore it into atoms and flung it on 
 the floor. Stung still more deeply, she clasped her hands 
 and uttered a prayer of a few words, but deep import, that 
 he might never die until he acknowledged his injustice. 
 
THE PICTURE. 
 
 155 
 
 Had I known liow to curse, I would — boy though I was — 
 have cursed him from my soul ; but my mother had taught 
 me nought but blessings. We returned home : she knelt 
 opposite to where my father’s picture hung, as if it had 
 been a shrine, and poured out her soul to God in prayers 
 for patience. I stood by her side. ‘ Kneel with me,’ she 
 desired. I obeyed — but she observed the stubborn spirit 
 that roused within me, and while tears streamed down 
 her cheeks, she made me repeat words which for the 
 first time found no echo in my heart. The softness of the 
 child had altogether departed from me. I felt as if my 
 spirit had sprung at once into manhood. We arose from our 
 knees ; I put my hand in hers, kissed her cheek, and said, 
 ^ Mother, do not weep, I will protect you.’ I shall never 
 forget the music of the sweet blessings she poured upon 
 me then, while hot, hot tears coursed each other down her 
 cheeks. From that time I saw her weep no more ; though 
 I knew she wept. For me, I grew hard and stern. I 
 shunned my playmates during the few days we remained in 
 our old dwelling ; I could neither eat nor sleep ; my soul 
 swelled with indignation and revenge. We left our plea- 
 sant dwelling ; the shadow of the trees fell no more upon 
 our paths ; the hum of my mother’s bees, which had been 
 as the music of the sunbeams, sounded no more in my 
 ears ; the willow, planted by my father on my birthday, 
 which had grown to be a tree while I was yet a child, no 
 longer waved above my head. We lodged in a small room 
 of a small house in a neighbouring village ; a small, clean 
 room, furnished out of what seemed our abundance ; the 
 window-sill crowded with plants such as my father loved — 
 those perishable yet sweet records of affection. Our dog, 
 our household friend, shared our exile ; but even that I 
 had little sympathy with ; my mind was bent upon things 
 above my reach, but not beyond my desires. My mother 
 worked at her needle, and taught me all she knew, and 
 every halfpenny I could procure, could earn — for I was no 
 beggar — by little acts of usefulness, I laid out in purchasing 
 paper and pencils. I did not know then what being an. 
 
156 
 
 THE PICTURE. 
 
 artist meant ; but I knew that I sliould like to copy my 
 father’s picture, to draw the scenes of my early childhood, 
 to depict the one particular scene that was burnt into my 
 heart, to grow by some means to be rich and powerful, 
 that so I might be revenged on the unjust judge. This last 
 resolve I dared not impart to my mother, from a conscious- 
 ness that it was one she would disapprove the most. And 
 yet that man bought pictures and hung them on his walls ; 
 and people eulogised his liberality, and praised his taste ; 
 and that he had taste I cannot doubt, but he had no heart. 
 Is it not strange,’ inquired the young painter, Hhat a 
 man can tell what is excellent on canvas and have no 
 appreciation for what is excellent in life ; can understand 
 what is natural when delineated by the painter’s art — be 
 touched by painted tears — and yet be utterly incapable of 
 feeling and combining the sensations which spring from 
 nature ? Is not this most strange and contradictory ’ 
 
 I told him he would not think so when he had seen 
 more of the world and understood how many contending 
 currents meet and struggle within the heart of man. 
 Perhaps you are already tired of the young artist’s tale ? 
 I like, old as I am, to hear of struggles, of difficulties over- 
 come, of mountains scaled by hardy enterprise, of seats 
 upon their pinnacles ; and I spoke words of hope to him, 
 which fell like rain upon a fertile soil — for his mind was 
 one large treasure-house of poetry. And then he related 
 much of the past. Of his own privations he evidently did 
 not think ; but his mother’s sorrows, lessened as they 
 must have been by cheerful industry, and lightened by the 
 knowledge of his innate talent, dwelt upon his memory. 
 Yet he confessed to moments of most keen enjoyment ; 
 the calmness of the Sabbath evening — when the music of 
 the bell had ceased, and the voice of the preacher, or the 
 melody of the choral hymn, chanted by infant voices, 
 mingled with the perfumed air — when the worship was 
 over — and playing with a pencil, which his mother kissed 
 him ‘not to use on Sunday,’ she read within her little 
 room the scenes from Holy Writ, which, praised be God, 
 
THE PICTURE. 
 
 157 
 
 have taught many painters the road to immortality ! And, 
 when obliged to labour in the fields, his eye drank in the 
 magic hues of cloud and rainbow, sunshine and shadow, 
 in truth, he said, the more he saw of nature the weaker 
 grew his purpose of revenge towards Hhe unjust judge.’ 
 The beauties of the beautiful world softened his spirit ; 
 but when he looked upon his mother’s hands hardened 
 by labour, or saw her feeble frame bending with more 
 than woman’s weakness, his purpose revived, the agonis- 
 ing scene stamped upon that canvas rose before Inm, and 
 as he grew older he determined, ^ an that he lived to be 
 a man,’ to do — what you see he did accomplish. Several 
 years before (for an artist’s talent is long budding before 
 it blossoms), while his was yet in its infancy, the man who 
 had acted so cruelly left his neighbourhood and came to 
 reside near London. He paid a visit to his property but 
 once, and then offered his 'patronage to the boy artist he 
 had so injured ; by him, I am proud to say, it was in- 
 dignantly refused. The gentleman was bitterly hurt at 
 this, for he would have greatly enjoyed the notoriety of 
 ‘bringing out’ such extraordinary talent. How different 
 from the warm and noble zeal which makes and bears the 
 torch to light the path of genius I But I grow prosy,” 
 said my old friend, “ and will hasten onward. The desire 
 of the young artist was, that his picture might be placed 
 where it could be seen to advantage ; he had grown out 
 of the memory of his mother’s persecutor, and had resolved 
 to stand where he might watch by it, to see the effect it 
 would produce — not upon the world, but upon him whose 
 injustice he had depicted with so powerful a pencil. ‘ If,’ 
 he said ‘ I could but see him change colour ; if I could 
 perceive the least indication that he felt the reproof — 
 that the circumstance was recalled — that the power he 
 had crushed into the dust had risen, and stood before him 
 to reprove his injustice — if I could only make him feel, I 
 should be satisfied ; it is now all the revenge I covet.’ ” 
 
 “ But his mother?” I inquired. 
 
 “ She still lives,” was the reply ; and then my old friend 
 
158 
 
 THE PICTURE. 
 
 informed me, that his (the artist’s) resolution on this sub- 
 ject almost amounted to insanity; he fancied his picture 
 would work a miracle, soften a hard heart, change the 
 current of a man’s blood, alter his nature. Like all those 
 who live alone, and who judge of mankind from them- 
 selves, his information, his conception of human character, 
 seemed as contmcted as his imagination was vast and 
 vivid ; and, in addition to this, he was suffering from a 
 constitutional sensitiveness, which made him far more 
 susceptible than rational men are supposed to be. 
 
 His picture went at the appointed time to the ap- 
 pointed place. I studiously kept the secret that the per- 
 secutor — the unjust judge — was intimately known to me ; 
 and feeling as I did the utmost anxiety for the 3^oung 
 painter, I made him consider my house his home. But 
 his spirit had all the restlessness of genius. As a boy at 
 school counts the days, the hours, that must elapse ere he 
 returns to his home, so did this creature, compounded as 
 he was from the finest essences of our nature, count the 
 moments until the Academy would open. It was almost 
 frightful to witness his fits of anxiety as to where the 
 picture would hang — if it would have a good place — if it 
 (perchance) might be killed by some glaring sunset, or 
 saffron sunrise, when the artist, ‘mad Avith glory,’ 
 deepens the hues wherein Almighty God thinks best to 
 steep His landscapes. It was positively fearful, after such 
 ague fits of care, to see the avidity with which he drank 
 in the inspirations poured by the old divinities upon their 
 canvas. It was wonderful to observe how his mind, 
 taught by nature, distinguished at a single glance the gold 
 from the tinsel ; and how he spurned whatever was coun- 
 terfeit or poor. He would, after such excitements, return 
 to his calculations touching his oAvn picture. Sometimes 
 depressed at its inferiority when compared with what he 
 had just seen ; at other times full of hope, calculating on 
 the probable result, repeating the difficulties he had en- 
 countered, recalling the tears which stood trembling in 
 his mother’s eyes when some simple villager would express 
 
THE PICTURE, 
 
 159 
 
 siicli natural wonder as to ^ how he learned it all !’ Then 
 he would picture the rich tyrant acknowledging his injus- 
 tice and confessing shame ; calculate as to the probability 
 of his picture, the first-born of his brain, being extolled 
 by the critics ; portray his mother, her thin fingers trem- 
 bling, and her emaciated form bent over the column, 
 where her son s name was marked with -praise ; hear her 
 read his commendation, and then fall upon her knees in 
 gratitude to God, remembering in the hour of triumph, as 
 well as in the hour of sorrow, that it is He who gives or 
 takes away as to Him seemeth best. Then, poor fellow, in 
 the fulness of his heart he would describe such pictures as 
 he was to paint ; he did not care for poverty — not he ! he 
 knew it well ! he never could be as poor as he had been. 
 He felt his poAver, like the infant Hercules strangling his 
 foes without an effort ; his fortune in his hand, his patent 
 to immortality made out ! He and his mother could live 
 in a garret — ay, and die there ! But he would make a 
 name that would defy Time — he would ! Poor, poor 
 fellow I” repeated my old friend mournfully; ‘^and yet 
 there was nothing boastful in this ; it was pure enthu- 
 siasm. 
 
 “ Those who had seen the picture here were delighted 
 and astonished, and more than one assured me the placing 
 Avould be cared for. I felt so convinced that the compo- 
 sition would stand upon its own merits, that I did not 
 desire to lessen the dignity of my new favourite, by re- 
 questing as a favour what I felt he had reason to demand 
 as a right. A foolish thought ! ’’ said the old lady, taking 
 a fierce pinch of snuff — “ a foolish thought for those who 
 want to get on in the world, but a wise one for those who 
 prefer the jewel of existence, self-respect, to aught else. 
 
 “ The first Sunday in May arrived, to be followed, of 
 course, by the first Monday. He sat with me till late, 
 not here, but at Bichmond, where I reside occasionally. 
 He was looking out over the river flowing in the glory 
 of the setting sun, speculating as usual about his picture^ 
 and the chance that by that time next night it would 
 
160 
 
 THE PICTURE. 
 
 have been seen, and its merit acknowledged by its uncon- 
 scious author, to whom he wished to show the moral of a 
 picture. He was literally wild with hope and excitement, 
 speaking of his mother — wishing for her ; and then saying 
 what glory it would be to see some of those mighty 
 masters of his art who had lived and moved among us. 
 Like a young eagle, he panted for the rising sun, towards 
 which he longed to soar. Poor, poor fellow ! ” 
 
 There was a pause, and I longed to hear what was to 
 follow, yet feared to inquire. 
 
 The next morning,” she continued, “ I ordered the car- 
 riage so early as to drive under the gateway at Somerset 
 House about a minute before the hour at which the doors 
 were to open. There was the usual crowd — the earnest, 
 intense-looking students, some more pale than usual, others 
 flushed by anxiety — mixed up with critics, and poets, and 
 persons wishful to be the first to see the national exhibi- 
 tion whose quantity, quality, and arrangement indicate 
 the nature, and progress, and power of British art. But 
 few of the academicians were there, though one or two 
 were recognised ; and notwithstanding the density of the 
 crowd, room was made for them, and a murmur ran, ‘ Do 
 you see Stothard or, ‘There is Westalll’ or, ‘That’s 
 the young artist, Wilkie ! ’ intimating the current of the 
 people’s thoughts. My young friend recognised me, bowed, 
 and then the doors were opened. I saw him rush forward 
 with the rest ; and, just as he was about to enter, he turned 
 his face towards me : it was lit with a light which disap- 
 pointment would quench in death. He waved his hat, and 
 disappeared. I waited until the crush had entered, and 
 proceeded to obtain a catalogue. It is marvellous how 
 quickly a crowd disperses ; all had passed upstairs. Sud- 
 denly my arm was pressed : I turned round ; there stood 
 the young painter, his face shorn of its beams, his whole 
 aspect changed from that of a living man to an almost 
 breathless corpse. He seemed rooted to the spot, while in 
 a tone, the character of which I cannot describe, he mut- 
 tered, ‘ My name is not in the catalogue.’ There were 
 
THE PICTURE. 
 
 IGl 
 
 doubtless many otliers tliat day doomed to the same dis- 
 appointment — many who, perhaps, deserved the annual 
 oblivion which overwhelmed the industry and hopes of the 
 past year ; but, unhappily, there were also many others 
 Avho were condemned to the same suffering, merely because 
 there was not space in wealthy England to display the 
 treasures of that genius which confers honour upon 
 the land that calls forth its existence. Many worn and 
 anxious faces — many whose hearts were crushed — passed 
 beneath that portal ; yet I heeded but the one. I knew 
 the boy could not survive it long. He had never antici- 
 pated its rejection, nor indeed had I. I insinuated there 
 might be some mistake ; but, easily depressed as excited, 
 he only clenched between his hands the doom-book of so 
 many, and shook his head. I ordered the carriage to be 
 recalled, and taking his arm, led him towards it. As we 
 descended the steps, I felt him start and shudder. I looked 
 up — the unjust judge stood before me ! The coincidence 
 was strange. On the instant I invited him to dine wdth me 
 the next day in town ; the invitation was accepted. My 
 footman assisted the lad into the carriage as if he had been 
 a child ; he shrank into the corner, his noble spirit totally 
 prostrated by his disappointment, while he turned his face 
 away to conceal the agony he had not deserved. I think,” 
 said the good old lady, I suffered almost as much. After 
 many efforts I succeeded in turning the current of his 
 thoughts ; I assured him the picture should be seen the 
 next day, and that he should witness the effect it pro- 
 duced. I insisted on his remaining entirely at my house ; 
 but he had been lessened in his own esteem, and suddenly 
 his manners had become lofty and severe. I let them 
 remain so for a little ; but, assured that nothing would so 
 much relieve his overcharged heart as tears, when we were 
 quite alone on the morning of the next day, I spoke to 
 him of his mother, of the scenes of his youth, of her piety, 
 her tenderness, her love ; the boy conquered the Stoic — I 
 left him weeping. I had undertaken a most painful task, 
 but it was my duty to complete it. 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 THE PICTURE. 
 
 As tlie dinner-liour advanced, I placed the picture, 
 which I had reclaimed, in the best possible light, but drew 
 a curtain, so as to shade it from observation till the time 
 of trial arrived ; the artist was in the room, and at last 
 my guest came. After a few minutes had elapsed I 
 arose, as I do now, and stood here, the painter remaining 
 in the ernbrazured window. Suddenly I displayed the 
 picture, and asked him what he thought of the story ? 
 
 you read the story clearly, sir^’ I said; ‘perhaps, 
 as it is mine, you will help me to a name for it ? A 
 widow, sir, a poor widow believed in her landlord’s 
 honour, and intrusted to him a promissory letter for the 
 renewal of the lease which expired with the breath of 
 her dead husband. You see her there ; beauty and 
 sorrow are mingled in her features. He has taken the 
 letter ; and behold you how men, ay, and rich men too, 
 value their honour ; its fragments are on the carpet — the 
 weighty purse of the rich farmer has outweighed the 
 woman’s righteous cause. Can you name my picture, 
 sir*? Her child, her boy feels though he does not under > 
 stand the scene ; he has dropped his mother’s shawl ; his 
 hands are clenched ; if God spares him to be a man, he 
 will devise some great revenge for that injustice.’ I 
 thought the gentleman turned pale, and I knew that my 
 young friend was crouching in his lair. ‘ Look you, sir,’ 
 I continued, ‘ out of the pictured window : is not the 
 landscape pleasant ? the tree is remarkable ; a famous 
 tree in Northumberland ; the — the — something elm. 
 And within, as you observe, the accessories are well 
 made out : the fierce cat pouncing on the little dog ; the 
 elk’s horns stand out from the panelling; and the em- 
 blazoning of the shield and arms upon the wall — the 
 arms are distinct 
 
 “ ‘ Madam ! ’ he exclaimed, in a voice hardly audible 
 from agitation, and then paused. 
 
 “ ‘ The scene took place,’ I continued, without heeding 
 the interruption, ‘ some ten or twelve years past. Is it 
 not so, Edward Gresham?’ I added, appealing to the 
 youth. 
 
THE PICTURE. 
 
 163 
 
 He came forward, pale, but erect in tlie conscious- 
 ness of his own rectitude, and satisfied that the great 
 object of his existence was attained. 
 
 “ Although I was much agitated, I saw the eagle eye 
 of the artist look down the hurried glance which the 
 unjust judge cast towards him, and I almost pitied him, 
 humbled as he was by the conscious shame that over- 
 whelmed him. He was stricken suddenly by a poisoned 
 arrow ; the transcript of the unhappy story was so 
 faithful, the presence of the youth so completely fastened 
 the whole upon him, that there was no mode of escape ; 
 and his nature was too stolid, whatever his disposition 
 might be, to have any of the subtle movement of the 
 serpent about him. 
 
 ^ And you,’ he said, turning away while he spoke, 
 ^ whom I have known for twenty years, have sub- 
 jected me to this ! ’ 
 
 ‘ Ho you acknowledge its truth, its justice ’ de- 
 manded the young painter ; ^ do you acknowledge the 
 fidelity of my pencil ? 1 have toiled, laboured, suffered, 
 
 to show you your injustice in its true colours : but I see 
 you, the proud landlord, turn from the orphan boy whom, 
 in open defiance of every righteous feeling, you sent house- 
 less, homeless, fatherless, friendless, upon the world. I 
 see you cannot meet my eye for shame. Ay, ay, proud 
 gentleman, t/iai will live when you, ay, and I too, are in 
 our narrow graves ! ’ 
 
 “ ‘ I offered you reparation,’ said the landlord, over- 
 powered by the energy of the painter and the truth of 
 his picture ; ^ I offered you reparation.’ 
 
 ‘ You offered me 'patronage!'* retorted the indignant 
 boy j ‘ insult with injury.’ 
 
 The landlord turned to me ; he was greatly agitated. 
 ‘ Has the patronage I have extended to many, madam, 
 even within your knowledge, been injury *?’ he inquired. 
 
 “ I could not but acknowledge that he had purchased 
 many pictures ; and replied that his collection would 
 prove that he highly appreciated art. 
 
 M 2 
 
164 
 
 THE PICTURE. 
 
 ‘ I will/ he added, ‘ even now give him any sum he 
 chooses to name for that picture.’ 
 
 ^ It is sold,’ replied the artist. 
 
 The old gentleman’s countenance changed ; he w^alked 
 up and down the room ; once or twice he paused and 
 looked at the sad history, which he would then have 
 given much to obliterate. 
 
 ‘ I confess,’ he said, ^ the faithfulness of the por- 
 tiaiture ; but there were palliating circumstances. Still, 
 I confess I acted wrong — I confess it ! I will make re- 
 tribution ; we cannot always tell what our acts may 
 produce. ’ 
 
 ^ Injustice,’ said the youth calmly, 4s the parent of 
 misery to the injured and the injurer ; it was a cruel act, 
 netting aside its treachery ; it was a cruel act, God can 
 judge between thee and me ! My mother, a delicate, 
 fragile woman, myself almost an infant ; and your 
 father’s promise, sir, your own father’s promise that you 
 scorned ; oh ! sir, how could you sleep with the con- 
 sciousness of such injustice haunting your pillow?’ 
 
 ^ You have your revenge, young man — your revenge,’ 
 murmured the gentleman ; ‘ I acknowledge my injustice ; 
 I will make reparation.’ 
 
 ‘ You cannot cancel the past — my mother’s years of 
 suffering, my own of labour ; but enough. I see you 
 feel I have conquered ; my feeble hand has sent convic- 
 tion to your heart ; and I ’ He staggered to a chair, 
 
 and became more pale than usual. I thought he was 
 dying, but it was not so j the heart does not often give 
 way in the moment of triumph — for it was a triumph. I 
 must do the landlord justice : he repeated his regret, he 
 even entered into the young man’s feelings, and com- 
 mended his art ; he did all this, and the next morning 
 remitted me a large sum ‘ as a debt due by him to those 
 he had injured.’ 
 
 ‘‘ How apt are the rich to think that money can heal 
 all wounds ! My poor young friend only survived suffi- 
 ciently long to see his mother, though but for half an 
 
THE PICTURE. 
 
 165 
 
 hour. It was almost in vain that, kneeling by his bed- 
 side, she implored him to think of the world to come. 
 He believed he was too young to die. 
 
 “ ^ I triumphed, mother — I triumphed,’ he repeated, 
 his eyes glittering with unnatural brightness ; ‘ I tri- 
 umphed j I made his heart quail and his cheek blanch, 
 and he begged my forgiveness ; but it was altogether too 
 much for me ; first the disappointment, and then the 
 triumph j it fermented my brain, though I found another 
 mother who taught me that the just and the unjust are 
 mingled together ; but now that turmoil is past, you are 
 with me — really, really wnth me. I will sleep on your 
 bosom, my own mother, as I used when a child, and 
 to-morrow I will tell you all I mean to do.’ 
 
 ‘ Then all is peace,’ she murmured. 
 
 ‘ Ay, mother, all is triumph, and peace, and love,’ he 
 replied. ‘ I wonder how I could have hated him so long.’ 
 He laid his head down with the tranquillity of a sleepy 
 infant, and it was in vain she tried to repress the tears 
 that fell upon the rich luxuriance of his hair — he felt 
 them not. 
 
 ‘ He has slept mpre than an hour,’ she whispered me. 
 I saAv he would never waken. I could not tell her so, 
 but she read it in my face. It was indeed a corpse she 
 strained in her arms, and long, long was it ere she was 
 comforted. I never saw my old acquaintance afterwards ; 
 but he requested, as I would not yield him up the picture, 
 that I would never suffer it to pass from my possession, 
 or mention his name in connection with it. He died 
 many years ago, and proved his repentance by providing, 
 in a worldly point of view, for her who had been so long 
 the victim of his injustice.” 
 
166 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope was considered by a large circle of 
 acquaintances, a remarkably “ ladydike, pleasant woman, 
 who knew the world.” “ She knew the world ! ” — she had 
 of course, a clear, if not a kind, perception of character ; 
 could discriminate (a most uncharitable talent) between 
 motives and actions j discovered a more extensive mean • 
 ing for words than was to be found in any dictionary ; 
 had a peculiar look — a shrug, a half-breathed sentence, 
 upon every topic connected more especially with character 
 and its developments ; doubted far more than she 
 trusted, and entertained most sagacious disbelief in 
 human generosity, and the virtues of the poor. She had 
 a frank good-tempered way of throwing off a bitter ob- 
 servation, a cheerful mode of cauterizing, an invincible 
 good temper, the result of a healthy constitution, pros- 
 perous circumstances, and a temperament utterly incapa- 
 ble of sympathy. She was active, without any legitimate 
 object for activity ; at forty, she was a childless widow, 
 having neither relatives nor affectionate friends, but with 
 a multitude of “ acquaintances,” who consulted her much, 
 because she knew the world.” She had all her life a 
 talent for that which many women wish to promote — 
 match-making; circumstances, however, prevented its being 
 very active, until after her husband’s death, when it gave her 
 interest and occupation, and rendered her of consequence.” 
 In her own marriage, at the mature age of eight-and- 
 twenty, she had been entirely guided by “prudential 
 motives,” and, though neglected by the roue she wedded 
 for his wealth and position in society, she not only 
 never seemed to feel it, but never did feel it. She married 
 
THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 167 
 
 the wealth and position, of which the man was the neces^ 
 sary appendage. She was well behaved as a wife, and 
 wore the most becoming caps as a widow ; and, by de- 
 grees, her desire of rule, her passion of interference, and 
 her reputation of knowledge of the world, induced those 
 who had sons and daughters to marry, to consult, and 
 Mrs. Stanhope to advise, until, at last, she would have 
 felt really indignant at any one being married in the cir- 
 cle of her acquaintance, without her having arranged all 
 the prelimiuaries. Of course, there were other match- 
 makers within that circle — mothers of sons, and mothers 
 of daughters, who did their possible ” in a quiet, domes- 
 tic, understood sort of way — and a few kind gentle- 
 hearted creatures, who, believing in love and devotion, 
 (God bless them for it !) entertained real feelings of 
 sympathy towards first love” — gentle sonneteers, who 
 walk by moonlight, and dream of cottages and roses ; 
 and who, in the young heart’s tenderness, idealize the 
 very ideal of the tender passion. Good-natured happy 
 guardians, also, of young love,” either in girl or boy, whose 
 individual happiness, however worn out, is revived by the 
 happiness of others, and who promote one “love-match” 
 after another from an innocent and pure belief that only 
 those joined by affection can walk together towards a 
 better land, prepared for an eternity of heavenly love by 
 a life of earthly harmony. Men, too, as well as mothers 
 and maiden aunts of Mrs. Stanhope’s acquaintance — 
 rivals — sometimes attempted “ match-making,” but they 
 did it so clumsily, in a way so devoid of management and 
 tact, simply setting gold against acres, and acres against 
 gold, that they only provoked her ever-ready smiles. Al- 
 though strongly inclined towards parents, and disposed to 
 treat affection as a thing that would be worn to shreds in 
 a year, she sometimes, either to keep her ascendancy with 
 the young, or to prove her power over the old, favoured 
 a case of simple affection, and carried it victoriously into 
 the very church : but she was too much a woman of the 
 world to do this frequently j and so mothers sent refrac- 
 
168 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 toiy daughters, who would not many aged or disagree* 
 able, although rich men, to be talked over ” by Mrs. 
 Stanhope. Aunts watched most eagerly to see how she 
 received their nieces ; fathers consulted her as to the 
 best way of introducing ten thousand (mortgaged) acres, 
 and a family title (in perspective), to a hundred tliousand 
 pounds’ worth of city connection ; military men bowed to 
 her as she passed, and elderly young ladies overwhelmed 
 her with presents. She might have furnished half a dozen 
 fancy fairs with scraped cardboard, bad drawings, bags 
 and penny pitchers ; nay, her bijouterie increased daily, 
 and — but this might be only scandal, and mine is a true 
 record — too true to be sung as a song, or tinctured by an 
 exaggeration ! In fact, Mrs. Stanhope was a sort of match- 
 making empress — arranging meetings by accident, dis- 
 covering the foibles of men, and the follies of women, and 
 playing on them as Horatio would have plaj^-ed on Ham- 
 let, sometimes for a purpose, sometimes for mere amuse- 
 ment, and all with an ease and a grace, an apparent good- 
 nature and interest, which certainly proved her an adept 
 in that species of knowledge of the world, which never 
 made a true friend or warmed a pure heart. 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope frequently had young ladies staying 
 Vv^ith her — coming and going, as it might be — some 
 utterly ignorant of her character, but pleased with the 
 attention of a fashionable and well-bred woman, who 
 moved in good society, and was always entertaining. 
 One of these, Elizabeth Lechmere, had been consigned 
 to Mrs. Stanhope’s chaperonage by an aunt, to whom 
 Elizabeth had come as a poor relation, the orphan child 
 of a bankrupt brother. She was most lovely in manner 
 and person — a soft and fascinating loveliness — like a 
 violet, or a white primrose, or any modest unassuming 
 thing to which you would compare a girl of nineteen, who 
 had known enough of adversity to temper the buoyant 
 and bounding joy of a young, fresh, believing heart. Mrs. 
 Stanhope had endured an entire season of ugly protegees — 
 a bevy of rich Northerns — who were really great 
 
THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 169 
 
 catclies ” to those who wanted coins^ not care ; but her 
 natural good taste inclined her to patronize beauty ; and 
 she had been much offended by a young and noble cornet 
 of dragoons designating the heiresses as ‘‘ Mrs. Stanhope’s 
 awkward squad.” Elizabeth came just in time to save her 
 reputation for taste ; and the guileless, innocent creature 
 was perfectly unconscious of the effect her grace and 
 beauty created wherever she went. 
 
 Elizabeth, my dear,” said Mrs. Stanhope, “ sit down. 
 I want to speak to you about those dresses ; draw up that 
 blind a little — there, now sit down — no, not there, but 
 opposite the window. My sight is so weak, that I never 
 can tell the effect of ringlets unless the light comes full 
 upon them. Thank you, that will do ; and now tell me, 
 have you decided between the peach-blossom and the blue 
 dress ? a small portion of blue clears the complexion, but 
 I think it should never be worn unmixed with white. In 
 the street a blue dress is decidedly vulgar — there can be 
 no second opinion about that.” 
 
 Elizabeth told her she preferred the peach-blossom, 
 and Mrs. Stanhope complimented her on her taste ; she 
 then chatted to her of crochet, and the park, the opera, 
 and various trifles, until at last fixing her clear piercing 
 black eyes upon her, she said, I think, my love, you 
 danced three times with Mr. Ofiley last night.” 
 
 I only danced twice,” replied Elizabeth, colouring 
 over neck and brow ; ^^only twice, and waltzed once.” 
 ‘^Well, my dear, Edward Ofiley is a very charming 
 young man ; his mother, poor thing, is one of my oldest 
 friends — and no one regrets his changed prospects more 
 than I do — but, my dear, you must not dance with any 
 gentleman more than once during one evening ; it looks 
 particular.” 
 
 ‘*1 have known Edward a long time.” 
 
 Ah, indeed!” Mrs. Stanhope Avas for a moment 
 perplexed, then added in an unrestrained manner, but 
 people do not know that, and it looks particular — even 
 Mr. Shackell observed it.” 
 
170 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Elizabeth was going to answer she did not care 
 whether he did or no, but she never had courage to say 
 anything that could be called smart.” 
 
 Poor Edward ! ” continued the tactician, I really do 
 not know how he manages to exist, brought up as he 
 was ; and his mother, I know, has mortgaged her little 
 annuity to positive destruction, that he may appear like 
 a gentleman.” 
 
 ‘^But he has three hundred a year in the audit office,” 
 murmured Elizabeth ; “ and surely with that — with any- 
 thing — with nothing — he would not suffer his mother to 
 involve herself.” 
 
 “ Three hundred a year, child ! ” repeated Mrs. Stan- 
 hope, why that would hardly pay for gloves and 
 perfumery. There, do not open your eyes so wide ; I 
 mean the thousand and one little nothings that a man 
 must have. I see nothing before him, poor fellow ! but 
 misery, and a jail for his mother.” 
 
 Elizabeth became pale and trembled ; the room turned 
 round, at least she thought it did, for it was not possible 
 that Mrs. Stanhope was continuing the circling movement 
 of her hand, winding silk ; she would not do that, surely, 
 under such circumstances. 
 
 He has one chance, however,” persisted the inveterate 
 match-maker, one good chance, that will save both him- 
 self and her ; he is young, handsome, well connected, and 
 tolerably the fashion ; indeed, quite enough so for the 
 city. He may marry well. There are two or three, not 
 very handsome to be sure, who are rather gone off — will- 
 and-won’t sort of girls for a few seasons, and then easily 
 satisfied — one in particular whom I know, would accept 
 him in a moment, and bring him twenty or five-and- 
 twenty thousand pounds. But here am I, chattering to 
 you, and quite forgetting poor Le Maitre in the next 
 room. He wants me to take his daughter as my own 
 maid. I am really very unfortunate ; my maids marry 
 ■off so quickly.” 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope had poisoned the cup, and left Elizabeth 
 
THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 171 
 
 to drink it at leisure. It was a hard service. She loved 
 Edward Offley, and she believed he loved her. She 
 dearly loved his mother, who had been almost a mother 
 to her in her early childhood, when she lost her own. 
 She had not seen Edward for some time, until the pre- 
 vious evening, and the girl-love was revived in her with 
 tenfold strength. She could hardly believe he would 
 be so heartless as to permit his parent to involve herself 
 for his sake ; and yet, all at once, her memory was 
 crowded by reports which proved that Mrs. Offley was ill 
 at ease in mind and circumstances. 
 
 Elizabeth was bewildered. If Edward suffered his 
 mother to feed his extravagance and love of display out 
 of her own necessities, he was unworthy the place he held 
 in her heart j if he could marry, and so save his mother 
 and himself from ruin, ought she to cling to him, and, if 
 he permitted, stamp him with poverty. She might 
 cherish her own poverty if she pleased — under any cir- 
 cumstances she might do that ; but even supposing that 
 Edward wished it, had she any right to woo him to a 
 continuance of perpetual subterfuge, of that shivering 
 and feverish state, which walks abroad with the false 
 mask of wealth to hide the restless eye, the shrunk cheek, 
 the quivering lip that wastes beneath its hollow-painted 
 canvass, which sooner or later will drop away, and leave 
 the haggard features exposed to the whole world ? She 
 could think no more, but covering her face with her 
 hands, wept bitterly ; tears relieved her. She longed to 
 discover if what Mrs. Stanhope had said as to Edward’s 
 difficulties was really true ; she thought she should 
 be glad to feel, before she delivered him up, as it were, to 
 the jewelled hand of another, that he was not a heartless 
 spendthrift. And while she thought all this, Mr. Shackell, 
 an amiable quiet gentleman who was (the world said) 
 looking out for a companion for his daughter, or a wife 
 for himself, entered, and seeing Elizabeth’s agitation, 
 inquired kindly and soothingly into its cause. Of course 
 that was not told; and as she withdrew, his tender 
 
172 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 manner and warmly-expressed interest could not be mis- 
 taken. At the door she encountered Edward Offley, who, 
 through some unaccountable mistake on the part of 
 the servants, had been admitted at the wrong time. 
 Hastily snatching away the hand he would have kissed, 
 Elizabeth rushed to her own room, and, locking the door, 
 yielded to another fit of weeping. 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope re-entered her drawing-room at the 
 proper moment, and, extendiug a hand to both gentle- 
 men, cordially greeted them ; and, after some little con- 
 versation, invited both, if it was a matter of no conse- 
 quence, to join a gipsy party the following week. She 
 had planned that long before, but no one would have 
 imagined why. Edward Ofiley took a rapid and sullen 
 departure. Mr. Shackell remained. 
 
 Not one word did Mrs. Stanhope say about Elizabeth, 
 until some observation of the gentleman’s called forth a 
 half-pettish observation, ‘‘ that she was very provoking — 
 would not join in youthful amusements — preferred the 
 society of her elders — in short, she feared she would turn 
 out a ^ mope’ — so quiet and domestic.” She had said quite 
 enough for a mature gentleman to think over. Mrs. Stan- 
 hope never seemed to be more than suggestive ; she had 
 made up her mind that Elizabeth should marry Mr. 
 Shackell, and that Edward Offiey should marry a Miss Dodds, 
 a lady to whom he had certainly paid more attention 
 than was consistent with his early love for Miss Lechmere. 
 
 Edward was a handsome, intelligent man, one who, 
 if he had bravely resolved to push his fortunes by the 
 exercise of his talents, would not have needed to sacrifice 
 either his mother or himself ; but he had got into a false 
 position — that of seeming rich among those by whom 
 his income would be considered poverty. He never intended 
 to injure his mother ; on the contrary, he was a most 
 afiectionate son, but he was also a thoughtless one ; he 
 speculated without consideration, and then, to retain his 
 situation, to prevent either his folly or extravagance 
 from being known, he sufiered her to involve herself^ 
 
THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 173 
 
 while his sanguine temperament suggested some remedy 
 that was to come, but never arrived ; thus, at six-and- 
 twenty, the handsome and accomplished Edward Offley 
 was ill a quagmire of debt and danger : abandoning all 
 hope of being able to extricate himself — the appeal which 
 it had wrung his heart to make to an aged relative 
 rejected — and his only hope being marriage with a 
 woman much older than himself, and offensive from her 
 habits, manners, and connections to his refined taste and 
 liberal education. To increase his tortures, Elizabeth 
 Lechmere — she whose image had been enshrined in his 
 heart — the little wife ” of his boyhood — the vision of 
 his dreams, appeared suddenly before him, and testified 
 her artless joy at their meeting, by evident emotions 
 rather than words : — the rich vulgar woman was forgotten 
 — everything but Elizabeth vanished — and nothing but 
 her constrained manner, and evident intention of escaping 
 from him, recalled him to himself, after hours of feverish 
 excitement and false hopes. Doubtless,” he said, she 
 has heard all from Mrs. Stanhope, and despises me, as I 
 deserve to be despised.” In an agony of despair he 
 appealed to his gentle-hearted mother, entreated her to 
 see Elizabeth, although for what purpose he could hardly 
 tell — to see Mrs. Stanhope and say that she, who had 
 promoted this marriage, must choose another bridegroom 
 for her friend, for that he would die rather than marry 
 what he loathed. In all this he not only forgot his own 
 position, but that of his mother ; while she — enfeebled 
 in spirits, having learned from her son to become one of 
 the hangers-on of fortune — set forth to do his almost 
 hopeless bidding ; yet trusting that “ something” would 
 turn up — that their old relative would die, or ^^some- 
 thing” happen to set dear Edward” at rest — she could 
 not endure his misery — helpless as hopeless. She caught 
 at the phantom — a bare idea, when all reality had left 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope received Mrs. Offley with her usual good 
 manners, and heard what she had to say with even more 
 
174 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 than her usual attention. The more intricate the affair, 
 the more pleasure did Mrs. Stanhope take in its nego- 
 tiation ; when she had made u]) her mind that two should 
 become one, they had little chance of escape. If any- 
 thing could have disturbed her equanimity, it would have 
 been the events of the morning on which Mrs. Offley 
 called upon her. The post had brought her two letters, 
 one containing a sad account of the unhappiness of a 
 couple who never would have thought of each other but 
 for her ; the other, a record of much suffering, terminating 
 in the death of a young girl, sacrificed by her parents’ 
 ambition. ^^Ah, poor thing!” mused Mrs. Stanhope, 
 “ I always thought she was consumptive.” Then Eliza- 
 beth had refused Mr. Shackell, decidedly, and at once ; 
 leaving any less practised than her chaperone to imagine 
 that there was not a possibility of a revival; but after a 
 pause, Mrs. Stanhope’s ruffled smile had returned to its 
 placidity, and so little did it disturb her plans, that she 
 sat down to write to the young lady’s aunt as to the pro- 
 bable cost of the wedding dresses ! 
 
 She received Mrs. Offley as her dear old friend. The 
 poor lady was much agitated. A train of circumstances 
 had led to Mrs. Stanhope’s knowledge of her affairs, and 
 she spoke of them tremblingly but frankly, and without 
 reserve. 
 
 With a very bad grace she told how completely Edward 
 loathed the woman who had certainly wooed him by 
 attentions which should have been his to pay and hers 
 to receive. She said, she understood that her temper 
 was bad : Mrs. Stanhope granted that her connections were 
 low ; also granted her mind uninformed ; but this was 
 granted with a reserve that many uninformed women 
 make docile and affectionate wives. And when Mrs. 
 Offley had enumerated her catalogue of faults, Mrs. Stan- 
 hope simply named the amount of the lady’s fortune, 
 the liabilities of Mr. and Mrs. Offley, and inquired how 
 these were to be got rid of. The mother, perplexed by 
 her responsibilities, her faculties benumbed, as all faculties 
 
THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 175 
 
 are, by the crushing fetters of debt, could only say that 
 something might turn up. 
 
 The clouds turn their darkness into gold,” said Mrs. 
 Stanhope, and rain it at his feet; or your ^ somebody^ 
 leave him a fortune. Well, I can only lament the blind 
 wilfulness of my friends — he must see or write to Miss 
 Dodds — she will certainly have a good action, if it comes 
 to that.” 
 
 Alas ! ” ejaculated the mother, with an uncontrol- 
 lable burst of feeling ; and is there no means of escape ? 
 Must my poor son be doomed to the sacrifice — to a love- 
 less home, from which there is no flying, where he can 
 meet no sympathy, where his best feelings must encounter 
 ]oerpetual outrage, and his exquisite taste be defiled by 
 the grossest vulgarity? A blessing can never rest on such 
 a union ! From misery, from poverty, from tyranny, there 
 may come an escape, but from an unsuited marriage there 
 is no refuge but the grave ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope was too well bred not to seem to feel, 
 and she was really sorry, as she afterwards observed, to 
 see such white hairs mingled with such folly.” She man- 
 aged most skilfully to say something of Elizabeth, and 
 that she had been writing to her aunt touching her 
 marriage with a rich elderly gentleman ! ” then she in- 
 stanced the “dozens” she had known who had come 
 together with indifiference, if not dislike, and gone on 
 happily afterwards. She glanced at her belief that one 
 face tells as well as another with any man who has seen 
 it every day for twelve months ; that beauty is the ideal 
 of his creation, rather than a reality belonging to any one 
 individual, and argued upon this philosophically. Tem- 
 per, too, she contended, if any storm of temper was 
 regarded as the mere blowing of a hurricane, there was 
 nothing in it. It was certain the lady loved him to dis- 
 traction ; and when a man marries a woman who loves 
 him, he can mould her as he pleases. Mrs. Stanhope 
 smiled at herself when she said this — she knew better — 
 but all this philosophy and eloquence was lost upon poor 
 
176 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Mrs. Offley ; her heart was fall, her head bewildered. 
 She went home with an aching and unsatisfied spirit. 
 She went home, longing, yet dreading, to see her son. 
 She went to sleep, and dreamt that he was devoured 
 by a green dragon with golden claws and diamond 
 teeth. 
 
 She awoke to a more certain misery — the grasp of the 
 law was upon her. This was no dream, but a stern, hard, 
 cruel reality. Mrs. Stanhope was an old and valued 
 friend ; would she assist her in this matter, until things 
 came round ? Mrs. Stanhope was, unfortunately, out of 
 town.” Goaded by the knowledge of the position in 
 which his mother was placed through his thoughtless- 
 ness — urged by her distress — believing that lie was 
 uncared for by the only being he had loved — Edward 
 Olfley, wild almost to madness, renewed his addresses to 
 Miss Dodds, if the imj^erative demand of her hand at 
 once, and without delay, could be so called. He told her 
 frankly of his mother’s position ; he made no secret of, 
 but, on the contrary, exaggerated, his difficulties. Still she 
 said, Yes ; ” and in an hour inclosed him more than the 
 amount he required to be free from all claims, but the 
 one. When he returned from Clapham where Miss 
 Dodds resided, he found Elizabeth Lechmere kneeling by 
 his mother’s side. Through Mrs. Stanhope she had heard 
 of her distress. She had taken advantage of her absence 
 from home (a day’s absence from home being out of 
 town ” when convenient) to bring her little store of trin- 
 kets to her childhood’s friend — to ofifer all she had. Wild 
 and feverish as Edward was, he congratulated Elizabeth 
 on her approaching marriage ; ” and, while she hesitated 
 as to the delicacy of contradicting the statement, circum- 
 stanced as she was, he vaunted the wealth of his affianced 
 bride, and filling his mother’s lap with gold, wished that 
 Elizabeth might be as happy as he would be, and after a 
 pause, sufficient to permit his feelings to return to their 
 natural course, he kissed her hand for the last time, and 
 prayed she might be much — much happier than he could 
 
THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 177 
 
 ever be in this world. That same evening, Ebzabetli 
 entered Mrs. Stanhope’s dressing-room, and entreated to 
 be heard for a few moments. She said she had been in- 
 formed by her aunt that she had one of two courses to 
 follow — either to marry Mr. Shackell, or go forth to earn 
 her own bread in the world. She had decided on the 
 latter ; and she implored Mrs. Stanhope to find her a 
 situation amongst her friends. She would work, starve, 
 beg, die ! she said, rather than marry a man she could 
 not love. 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope positively shuddered, not at the idea of 
 poor Elizabeth’s going a governessing or a companioning, 
 — although she painted the miseries of both too truly, — 
 but she shuddered at the idea of any girl whom she had 
 vowed to matrimony, leaving her house single. She had 
 announced her as a fiancee, and if she did not marry, she 
 trembled for her own reputation. There was, however, 
 a gentle but firm determination on Elizabeth’s lip, and in 
 Elizabeth’s eye, that really alarmed her. She was no 
 weak-minded miss, who could be dazzled by a settle- 
 ment,” or induced to deviate from a fixed principle by 
 the dread of labour or privation. She knew that a good 
 education, worth fine gold, was paid for in small copper 
 coin, but she could not understand the doctrine of a forced 
 love ; and remembered the wisdom of the wise man, 
 which her mother had often repeated, Better is a crust 
 of bread where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred there- 
 with.” She was, in fact, simply assured she could never 
 love Mr. Shackell, and she determined never to marry 
 him. A person who is conversant with all grades and 
 descriptions of “ expediency,” and who, living amongst 
 worldliness, “ knows the world,” and only judges by the 
 world’s laws, is not likely to be bafiled by anything so 
 much as a straightforward, right-thinking simplicity, that, 
 turning neither to the right hand nor to the left, works 
 forward patiently and fearlessly ; seeing the shining light 
 beyond the worldling’s boundary, is guided by it, and 
 si so enabled to see all worldly things as they really are* 
 
178 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Knowing that in Elizabeth’s excited and exalted state of 
 mind she could not manage her, Mrs. Stanhope tem- 
 porized, to gain time. Moreover, she really liked Eliza- 
 beth ; her sweet, truth-telling, bright nature, inspired 
 confidence, — the confidence which the clear-sighted, how- 
 ever worldly, only feel in the good : there was no cant, 
 no double-dealing about this high-minded girl ; and much 
 to Mrs. Stanhope’s astonishment, she found herself put- 
 ting straightforward questions, and receiving straight- 
 forward replies. After Elizabeth had retired to her 
 chamber, she thought it would save a great deal of 
 trouble if every one was straightforward and truth-telling. 
 
 But then,” said the woman of the world, “ how much of 
 such talent as mine would either never exist, or exist in 
 a state of torpor ? What would become of idle women with 
 active minds, if the match-making of life was confined 
 within the narrow bounds of ^ reciprocal affection V ” She 
 yawned at the idea, and then commenced to spell over 
 the letter of one who could not spell — the despatch of 
 the ancient Miss Dodds, whose paper, “ love’s own colour,” 
 was cornered ” with cupids, and described, in strange 
 terms, that her wedding day was fixed. Much has been 
 said and much written, on the yearly female sacrifices to 
 Moloch, in this our sacrificing land ; but we have known 
 several young men bound and fettered at the same shrine, 
 whose fate deserved almost as much sympathy. Women, 
 it is said, cannot fly from domestic misery as men can ; 
 but women can turn much that might be misery into a 
 calm usefulness, that is almost happiness. Children are 
 to a mother what they never can be to a father ; and the 
 small daily occupations of the humble — the washing, and 
 stitching, and marketing, and managing ; and of the 
 higher class, the reading and visitings, and household 
 duties — in all spheres woman’s best accomjfiishments 
 — when happily aided by a strong sense of duty — 
 if they do not create domestic bliss — which can only 
 exist where two are one — certainly make home a scene 
 of contentment and quiet enjoyment, which soothes and 
 
THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 179 
 
 sanctifies. But if a young, high, and ardent-tempered 
 3nan has no love for the mistress of his house, no strong 
 affection to wile, and cheer, and soothe his hours of 
 leisure j if, on the other hand, the rich wife appreciating 
 her riches all the more, for having brought her one who, in 
 his sweet wooing, vowed he would be her slave, but whom 
 she finds, after a few months, with a will and a way of his 
 own — much what all other husbands are — and discover- 
 ing that the golden talisman when possessed loses its 
 power, she resorts to words, noise, violence of expression, 
 and the reproach which it shames one to think should 
 ever be such — the reproach of poverty — taunting him 
 •with paid debts, demanding as a right the affection he 
 never had to bestow ; what — we may well ask — what 
 can be expected as a result ? It is true the husband 
 may fly from the noise and tumult — he is in general able 
 to command means — he may drink, and game, and revel ; 
 he may forget that she is still his wife, to whom having 
 sold himself, he is, by his bond with God, bound to pro- 
 tect, irksome as the duty may be ; he may forget even 
 his children ; but he is rendering himself despicable ; — at 
 most an object of pity and contempt — a man having no 
 sanctuary. 
 
 Mother, my own beautiful mother ! you should not 
 look so well and so young ! said Edward Ofiiey, the 
 morning of his marriage, as he was about to conduct his 
 mother down to the carriage that was to convey them to 
 the bride’s house, previous to the ceremony. 
 
 “ You should not look so young, they will mistake you 
 for the bride — the bride, mother — my bride ! ” and with 
 a wild ringing laugh, and a cheek, early in the day as it was, 
 already flushed with wine, he seized his mother’s hand. 
 
 “Edward, my dear, dear son, my only support and 
 comfort!” she exclaimed, drawing back; “it will kill 
 me to see you thus — even now it is better to withdraw ; 
 anything, even death, is better than this.” 
 
 “ And so it is,” he answered ; “ but it is too late now 
 to think of that — too late ; she trusted me, she rescued 
 K 2 
 
180 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ns, and she shall have my gratitude, if she does not ask for 
 its manifestations too often ; and my respect : but no,” he 
 added, bitterly, not even that can I give her : this is worse 
 than weakness now. Come, we shall be late as it is.” 
 
 They were married ; the young, high-spirited, unloving, 
 careless, but not heartless man, and the grim, narrow- 
 minded, heartless, yet passionate woman, old enough 
 almost to be his mother, yet with all the little affectations 
 which in girlhood are as dew on flowers, but which are as 
 hard icicles upon frostbitten age. Proud of her handsome 
 husband, for whom, drawing her purse-strings tightly 
 round her narrow fingers, she already fancied she had 
 paid a price ; full of jealous apprehensions, even at the 
 altar, lest he should kiss the bridesmaids. Mrs. Stanhope 
 herself felt uncomfortable ; their union did her no credit ; 
 she knew that her office in the end was ever a thankless 
 one, but she did not care for that. She left (her task 
 accomplished) before the breakfast was half over, mut- 
 tering, It will be all the same in a hundred years ; they 
 must only rub on as others have done before them.” 
 And so they did. The bride, not satisfied with the 
 courtesy and politeness with which her husband was 
 just enough to treat her, but craving after those at- 
 tentions which the most really devoted husband often 
 forgets to pay after the first six months, in her despair 
 she flew to Mrs. Stanhope for advice ; but it w'as a 
 singular feature in that lady’s character, that how'ever 
 anxious she was as to her “ dear young friends ” before 
 marriage, she never troubled herself about them after- 
 wards, always saying they “ must get on as well as they 
 could ; that it was delicate interfering between man and 
 wife, both being sure to be right, and both being as sure 
 to be wrong.” 
 
 Mrs. Edward Ofiley hinted that the match was of her 
 friend’s making ; ” while Mrs. Stanhope retorted, that 
 if so, it was at her most earnest and continued entreaties 
 that she promoted it : and then Mrs. Edward vulgarly 
 hinted at something, of which the words valuable con- 
 
THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 181 
 
 sideration” alone were distinctly audible to any ear but 
 Mrs. Stanhope’s own. After that morning the ladies 
 met no more. 
 
 Edward paid the penalty of his early and his late 
 faults. He endeavoured to make a stand against their 
 increase. To do him justice, counselled as he was by his 
 mother, he resolved and tried to endure ; but the wearing 
 and niggardly irritations of a small mind ; the meanness, 
 the reproach, the at first causeless jealousy ; the home 
 converted into a scene of the bitterest and most stormy 
 upbraidings ; the hard — hard to bear vulgarity, combined 
 to drive him forth when he would have remained — to 
 drive him, as long as he retained sufficient wealth, 
 amongst his equals ; but after a time to sink, sink lower 
 and lower in the scale of society. The last rational tears 
 he shed were over his mother’s grave ; and if his habits 
 had permitted him to retain his senses, he might perhaps 
 have wept again to see the unfortunate woman ruined 
 also, dragging out the remaining months of her poisoned 
 existence in a forgotten lodging, while the noonday sun 
 glared upon the reeling and besotted drunkard. Onca 
 Mrs. Stanhope saw him thus ; her carriage nearly ran 
 over him ; he staggered from beneath its wheels, looked 
 up, and cursed her. Elizabeth Lechmere glided so quietly 
 out of the toils of the match-maker, that Mrs. Stanhope 
 could never understand how she escaped ; such moral 
 ‘‘ fixity of tenure” was incomprehensible to the woman 
 who “ knew the world ” without having made acquaint- 
 ance with any one of its virtues. When Mrs. Stan- 
 hope declined to assist her in finding a situation, she 
 found one for herself, and the baffied match-maker sighed 
 forth that her sweet Elizabeth had gone to the country 
 from ill health. She had, of course, the ordinary wear 
 and tear ” and trial to undergo ; to fag late and early ; 
 to continue the least observed but most useful in the 
 drawing-room ; extorting slowly and coldly the meed of 
 praise which she knew she deserved, but never looked 
 for. 
 
182 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Cheered to the performance of most trying duties, 
 because of the reward of an approving conscience, she 
 had long worked out” the affection which was em- 
 bittered more by a painful and almost degraded sense of 
 the unworthiness of its object than by any other circum- 
 stance ; and in a few years she married ; Mrs. Stanhope 
 would have said badly,” which she considered every 
 handsome, well-educated woman did, who wedded less 
 than a thousand a year. Elizabeth, however, does not 
 think so. Those who delight to imagine the unbroken, 
 undying nature of “ first love,” will be disappointed to 
 hear that Elizabeth is perfectly happy, beloved as she 
 deserves to be, and loving as if she had never loved 
 before — the happy wife of a good man, and the honoured 
 mother of children. Mrs. Stanhope’s popularity has gone 
 off considerably since her advancing years have kept her 
 so much at home ; you seldom, if ever, meet at her soirees 
 any whose lot in life she cast ; indeed, the few who, per- 
 chance, are happy, would not care to be reminded that 
 theirs was a Stanhope match.” Mothers, and those inte- 
 rested in the disposal of families, arrange their affairs in 
 the match-making way better than they used. The 
 number of women ^^who know the world” has much 
 increased during the last twenty years, though few have 
 the ease, the grace, the gentle and peculiar art, which the 
 match-maker almost exclusively possessed. She never, 
 even now, wishes to hear of births or deaths, but the 
 marriages are read to her every morning ; she still con- 
 siders ‘‘domestic happiness a vulgar error;” and yet, 
 kind reader, if you knew her as well as I do, you would 
 pity her who never pitied others ; her active, intriguing 
 mind has no longer power to move either her own un- 
 wieldy form or to draw others within her circle ; her 
 powers of conversation are impaired by paralysis. And 
 yet her desire for society, for distinction — for notoriety in 
 match-making, in fact, — are as great as ever. Let people 
 be as w^orldly-minded as possible ; let them plot and plan ; 
 let them shut down, shut tight ; let avarice, or disdain, or 
 
THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 183 
 
 pride screw up their hearts to the uttermost ; as age 
 advances, the tightness relaxes, the screws loosen, — then 
 c.omes a sickly, palsied longing for affection, when there 
 is none to have or to give. 
 
 The vaunted “ knowledge of the world ” is a fiend-like 
 companion to a sick bed, watching, and prying, and un- 
 trusting. She accuses the world largely and roundly 
 of ingratitude, as all do by whom its gratitude has not 
 been earned. 
 
 She never gave her sympathy, and yet now she asks 
 for sympathy, not indeed with words, but with dim eyes, 
 and palsied hands, and panting breath. Some there are 
 who still talk of “ poor Mrs. Stanhope,” and say what a 
 ladylike, pleasant woman she was once ! ” adding, with a 
 sigh, she was an admirable Match-maker ! ” 
 
184 
 
 WORDS AND DEEDS! 
 
 I CANNOT express how deeply I feel obliged to you. 
 I shall never forget it. Now look, my good fellow, you 
 have only to tell me v/hat you want, and it shall be pro- 
 cured.” 
 
 When Charles Cherry had concluded this speech, he 
 shook most cordially by the hand the humble-looking 
 youth to whom it was addressed ; and turning to the 
 friend who was by his side, exclaimed, with all the ardour 
 of his nature, “ Here, Richard ! Why, Dick Raymond, 
 have you no kind word to give James Hodges ? But for 
 James, I should have been food for fishes by this time.” 
 Master Richard,” replied the young farmer — and 
 when he spoke his face lit up with a grateful expression 
 that illumined his heaviness into something like beauty — 
 Master Richard has already done more for me than I 
 had any right to expect.” 
 
 Charles Cherry bit his lip, and his cheek flushed. I 
 wish I was rich, James,” he said rapidly. “I wish I had 
 a hundred pounds to give you ; but, depend upon it, I 
 shall never forget you. Whatever you want, let me 
 know, that’s all. I’ll get you a situation.” 
 
 That, indeed, sir,” answered James, ‘‘would be the 
 making of me. I have no taste for farming ; and if I 
 could get any situation, I would indeed — ” 
 
 The earnestness and emotion of the youth overcame 
 him : he could not finish the sentence. Charles Cherry 
 again seized his hand, and assured him he never could do 
 enough to repay him. He ran over the names of great 
 men who were under obligations to his father, and who 
 would consequently be ready to oblige him. James was 
 
WORDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 185 
 
 in ecstacy as Charles numbered the fine lords and ladies 
 who would be delighted to serve him ; meanwhile young 
 [Raymond stood by with a serious aspect. I think,” he 
 said at last, “ that our new friend had better, for the 
 . present, persevere in his farming ; situations are difficult 
 to obtain ; and he owes a great deal to his father, which, 
 his attention alone can repay ; and — ” Whatever he 
 would have added was prevented by his companion, who 
 stopped him with an exclamation of impatience — a 
 reminder of the great power his own father possessed, and 
 all the situations that had been offered him for his friends 
 at different times by half the peerage. 
 
 “ But your brother has not yet got his commission,” 
 suggested the thoughtful Richard. 
 
 That is altogether another thing,” replied Charles ; 
 but there is no use in talking to you ; you are so matter 
 of fact. Rely on my ^ words, ^ J ames, your situation is as 
 certain as if you held the appointment this moment in 
 your hand.” 
 
 The youth thanked him with smiles and almost tears. 
 The gentlemen, one of whom had narrowly escaped being 
 drowned through the bravery and strength of the young 
 farmer, resumed their clothes, which had been carefully 
 dried, and bidding good night to the cottagers who had 
 sheltered them after their wetting, were accompanied to 
 the carriage — which Raymond’s father had sent — by 
 J ames Hodges, who saw them drive off with all the feelings 
 incident to a new state of existence. A sudden hope had 
 burst upon him. He had never been, as he truly said, 
 fond of farming, but had reconciled himself to it so as to 
 be of great service to his family j and as his father was 
 growing old, and he the eldest of the children, J ames was 
 already of no small importance in his little circle. Richard 
 Raymond was the son of a landed gentleman in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and his friend Charles Cherry was now spend- 
 ing with him the Oxford vacation. They had been out 
 shooting ; and as Charles was in the act of crossing a deep 
 and rapid stream, he had fallen in, and was instantly 
 
186 
 
 WOEDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 borne down the current. His friend was already in the 
 water, determined, if possible, to save him, when James 
 Hodges, who was watering some horses at the bend of the 
 river, dashed forward, and in a moment rescued Charles 
 from his perilous situation. Thus one of the two 
 gentlemen became a heavy debtor to the young farmer. 
 
 Although very dissimilar in character Eaymond and 
 Cherry were much attached to each other. Eichard was 
 thoughtful, steady, and persevering, never asserting any- 
 thing until assured of its truth, and more prone to give 
 than to promise, feeling that a promise is a debt which 
 holds the promiser in thrall until it be discharged. Charles 
 was gay and cheerful, and would have been generous, but 
 unfortunately he never managed to husband his resources 
 so as to have anything he could legally call his own to be 
 generous with. He was quick and brilliant in conversa- 
 tion ; and though not more than nineteen, had acquired 
 the undefined reputation of a capital fellow.” His words 
 were more abundant than his deeds — not that he was ever 
 guilty of a wilful falsehood, but he was careless enough to 
 deceive himself both as to his powers and his resources. 
 His friend once told him he might go through the 
 world with his eyes shut if he pleased, but that he had no 
 right to lead others astray. Charles was displeased with 
 him for such plain speaking as long as he could be dis- 
 pleased with any one ; for, truth to tell, he quickly forgot 
 and forgave, however angry he might have been at the 
 moment. 
 
 “ What a capital manager you are, Eichard,” he 
 exclaimed to his friend, as the carriage rolled towards 
 Eaymond Lodge ; “ you always contrive to have money.” 
 
 ‘‘ My allowance is less than yours though, Charles.” 
 
 But yours is punctually paid,” was the reply. My 
 father is seldom punctual, though he promises he will be ; 
 and then I promise others — and so-on. I was quite 
 ashamed of not having a guinea to give that fine fellow at 
 once, for you had no right to give him anything ; but 
 I will certainly get him an appointment.” 
 
WORDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 187 
 
 ^‘1 wish,” observed his frieod, — I wish with all my 
 heart you had not told him so : it will unsettle him quite, 
 and the chances are ten to one against your being able 
 to keep your word. You might have endeavoured to 
 obtain a situation for him, and if you succeeded, well and 
 good.” 
 
 How you throw cold water over everything, Eichard,” 
 interrupted his mercurial companion. What other way 
 had I of repaying my obligation to the poor fellow^ who 
 saved my life ? ” 
 
 Now, Charles,” said his friend, do not get into a pet. 
 I do not want to steep your deeds in cold water, only your 
 words ; but it is a duty not to mislead — not to promise 
 unless you are certain you can perform.” 
 
 But I am certain,” said Charles vehemently ; I tell 
 you I am certain. Do you think my father would refuse 
 anything to him who saved my life ? ” 
 
 Anything he could obtain,” observed Bichard in his 
 usual quiet voice. 
 
 Psha ! do you mean to say that my father, with all his 
 high connexions and great friends, could not obtain a 
 situation of one or tv/o hundred a-year in the excise or 
 post-office, or some of those places, if he were to ask it ? 
 Why, he could with as much ease and certainty as I draw 
 on this glove.” He proceeded to illustrate his theory by 
 drawing on the glove ; probably the leather had become 
 damp j but from whatever cause it was, it tore right 
 across. 
 
 “ I fear a too apt illustration,” said young Baymond, 
 laughing rather maliciously ; upon which Charles Cherry 
 flung himself into the corner of the carriage, so as to 
 shake the springs. Beally, Baymond, you are too bad,” 
 he exclaimed. “You would check all generous feeling.” 
 
 “ You do not mean that — you only mean that I prefer 
 ^ deeds to words.’ ” 
 
 “ I hate musty aphorisms,” grumbled Charles. 
 
 “ I like them ; they are short cuts to highways,” said 
 Bichard — and then commenced a long silence. 
 
188 
 
 WORDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 At last Charles said, “ Do you mean that I shall be 
 ungrateful enough to forget this poor fellow, and to break 
 my word 
 
 “I mean, Charley, that you will not only remember 
 his bravery, but do your best to reward it ; but I doubt 
 your power, and I regret that you have disturbed his 
 mind by the introduction of a hope which may render him 
 unfit for his daily labour.” 
 
 ‘^We shall see,” answered Charles Cherry; “we shall 
 see.” 
 
 It was a bright moonlight night when the young men 
 sprang into the hall of Raymond Lodge, where they 
 received the congratulations of their friends and relatives, 
 and Charles won all hearts by his glowing account of the 
 presence of mind and bravery of the young farmer, who 
 had risked his life for his preservation. The moon, as I 
 have said, was in the glory of its harvest fulness — a bright 
 beautiful moon — and many of the gay party were grouped 
 in the windows looking out upon its beams, and admiring 
 the effect of the mild, chastened light upon the landscape. 
 Some five miles away from that brilliant room, James 
 Hodges, leaning upon the gate which led to his father’s 
 farm-yard, was meditating neither on the moon, nor the 
 landscape, nor the stacking nor ploughing, but on the 
 promise made him that afternoon by the young Oxonian 
 who knew so many fine people — and also of a certain 
 Jessie G-ray ; for during the last five months whatever 
 James thought of, Jessie was sure to form the fore- 
 ground, the most important portion of the picture his 
 imagination produced. Nor was this surprising, if the 
 beauty and gentleness of Jessie Gray are taken into con- 
 sideration. James thought it was a very singular thing 
 that the only man in the parish who seemed insensible to 
 Jessie’s charms should be his own father. Everybody 
 had a good word for Jessie except Mr. Hodges ; he 
 became afflicted with an incurable deafness whenever she 
 was praised. He told James once that Jessie was too 
 poor and too proud for a farmer’s wife, and James- 
 
WORDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 189 
 
 ventured to tell him that he knew nothing whatever of 
 Jessie Gray. Now James meditated on his change of 
 fortune, for he never doubted, from the manner as well as 
 the matter of Charles Cherry’s words, that the appoint- 
 ment was as certain as the fact that a lovely harvest 
 moon was shedding its beams on Jessie’s lattice : he 
 thought he could not do better than impart the good 
 news to his gentle sweetheart, and instantly set forward 
 through meadow and tangled copse to the humble but 
 neat cottage where she lived with a widowed mother. 
 When he entered, poor Jessie was in tears, and the widow 
 received him coldly : she told him she had met his father 
 by chance that morning, and he had spoken his disappro- 
 bation of his son’s acquaintance with her daughter so 
 frankly, that she had resolved his next visit should be his 
 last. 
 
 And do you, Jessie,” inquired the young man, “con- 
 sent to this ? ” J essie only wept the more, while her 
 mother continued talking of her daughter’s being too 
 good to be “ smuggled ” into Farmer Hodges’s family ; and 
 boasted that her own father’s relations had a carriage to 
 step into when those of other people walked a-foot. 
 
 “ There is no need of such talk, mother dear,” said 
 Jessie at last, going to the table upon which James had 
 rested his hands, and then hid his face within their 
 palms ; “ there is no need of any such talk. James is far 
 above me in the world, and I ought to have known it 
 before ; but I suppose being made more of than I deserve 
 to be, put me past thinking it, though I see it now. I 
 will never be the one to encourage him to do anything 
 opposed to his father’s wishes, for I have no means of 
 securing him from the poverty into which his father’s dis- 
 pleasure would plunge him ; and so, James, may God 
 bless you, and may you be happy — as you will be here- 
 after — with some one more suited to your station, and as 
 much to your heart as I was ; for I believe you loved me 
 — you said so, and you proved so, and to my latest day I 
 will never forget it.” And the poor girl meant all she 
 
190 
 
 WOEBS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 said, and felt at that moment as if the world and ali 
 therein was dead to her for ever. 
 
 Look, Jessie ! ” exclaimed James, striking the table 
 with his clenched hand — a species of rustic illustrative 
 eloquence to which he was addicted when strongly moved 
 — “ father may do and say what he pleases, but I’m not 
 going to remain with him — I’m not going to continue 
 clod-hopping all my days. I shall have a situation, Jessie ; 
 and when I’m independent of him, you will not say me 
 ^ no.’ When you are my wife, he cannot but love you. 
 He was right in a thing he said once — you are not fit for 
 a farmer’s wife, but you shall be the wife of a gentleman ! ” 
 and James v/as so excited between joy at the promise, 
 and anger at his father, and the vision of Jessie in a silk 
 gown, that he clasped her in his arms, and kissed away 
 the tears which lingered on her cheek. Mrs. Gray, how- 
 ever, said this was very wrong, for that his father was 
 still his father ; ” and Jessie observed that was very true, 
 and the idea of his ever being a gentleman was quite as 
 absurd as of her being a lady ; that such could never be, 
 as ladies and gentlemen must be born so. And James 
 replied that such might have been the case long ago, but 
 was not so now, as the world was improved. A great 
 deal was said by Mrs. Gray and James ; the former at 
 one moment agreeing with the latter, then returning to 
 her text, and declaring her daughter never should be con* 
 sidered an intruder ; while J ames, in the wildness of de- 
 light at his prospects, and displeasure with his father, 
 almost terrified them by his vehemence. Jessie continued 
 placid and thoughtful, and at last James accused her of 
 coldness and indifference j and then she cried again, and 
 he begged her pardon ; and when he took his departure, 
 he left her with a disturbed and bewildered mind ; while 
 on his part he resolved to tell his father he was deter- 
 mined to give up farming and devote his time, previous 
 to his obtaining his situation, to the improvement of his 
 mind, so that he might be the more fitted to enter the 
 office he was to hold. 
 
WORDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 191 
 
 He put this resolve into practice the next morning in 
 the presence of both parents. The farmer, who was 
 going to the uplands, resumed his seat, and his mother, 
 taking off the spectacles she had just put on, held them 
 between fingers that were trembling with emotion. ‘‘Is 
 it an exciseman or a postman you are to be, James, or a 
 porter in livery at an office door to tend twenty masters ^ 
 inquired his father, sarcastically; “and is it for such a 
 prospect }mu would give up the thought of being — when 
 I am laid under the shadow of the old yew tree, whose 
 branches cover near two score of our name — is it for sucli 
 a prospect you give up — more than the chance — the cer- 
 tainty of being what I am ^ ” 
 
 “ You’d never let me be what you are, father,” an- 
 swered J ames, rather sulkily, “ for you’d never let me be 
 married.” 
 
 “ Oh ! ” exclaimed the farmer, “ sits the wind in that 
 quarter'? I told you once before I thought Jessie Gray 
 too poor and too proud for a farmer’s wife. I say so still. 
 We are eleven in family : if a young wife is immediately 
 added to us before your brothers and sisters are grown^ 
 there will be more than the land can support.” 
 
 “ Jessie has never been too proud to work, father,” said 
 James. 
 
 “ Her mother provoked me to declare more than I in- 
 tended this morning, with some of her family absurdities,” 
 continued the farmer ; “ but I’ll not say what, in a few 
 years — when you are older and wiser — if you continue to 
 love her, and she proves herself industrious, what I might 
 do ; though, certainly, a wish to leave me just as you are 
 come to the strength of manhood, and I am falling into 
 years, is not the way to make either your mother or my- 
 self anxious to gratify you.” 
 
 “ I never liked farming, father — never was suited for 
 it. My brother will soon be able to take my place, and 
 you are as hale and hearty as ever.” 
 
 “We ought to like our duties, James,” answered the 
 old man; “and we can suit ourselves to the station we 
 
192 
 
 WORDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 have been brought up in, if we like. Your brother is 
 ten years younger than you ; and well you know I am 
 not as hale and hearty as I was. But that is not all. I 
 do not ask you to look at your mother, whose tears are 
 rolling down her face at the idea of your leaving us ; but 
 I ask you to remember how unlikely it is that the young 
 gentleman should be able to perform his promise. And 
 even if he were, there is a great deal of difference be- 
 tween the plenty and health of an English farm-house, 
 and the economy and sickliness of a town lodging, with 
 fifty or sixty pounds a-year to starve upon.” 
 
 Fifty or sixty pounds a-year ! ” repeated James, in a 
 scornful tone. My dear father, the gentleman said he 
 would get me anything I pleased to ask, no matter what 
 it was.” 
 
 Well, boy, think well over it before you do anything; 
 you never had any talent for study, and even now Edward 
 writes a better hand than you. Think of the future ; the 
 farm needs even more hands than our own, and if you 
 leave, I must intrust to a stranger what I thought my son 
 would care for : so think over it well, James.” 
 
 The farmer left the house, and the dame shed many 
 tears alone. James now loitered over his work, and 
 Jessie became idle, not from intention but abstraction — 
 — divided between the wise resolve to break off an engage- 
 ment which her lover’s father would not sanction, and the 
 new* sprung hope that James would soon be in a position 
 to reconcile his father to anything he pleased. 
 
 Thus the large farm and the small cottage were dis- 
 turbed. In the meantime Charles Cherry was not 
 unmindful of his promise. Tie wrote by the next day’s 
 post to his father — a gentleman of high rank but slen- 
 der means — stating James Hodges’s heroism, and his 
 desire to procure him a situation. He thought it was 
 better not to say he had promised one, as his father 
 might be displeased. He rode to the farm and told James 
 what he had done in his usual glowing language, which 
 confirmed the young man in his distaste for his occupa- 
 
WOKDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 193 
 
 tion, and in his resolve to “ be a gentleman.” He cer- 
 tainly applied himself to his pen, and paid more attention 
 to his education than he had ever done belore ; but tlie 
 pliant days of youth were past, and he had never been 
 quick of apprehension. Instead of continuing the zealous 
 help to his father which the old man hoped for, he became 
 listless and inattentive, setting a bad example to the 
 younger portion of his family and to the labourers, and 
 affecting the bearing and airs of a gentleman. 
 
 Perfectly unconscious of the mischief which had arisen 
 from his incautious promise, Charles Cherry continued at 
 Oxford gay, buoyant, and happy ; for a time the soul of a 
 society which, notwithstanding his wit and popularity, 
 had begun to look upon his words with doubt. He was 
 one of the richest fellows, in promises, in his particular 
 college ; there were few things he would not promise to 
 do for every one. His ready tact assisted him out of 
 many a thoughtless engagement, but one or two of his 
 excuses were so shallow that they got talked of and then 
 laughed at by his companions ; and when once a clever 
 fellow ” and a ‘‘ witty fellow ” gets laughed at, be sure his 
 popularity is on the wane ; the jester is the last person to 
 endure a jest. 
 
 Among others, he one morning received a letter from 
 James Hodges, written in his best style and best hand, 
 reminding him of his promise, telling him how glad he 
 would be of the situation, as his father and he had totally 
 disagreed, and urging most strongly upon him the per- 
 formance of what, though not unwilling to perform, he 
 had quite forgotten. If he could have seen, even in this 
 single instance, the results of his well-intended but most 
 ill-advised words, they might have prevented the continu- 
 ance of a habit so largely at war with the truth and 
 peace of society. Jessie’s mother had died suddenly, and 
 James, finding that a relative in a distant part of the 
 country wished her to reside with them, had prevailed 
 upon her, broken-hearted and alone in the world as she 
 was, at once to unite her fate with his. The old farmer, 
 
 o 
 
194 
 
 WORDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 already provoked by liis inattentive conduct, became so 
 angry at what he considered the duplicity of a private 
 marriage — unauthorised as it was, for both were under 
 age — that he drove his son from beneath his roof ; in 
 this extremity James applied to Charles Cherry, whose 
 promise, on which he still imjDlicitly relied, had been the 
 origin of his unsettled state of mind, making him discon- 
 tented with an occupation, which, though his natural 
 indolence made him sometimes think irksome, he would 
 have been more than content to follow. 
 
 Charles, despite his unfortunate habit, was kind and 
 generous when under the impulse of feeling ; and his face 
 flushed with self-reproach while he remembered he had 
 never given aught but words in return for the service he 
 had received. He drew out his purse ; it contained five 
 pounds. If every one had been ten, he could not have 
 kept all the promises of payment he had made through 
 the Aveek — and it was only Wednesday ! Besides, he 
 thought that obtaining for James a situation would do 
 him far more good than sending him a “ paltry five 
 pounds.” Under ordinary circumstances, the letter, like 
 many others, would have been thrown on one side, but 
 his conscience pricked him even to pain; and he replied 
 that in three months Parliament would meet, his father 
 and himself would be in London, and that, Avhen on the 
 spot, he would put matters in such a train that he (James 
 Hodges) would be certain to obtain what had been pro- 
 mised. He did more. With the same pen he also wrote 
 to his father, soliciting certain alloAvances which he had 
 been expecting, concluding with a P.S. that he earnestly 
 hoped his father would remember that he had said he 
 would look out a situation for the fine fellow who had 
 saved his life, and to whom he had been able, as yet, to 
 offer nothing but thanks. 
 
 To this letter he received, in due time, a reply — also 
 in a P.S. — that he was Avorn out by the words of the 
 people at the War Office, for that his brother had not yet 
 got his commission; and that he ought to have managed 
 
WORDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 195 
 
 to do something at once for the farmer himself, and not 
 palmed ” the person upon him. Both father and son 
 had the same “ promising ” quality, and yet were severe in 
 their censures upon each other; for each suffered from the 
 other’s fault. 
 
 Charles Cherry and Bichard Eaymond were not as 
 constantly together as they had been in the days of their 
 earlier acquaintance. Bichard’s steady forethought, his 
 deeds without words, were perpetual reproofs to the careless 
 and brilliant Charles. And he grieved so much at the un- 
 dermining of Charles’s reputation, even amongst those who 
 laughed most loudly at his wit, that both young men 
 rather avoided than sought each other’s company. Young 
 Baymond, however, had not lost sight of James; he heard 
 of his discontent and subsequently of his having so seriously 
 displeased his father ; but a conversation he held with 
 him led to the conviction that, until he had practical 
 proof of the fallacy of mere words, his mind had become 
 too unsettled to return to his former labour, or indeed to 
 do anything but dream of the future. 
 
 Three or four months had passed since James Hodges 
 had heard from Mr. Charles Cherry. The London season 
 had filled the streets with its usual throng of idleness and 
 occupation, and the Park — for fashionables only recognise 
 the existence of one, except on levee and drawing-room 
 days — was full and gay. 
 
 How do you expect a gentleman to be at home at this 
 hour of the afternoon ? ” inquired a servant of a young 
 man who had anxiously asked for his young master; 
 “ surely every gentleman at this time of day is either in 
 the Park or at his club.” 
 
 When I called in the morning, you said he was not 
 up,” said the stranger. 
 
 « Why, of course. How could you fancy Mr. Charles 
 could be up at ten o’clock h ” 
 
 What time this evening will he be at home ? ” 
 
 “Ho time at all,” he replied rudely. 
 
 “ Did you tell him my name — James Hodges 
 
 o 2 
 
196 
 
 WORDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 Of course I did, if you left it;” adding, in a muttering 
 voice, “ all you seem to have to leave.” And then he 
 banged the door. 
 
 James became deadly pale, and leaned against a pillar 
 of the stately porch : My God ! ” he said unconsciously, 
 
 is it possible that all his words go for nothing h ” 
 
 ^^What else would they go for*?” exclaimed a thin 
 sharp-eyed sharp-featured man in a thread-bare suit of 
 rusty black, who had, unperceived by James, been standing 
 behind him during his brief conversation with the foot- 
 man. What else do you expect his words or any of their 
 words to go for, but for nothing ? Sell them for nothing, 
 and you are a loser — you lose your time. I have been starv- 
 ing upon the elder man’s words of promise these ten years, 
 and I know they will never be fulfilled ; and yet I come 
 here every season to hear them repeated — just as a child 
 runs after a bubble : it knows it can’t catch it, and yet 
 it runs. It has grown a custom with me to knock at this 
 door, though I am not let in ; but I catch him sometimes, 
 and while he speaks I think he means to do — his tone is 
 so gentle, and his words are so honeyed ; they used to reach 
 my heart once, though now they go no further than my 
 ear. Still my ear desires to hear them, and so I come ; 
 the very knocker knows me, and lies close ; but it is an 
 evil habit, and you are young enough to get rid of it. I 
 thought I rendered service to more than he, and have 
 been repaid by words — led into a fool’s paradise by words, 
 and led out of it by starvation ; that’s what poor place- 
 hunters come to — that’s what poor place-hunters come 
 to!” he repeated, and ran down the steps, James thought, 
 like one half- crazed. 
 
 Sadly and moodily James Hodges sought to retrace his 
 way. That morning he had — though breakfastless and 
 penniless — bounded up those steps as certain of a kind 
 reception and immediate aid as man could be ; now he 
 literally crept down them trembling with despair. He 
 had expended the last pound which the affection of his 
 mother bestowed, in bringing himself and his young wife 
 to London, knowing that, according to Charles Cherry’s 
 
WORDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 197 
 
 letter, Parliament had met, and all the great people 
 were in town together. The real truth never flashed 
 upon him, that neither Charles nor his father had suffi- 
 cient power to obtain the smallest situation for him who 
 had cast away his birthright, and drawn into his destiny 
 a young and helpless girl, from faith in a promise. 
 
 “ If,” thought James, “ what I have heard is true, I am 
 utterly ruined. And Jessie, whose determination I over- 
 came — who might have been in comfort with a relation, 
 she too — she will be starving in another day.” The 
 thought was too horrible to endure; but youth is sanguine, 
 and it was followed by one of comfort. “ I asked nothing 
 from him ; I made no request. Surely he would not 
 wantonly destroy him who had just saved his life.” This 
 assurance he repeated over and over again to himself, and 
 it enabled him to meet the warm inquiring smile that 
 greeted his return with something like self-possession. 
 
 A few days after James’s fruitless visit to the great 
 man’s door, Charles Cherry called upon Pichard Paymond, 
 who was keeping his terms in the Temple. After a few 
 introductory sentences, “You remember when I was down 
 with you at Paymond Lodge 
 
 “ I cannot surely forget it,” said Pichard, bowing 
 slightly over the great law book he had been reading. 
 “You remember the little accident I had ?” 
 
 “Yes ; but you did not think it little then. However, 
 it is some eighteen or twenty months ago,” replied Pichard 
 drily. 
 
 “ And you remember J ames Hodges, your father’s 
 tenant’s son?” 
 
 “ Oh, surely ; he who behaved with so much bravery.” 
 “ Capitally — very kindly indeed,” said Charles, rather 
 hesitatingly; “but I think you could hardly call it 
 ‘bravery ;’ for, if you remember, he had a horse — he was 
 on horseback — and it was the horse which swam to us.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, I remember all about it ; but I only repeated 
 your own words — eighteen months ago.” 
 
198 
 
 WORDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 Your tone is not kindly, Raymond,” said Charles ; 
 “ and I remember you thought my promises were made 
 too thoughtlessly. I fear you were right. I did indeed 
 mean to provide for him ; but my father has not done as I 
 wished, and I can’t at present do anything for him ; and 
 the worst of it is, he has come to London.” 
 
 I knew he had quarrelled with his father, and married,” 
 said Richard. 
 
 Yes, foolish fellow; and all (he says) relying on my 
 word. Was there anything ever so absurd 
 
 “As relying on your word !” said Richard. Charles 
 Cherry’s face flushed. 
 
 “ Richard Raymond,” he replied, “ if you want to 
 quarrel, do, and I will quarrel with you ; but do not taunt 
 me with what I cannot help now. I am sorry I misled 
 this young man ; and more than sorry that I have not 
 the means of doing for him what I ought. I am guinea- 
 less as ever.” 
 
 In the early days of the young men’s friendship, the 
 frank smile and this frank avowal would have made 
 Richard open his purse at once to his friend, but he had 
 learnt to consider impulses as valueless which produced no 
 effect. He, therefore, simply remarked that he did not 
 wish to quarrel with him ; though perhaps the knowledge 
 of how much James’s family had suffered from his late 
 waywardness, and its cause, had rendered him more severe 
 than he intended ; that he foresaw at the time the dan- 
 ger, and warned him of it — but there he paused, for he 
 did not like to enter farther upon what could not then be 
 remedied. Charles Cherry began to justify himself, de- 
 claring the kindness of his intentions and the absurdity 
 of the young farmer’s coming to town expecting that a 
 situation would be ready for him at once. Richard con- 
 tinued nearly silent, until Charles asked him if there was 
 no cottage or small quantity of land his father could let 
 James have ; or could he use his influence to reconcile 
 him to his father 
 
WOUDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 199 
 
 “ I,” lie replied, can enter into no engagements for 
 otliers.” Tlie tone of liis voice, and the severe expression 
 of countenance wliicli accompanied these few words, 
 obliged Charles Cherry to take his hat, leaving the cham- 
 bers of a man he was compelled to respect with the de- 
 grading knowledge that the feeling could not be mutual. 
 
 “Leave me,” said Richard, “James’s address.” Charles 
 tore it off a letter and gave it him. “ You will then do 
 something for the poor fellow?” he inquired. 
 
 “ I really,” he replied, “ wonder how you can ask me 
 such a question.” 
 
 “We are not likely to meet again,” said Charles, with 
 unfeigned emotion. 
 
 “ I do not thiuk we are,” answered Richard ; “ our 
 thoughts, and feelings, and habits — to use a term of my 
 new profession, ^practice — would not agree. You re- 
 
 member, Charles, ^ deeds not words’ — the only habit for 
 our own peace and the peace of others — you will think so 
 yet, believe me.” They parted. 
 
 “ What a splendid horse and cab he drives,” said 
 Richard to himself, “ and yet he can spare nothing from 
 those luxuries to do an act of justice — to afford to keep 
 his word.” 
 
 The embryo lawyer pondered for a few minutes, and 
 looked at the address which he held in his hand. It was 
 that of a miserable back lane in Chelsea. He turned the 
 paper over. “ I have sold all my clothes, and have had 
 
 no food for the rest was torn away. He looked 
 
 at the date which was with the address. It was the 15th, 
 and that was the l7th. He dressed himself quickly, and 
 having directed the servant to hire a hack cab, told the 
 man to drive to Chelsea. It v/as a fine clear day. Pass- 
 ing the Athenaeum, he saw Charles laughing on the steps 
 with a few of those whom the world honours ; some justly, 
 others unjustly, as the case may be. He recalled, with 
 the rapidity of thought, the days of his boyhood, when he 
 used first to go hunting, then fisliing, then shooting ; 
 
200 
 
 WORDS AND DEEDS ! 
 
 and there were few excursions which were not in some 
 way connected with James Hodges — good-natured James, 
 always ready to oblige, and believing that others were as 
 kindly as himself. He thought of him on the breezy 
 uplands — by the side of the streams — under shelter of the 
 wide-spreading trees — cheerful beside the rude plenty of 
 his father’s board, and warmed by his mother’s love. 
 How — he called to the man to drive faster. At last 
 alighting, he found his way through a dirty little court, 
 swarming with children. He asked for the object of his 
 generous and unostentatious solicitude. 
 
 If you’re the gentleman he expected,” said a ragged 
 woman, I wish you had come sooner. He could bear his 
 troubles no longer, though” added the wretched creature, 
 ‘H don’t see what he or she was either, that they should give 
 themselves airs, and not bear what we all bear day after 
 day. He was mighty upstart in his way.” 
 
 He tried to drown himself last night, sir,” interposed a 
 man, who seemed to possess more feeling ; and would 
 have succeeded but for his poor young wife, who, think- 
 ing his mind was straying, watched him close. The 
 police have charge of him now.” 
 
 Poor James ! His true friend having got upon his 
 track, he was saved — saved to return to the country 
 a wiser and a humbler man. Pickard’s father did find 
 him a cottage and some land, without promising to do 
 either, and want and its agonies were driven from him 
 and his — and yet the poor fellow’s cup of suffering was 
 not full j a neat headstone was, within a year, raised 
 beneath the old yew-tree, recording that Jessie, the wife 
 of James Hodges, died in the thirteenth month of her 
 marriage, lamented by the husband who owed her his 
 life. 
 
 Charles Cherry’s career was that of a man who, losing 
 his self-respect, is sure to lose the respect of others. From 
 thirty to five-and-thirty he was a diner out ; then he was 
 seldom found at the tables of married men ; then, until 
 
WORDS AND DEEDS I 
 
 201 
 
 about forty-five, be was a wit at tbe clubs, degenerating 
 by degrees into a lying humourist. Of late he is seldom 
 seen, and no one seems exactly to know how he lives, for 
 he has neither character nor credit. 
 
 Eichard Eaymond has been for some time serjeant-at- 
 law, and held in universal respect ; his practice ever 
 agreeing with his precept — a man of Deeds, not Words. 
 
202 
 
 ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 There was nothing particular about the Widow Doyle 
 and her daughter, except the clear-sighted good sense of 
 the one, and the fresh rustic beauty, and loving, womanly 
 heart of the other. “ Clear-sighted good sense ” — looking 
 steadily at one side of a question and then at the other 
 — thinking and reflecting, and then judging, and acting 
 on that judgment — are certainly not attributes of Irish 
 character ; but none, even in days (happily past) of ex- 
 cusable, however lamentable, unpopularity for Ireland, 
 could deny the loving, womanly nature of the Irish 
 maiden — ^be she of Celtic or Saxon ancestry. 
 
 While her companions would pass, as peasants usually 
 do, the most picturesque and beautiful spots in the 
 lovely neighbourhood, close by her mother’s farm, and 
 feel no interest in their beauty, Ellen would look and 
 linger and wonder if other lands, more rich and prosper- 
 ous, were as fair to look upon as her own, and feel more 
 than a gossiping interest in the legends and tales which 
 tradition had chained to the woods and waterfalls. She 
 had received sufficient instruction to render her alive to 
 whatever bore the semblance of information, but not 
 enough to enable her to discriminate between the real 
 and the unreal. Of course, she had a lover ; — nay, lovers 
 plenty and to spare ; “ more,” as she said herself, “ than 
 was good of them.” Some, who had a sharp eye to the 
 long lease of the widow’s farm ; others, who thought Ellen 
 could not refuse the prospect of a jaunting car to take her 
 to church on Sunday — for though a Doyle, she was a 
 Protestant, — others, again, who loved and admired her 
 
ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 203 
 
 for lierself, and cared comparatively little for tlie pro- 
 spect of her being heiress apparent to the pretty cottage, 
 the four cows and their accompaniments of pigs and 
 poultry, crowned by “ the bit of land ” of twenty a.cres. 
 The widow, soon after her husband’s death, resigned h^lf 
 the farm she then held to her landlord ; as she told him 
 frankly — She and the land would run to ruin, if she 
 held it on ; but she knew (if the Lord spared the crops 
 and the few cattle) she could manage the rest, and rear 
 her little girl decently in the knowledge and love of 
 God!” 
 
 The past time of death and starvation had injured 
 Mrs. Doyle, as it did every one, more or less. She did 
 not feel it as bitterly as many because she had some 
 money in the savings-bank, and was thrifty as well as 
 charitable ; but she suffered deeply, notwithstanding, — 
 suffered in feeling, and in the self-sacrifices she felt called 
 upon, as a Christian woman, to make for those around 
 her in their time of need, no matter whether they de- 
 served it or not. The Lord,” she would say to “ a hard 
 man to the poor,” — a near neighbour, who was called “ a 
 black Orangeman,” and who was as violent against 
 Papists ” as Papists ” could be against him, — The 
 
 Lord never told us what our neighbours might do for us, 
 but He told us what we must do for them. ISTothing can 
 be stronger than His command, — ‘ If thine enemy hun- 
 ger, feed him ; ’ that’s what I look to. I know that day 
 after day I forsake the straight path, and somehow get 
 into the crooked ; and yet I don’t look to be a castaway 
 for that ; I look to be forgiven. I commit this and that 
 sin with my eyes open, knowing the differ ; they fall 
 into sin through the darkness they are born, bre^ and 
 reared in j but even that has nothing to do with it. 
 Year after year we are called to help missions in foreign 
 parts, and I read in the papers of money collected for far 
 away misfortunes — burnings or earthquakes — in lands 
 whose names Ellen can hardly make out j and all is done 
 as it ought to be. Sure, then, Mr. Pankin, it’s not the 
 
204 
 
 ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 starvation at our own doors we’d turn from, while there’s 
 meal in a locker, or fire on the hearth.” 
 
 We are not,” answered the hard man to the poor,” 
 “ ‘ to take the children’s bread and give it to the 
 dogs.’” 
 
 ‘^JSTo,” she replied ; ^‘but the dogs are not to starve ; 
 they ‘eat of the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s 
 table;’ the more bitter they are against us, the more is 
 it our high Christian privilege to succour and save them 
 in their distress.” 
 
 “ That’s very bad philosophy,” said Mr. Eaukin ; 
 “your savings-book will soon be fit to light the fire with, 
 at that rate.” 
 
 “ I only go by the Bible,” answered the widow, meekly ; 
 “ I only go by that ; I think my own way is best 
 and safest ; and the law laid down for our duty to our 
 neighbour is so plain, that I wonder any one can mis- 
 take it.” 
 
 “ I never,” thought old Bankin, while he buttoned his 
 coat in a miserly way, up to his throat, — “ I never saw 
 such a fool as the Widow Doyle ! She might, but she 
 never will, be worth a quart of buttermilk above the 
 world.” 
 
 Ellen, as I have said, had lovers. Her mother placed 
 such implicit trust in the purity and honesty of her 
 nature, that she suffered the suitors to come and go, with 
 only a passing observation or a quiet jest with her daugh- 
 ter as to their number and quality. 
 
 “ Hell, my darling, I don’t think the old clerk of the 
 savings-bank has ever paid you a visit since I drew the 
 last five pounds to lay in the breadstuffs for ourselves and 
 the poor. I wish the good English people would send 
 the charity to our clergy, or even the priests, instead of to 
 the relief committees, that job out starvation, as one may 
 say, — -job everything — even the word of God.” 
 
 “ So do I, mother. It’s a good riddance of the old 
 clerk, though ; he who used to say what a beautiful 
 mother I’d make for his six children. I think I see my- 
 
ELLEN DOYLE. 205 
 
 self the mother of another woman’s children, all older 
 than myself.” And Ellen laughed. 
 
 ‘‘ Then there’s the farmer from Tullogh ! ” 
 
 Mother, I can’t abide dark men ; they never look 
 clean.” 
 
 Well, jewel, there’s Rodey, the horse dealer.” 
 
 “ What ! the foxy fighter ; who said I was an unbroken 
 filly, and wanted a strong bit in my mouth ? who hal- 
 looed when he saw me as if I was a pack of hounds ; and 
 vowed being at a marriage was as good sport as being in 
 at the death ! Pretty love-making that ! I would as soon 
 marry a cub fox ! ” 
 
 ‘‘ Mr. Darcey, the gardener at his lordship’s, has a love 
 for you, dear j he’s a very good lad.” 
 
 W ell, mother, he is a good lad ; too good almost ; 
 rather short.” 
 
 Short, darling ! he is taller by two inches than your 
 poor father was.” 
 
 Well, mother, I am four inches taller than you, by 
 the carpenter’s rule ; but that’s no rule ; I don’t think 
 he loves me.” 
 
 ‘a do.” 
 
 “ I don’t then ; for you know the little dance on my 
 birthday, long ago, when every one who came in kissed 
 me ; I was only fifteen — just a child. Every one kissed 
 me, as a matter of course, that day, when they wished 
 me joy, except James Darcey. He brought such a beau- 
 tiful nosegay.” 
 
 Yes, I remember the nosegay.” 
 
 Well, and then he asked if he might give me the 
 nosegay, and a kiss ; only think, — ‘ If you please. Miss, 
 may I kiss you ? ’ — it was so funny, and came out as stiff 
 as a poplar.” 
 
 What did the girl want ! ” exclaimed the widow. 
 
 Not his kiss, or any one’s ; but it was so strange, to 
 ask leave for what is taken without j it was the first 
 time in my life I thought there was anything wrong in 
 a friend’s kiss. He is so stiff* ; he says, my laugh wants 
 
206 
 
 ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 pruning ; but that was only when I was laughing at 
 him.” 
 
 The shyness was the more proof of his love ; he’s a 
 very good lad.” 
 
 Indeed he is, dear mother. But since you look so 
 serious about it — do not,” she added, earnestly, do not, I 
 beg of you, — do not, darling, if you love your poor Nell, 
 ever even him to me as a husband. I’d die sooner than 
 have him j I would a thousand times.” 
 
 There, don’t cling about me so,” said the widow ; 
 while she clung even more closely to her child, and pushed 
 back the hair from the face that nestled to her bosom ; 
 
 Don’t cling that way ; indeed, it’s no time to talk of 
 marriage, or giving in marriage, when there’s such a curse 
 working through the country. They’re always worrying 
 for something. I could forgive them for wanting the 
 emancipation ; that was natural ; but there’s nothing 
 now that couldn’t be mended by employment and in- 
 dustry.” 
 
 They want liberty,” said the girl, raising her head 
 and looking with kindling eyes in her mother’s face, 
 liberty and law.” 
 
 Law, is it, dear ! ” repeated the widow. Well, 
 then, they want the only thing in the wide world they 
 don’t wish for : and that’s nonsense ; they’d do every- 
 thing with the law, but keep it ; and they’re never easy 
 but when breaking it to flitters. As to liberty, they do 
 what they please, more’s the pity ; and they talk what 
 they please, and that’s a greater pity.” 
 
 The kindling of the girl’s eyes faded away, and she 
 dropped her head again into its former rest ; but this 
 time it fell softly and tenderly j before, she had plunged 
 it so as to conceal some violent emotion. 
 
 What ails you, Ellen — ^you tremble so ; and you so gay 
 and pleasant a minute agone h ’Tisn’t the ague that’s 
 coming to you — or the fever,- Lord bless us ! — is it % 
 Look up, my child ! — darling ! — avourneen ! What is it, 
 my heart’s jewel ? ” 
 
ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 207 
 
 “ Nothing, mother,” she replied ; nothing — only a 
 
 faintness j I’m well now. If Mr. Darcey saw me this 
 minute, he wouldn’t say I wanted pruning j I’m cut down 
 enough as it is.” 
 
 And what’s done it, darling?” 
 
 “ What’s done it, mother ? ” she repeated in a tone of 
 new and almost fierce indignation. “ What’s done it ? 
 and the country starving ! But we’ll pay it off one of 
 these days. We can’t always lie still, and die by hun- 
 dreds, under a foreign yoke.” 
 
 « Why, child, what ails you ? The famine has been 
 sent by God ; and if the relief is mismanaged here, no 
 blame to those who have sent it. I can’t understand 
 you, Ellen, I can’t ; you were so gay this minute.” 
 
 ‘‘You evened James to me as a husband, mother; 
 that made me ill to think of ; it’s gone now, dear.” 
 
 “ But that did not put rebellious thoughts into your 
 heart, my own child ; you must have got them from some 
 one ; they are as infectious as fever, — more destructive 
 than famine. Oh ! my darling, who has been disturbing 
 your mind ? My own dear one, have you been heeding 
 
 the talk but surely you could not hear it. It isn’t 
 
 possible, after the promise you gave me three months 
 agone, — never to let him cross the door step ; never to 
 meet him with an intention ; never to listen to his 
 voice ! — it isn’t possible that Matthew Furlong has dared 
 to speak to you of love again. Oh, Ellen ! if this was so, 
 I’d rather be the mother of the starving children that 
 perished as they reached that door, with the green of the 
 vetch and the raw nettle on their lips, than your mother ! 
 Speak !” added the widow, after a pause — “speak !” She 
 held Ellen from her with both hands, — “ speak ! — it is 
 not possible, with true Protestant blood running in your 
 veins, — reading God’s holy word at morning and evening 
 prayer, — knowing what you do, — knowing that if war 
 came to-morrow the pike and the faggot would destroy, 
 as in the ’98, — it isn’t possible that you would take as a 
 lover one who could not pray by your side, and who 
 
208 
 
 ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 believes the gates of heaven are closed against you and 
 yours ! ” 
 
 Mother, indeed — indeed he does not believe it !” ex- 
 claimed Ellen. 
 
 Then you have seen him,” said her mother, in a low- 
 agitated voice. You have seen him and spoken with 
 him ; he has spent this cruel winter, not in collecting 
 money and distributing food, as he might have done, — 
 for I don’t deny he has the voice of the charmer, — ^but in 
 inflaming the hearts and ears of those who believe any 
 promise from the like of him. He stands beside the 
 dying, not to relieve, but to call out, ‘Look here !’ He 
 stopped the mills when they were at work, by threatening 
 the millers ; and caused the little capital that was left 
 in the country to leave it, by threatening the lives 
 of those who gave employment. You have listened 
 to his words ! ” She relaxed her hold, and Ellen, with 
 bending knees and faltering step, turned away without 
 reply. 
 
 “ Oh ! bitter is my grief, and deep, deeper than the 
 sea, my misery. Ellen, my child ! ” continued the widow, 
 as she looked after her daughter with mingled sorrow and 
 anger, “there was a time when — God forgive me — I 
 could have cursed you ! ” 
 
 The girl shrieked and turned round with outstretched 
 arms. 
 
 “ Not now, not now, my poor girl ” added her mother, 
 hastily, but waving her back with her hand ; “ curses are 
 not for the lips of the sorrowing sinner; but when I 
 came from the true-blue north, your father’s bride ! God 
 help me ! I have learned charity since, but not foolish- 
 ness. No, no ; there’s a deal in the differ. I know what 
 they must believe, and must do, or else they are not true 
 Catholics ; and dearly as I love you, I would sooner 
 follow your cofl&n than your wedding to the church with 
 
 that son of as bitter a Homan But I will not say 
 
 another word, though you have broken yours, Ellen. I, 
 that trusted you and never questioned you — never thought 
 
ELLEN DOYLE. 209 
 
 your eyes had need to turn from your mother’s, — I wish 
 I had never asked the promise.” 
 
 And sitting on the low seat, where she had often 
 nursed the child who now caused her so much misery, 
 she rocked backwards and forwards in a manner peculiarly 
 Irish ; moaning and ejaculating, half aloud, half to her- 
 self, while Ellen leaned against the windo^v, sobbing 
 violently. What a contrast to the playful commencement 
 of the conversation between mother and child ! 
 
 That same night the widow called to her daughter, — 
 Ellen, there’s a shivering about me, and a burning in 
 my head, and my lips are dry ; there’s an impression too 
 on my heart, and over me altogether, and I’m thinking 
 it’s the fever that’s on me at last !” 
 
 Ellen arose, and could hardly believe the change which 
 a few brief hours had wrought in her mother’s face ; she 
 called the servant to run for the doctor, and administered 
 the remedies she had so frequently given to strangers. 
 She fancied she had grown so accustomed to the symp- 
 toms that she could not be mistaken in the mode of 
 treatment ; but now her hand trembled, and she doubted 
 her own power to think or act ; her brain was confused ; 
 each moment she saw her mother become worse, and before 
 the doctor’s arrival delirium had betrayed itself in ander- 
 ing and unconnected words. She spoke of her early home 
 — of true Protestant Derry ” — she denounced the faith 
 that is professed in earnest sincerity and devotion by tens 
 of thousands of her countrymen ; she exulted in the 
 banner of Ulster,” and then, with mournful sobs, 
 entreated the Almighty for pardon, to teach her charity 
 and forgiveness, “even as God for Christ’s sake had 
 forgiven her.” 
 
 She called to Ellen, and when the poor girl replied, and 
 knelt weeping beside her, and took her burning hands, 
 she put her away and said she knew her not — ^that she 
 was not her child — her child was true : there was false- 
 hood in her eyes ; she could not be her Ellen — her Ellen 
 was all truth. She never would think of loving any one 
 p 
 
210 
 
 ELLEN DOYLE. • 
 
 but one of her own faith, with whom she could win para- 
 dise, and stand with him, as she should with her husband, 
 beside the judgment-seat, at the last day. 
 
 The doctor said it was a bad, a very bad, case ; she must 
 be kept cool and quiet. What agony to those who love, 
 to be told the patient must be kept quiet,” when the 
 beloved one is never still or silent for a moment ? The 
 Widow Doyle had been a blessing to the poor, and it 
 added much to the wretchedness of the people, when she 
 was no longer able to alleviate their sufferings. Devoted 
 as she was to her own particular faith,. she knew that 
 it was her duty to relieve all classes of Christians, — 
 every one who needed, — and she did so with secret 
 prayers that they might find what she believed to be the 
 only safe refuge in the time of sorrow or of death. 
 
 Those who live in England, where the practice of large 
 benevolence, a pew at church or chapel, a reasonable atten- 
 tion to the laws of society and the duties of the Sabbath, 
 are sufficient guarantees for the soundness of their faith, 
 can hardly imagine the zeal — true and faithful to its 
 object, but often blinded by its own violence — ^by which 
 the Irish, as a nation, are led to contend each with the 
 other, on religious points. The “ true Protestant ” watches 
 the approach of a symbol tending to Catholicity, and guards 
 against it as feverishly as if the Pope himself were about 
 to enter and dwell within his house ; he will give a share 
 of all he has in the world to the poor Catholic in distress, 
 because he has a propensity to give — it is part and parcel of 
 his Irish nature to be heartily generous — but he will not 
 yield an iota of his mistrust. His faith ! his “ Protestant 
 faith ” is his shield, his buckler, his glory ; not from a 
 desire to boast, but from active and actual principle ; and 
 he can conceive no faith as faith, which is not as bold, as 
 rash, as uncompromising, as intolerant, as bitter as his 
 own. This is met in a spirit equally true and sincere at 
 heart, but sometimes less open, less frank — though, if pos- 
 sible, more uncompromising — by the Poman Catholic ; who, 
 when at a loss for complaint of present grievance, as regards. 
 
ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 211 
 
 Ills faith, and position, has ages of misrule,” too fearful and 
 too real, to fall back upon ; both are desperately earnest in 
 religion, both fiery Peters rather than thinking Pauls. 
 There is no deception in Irish religion, whether it proceed 
 from the Protestant or the Homan Catholic Church ; the 
 people do not make it either a cloak or a tool ; it is the 
 impelling power of their lives however they mistake its 
 nature ; they live with it and for it, and would die for it. 
 Perhaps it might be said with melancholy truth, such is 
 their zeal, that the one would die happily, if thus could 
 be exterminated, not the neighbour, but the neighbour’s 
 faith ! It seems impossible for the Homan Catholic and 
 the Protestant to live in Ireland on the terms upon 
 which they do live in England and elsewherQ. They are 
 born to struggle for ascendancy, and they do so, not 
 from corrupt, but from mistaken, principle. 
 
 Day after day passed, and the widow was bowed down 
 lower and lower by the fever, which spared neither age 
 nor sex, weakness nor strength. 
 
 This night, Ellen,” said the physician, will determine 
 
 all.” 
 
 This night — this night ! ” repeated the poor girl ; and 
 she seated herself by the bedside to listen to wanderings, 
 now breathed rather than spoken, and to gaze, until her 
 imagination, distempered by anxiety, conjured up scenes 
 even more full of sorrow and despair than that on which 
 she looked. She placed the carefully shaded candle at a 
 distance, but where its light enabled her to see every 
 movement of the face ; without, in the kitchen, there was 
 no lack of watchers; — there are more than enough in 
 Ireland ever ready to watch and pray. 
 
 “ She was ever and always a fine woman, and had an 
 open hand to the poor,” murmured one. 
 
 “ Ah 1 then, she was ; I’d give ten years off my life, of 
 my own free will, to see a priest of the right sort come to 
 her this minute — sure, if it wasnJt for the one thing, it’s 
 the likes of her would lead the way in glory 1 ” said 
 another. 
 
 p 2 
 
212 
 
 ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 “ She’ll have no ullagawn like a Christian ; nor anything 
 that way ; a Protestant funeral isn’t like a funeral ; nor 
 they never care to get first to the churchyard ! ” observed 
 a third. 
 
 “It’s a pity for the young craythur of a daughter,” 
 resumed the first. 
 
 “ She’s a darling, though they say she troubled the 
 widdy lately.” 
 
 “ I’d like to see the child that’s not a trouble to its 
 mother,” grumbled a fourth. “I have two in heaven, 
 glory be to God ( I was able to pay for that, any how), and 
 three to the fore still, thanks be to Him ! and they worry 
 the little life that’s in me out of me, sure enough, — (Pass 
 the pipe, Mrs. Murphy, if you plase, ma’am ; my heart’s 
 down, wanting it,) — they do that, every day I open my 
 eyes.” 
 
 “It’s a mercy to see them taken before one, out of 
 a world of trouble and starvation,” said another ; “ I’ve 
 laid all mine in the churchyard, among new-made cofiins 
 and old bones ! and now I know the worst that can come 
 to myself.” 
 
 The shadowy speaker, who looked like a link between 
 the dead and the living, buried her face in her hands, as 
 if she would shut out, before her time, the world with 
 which she was soon to part company. 
 
 Meantime, Ellen watched; often the pulse was felt, every 
 movement was observed ; the moon had risen and gone 
 down, and the stars were glittering in their mysterious 
 pathways. Half the outside watchers had fallen asleep ; 
 others were grouped at the door that opened to the road, 
 whispering together. Ellen thought she heard a tap at 
 the window. She did not even look ; it might be a 
 bough, or a bird startled from its repose. Again — this 
 time she looked round and saw fingers moving on the 
 glass. As if by instinct, she knew the hand, even in that 
 dim, shadowy light. She moved noiselessly to the window, 
 and cautiously pushed it back. 
 
ELLEN DOYLE. 213 
 
 “ Not now,” she said, not now ! I cannot speak to, nor 
 think of you, now^ 
 
 Not now ! ” a low, soft, manly voice replied. 
 
 No endearment now,” she said, as he attempted to 
 kiss her cheek. “We have murdered — no, I have mur- 
 dered her. Do not come again, do not, if you either love 
 or pity me ! ” 
 
 She returned to the bed of the sleeper, and falling on 
 her knees beside it, prayed. No sob or sigh escaped her 
 lips — no moan j but the heaving of her bosom, the con- 
 vulsive sv/elling of her throat, showed how much she 
 suffered. The morning was just breaking when the widow 
 moved her head restlessly on her pillow, and awoke. 
 
 “ Ellen — Ellen ! ” she whispered. 
 
 “ I am here,” replied the girl. 
 
 “Yes ; that is your voice ; — this is your hand. I feel 
 dying ; but I am held back. Ellen, give me your oath 
 — that you never will marry him ! ” 
 
 Ellen was wild during the first instant with delight, at 
 being recognised by her mother ; but the revulsion at 
 hearing this request almost killed her. 
 
 “ It is for God and His faith I plead,” the mother 
 added, faintly ; “ I would meet you in heaven, you, your 
 husband and children.” 
 
 “ Oh, mother ! ” ejaculated Ellen. 
 
 “ He is with our enemies ! He will die an untimely 
 death. Oh, Ellen ! for the sake of the heaven you hope 
 to win — do not deny me ! ” 
 
 Ellen sank again on her knees ; the old spirit, which 
 Mrs. Doyle imagined she had conquered, seemed now to 
 have triumphed over her better nature. 
 
 “ Swear never to marry him !” she said, almost fiercely; 
 “ or I may spend my last breath cursing my own child.” 
 
 “ I do swear,” replied Ellen, kneeling, and wringing her 
 hands together. “ I do swear never to marry Matthew 
 Furlong.” 
 
 “Again ! let me hear it again !” whispered the widow; 
 
214 
 
 ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 and she moved her spectral hand — the forefinger pointed, 
 as if to arrest the attention of Heaven. 
 
 Ellen repeated the same words — the hand descended 
 upon the coverlet, and remained as it fell ; the head rested 
 back, the lips remained apart, but the eyes closed peace- 
 fully. Ellen had no power to shriek, though she thought 
 her mother was dead. Her heart beat so violently that 
 it seemed to drown all sound. She continued her fixed 
 gaze until her eyes ached, throbbed, burned; but she 
 could not withdraw them. At first the desire to cry out 
 had been overwhelming ; but gradually it subsided. She 
 forgot the thrilling horror of her own words. She thought 
 the beloved face looked less and less changed. She sought 
 the pulse with trembling fingers ; it did not flutter like 
 an expiring bird ; it was low, soft, steady. She felt the 
 skin moisten beneath her touch. She looked more closely. 
 A dew, blessed as that which descends after a scorching 
 day of sunny summer, upon the parched earth and 
 scorched herbage, rested on her mothers lofty brow. 
 The sun had not risen more than an hour, when the doctor 
 assured Ellen that, in all human probability, her mother 
 was saved. His opinion was as unerring as his skill. 
 
 Many weeks had passed. Ellen rejoiced in her mother’s 
 recovery ; and yet she was no longer a happy girl, or even 
 a cheerful girl. Every day, often every hour, her mother 
 asked her what was the matter. There was one answer 
 — “ Nothing.” Matthew Furlong was seldom at home ; 
 seldom seen in his own neighbourhood. Matters, politi- 
 cally speaking, grew worse and worse. The national 
 schools were deserted by the elder boys. Men not em- 
 ployed about farms or railroads, were, notwithstanding, 
 always busy — more busy by night than by day. They 
 talked of their clubs,” as London men do — and their 
 wives might have said, to the same purpose, for they drew 
 them from their hearths and homes. The flerce orations 
 of noisy speakers — brawling for their own notoriety, and 
 calling it the liberty of their country — were read beneath 
 the peaceful hedge-rows, while the fields i*emained un- 
 
ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 215 
 
 tilled. The starving and penniless peasant still managed 
 to shoulder his rifle and point his pike ; there were mid- 
 night marchings and gatherings, and signal fires on the 
 hills ; the raw material was worked into a state of fusion, 
 that heaved the island to its centre. 
 
 Matthew Furlong was, as I have said, but seldom seen 
 in his own neighbourhood ; the widow Doyle was glad of 
 this. 
 
 She has forgotten him,” she said, very soon ; but I 
 wish she would make her choice before I die, and not 
 look so pale and worn down. She never complains, 
 though, and seems pretty cheerful sometimes; girls do 
 change so — and then the country is in such a state !” 
 
 The widow was feebler in body and mind since her ill- 
 ness. If she had been as quick of ear and eye as before, 
 she would have observed Ellen more closely, and judged 
 more correctly. She was benevolent as ever, and derived 
 great consolation from her Bible, picking out bits of the 
 prophecies, and applying them to the present time. 
 
 One evening Ellen left her asleep in her great straw 
 chair, and, as she had often done before, repaired to an 
 old ruin that topped the neighbouring waterfall, and 
 waited — but not long — for him she had sworn never to 
 marry. They met silently, but affectionately. 
 
 I cannot bear it much longer, Nelly ; nor will it be 
 needed,” he said, after a pause ; the cause of liberty must 
 conquer ; we shall regain our own, and drive the Saxon 
 back to the soil of his fathers, while we enjoy our own. 
 I would not have endured this — ” 
 
 “ My mother, Matthew ! my mother !” said Ellen. 
 
 No, not even for your mother, Ellen ; were it not 
 that I am sure the whole of the south will rise to a man, 
 and that I shall see you a lady — 
 
 “ Oh, Matthew !” she interrupted ; “ / never can raise 
 my head, and look my mother in the face. My heart is 
 broken !” 
 
 You would drive the spirit out of an hundred men !” 
 he exclaimed fiercely. I humour you in every way, and 
 
216 
 
 ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 this is my return. There are scores of girls on Ireland’s 
 ground this minute, who give their love only on condition 
 that the man of their heart shall be ready to give his life 
 for his country. I don’t think a woman worth having 
 who does not value the honour of the man of her heart 
 more than his life, and her country more than either !” 
 
 Ellen passed her hand rapidly over her brow. I am 
 not worth having ; I know it,” she said, without sob or 
 tear, but in tones of intense meekness and anguish, — 
 “ you can say nothing so bad of me as what I know of 
 myself ; — it is that that has driven the spirit out of me. 
 I have dared to thank God that my mother’s eyes grow 
 dim, so that she cannot see me as I am ! Oh, what is a 
 girl worth when she cannot respect herself ; when every 
 look and word is a lie to the mother that bore her, and 
 whose prayer that ^ she may keep innocency, and take 
 heed to the thing that is right,’ seems a scorn, not a 
 prayer for her good ! Do not turn from me, Matthew ; 
 God sees and hears me ; He knows I love you as much — 
 nay more than ever. I am not more wasted in heart 
 than in body. I do not know my shadow as it lies now 
 there at my feet.” 
 
 “ Your mother will know all when we are up ; and I 
 will take such care of her and all the old Protestants that 
 she will forget I am the Papist Matthew Furlong. If 
 I had my way, she should have known it long ago,” 
 observed the young man. 
 
 “ JSTo, no, it would kill her,” said Ellen, wildly. I can 
 bear anything but that.” 
 
 “ I come to tell you all we do, and all we mean to 
 dare,” he continued, “but you keep on at the same 
 whine.” 
 
 “ I do not deserve to be a patriot’s wife now,” she 
 answered. “ I used to look upon patriotism as the 
 holiest thing to live or die for — now — oh, Matthew ! 
 indeed I would cheer and guide you if I could. I would 
 warn you 1 ” 
 
 He threw his arm round her, and stopped her warning 
 
ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 217 
 
 with a kiss — Look, my own Kell ! — see the fire on the 
 hill — the signal is two hours sooner than I expected. 
 Kext only to my country do I love you, darling — and 
 now, God bless you ! ” 
 
 But you are not going yet ! you are not going yet ! ” 
 she exclaimed, all her womanly affection returning, and 
 encircling the only man she ever loved — not yet ! ” 
 
 He pointed to where the first fire was answered by the 
 kindling of another. 
 
 And you love me, Matthew ? — you do not scorn me 
 for my falsehood to — to — my mother 1 ” 
 
 Scorn you for your love and trust in me 1 ” he replied, 
 again and again kissing her with all a lover’s fervour. 
 
 But,” she said, “ I read it in an old torn book once, 
 about a lady who deceived her father — marrying without 
 his knowledge — no bridesmaid at her wedding — no merry 
 bell, telling the world she had wed. Ko parents’ blessing 
 on the clasped hands. I thought how she must cry in 
 her sleep, as mother says I do, and dream ; but stay, that 
 was not it. The father told the husband that as she had 
 deceived him, she might one day deceive her husband 
 also ; and in time he came to think so, and murdered 
 her.” 
 
 For loving him so well f ’ 
 
 “ I do not know, indeed,” said Ellen, flinging back her 
 hair, “ but I know she deserved it, for deceiving her old 
 loving father.” 
 
 Again Matthew kissed her, and pressed her to his 
 heart, and thought, this must not last, or she will soon 
 be mad — but, there goes another fire ; the country will 
 be up before to-morrow’s sun is above our heads ; then, 
 hurra for liberty 1 ” In the excitement of that parting, 
 Ellen forgot all but Matthew. She laved her face in the 
 pool at the foot of the Waterfall, her dog looking sadly 
 in her face ; and when she returned to the cottage, her 
 mother, to her great relief, was still asleep. 
 
 The next day, strange wild reports rode through the 
 country like evil spirits. Ellen could not conceal her 
 
218 
 
 ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 agitation. Towards evening a strange man beckoned her 
 from the cottage, and whispered that he was afraid 
 Captain Matthew was hurt ; but, any way, he was at the 
 ould placer Thither Ellen flew. 
 
 It’s almost over with me, as well as the cause, Ellen, 
 dear!” he said, when she sank on the grass beside him ; 
 
 the cowardly, unmanly rascals 1 We shall be hunted to 
 our lairs like wild animals. To die like dogs in ditches, 
 and nothing done 1 No, I can’t be moved, dear ! I 
 made my soul last night ; after I saw you, hundreds of 
 us received the blessing, in case of accidents. Keep up, 
 darling, and promise me, my own darling wife — swear to 
 me you will 
 
 She shall not swear to you,” exclaimed the widow, 
 who had followed her daughter unperceived, and only 
 heard the last words — driven as she was to distraction by 
 seeing Ellen supporting Matthew’s head on her bosom. 
 
 She is perjured in the sight of God already ; perjured,” 
 she repeated, falling on her knees and tossing her arms to 
 heaven. 
 
 “ No, no ; she is not — not that 1 ” said the young man, 
 as he endeavoured to drag himself towards her. When 
 she made you that promise, to relieve your mind — on 
 your dying bed, as you thought it — when she made you 
 the promise not to marry me, she had been my wife a 
 month. Forgive her — I am dying ; she will have no one 
 now but you ; forgive her, and forgive me ! In all my 
 struggles for my country and my faith I never had a hard 
 thought to you — forgive her ! ” 
 
 The old woman’s arms fell by her sides ; gradually she 
 sank upon the earth as a child sinks to its slumber. Ellen 
 sprang to her — ^raised her in her arms. Matthew exerted 
 his feeble strength j for a minute they supported her to- 
 gether. 
 
 Forgive her ; forgive us 1 ” he repeated. 
 
 Of her own accord she pressed her cheek with a long 
 pressure of love upon her daughter’s bosom, and expired. 
 For a time, as long as there was a murmur or a sound. 
 
ELLEN DOYLE. 
 
 219 
 
 their friends forbore to intrude upon them ; but alarmed 
 at the silence, only interrupted by the plashing of the 
 water, they advanced, and found Ellen grasping the hands 
 of her dead husband and her dead mother. Tearless and 
 speechless, for days she remained in the same state, cold 
 and white, without sound or motion ; and those who 
 knew her some three years past could not recognise in her 
 wasted body and enfeebled mind, the loving and lovely 
 Ellen Doyle! 
 
220 
 
 THE SERGEANT. 
 
 There, father ! ” exclaimed Meta Laird — there ! is 
 not that a beauty ? I determined you should have a new 
 fishing basket for your first day’s fishing this season — 
 look ! is it not nice ? so white and clean, and much larger 
 than the old one — a great deal larger, and I am sure it is 
 handsomer — this lovely morning deserves a pretty basket. 
 And here you see is a separate place (my own contriv- 
 ance) where you can keep your knife and hooks and 
 lines all dry and tidy — so good bye to the old basket ; I 
 really was ashamed to see my own darling father with 
 that sun-dried, broken-up thing. I call (Ms the perfection 
 of a basket.” 
 
 The fisherman took the gift, and kissed the round rosy 
 cheek of the donor. Meta was ever trying to surprise” 
 this much loved “ father” into new pleasures, while, truth 
 to tell, he would have greatly preferred quietly to indulge 
 the old ones. He had a positive affection for his ancient 
 fishing basket ; it had been to him as a friend and com- 
 panion before Meta was old enough to be either the one 
 or the other ; but he would not allude to this, and spoil 
 her delight — he submitted to all sorts of small incon- 
 veniences without a murmur. Meta was one of those 
 active little creatures comprehending at once the advan- 
 tage of every improvement which came under her very 
 limited observation, and practising (whenever it was pos- 
 sible to do so) its working out upon her father. He had 
 been a victim to a pair of “ expanding” braces, which, 
 instead of “ expanding” cut into his shoulder whenever he 
 attempted to throw his line. He would not tell Meta for 
 the world — she had “ surprised” him into wearing them 
 
THE SEKGEANT. 
 
 221 
 
 his last birthday. He had been nearly lamed for life by 
 a pair of such lovely patent shoes,” which she had. walked 
 into the nearest town to buy for him ; and now this fish- 
 ing basket ! — that he must take care of, and keep in 
 order ! 
 
 Well,” continued Meta, “you do look nice ! and here 
 is a patent strap that will keep it tight in its right place 
 — now mind you don’t lay it on the grass — and there is a 
 cloth inside to keep the fish from staining it, and ” 
 
 “ My Meta,” suggested the poor Sergeant, “ don’t you 
 think you might hang the basket up with the fishing rod 
 the colonel gave me for show, just there, and let me still 
 use the old one 1 It would be quite an ornament to your 
 pretty little parlour 
 
 Meta coloured, and pouted. “ Oh,” exclaimed the Ser- 
 geant, with unusual alacrity, “of course I will take it, 
 since you wish it; only it is quite too good for me. A 
 second kiss determined the matter, and away went the 
 “ Fishing Sergeant,” rod in hand, and basket on shoulder. 
 Meta was delighted ; but as the basket gleamed in the 
 sun, and her father descended the hill, she lamented 
 having neither man, woman, nor child to tell of her hap- 
 piness, for the neighbours were at their farm work ; and 
 so Meta talked it out and over — to the cat. She sought 
 sympathy in all the great and small rejoicings of her 
 buoyant spirit ; and this time, poor puss winked and 
 blinked, and purred, until in the fulness of her heart, 
 its mistress filled its saucer with milk, threw crumbs to 
 the wild birds, talked the basket question over again to a 
 sick chicken, while it daintily picked “ cutlins” from her 
 hand, and finally sat down to “ alter” a waistcoat of her 
 father’s — and which, if she accomplished, would render him 
 exceedingly uncomfortable, unless he did again, what he 
 had slily done before — slit the lining with his fishing 
 knife. 
 
 And now, good reader, you want to know all about 
 Sergeant Laird and his daughter Meta, and why he was 
 called “ The Fishing Sergeant.” There is not much to tell 
 
222 
 
 THE SERGEANT. 
 
 — lie was called “ The Fishing Sergeant” simply because 
 he was so untiring a brother of the angle and in Ire- 
 land they are fond of distinguishing those they like by a 
 ]3et name. So he was more frequently called “ The 
 Fishing Sergeant ” than “ Sergeant Laird,” and his daugh- 
 ter was better known as “ May Blossom” than as Meta 
 Laird — that is all, as far as regards the names ; and as to 
 the history, thus it is : — 
 
 Laird had accompanied his then young master” to 
 the wars, at the commencement of the Peninsular cam- 
 paign. They entered the service together, and both were 
 distinguished in their respective grades as excellent 
 soldiers and the handsomest fellows in the regiment. At 
 the battle of Albuera, Laird saw his master struck down 
 and the colours torn from his grasp. He stood over the 
 living but prostrate form, regained the colours, but re- 
 ceived a wound in his head which injured his intellect so 
 much, that after his promotion he quitted the service, 
 returned to his native village and to his young wife, in 
 time — and only in time — to take his new born infant in 
 his arms, and after the lapse of a few more days, follow 
 that much loved wife to her last home in one of the most 
 picturesque churchyards in the sweet county of Wicklow. 
 Every one said the Sergeant would certainly die — that 
 neither his enfeebled mind nor body could sustain the 
 shock ; and two kind-hearted farmers’ wives warmly dis- 
 puted which should perform the duties of maternity ta 
 the motherless babe. I have the best right to the dar- 
 lint,” said one, because its mother (who is now a saint in 
 heaven), when she came to see my own babby — and he is 
 but ten days oulder than hers” — said, ^Mrs. Doyle,’ says 
 she, ‘ I hope my babby may be as fine as yours.’ Sure 
 that gives me a right to nurse it with my own ; and if the 
 Almighty plases to take the poor father, sure it can 
 share with me and mine as long as we have bit or sup for 
 ourselves.” 
 
 “ Well, Mrs. Doyle, ma’am, it’s all thrue for you, but 
 my Horry is not in its third month yet, and as fine a 
 
THE SERGEANT. 
 
 223 
 
 child as yours, and that’s compliment enough for any 
 child j and ’deed, if you’ll only look at it, Mrs. Doyle, I 
 have the best right, for did I ever lave the darlint young 
 craythur’s bed-side from the time she took bad until God 
 took her altogether ? And didn’t she place the babby 
 on my breast, and the tears- raining from her eyes ; ^ take 
 it,’ she says, ‘ and be a mother to it, as you have been to 
 me.’ ” 
 
 ^^Well, Mrs. Myers, I can’t go beyond that,” said Mrs, 
 Doyle ; “I wish we could have the babby week about, 
 which we can when she’s weaned any how — for I am sure 
 the poor father will never do a hap’orth of good — and we 
 shall have the little beauty among us, loved by high and 
 low \ and sure it’s a true saying, ‘ the more babes the 
 more blessings,’ and so Mike says ; and the sweetest of 
 music is the voices of children — God keep them to us all 
 in peace and innocence.” And so the poor and gentle 
 hearted women parted, Mrs. Myers taking the little 
 stranger to her well-sheltered and comfortable home close 
 to the ‘^Wooden Bridge,” and Mrs. Doyle determining 
 to look after the poor Sergeant, and see if he could be 
 brought to himself. 
 
 The little Meta (they called her after her mother) was 
 wonderfully beautiful, but so delicate and small that 
 Mrs. Myers wept many tears lest her nursling had been 
 
 overlooked ” by “ the good people.” After the lapse of 
 a year, the Sergeant would wander to the wooden bridge, 
 and spend hours watching the child, in whom as yet he 
 expressed no interest. Every creature who passed him 
 on the road had a kind word or blessing to give him — 
 May the light of the Lord relieve your sorrow ! ” 
 Thanks be to God, you’re growing bravely, Mr. Laird ; 
 we’ll have you strong and hearty soon, and taking delight 
 in your beautiful babby.” 
 
 ‘‘ Heaven is smiling on you, Sergeant dear ! this fine 
 morning.” 
 
 Good luck to you, sir ! and may the glory hereafter be 
 greater than any you ever see in this world.” 
 
224 
 
 THE SERGEANT. 
 
 It was charming to observe the abounding sympathy 
 shown to the poor Sergeant, whose pale, calm face and 
 wandering eyes told painfully of undefined suffering. 
 He was always well dressed and soldierly in his deport- 
 ment, and gradually, as his strength returned, his mind 
 resumed its functions ; but the fatal battle and the death 
 of his wife seemed to him as one event, and Meta had 
 passed her third year before he comprehended that she 
 was his child. But when this knowledge entered his 
 heart, he seemed animated by a fresh spirit — all his 
 thoughts and feelings centred in her — she was his child- 
 angel,” his guide, his life ; and Mrs. Myers’s six olive 
 branches did not reconcile her to parting with her 
 ‘‘ May Blossom.” The officer whose life Laird had saved 
 had merged into the country gentleman, whose first care 
 was to provide for his faithful servant ; he not only 
 placed him in a pretty and well furnished cottage, with 
 two acres of land, but presented him with a deed of gift 
 of the same, so that Meta was considered a village 
 heiress. But when years flew past, and Meta was no 
 longer a child, like many an heiress, instead of keeping 
 company” with those who had stores of rural wealth, 
 Meta fixed her affections upon a young and timid school- 
 master, with neither money nor land — though all de- 
 clared “ he had more learning entirely than any lad in 
 the country, and was fit to discoorse with either priest or 
 minister.” Be that as it may, Edward Hyland entered 
 “ Sunny Side,” as Meta chose to call her father’s cottage, 
 while Meta was engaged in ‘^mending” the waistcoat 
 we have already mentioned. ^‘Well!” she exclaimed, 
 after a coquettish glance, Edward, go away — no, you 
 shan’t say a word — go away this moment ! You have 
 made me miserable, and I was so happy — just to look at 
 you is enough to break anybody’s heart.” The young 
 man left the cottage without speaking. Edward ! oh, 
 very well, sir ; if you choose to march off after that 
 fashion — why you may, that is all ; and you need 
 not — oh ! you are come back — well to be sure ! ” She 
 
THE SERGEANT. 
 
 225 
 
 paused and • looked earnestly at him, and gradually 
 her beaming lace clouded — the waistcoat fell from her 
 hands. 
 
 Where is your father V inquired the youth in a voice 
 tremulous from emotion. 
 
 “ Fishing.” 
 
 I have sad news for him ; his old officer, his friend, is 
 dead.” 
 
 Dead ! ” repeated the girl ; why it was only the night 
 before last I took him up the great trout father caught, 
 and he said he would throw a line himself this evening 
 into the stream at the old place, and father will be there 
 to meet him. Oh, Edward, how will my poor father 
 
 ever bear it ! it will throw him back ” and Meta 
 
 burst into violent weeping. 
 
 The kind-hearted gentleman had gone to rest, at peace 
 with God and man : as Edward said, truly and devoutly, 
 their loss was his gain.” “ The whole country,” he 
 added, would be heart-broken ; the colonel knew no 
 distinction between rich and poor, and all would feel his 
 loss before the corn was ripe, or the swallow had gone on 
 her journey.” 
 
 When Meta regained some degree of composure, she 
 took counsel with Edward how this great sorrow could 
 be communicated to her father ; but before there was 
 time to make a single suggestion the Sergeant entered ; 
 he stood still, and calm, and erect, on the threshold ; 
 there was not a vestige of colour in his face. Meta, 
 always rash, exclaimed, Edward, he has heard it ! ” 
 
 There was no reply ; but after a pause Sergeant Laird 
 threw off his foraging cap, cast down his rod and basket, 
 staggered forward to his seat, his head fell upon his arms, 
 which he had crossed on the table. Meta was thankful 
 when his deep-drawn sobs were followed by tears ; but 
 even then Edward found it no easy task to keep her 
 quiet ; she would question her father as to how he had 
 heard of his colonel’s death. 
 
 When he raised himself and leaned back, it seemed as 
 Q 
 
226 
 
 THE SERGEANT. 
 
 though the trials of ten more years had been added to 
 his life. 
 
 Go,” he said to his daughter, go and bring his first 
 gift to me after his return ; that will teach us how to 
 bear this trial ; you know where my Bible is.” 
 
 "When Meta left the room he added, “ This morning I 
 went to the spot where I was to have met my colonel 
 this evening ; something drew me to it. Edward, he was 
 there before me — there, with his back against the pollard 
 ash, his arms folded j but the old smile was not on his lips. 
 I felt as if the morning was turned into moonlight — I 
 raised my finger to my cap, I tried to hail him — for the 
 first time the sight of my commanding officer was painful 
 to me. I stooped for something, only to get my eyes off 
 him — when I looked again I saw ity expanding-like, 
 melting into air — I knew he was gone ; I have been ever 
 since trying to get home. I shan’t be long after him — he 
 came I know for a warning. Thank God, this place is all 
 safe for my little girl ! you will be kind to her, Edward, 
 when I am gone — you wfill be kind to my child ; the 
 May-blossom has been as fresh in winter as in summer — 
 every mother has been to her as her mother ; it wull be a 
 cruel parting, but it will soon come ! ” 
 
 It was not only in the Sergeant’s cottage that day that 
 tears and prayers mingled together. 
 
 As the colonel left neither widow nor child, the in- 
 heritance passed away to a stranger, who had never been 
 seen among them. 
 
 Sure it’s hard enough to lose, such a friend ! ” ex- 
 claimed Meta’s foster-mother ; “ its cruel hard to lose 
 such a friend and not to know from Adam who’s to 
 reign over us ; lucky for them that has leases. And sure 
 it’s a blessing the Sergeant has his cottage firm as the 
 Bock of Cashel, to himself and his child, now and for ever, 
 amen ! — for as sure as we’re on this spot of living, the dear 
 colonel’s steward. Jemmy Downes, begrudged them that 
 cottage, and many a time I’ve heard him say that it was 
 a fine thing to live and do nothiug just for a hit of a clip 
 
THE SERGEANT. 
 
 227 
 
 on a man’s liead — and that not half as bad as what the 
 boys give each other just in sport at Martinmas or Easter 
 fairs.” 
 
 There was much deep grief, and much loud wailing, as 
 I have said ; and above all, the Sergeant was stricken 
 almost as heavily as when, years ago, he saved the life 
 he now helplessly lamented. Edward did not communi- 
 cate to Meta, or to any, the supernatural appearance the 
 poor Sergeant believed in, but displayed as much kindness 
 as wisdom in his attentions to the father of his beloved 
 Meta. In village life, the small interests and conjectures, 
 and pros and cons, and gossiping, blot out the heaviest 
 visitations. The colonel was dead, and he had a most 
 beautiful funeral,” and a great monument, supported on 
 cannon, with marble flags floating over it, was to come 
 over from London ; and the new landlord was “ expected,” 
 and the steward (who had seen him) declared he was a 
 flne gentleman entirely and behaved like a gentleman, 
 giving him power to do all things according to his own 
 pleasure, and to show him (the new landlord) reason, in 
 black and white, for all things. That he was bound to do 
 — who else could do it h for the colonel was his own 
 agent, and no one but him betwixt the landlord and the 
 people ; he would do nothing hard or unneighbourly, 
 but he must do his duty. And so the next rent-day he 
 called at Sergeant Laird’s cottage — the soldier was not, 
 as he expected, away Ashing — and Meta, occupied about 
 some small housewifery, vras talking to him in her plea- 
 sant cheerful voice, when the steward’s shadow fell across 
 the door- way, as he crept stealthily up the side path. 
 
 Good morning Sergeant Laird — good morra, Miss Meta 
 — fine morning, sir — I thought you’d have been at 
 the strame as usual, at your hard work — eh ! I’m 
 thinking the new landlord will preserve the water, he 
 won’t like every fellow in the place to go skelping his 
 trout^^ 
 
 Meta flushed scarlet in a moment, but Laird had not 
 heard half the steward said — his senses continued in a 
 
228 
 
 THE SERGEANT. 
 
 degree paralysed ; but, with natural good breeding, he had 
 risen and offered him a chair. The steward sat. 
 
 Did you say,” inquired the Sergeant, the new land- 
 lord was fond of fishing h I could not show him the 
 stream Master Downes, it would break my heart ; I hope 
 the gentleman will enjoy it, but I could not go with him. 
 Meta, have you asked Master Downes what he will 
 take h ” The steward laughed brutally : Show him his 
 
 own stream — that’s not bad, faith. Ah ! I’m come for 
 the running gale — the half-year’s rent, Sergeant. Come, 
 Miss Meta, you look sharp enough to understand that ; 
 I suppose you know what the rent was ? and if you do 
 not, I can tell you what it is — we do not want cats that 
 won’t catch mice.” 
 
 Dent ! ” repeated Meta, we never paid rent as you 
 well know ; this cottage, with its two acres of land, was 
 a free gift from our honoured colonel to my father and 
 his lieirs for ever — rent I ” 
 
 Yes, I know you kept that tale afloat ; but if it’s so, 
 
 WHERE IS THE DEED ? ” 
 
 ‘‘We can show it you at once. Father! Master 
 Downes wants to see the deed of gift — it is all right, sir 
 — get it, father, it’s all safe and firm.” At this moment, 
 greatly to Meta’s relief, her affianced husband entered 
 the cottage ; the wedding-day had been fixed, and Ed- 
 ward’s good fortune was much talked of Downes nod- 
 ded to him — Make the old fellow understand ; ” but 
 Meta’s indignation could not be restrained. “ My fat her, 
 Mr. Downes, shall be treated respectfully ; he is no fellow^ 
 but a king’s soldier. When you speak to him, or of him, 
 be so good as to remember it.” “ Meta — what is the 
 matter, my child ] I will find the deed — it’s all right he 
 should see it ; he must obey orders you know.” The Ser- 
 geant, assisted by Meta (the occupation saved the stew- 
 ard farther chastisement), looked over his desk. There 
 was no deed there. Drawers and boxes were all searched 
 — Meta working herself into a fever of indignation and 
 anxiety — while the steward sat by gnawing the top of 
 
THE SERGEANT. 
 
 229 
 
 his stick, and enjoying her dismay. It is quite safe 
 somewhere,” said Laird, wearied with even so much ex- 
 ertion, and it must be found, for Edward here, insists 
 that the little property be settled on Meta — put out of 
 his power, so to say — and when that is done, and my 
 child has another protector, I shall bless God and die ! ” 
 You had better settle this before then,” said the 
 steward, ‘^and pay up the rent due since the colonel's 
 death — I’ve brought a receipt for it, all right according 
 to law. I can’t promise you to remain here, at this or any 
 rent — our new master doesn’t like small holders — so I may 
 be forced to eject ; I’ll do all legally.” The bewildered 
 soldier drew forth his money, but Edward and Meta 
 would not permit him to acknowledge that he owed rent ; 
 and after many bitter words had passed, the unjust stew- 
 ard quitted the cottage, determined, in the event of 
 Laird’s not being able to produce the deed of gift, to 
 get possession of what he had heard the colonel speak 
 of repeatedly as his gift of gratitude to Sergeant 
 Laird.” 
 
 Time passed on — the country cried shame ” on the 
 steward, but he heeded it not. 
 
 The Sergeant was incapable of rising against the op- 
 pressor. Meta stoutly resisted the possibility of entailing 
 poverty on the young schoolmaster by becoming his wife, 
 until the deed was found. Downes forbade the te- 
 nants to send the children to his school, and he had 
 impressed the people with so much terror that they feared 
 him too much to disobey. During this contention, days 
 and weeks amounted to months ; the poor Sergeant was 
 visibly sinking ; the bloom had fled from Meta’s cheeks, 
 and the young schoolmaster had not a dozen pupils. 
 Visions of Australia mingled with his dreams, but he 
 well knew the Sergeant could not be removed, and he 
 would not leave Meta. They had written to the new land- 
 lord a simple statement of facts ; the reply referred them 
 to “ Mr. Downes.” 
 
 At last he did his worst — distrained for rent ! When 
 
230 
 
 THE SERGEAlSfT. 
 
 the process was served, the hardened server” turned 
 away with tears in his eyes. The Sergeant was tying 
 flies, and so intent on his occupation, that it was 
 Meta’s sobs that rendered him conscious of what was 
 passing. There was something beyond all telling painful 
 in the expression of weak and patient suffering in his face 
 — Meta, my child, they need not disturb the things, the 
 deed is safe somewhere ; I am a soldier, sir, and would 
 not tell a falsehood — sit down — I will find the deed;” and 
 mindlessly, helplessly, his fingers wandered as if searching 
 for it amid the tangled horse-hair and shining feathers, 
 until at last he settled again quietly to the construction 
 of a grey hackle.” The neighbours crowded in with 
 offers of assistance, and Edward endeavoured to draw the 
 Sergeant and Meta away, but in vain. One by one the 
 household goods were piled outside the cottage — not 
 rudely or with violence, but still it was done — and sud- 
 denly roused to a perfect consciousness that he was 
 despoiled of the home given to him by his departed 
 officer, the old soldier stood erect, and placing his hand on 
 his daughter’s head, said — 
 
 “ I call you my neighbours, and this man whom I never 
 injured, and above all, I call God to witness — that I am 
 unlawfully despoiled of what was given as a shelter to 
 my old age and a provision for my child. I call for no 
 vengeance upon Downes who has worked me this wrong 
 — I hope the Almighty will forgive him, but he knows 
 that deed is in existence, as well as I do — though I am 
 homeless.” 
 
 ISTo, Sergeant, that you’re not,” interrupted a farmer ; 
 “you and the little girl must come home with me; sure 
 the misthress has sent her own horse and pillion for ye.” 
 
 “ Sure I’ve the best right to them,” shouted another, 
 “ with more room in the house than I know what to do 
 with — it’s to us they must come.” 
 
 “Let’s toss up,” exclaimed a fine spirited son of shil- 
 lela, “ let’s toss up — head or harp — who’ll win them.” 
 
 “ There’s not one of us will buy a stick of the things — 
 
THE SERGEANT. 231 
 
 Downes was afraid to come — three groans for Downes — 
 three cheers for the Sergeant and May Blossom.” 
 
 ‘‘■JSro/’ said a shy young farmer, Miss Meta must have 
 three cheers for herself.” 
 
 “ I cannot bear this,” murmured Sergeant Laird, take 
 me out Edward — this kindness kills me. Stay ! my rod 
 — that’s it — and basket.” He gathered his flies together 
 with trembling fingers ; poor Meta’s present was handed 
 to him, and he was in the act of casting it over his 
 shoulder, when one of the men brought from a back shed, 
 along with some broken vessels, the old fishing -hashet. 
 Bod and strap fell from the Sergeant’s hands — the elas- 
 ticity of youth, the memory of the past returned to 
 him together — he sprang forward with a scream, fell 
 upon his knees, and lifting his arms to heaven, exclaimed, 
 “ Father, I thank Thee ! I bless Thee ! I thank Thee ! ” 
 There was a pause ; all pressed eagerly forward. Stand 
 back !” he said, ^‘but no, come round me, rank and file ! 
 rank and file ! I said the deed was in existence — it is 
 here neighbours — here ! in my old fishing-hashet His 
 honour gave it me beside tlie stream — God bless him ; 
 I placed it there, under this line and the old landing-net 
 that lost him the trout. I rolled it in my black neck- 
 erchief, neighbours, to keep it dry ! Here it is — here. 
 Bead it out Edward — I am not houseless, and my child 
 will have a home ; read it out I say ! it is the word of 
 command.” 
 
 Before Edward could begin, there was a shout and a 
 rush amongst the gathering. The farmer who proposed 
 three cheers for Meta had detected and recognized the 
 crown of Downes’s hat passing afc the other sideuof the 
 hedge ; and, with half a dozen other boys ” from a dis- 
 tance, seized and dragged him forward amid roars and 
 groans, and assurances of ^Giow delighted he would be 
 the deed was found.” “ The deed was found, and he 
 should hear it read every word of it, and sure — only that 
 it was necessary to preserve it — they’d give him enough 
 of it, for they’d make him ate it.” And after Downes had 
 
232 
 
 THE SERGEANT. 
 
 heard it, and seen that it was legally drawn and witnessed, 
 it required all the Sergeant’s and Meta’s influence to save 
 him from being dragged through the river. 
 
 How rapidly the furniture was replaced, and how 
 rapidly alas ! the poor Sergeant relapsed into his state of 
 half-childishness, and sat down to tie the flies, with his 
 old fishing -hashet slung over his shoulder — Meta, however, 
 taking possession of the deed. 
 
 It’s cruel entirely, so it is,” said Mrs. Myers, to 
 think that they want for nothing, and we can do nothing 
 for them. It’s mighty pleasant to have your friends in 
 the height of trouble, that you may get them out of it.” 
 
 I do not quite agree with Mrs. Myers, but am happy 
 to say that the landlord has (to quote Mrs. Myers once 
 more) found Downes out in the height of his wicked- 
 ness,” and that Meta’s Edward is to be the new steward ! 
 
233 
 
 THE NEW SYMPATHIES. 
 
 Stuff ! nonsense ! we have been a right-thinking 
 family for the last two hundred years, my good niece,” 
 said TJncle Oldham, as he was familiarly called, ^^a right- 
 thinking, ay, and a just, and, though I say it, what is 
 more, a generous family. The Oldhams have subscribed 
 to every charity — ” he paused, warned by the smile on 
 the lip of his favourite — “ that is, I mean, to every charity 
 worth supporting ; have always been the first to head the 
 relief-lists in severe’ winters for coals, candles, and Wit- 
 ney blankets ; no one ever entered these gates with a 
 petition without receiving aid,” — another of Elizabeth’s 
 smiles obliged him again to qualify the assertion, — pro- 
 vided its truth was properly attested.” 
 
 Perfectly right, brother Oldham,” said the old man’s 
 sister, Miss Sabrina, perfectly right ; and I wish most 
 sincerely that you could prevent the entrance of what 
 Elizabeth calls new sympathies. The world is changing 
 sadly; when I was a girl, I never heard of sympathies at 
 all, brother Oldham, and yet everything went on smoothly 
 
 — we were not mesmerized, nor ” 
 
 Elizabeth Oldham, the daughter of a younger broth ei 
 of ‘‘Uncle Oldham’s,” uttered an exclamation of dissent, 
 and assured her aunt, that she had never wished to excite 
 her sympathies in favour of mesmerism, or “ any other 
 absurdity;” it was simply for those classes of the com- 
 munity which endured much hardship, much privation, 
 much misery ; simply because their hardships, privations, 
 and miseries were unknown, and if known, only looked at 
 as a curiosity — an “excitement” to be pitied and for- 
 
234 
 
 THE NEW SYMPATHIES. 
 
 gotten. But the lady, a decorous proper lady, who had 
 really done many kind and generous things during her 
 life — was, like all the members of the Oldham family, who, 
 not being wedded in the usual way, had wedded conven- 
 tional prejudices ; and was not at all inclined to give up 
 an opinion because her niece, an earnest, bright, and deep- 
 hearted woman of five and twenty, ‘‘forgot herself” (ac- 
 cording to aunt Sabrina) so far as to talk about and feel 
 for “ common people.” 
 
 “ It’s all the same thing, Elizabeth,” she replied. “ Was 
 not your dear uncle, who sits there, near being killed on 
 one of their new-fangled railroads Have we not lost two 
 friends in a steam-boat ? Was not your cousin Townley 
 magnetized h Did not Abel burn his fingers in the Thames 
 Tunnel shares ? The Oldhams have been the victims ot 
 new systems and new sympathies ; and I assure you. Miss 
 Elizabeth, it would have been considered highly indeco- 
 rous, a few years ago, for a young lady to have any sym- 
 pathy, except for Sir Charles Grandison or Clarissa 
 Harlowe, and then not to talk about them ; but sympathy 
 with dressmakers ! milliners ! (I really quite blush to 
 name it) those females who stitch men’s under garments, 
 and” — the lady unfurled a large fan painted with one 
 of Watteau’s love scenes, and fanned away as much as 
 she could of her displeasure, adding, “ and even shop- 
 boys 1” 
 
 “ You forget, dear aunt, what you last week called my 
 chief ofience — my sympathy with governesses.” 
 
 “ The Governesses’ Benevolent Institution is very 
 highly patronized,” said the lady, bowing her head meekly 
 to the sanction, though her heart remained untouched by 
 the cause, “ their opening day was graced, not only by 
 the royal presence of one who is ever anxious to promote 
 a good cause ” 
 
 “And who was nobly supported,” said Elizabeth, “by 
 rank and talent. It was a touching thing to hear the 
 recognition of the class governess as a body having the 
 chief, because the earliest, influence over the rising genera- 
 
THE NEY/ SYMPATHIES. 
 
 235 
 
 tion — to know that, orphans and friendless as they fre- 
 quently are, isolated as in a great degree the nature of 
 their duties requires tliem to be, they had protectors not 
 only to champion their cause publicly, but the kind and 
 tender hands of women to relieve them privately, if want 
 or disease seized upon them, who have so seldom the 
 power of providing for themselves. All honour to such 
 women and such men ; and you, my dear aunt, you have 
 suffered one new sympathy to enter your heart ; and that 
 will in good time, I trust, make way for another.” 
 
 It is highly patronized,” repeated the old lady, very 
 highly, and patrons certainly do take more trouble than 
 they used formerly to do ; it must be very fatiguing that 
 anxiety and excitement about things — it is wearing you 
 out, Elizabeth. In my time girls had enough to think of 
 with their dresses (dress was dress then), their high heads 
 and high heels, their minuets, and presentation curtseys — 
 ah dear !” 
 
 Miss Sabrina resumed her knitting. Uncle Oldham his 
 book, and Elizabeth soon after left the room. 
 
 She is a dear good girl,” said the old gentleman after 
 the door was closed ; “ and what astonishes me, sister, is 
 that these new sympathies have not made her neglect a 
 single duty; she ffnds time for everything. It is very 
 odd, but she certainly is more attentive to us, more 
 thoughtful, more gentle, and more dignified, with a 
 better carriage and a more noble presence, than her sister 
 Caroline, who is in all other respects quite an Oldham. 
 Caroline, I must say, is wanting in small attentions ; we 
 
 don’t expect our nieces to be useful, but ” 
 
 Oh dear no !” said Miss Sabrina, “certainly not ; we 
 keep servants for that purpose. I really think Elizabeth 
 will soon have sympathies with them ; she sends her 
 maid to bed every night at ten since the girl has had a 
 cough, and absolutely undresses herself.” 
 
 “'Does she though'?” said Uncle Oldham, forgetting his 
 dignity, and looking pleased and happy, that is so like 
 Elizabeth ; Caroline would not do that.” 
 
236 
 
 THE NEW SYMPATHIES. 
 
 I should hope not, Mr. Oldham — Caroline is remark- 
 ably handsome.” 
 
 “ So she is — lovely — and will marry well, and soon; but 
 she is not so cheerful as Elizabeth, nor so clever.” 
 
 I do not fancy Elizabeth brilliant at all, brother ; she 
 is always either thinking or feeling ; if she would be 
 satisfied with one sympathetic insanity at a time it could be 
 borne with, but she is not. As to the Governesses’ Bene- 
 volent Institution, I am sure I would have subscribed to 
 it if I had had an idea it would have been so highly 
 patronized ; and seeing that it is so, I am convinced what 
 his royal highness said is quite true — that it is very strange 
 it was never thought of before ; I am sure I thought 
 everything was thought of! But as we were coming 
 home from Hampstead the other evening, I ordered the 
 coachman to drive slowly down Begent-street that we 
 might see the shops lit up. Caroline was delighted ; the 
 gas certainly sets off the display to the best advantage ; 
 several of the shops reminded us of the descriptions in 
 ‘ The Arabian Nights but there sat Elizabeth, folded up 
 in the corner of the carriage, not saying a single word. 
 ‘I cannot enjoy the sight,’ she exclaimed at last, can- 
 not enjoy the sight when I remember the quantity of 
 human discomfort, the immense loss of health, the total 
 breaking up of domestic feeling, which such sights as 
 these proclaim.’ Caroline laughed ; but I asked what she 
 meant ; and then she said that the people within had been 
 slaving since before eight in the morning — some of them 
 before seven — standing and sewing, and never got away 
 from their counters for fourteen or sixteen hours ; that 
 they had neither sufficient time for rest of body or im- 
 provement of mind. This made Caroline laugh still 
 more, at the idea of the mind of ‘a mere shopman or 
 shop woman — the mind of a creature born to cut 
 ribbon and measure silk behind a counter!’ You can- 
 not think how brilliant she was, and how severe upon 
 poor Elizabeth, who went on all the same — drew a dis- 
 agreeably painful picture of a man’s never being able to 
 
THE NEW SYMPATHIES. 
 
 237 
 
 see his own children except on Sundays — of the prostra- 
 tion of bodily health — the malaria produced by gas — the 
 necessity for recreation, which, if not rational, becomes 
 vicious — and the cruelty of what she called ^ the long-hour 
 system^ At last she interested me in some degree, and I 
 confessed it was exceedingly wrong and cruel of these 
 shop-keeping men to keep the poor creatures so long em- 
 ployed. Upon which she retorted, that it was we who 
 were to blame ; that we could force the shopkeepers to 
 shorten the hours of labour, by dealing only with those 
 who closed their establishments at seven or eight o’clock ; 
 that we could forbid our servants to shop after a certain 
 hour. In short she blamed us for the illness, and fatigue, 
 and irreligion of all that class of persons ; and declared 
 they could be made a rational, a more useful, and far 
 happier set of human beings, with the moments and min- 
 utes, the quarters and half-hours of time we squander. 
 Caroline said time was given us to squander, and them to 
 employ; but Elizabeth became serious, and told of the 
 place where an account would be asked of our steward- 
 ship, and how we shall be judged accordingly. She has 
 a strange way, brother, of mingling profane and sacred 
 things, which I do not like — calling actions and thoughts 
 to judgment.” 
 
 It is a strange way — but she was always a thoughtful 
 child,” answered Uncle Oldham ; and,” he added, she 
 spoke to me about this long-hour system herself. She 
 told me how much she was impressed at some meeting 
 she had been to with Lord S.’s family — (I could not 
 object to her going with them, you know) — at the appeal 
 which was made by an eloquent man to grant these poor 
 shopmen one hour more. Only one hour ! for their homes 
 — or for improvement — or for exercise ; and really it does 
 seem unreasonable that they should not have the power 
 of using and enjoying what we labour so hard to get rid 
 of. Time hangs very heavy on our hands — yet see how 
 hard and earnestly they beg for just one hour ! I am 
 sure, sister, if it rested with us, we could let them take a 
 
238 
 
 THE NEW SYMPATHIES. 
 
 great many off our hands. ISTot knowing much about 
 what is called the value of time — having it always at a 
 discount — I had not been led to consider what its value 
 might be to others. Though I have lived so much longer 
 in the world than Elizabeth has, she has thought more 
 on the subject ; and she never whines, as some folks do, 
 over distress, but seems buoyed up at the prospect of its 
 being relieved.” 
 
 Brother Oldham, take care !” said his sister, shaking 
 her knitting needles at him. Take care, brother Old- 
 ham — or you will forget yourself in your old age, and be 
 beguiled into these new sympathies by that foolish niece 
 of ours. Bemember that we have been a right-thinking 
 family for two hundred years^ — And the less likely to 
 go wrong now,” he replied, as his sister swept past him to 
 prepare for a drive with her favourite Caroline. 
 
 Uncle Oldham was a pompous gentleman, of a hand- 
 some and portly presence, somewhat ostentatious, fond of 
 flattery, fond of ease. In one thing he was a genuine 
 Englishman ; when he gave his gold — when he opened 
 his purse and paid his subscription — he thought he had 
 done all that was necessary for a gentleman to do ; but 
 having so done, he did not wish to be called upon for 
 anything else ; he expected to be let alone, he did not like 
 to have his feelings disturbed — to be tormented ; he gave 
 his subscription or sent his donation — that was enough. 
 He was not always clear whether he gave to the list of 
 patrons, or to the charity ; and once recalled his niece with 
 these words — she having wiled him out of a solitary guinea 
 for a charity before he had time to look over the list of 
 its patrons. 
 
 Elizabeth ! ” 
 
 “ Yes, dear uncle.” 
 
 “ You did not tell me the Duchess of Kent’s name 
 headed this list.” 
 
 It was unnecessary, I thought — she supports all 
 charities.” 
 
THE NEW SYMPATHIES. 
 
 239 
 
 “ But in that case I must give three guineas,” 
 
 Thank you,” said Elizabeth, seizing the money, and 
 was again about to leave the room. 
 
 “ Dear, bless her ! ” exclaimed her uncle, I don’t know 
 when I saw such a list — really, Elizabeth, you should have 
 told me of this before.” 
 
 “I am sure, sir, I did,” was the reply; “ I entered fully 
 (as I thought) into the high claims of the institution, and 
 of the vast good it would effect.” 
 
 There’s no one hardly down, my dear, for less than 
 five guineas. Beally you should be more careful,” con- 
 tinued her uncle, who had been going over the noble list 
 with his glass ; ‘^No name, that is a name, less than five; 
 give me that gold, childy and I will send a cheque for ten 
 guineas''' 
 
 Elizabeth took the cheque, but her eyes filled with tears ; 
 tears, that a love of display should stain the cause of 
 sweetest charity — tears for that an old man, whose grave 
 was making, slowly but surely, should sound his penny 
 trumpet on its very brink. But she did not remonstrate 
 then; she had patience and judgment, and was strong in 
 resolve, and spoke, little by little, of motives hallowing 
 gifts, leavening by degrees what had else remained un- 
 leavened, — sowing the good seed in the night time, — 
 silently and watchfully introducing, but not obtruding the 
 neio sympathies which had so stirred her heart, remember- 
 ing that to make strife or stir up evil passions, especially 
 round the domestic hearth where love and peace should 
 meet, is a great sin in woman. She was as prepared to 
 work as to wait, knowing she was labouring in a good 
 cause ; she bore the petted petulance and self-pompous 
 praise of her uncle, in strong belief that his kind nature 
 would help her yet. The vessels of her aunt’s heart were 
 indeed empty — she had no path to it but by vanity, and 
 Elizabeth was too right-minded to flatter a vice to pro- 
 duce a virtue ; so she performed her duty gently towards 
 her — sometimes more perplexed by her exceeding nothing- 
 
240 
 
 THE NEW SYMPATHIES. 
 
 Dess, than by the hardness and perversity of her beantifal 
 sister; her accomplished mind was clear as vigorous, seeing 
 and feeling, weighing and judging. 
 
 She felt that if things went on as they did in the good 
 old times” with ‘‘the people,” they might remain as they 
 were with “ the peer but new thoughts, new positions, 
 new wants, create new difficulties. There was no use in 
 the retrospect, “ our sempstresses ought not to starve ” — 
 when they were starving ; no use in recalling the time 
 when war’s depopulation permitted the home population 
 to live ; no use in the idle ideas which float through the 
 brain of idle people, producing nothing ; no use in Eliza- 
 beth folding her hands, and whispering to herself, amid 
 the perfume of flowers, and the music of luxury, “ I am 
 a young and helpless woman, not very rich, a weak mem- 
 ber of the Oldham family, who love ease and repose ; I 
 fear I could not move them, and it would be unfeminine 
 to put myself forward in any public manner — I can do 
 nothing ! ” 
 
 But Elizabeth did not so ; except, indeed, that she 
 shrank, as every right-minded woman does, from display 
 of any kind. She felt her heart stirred by the new sym- 
 pathies which awoke around her. She remonstrated so 
 eftectively with several of her young friends, that they 
 felt it a duty to give their orders to their dressmakers, so 
 as to permit fair and proper time for their accomplish- 
 ment ; and thus in two or three houses of business, the 
 intense night labour, which chiefly arises from extra and 
 hastened work, was abridged, and a fair quantity of time 
 permitted for repose. 
 
 It is astonishing what extensive influence women pos- 
 sess," when they only seek to exercise it in its legitimate icay. 
 The involuntary feeling of respect which every efibrt in 
 the cause of humanity creates, is increased tenfold by the 
 earnest pleading of a womanly woman. She has all the 
 under-currents of society at her command; her approbation, 
 her affection, is a reward, even in the present state of 
 society, for which the most powerful would exert their 
 
THE NEW SYMPATHIES. 
 
 241 
 
 influence ; and those who either neglect or pervert their 
 power of usefulness at a time like the present, when so 
 much that woman's thought and woma/ns care can so fully 
 alleviate, is sapping or destroying both body and soul — 
 have more to answer for than they have permitted them- 
 selves to think of. 
 
 Elizabeth Oldham thought more than once that several 
 in high places, who had been stirred by the newly-awak- 
 ened sympathies of the times, were in great danger of 
 talking too much and doing too little \ that they created 
 discontents where there was little grievance, and no power 
 of alleviation, and that they seemed incapable of taking 
 enlarged views ; she was steady to persevere, rather 
 than ready to push forward ; still it was wonderful to 
 see one so still and mild, so fearless ; for regardless of 
 the reproofs of the morning, when the carriage rolled away 
 from the door, she entered her uncle’s room with the pro- 
 spectus of a new charity. 
 
 The old gentleman did not pretend to see her ; he con- 
 tinued reading, and Elizabeth sat down patiently to bide 
 his time ; once or twice he glanced from over his specta- 
 cles at the bright, yet thoughtful, face of his favourite. 
 
 What is the matter now, Elizabeth ; some new sym- 
 pathy, eh % Ah ! I thought so, cunning puss, you waited 
 until your aunt was gone. Oh ! very good ! Patronised 
 by the queen ! soh ! ‘Hospital for Consumption.’ Well, I 
 must say, with all due respect to her Majesty, that a new 
 hospital for any purpose seems to me a work of superer- 
 ogation. Why, we have hospitals in almost every prin- 
 cipal street ! What could they want of a new hospital V 
 
 Uncle Oldham was informed by his niece, that of all 
 the hundred hospitals which sanctify London, there was 
 not one that would receive consumptive patients; not one 
 that would shelter them ; that the disease which sweeps 
 away nearly half of our population was permitted to con- 
 tinue its ravages without an effort being made to provide 
 against its encroachments, to succour its victims, to enable 
 the healing profession to study the fatal malady within 
 
 E 
 
242 
 
 THE NEW SYMPATHIES. 
 
 •walls, that must aiFord them information, while they yielded 
 to others relief. The establishment of such a refuge, and 
 such a school, was another sympathy ” certainly, and 
 one which the old gentleman did not cast from him ; his 
 sister was not there to question ; his niece, with her elo- 
 quent words and as eloquent face, was by his side, and 
 tiie list of patrons was before him ! It was, moreover, 
 one of the softest and most balmy days of the least caj^ri- 
 cious April that England had known for many years ; 
 hyacinths, violets, and mignionette, flung their perfume 
 into the half-opened windows ; and the hum of the bee 
 and the glancing silvery wings of the white butterflies 
 created delicious anticipations of summer. Let those who 
 like, laugh at the suburban retreats of Richmond, Hamp- 
 stead, Twickenham, and Roehampton ; but the richest 
 and fairest of earth’s treasures are to be found within the 
 enclosures of those who either achieve wealth rapidly, or, 
 like the Oldhams, inherit it, with its advantages and its 
 llESPONSIBILITIES. 
 
243 
 
 THE DROWNED FISHERMAN. 
 
 In the immediate neighbourhood of Duncannon Fort, 
 along that portion of the coast which contracts into the 
 Waterford river, there are a number of scattered cottages 
 standing either singly or in small clusters along a wild 
 and picturesque sea-shore — more wild, perhaps, than 
 beautiful, although the infinite number of creeks, and 
 bays, and overhanging rocks, vary the prospect at every 
 hundred yards ; and I know nothing more delightful than 
 to row during a long summer evening, from the time 
 when the sun abates his fierceness until the moon has 
 fairly risen upon the waters — nothing more delightful 
 than to row, now in, now out, now under the hanging 
 rocks, now close upon the silver-sanded bays, where 
 thousands of many-coloured shells form the most beau- 
 tiful mosaic beneath transparent waters. So deep is 
 the tranquillity of land and sea during these happy hours, 
 that travellers would find it difficult to believe they 
 were really floating beneath the shadow of the Irish coast : 
 that the lovely village of Templemore, smiling on the 
 brink of the Waterford river, was inhabited by a people 
 who, for centuries, have laughed and laboured ” upon 
 worse food and worse treatment than we in rich and happy 
 England bestow upon our dogs. Oh, it makes my heart 
 ache, and my blood boil, when I think of what I have 
 seen, and contrast it with what I hear ; when I remember 
 that, whether priest-ridden or law-ridden, the heads of 
 either party have been fanatics, or worse I — but what 
 have I to do with this? I love the green turf of my 
 native country, I laugh at its follies, I weep over its 
 R 2 
 
244 
 
 THE DEOWNED FISHERMAN. 
 
 sorrows, and grieve for its crimes j ah ! a woman’s smiles 
 and a woman’s tears are alike useless — but what have 
 you, gentle reader, to do with that ? I have never 
 entered upon, and do not wish to enter upon, any 
 subject that trenches on the political grievances of Ireland : 
 I can only pray — which T do with all my heart and 
 soul ! — that times there may mend, and speedily. Hap- 
 pily they are mending, and very fast. I have endea- 
 voured to win the suffrages of my dear English friends 
 for the virtues and domestic privations of my humble 
 countrywomen ; and I have endeavoured to show to Irish 
 people how their besetting sins of carelessness and incon- 
 siderateness might be corrected — corrected without much 
 trouble, and with great advantage to themselves ; as far 
 as Ireland is concerned, I have no ambition beyond what 
 I have stated, and having so said, I will tell my 
 story : — 
 
 And what ’ud ail the boat but to do ? Sure she’s 
 done, ay, and done a dale for us, this ten years ; and as 
 to the hole. Jemmy ’ill plug his hat into it, or stick in a 
 piece of sail-cloth, and what ’ud ail her then, but sail, 
 God bless her ! like a swan or a curlew, as she always 
 does 
 
 Dermot — Dermot, darling, listen to me for onc’t ! ” 
 
 Faith,” replied Dermot to his better half, Kate 
 Browne, while his keen blue eye twinkled with that mix- 
 ture of wit and humour so truly Irish — “ faith, my dear. 
 I’ll accommodate you in any way I can, for I’ll listen to 
 you onc’t for three speakings — come, out with it, and 
 don’t stand twisting your face that was onc’t so purty as 
 to win the heart and hand of the handsomest man in the 
 parish, and that is — myself, Dermot Browne, at your 
 sarvice. Mistress Kate Browne, madam ! Don’t keep 
 lengthening your face to the length of a herring-net, but 
 out with it ! — out with it ! — at onc’t ! ” 
 
 “ Dermot, I’ve got the box of tools quite convanient ; 
 I brought it with me to the shore, and the last time I 
 was in Waterford I bought all sortings of nails, large and 
 
THE DKOWNED FISHERMAN. 
 
 245 
 
 small ; and there’s plenty of boo7^d in the shed, and 
 'Dermot, mend the hole, and God bless you ! — sure it’s the 
 sore heart I’d have when you’d be on the wather, to think 
 that any harm would happen you ; it won’t take you 
 anything like an hour ” 
 
 An hour ! God bless the woman ; why, a body w’ould 
 think you had never been a fisherman’s wife ! An hour 
 would turn the tide — and the luck ! — an hour ! Why, 
 the herrings out yonder would miss my company if I 
 waited ; and all for what ? To go to the throuble of 
 nailing a bit o’ boord on a mite of a hole, when it will be 
 just as easy to stop it with a hat ! ” 
 
 But not as safe, Dermot ! ” 
 
 Be asy with your safety ! You’re always touching on 
 that; — ay, will it, and as safe, too; haven’t I done it before*? 
 Why, turn up every one of the boats along the shore, 
 and I’ll bet you the cod, I mean to catch, against a branyan 
 that there isn’t as sound a boat as my own on the sands ; 
 doesn’t Harrison’s go without a rudder *? doesn’t Micban’s 
 go without a mast, barring a gag of a gate-post that he 
 . pulled out of Lavery’s field ? I’m sure Michael Murphy’s 
 craft is bang full of dawshy holes like a riddle : and a 
 good noggin he won on that, for he betted Lanty Moore 
 that at the present time the keel of his boat had more 
 holes in it than Lanty ’s English sieve which he had for 
 winnowing corn ; and sure enough he won, for the holes 
 in the sieve were all stopped up with the dirt ! Lend a 
 hand, old girl, and help me and the boy to shove her off ! ” 
 He continued, appealing to his wife, What ! you won’t ? 
 Why thin, Kate, agra, what ails ye *? I’ve been your true 
 and faithful husband next Candlemas will be seventeen 
 years, and you never refused me a hand’s turn before ! ” 
 Still Kate Browne moved not ; and her husband, using, 
 with his eldest son, considerable exertion to push off the 
 boat, became annoyed at her obstinacy. 
 
 Kate saw, but, contrary to her usual habit, heeded it 
 not. She stood, with folded arms and tearful eyes, sur- 
 veying the proceedings, without possessing the power of 
 
246 
 
 THE DEOWNED FISHERMAN. 
 
 putting a stop to preparations, of the termination of w-hicli 
 slie had a tearful presentiment. 
 
 Why, thin, look at your mother, Benje 1 ” exclaimed 
 Browne to his son ; “sure she’s enough to set a man mad, 
 and her’s the help that’s as good as five, she has such a 
 knowledge of setting everything straight. Kate,” he 
 exclaimed to his wife 
 
 “ Let her alone, father dear,” interrupted the boy, “ let 
 her alone, and don’t vex her more, dorUt you see there's a 
 tear in her eye ? ” 
 
 “And how canl help that?” expostulated the father, 
 looking kindly towards his wife at the same time ; “ them 
 women are ever so hard to manage, and manage as ye 
 will, ye can’t find ’em out ; — there’s the sun shining above 
 her head, the waters dancing and capering, like jewels, at 
 her feet, the herrings crjdng ‘ Come, catch me,’ and Benje, 
 between you and I, as handsome a husband, and as fine, 
 ay, and for the matter of that, as good a boy for a son as 
 woman’s heart could wish, and yet the tears are in her 
 eyes, and the corners of her mouth drawn as far down as 
 if she did nothing but sup sorrow all her life.” Benjamin, 
 the fisher’s only child, made no reply ; and, after a 
 moment’s pause, his father looked at him and said, “ Why, 
 boy, you look as much cast down as your mother ; stay 
 on shore, and good luck to you ! ” 
 
 “ Ko, father, that I won’t ! I’ll not add more to the 
 throuble she’s in, by letting you go by yourself ; I wish 
 from my heart the boat was mended, if it would make 
 her asy.” 
 
 “ Don’t bother about the boat, boy,” replied Browne, 
 “ I never meddle or make with her house or land busi- 
 ness ; hasn’t she got a back-door for the cabin ? a sty 
 for the poor pig ? a chaney dish for the praties ? and a 
 white table-cloth for saints’-days and bonfire-nights ? 
 Can’t she stay at home and mind them, and let me and 
 the cobble alone ?” Benjamin loved the wild and careless 
 spirit of his father better than the prudence and fore- 
 thought of his mother; yet did he not forget that the 
 
THE DROWNED FISHERMAN. 
 
 247 
 
 very arrangements and luxuries to wliicli his father 
 alluded were solely the effects of her care and in- 
 dustry. 
 
 Won’t you say, God speed me, Kate inquired the 
 fisherman as he pushed off his dangerous craft with a 
 broken oar ; won’t you say, God speed me and the boy ?•” 
 The woman clasped her hands suddenly and fervently 
 together, and dropping on her knees without moving from, 
 the spot on which she had been standing, uttered a few 
 earnest words of supplication for their safety. Benjamin 
 sprang on the shingles, and raising his mother affection- 
 ately in his arms, whispered — 
 
 Keep a good heart, we’ll be back with such bouncing 
 fish, before morning, any how ; and mother, darling, if you 
 see Statia Byrne, here is the neckerchief she promised to 
 hem for me ; tell her not to forget her promise.” The 
 kisses Mrs. Browne bestowed on her son were mingled 
 vdth tears. She watched the boat until it had dwindled 
 to a small speck on the horizon. As she turned to ascend 
 the cliff, she saw the round laughing face of Statia Byrne 
 peer from behind a rock, and withdraw itself instantly on 
 iDeing perceived. She called to her ; and after a little 
 time Statia came blushing, and smiling, and lingering by 
 the way to pluck every sprig of samphire, every root of 
 sea-pink, that grew within her reach. 
 
 I just came down to gather a few bits of herbs for the 
 granny’s cures, and a few shells to keep the childre asy,” 
 said Statia — pulling her sea-pinks to pieces at the same 
 time. 
 
 “ And what does the granny cure with these h ” inquired 
 Mrs. Browne. 
 
 Sorra a know I know,” replied the girl, blushing still 
 more deeply. 
 
 Maybe,” continued Mrs. Browne, gravely, — maybe, 
 Stacy honey, there’s a charm in them like the yarrow you 
 put under your pillow last Holy-eve night ? ” 
 
 Ah, thin. Mistress Browne, ma’am, let me alone about 
 the yarrow — sure it was only out of innocent mirth I did 
 
248 
 
 THE DROAVNED FISHERMAN. 
 
 it, and no harm ; and, any way, I’ve no belief in such things 
 at all, at all.” 
 
 “ And why do you disbelieve them h ” inquired the 
 fisherman’s wife. Statia made no reply. I can tell you,” 
 she continued ; “ because though you neither spoke nor 
 laughed that blessed night, my poor girl, after you placed 
 the yarrow under your pillow — still you did not dream of 
 Benje Browne. Stacy, Stacy, I mind the time myself 
 when, if a spell worked contrary, I’d disbelieve it directly 
 — it’s only human natur’, darling.” 
 
 Statia Byrne flung her handful of sea-pinks upon the 
 shingles, and passed the back of her hand across her eyes, 
 for they were filled with tears. 
 
 You have thrown away the granny’s pinks,” said 
 Kate, pointing to the flowers that the sea-breeze was 
 scattering far and wide. 
 
 Ah, thin, let me alone. Mistress BroAvne, dear ! ” 
 exclaimed the girl. And good-bye, for the present, 
 ma’am ; I’m sure the child ’ill be woke before this, and 
 mother is carding wool, so she’ll want me now.” 
 
 Good-bye, Statia — but stop, child : Benje desired me 
 to put you in mind, that you promised to hem this necker- 
 chief for him ; and tell your mother, jewel, that if she’ll 
 let you come down to my cabin to-night, Avhen the grawls 
 are all in bed. I’ll be for ever obliged to her ; Browne and 
 the boy are out to sea, and there’s something over me that 
 I don’t care to be quite alone this blessed night : so come 
 down, a lannan, — and thin you can hem the neckerchief 
 — before morning.” 
 
 “ I will, I will,” said the maiden, with whom smiles had 
 already taken the place of tears, for she loved Mrs. 
 BroAvne’s cottage almost better than her own ; I will, 
 and I’ve learnt a new song j oh, I shall be so happy 1 ” 
 and she danced up the cliffs with all the light gaiety of 
 fifteen ! 
 
 The fisherman’s wife - set her house in order, and then 
 commenced mending her husband’s nets. It Avould have 
 been evident to any observer, that her mind was ill at 
 
THE DROWNED FISHERMAN. 
 
 249 
 
 ease, for instead of pursuing her occupation with her usual 
 steadiness, she frequently suffered the hard meshes to drop 
 from her bony fingers, and the wooden needle to lie idle 
 on her lap. She would rise and peer from her small win- 
 dow, or more frequently still from the open door, into the 
 heavens, but there was no cause for disquiet in their aspect 
 — the moon was in her full, calm glory ; and the stars, 
 bright, glittering, and countless, waited round her throne 
 as handmaids silently attending upon their mistress. She 
 could see the reflection of the moonbeams on the far-away 
 waters — but her ear, practised as it was, could hardly 
 catch the murmur of the ocean, so profound was its 
 repose ; and yet Kate continued restless and feverish. 
 Benjamin was her only surviving child — although five 
 others had called her mother — and, indeed, while he 
 was absent from her, she felt that undefined, but perfectly 
 natural, dread which steals over a sensitive mind for the 
 welfare of a beloved object, whenever the one is separated 
 from the other. 
 
 It v/as a great relief to her spirits when she heard the 
 light foot of Statia Byrne on her threshold, and she felt 
 new-sprung hope within her heart when she looked into 
 the bright eyes and observed the full smile of the joyous 
 girl. 
 
 They’re all a-bed, and the baby went off to sleep 
 without an hushow ! and mother says, as you’re all alone by 
 yourself, I might stay with you all night, Mrs. Browne ; 
 and so I will, if you please — and I’ve brought my needle, 
 and — I’ll hem the handkerchief, if you please — and then, 
 maybe — maybe you’d show me how you mend nets — I 
 should so like to mend Mister Browne’s herring net ; he 
 gave mother (God bless him !) as many herrings last year 
 as lasted all Lent ! — I’m sure we can never forget it to 
 him.” 
 
 “ Pray for him then, Stacy — pray on your bended knees 
 — for Dermot and Benjamin Browne this night.” 
 
 “Why so I will,” rejoined the girl — astonished at the 
 woman’s earnestness of manner — “ but the night is fine. 
 
250 
 
 THE DROWNED FISHERMAN. ' 
 
 the sky is blue, the waters clear as crystal ; they’ve been 
 out many a night when the winds do be blowing the 
 waves into the sky, and I’ve wondered to see you heart- 
 easy about them — what, then, ails you to-night h ” 
 
 God knows ! ” replied Kate Browne, with a heavy 
 sigh ; I think I’ll go over my hades a bit ; ough, Stacy 
 darling, it’s a fine thing to have the religion to turn to 
 when the heart turns against everything else.” Kate 
 sprinkled herself with holy water out of a small chalice, 
 and knelt down, with a decket ” of beads in her hands, 
 to say her prayers almost unwittingly, she repeated 
 them aloud, but they had, in a degree, lost their soothing 
 power, and she mingled the anxieties of earth with her 
 petitions, not to heaven but to its inhabitants ; her 
 mingled yarn ” ran thus : — 
 
 ^ Holy Mary, pray for us ’ — Statia, open the door, 
 agra, and listen ; myself thinks the wind’s rising — ^ now, 
 and in the hour ’ — the ca.t ! avourneen, don’t you see the 
 cat at the herring-tub h bad luck to that cat ! — ^ now, and 
 in the hour of our death ! ’ ” 
 
 There was a long pause, and she continued murmuring 
 her petitions, and speaking aloud her anxieties, while 
 Statia went on hemming the handkerchief ; at last she 
 looked up at her young companion and inquired, “ Where 
 did I leave off, my darling — was it at ^ Virgin, most 
 powerful,’ or at ‘ Queen of Confessors ? ’ ” 
 
 I did not hear,” replied the industrious maiden. 
 
 Hear what ? ” exclaimed Kate Browne, starting off 
 her knees. 
 
 ^^Lord defend us, you startle the very life out of me ! ” 
 ejaculated the girl, devoutly crossing herself. 
 
 But what did you hear, Stacy h ” 
 
 ISTo thing. I told you I did not hear where you left 
 
 off.” 
 
 Ough ! ay, ay I ” exclaimed Mrs. Browne, God for- 
 give me, I am a poor sinful thing ; quite full of sin ; 
 I must give up the prayers for to-night, I‘ can’t steady my 
 heart to them, good nor bad ; there ! finish your work, 
 
THE DROWNED FISHERMAN. 
 
 251 
 
 and we’ll go to bed, jewel — it is, as you say, a beautiful 
 night, thanks be to God for his mercies ! and I ought to 
 have more faith.” . 
 
 Long did they both remain awake during that calm 
 moonlight : the fisherman’s wife muttering prayers and 
 fears, and raising her eyes to the little window which 
 opened at the foot of her bed, and from which, as she 
 lay, she could catch a view of the distant sea — at last 
 she fell off into a deep, deep sleep. But Statia, though 
 free from all anxiety as to the fate of the absent, could 
 not close her eyes — poor girl ! her young imagination had 
 passed a gulf of years, and she was thinking, that 
 perhaps she might be to the young fisher what Kate 
 was to the old j and she thought how good he was — and 
 how handsome ; and how happy she should be to mend 
 his nets, and watch the return of his boat from the 
 highest clifi* that “ toppled o’er the deep.” The grey 
 morning was stealing on the night, yet still Kate slept — 
 and still Statia Byrne continued with her eyes fixed on 
 the window, creating — not castles, but — nets, and boats, 
 and cottages in the air ; when, suddenly, before the win- 
 dow stood Benjamin Browne — she had not seen his 
 shadow pass — she had heard no step — no voice, no sound ; 
 nor did she see a figure, but there was his face almost 
 pressed to the glass — his long, uncurled hair hung down 
 either cheek — and his eyes were fixed on her with a cold, 
 iininoving, rayless gaze — she endeavoured to sit up — she 
 felt suddenly paralyzed — she could not move — she tried to 
 speak, to call Mrs. Browne, who still slept heavily, heavier 
 than before — she could make no sound — still her lover 
 gazed — gazed on. And what occurred to her (for she 
 afterwards declared, she never, for a moment, was deprived 
 of consciousness) as most strange was, that though the 
 room within was dark, and his head obscured the window, 
 still she could see his features (to use her own expressive 
 phrase) clear like wax while as he gazed, their beau- 
 tiful form assumed the long, pale hue of death — by a 
 sudden effort she closed her eyes, but only for a brief 
 
252 
 
 THE DROWNED FISHERMAN. 
 
 moment. When she re-opened them, he was gone — 
 and she only looked upon the grey mingling of sea and 
 sky. Trembling and terror-stricken, she at last succeeded 
 in awakening her companion. Mrs. Browne heard her 
 story with apparent calmness, and putting her lips close 
 to the ear of the fainting girl, whispered — “ he is dead ! ” 
 
 It was long, long before Statia recovered from her 
 swoon, for when she did, the morning sun was shining on 
 her face— and she was alone, quite alone in the fisherman’s 
 cottage ; at first, she thought she had fearfully dreamed, 
 but the realities around her recalled her to herself ; she 
 flew to the same cliff where, the evening before, uncon- 
 scious of the strong affection which bound her almost 
 childish heart to her young lover, she had watched his 
 departure ; and looking down on the beach, her painful 
 vision was too truly realized — Dermot Browne was leading 
 his wife from a group of persons who were bearing the 
 corpse of the young fisherman to the shore ; in the dis- 
 tance could be seen the keel of the doomed boat floating 
 upwards, while crowds of sea-birds overhead screamed the 
 youth’s funeral dirge ! 
 
 It might be about two months after this occurrence — 
 which plunged the warm-hearted people of the neighbour- 
 ing villages into deep sorrow — that Kate Browne visited 
 the cottage of Statia Byrne ; it was the first time the 
 bereaved mother had entered any cottage, save her own, 
 since ‘‘her trouble.” As soon as Statia saw her, she 
 flung herself upon her neck and sobbed as if her heart 
 would break ; the fisherman’s wife held her from her, 
 and parting her hair from off her brow, said, — 
 
 “ Sorrow has worked with you, and left his mark upon 
 your face, avourneen ; and though, my darlint, you did 
 not drame of him that's gone last Holy-eve, you’ve dramed 
 of him often since.” 
 
 The poor girl wept still more bitterly. 
 
 “ You must have been very dear, very dear entirely, to 
 him,” continued Kate Browne, “for his blessed spirit 
 found it harder quitting you than his own mother, who 
 
THE DROWNED FISHERMAN. 
 
 253 
 
 nursed him a habby at her breast ; but whisht, darlint, 
 don’t I love you better for that now '? Sure everything 
 — let alone every one that he regarded — that his regard 
 only rested on, is more to me than silver or goold, or the 
 wealth of the whole world ! Didn’t the bright eyes of his 
 spirit look from the heavens on you, my jewel? And 
 what I’m come here for, Mistress Byrne, ma’am, is, that 
 as you have so many childre (and God keep them to 
 you !), maybe, you’d spare Statia to bind my heart from 
 breaking, and let her bide entirely with us — we have 
 prosperity enough, for when the Lord takes one thing 
 away, why he gives another — blessed be his holy name ! 
 And sure, since the boy’s gone, nothing can equal Dermot’s 
 industry and carefulness, stopping every hole in every 
 fisherman’s boat — when he’s ashore, the hammer and nails 
 is never out of his hand. Let her be to me as my own 
 child. Mistress Byrne, and you’ll have a consolation that 
 will never lave you, no ! not on your death-bed. Sure 
 you’ll see her every day the sun rises — let her bide with 
 me, for I am very desolate ! ” 
 
 The mother, as she looked round upon seven rosy, 
 healthy children, felt, that indeed her neighbour was 
 desolate, and in a voice hoarse with emotion, she said, 
 Statia may go, and take our blessing with her, if she 
 likes ! ” 
 
 Many little voices wept aloud in that cottage, although 
 they knew they should see their sister daily ; but the maiden 
 was firm in her resolve, and that night greeted, as a father, 
 the father of him whom her young heart had loved with an 
 earnestness of affection which the heart can know but once. 
 
 Statia is now long past the age of girlhood, and it is 
 pleasant to see how perfectly her simple life is an illustra- 
 tion of the pathetic exclamation of the J ewisli damsel. 
 Thy people, shall be my people, and thy God, my God ! ” 
 She manages admirably between her two mothers,” as 
 she calls them, so that the one may not he jealous of the 
 other : but though she has had many suitors for her hand, 
 she has not forgotten — the drowned fisherman ! 
 
254 
 
 MADAME EAYMOTTE. 
 
 The revolving seasons, pointing out tlie festivals as a 
 clock strikes the hours, obliges us sometimes to think how 
 we spend them, and how they are spent elsewhere. A 
 story-book” is not, to my mind, the place in which to in- 
 troduce religious observations j or humiliating details as to 
 how FESTIVAL-DAYS ” are mi5-spent by professing Chris- 
 tians, might be presented to the reader. But, setting 
 aside such considerations, I have often thought that our 
 regular, stolid, hard-working Englishman, of all men in 
 the world, least knows how to enjoy a festival, as a rational 
 being ought to enjoy it. 
 
 The French spend their Jours de fUes much more 
 rationally than we do. I remember at Havre, and other 
 provincial towns in France, being exceedingly delighted 
 with the manifestations of happiness among the lower 
 classes on their fete-days. It is pleasant to see them 
 sitting beneath the shado^vs of their trees, drinking 
 nothing stronger than coffee, and either joining in the 
 rural dance, or listening to the poetry of some street 
 minstrel, who, exalted on a barrel, and shaded by a gay- 
 coloured cotton umbrella, recites or sings, or mingles both 
 together, according to the wishes or taste of his audience. 
 It is exhilarating to witness their natural cheerfulness, 
 with its outbursts of joyous laughter, and to know that 
 it does not proceed from that excitement which debases 
 the mind and destroys the body. It is salutary to know 
 that the human beings you see crowded around you will 
 go to their homes and humble beds without having either 
 the crimes of gluttony or intoxication to answer for, the 
 next day. I have often wondered, during their festivals, 
 
MADAME RAYMOTTE. 
 
 255 
 
 Ilow tlie long, lean, yellow-face of the Frenchman, so full 
 of business all the morning, becomes lit up, as if by magic, 
 when emancipated from his labours ; it is something like 
 the flash of a dark lantern, the more brilliant when its 
 past obscurity is remembered. A Frenchwoman, indeed, 
 is almost always pleasant to speak to and to look at ; even 
 if with a brown dingy skin, thin lips, and meagre features ; 
 having no advantage beyond a well-dressed petite figure, 
 and most brilliant, languishing, beaming, shadowy, loving, 
 hating eyes (for they are all these by turns, and for a 
 purpose) j she will look fascinating, aye, even when snows 
 are above her brow. A Frenchwoman’s eyes are a mar- 
 vel ; her whole stock in beauty’s trade are — eyes. Our 
 English, Irish, and Scotch women have eyes — good eyes 
 to see with, and very well to look at ; nice eyes, sweet 
 eyes, brown eyes, black eyes, blue eyes, grey eyes ! But 
 a Frenchwoman’s eyes are all these — and more ! The 
 bare remembrance of such eyes has beguiled me from my 
 object. I intended to have contrasted the manner of 
 keeping the fUe of New Year’s Day in England with that 
 in France ; but I have, like many others, written much, 
 yet nothing to the purpose. Instead of performing my 
 intent, I will simply relate a little incident which occurred 
 to a Madame Baymotte, on a New Year’s Day, and wish 
 that all my acquaintances may have as happy a commence- 
 ment of their new year as dear old little Madame Bay- 
 motte had to hers. 
 
 Madame, at the termination of the year 18 — , was a 
 very small specimen of an old gentlewoman — shrivelled 
 and wizened, and drawn together, till her little back 
 formed a little hump ; her dress was a brownish black 
 silk — much worn — and generally slightly powdered over 
 the bosom with rappee ; it did not,” she would say, 
 laughing, show vara moche on de dark silk.” 
 
 The moment you entered madame’s room, you saw she 
 was a gentlewoman — there could be no mistake about it ; 
 her salutation was that of la vieille Gour. She was (though 
 then living in a little back room un three pair of perpen- 
 
2o6 
 
 MADAME KAYMOTTE. 
 
 dicular stairs in a narrow street) a specimen of the old 
 courtly school of France, when urbanity and dignity were 
 combined in a lady’s deportment. After she had placed 
 her visitor in the best chair — with her hack to the light 
 (a wise bit of French etiquette), she would resume her 
 seat at a little antique work table, upon which were scat- 
 tered, or more properly speaking, 'placed, the materials of 
 her trade : she made artificial flowers. She was then 
 sixty -jive years old, and yet made them for bread ! It was 
 interesting to see the scraps, and shreds, and colouring 
 matter, from which she manufactured the perfect and 
 exquisite flowers heaped before her ; it was like drawing 
 music from the reeds of a wild river ; and it was curious 
 to observe her little fingers, as a surgeon would say, “ so 
 anatomically perfect,” creating roses and dahlias, the 
 thready “resida” — and the trembling orange blossom — 
 and all this, at that advanced age, without the aid of spec- 
 tacles — such eyes as she has ! — bright — and keen — and 
 glittering — and melting too. I have as often seen them 
 filled with tears as with mirth. In summer, her fairy 
 feet were placed daintily upon a little stool, and in winter 
 on a chauffe-pied. She said she could seldom afford herself 
 de large fleer her bed was always concealed by a 
 screen ; and on an ancient chest of drawers, which she 
 denominated de tall buoy,” were glass shades of various 
 sizes, covering the most cherished specimens of her beau- 
 tiful and feminine art ; there was no carpet on the floor : 
 she used to say that de cat — her dear Tomas — him dey 
 call Tom — would scratch a carpet to pieces.” I do not 
 think Madame Raymotte ever gave him an opportunity 
 of doing so. Tom — an ugly old cat as ever crept out of 
 Saint Giles’s — was a great comfort to the good madam e. 
 
 He have de wisdom of de sarpen’, vid de douceur of de 
 dove,” she would say — Ah ! mon chere Tomas, you be 
 goot chat ! — you nevere, nevere goe to take your lit feel 
 sleeps upon my tables — nevere puts your foots upon my 
 flow-eres — but goes and sleeps in my beds ; il est si sage 
 — le hon chat /” How, if visitors did not think “ le bon 
 
MADAME KAYMOTTE. 
 
 257 
 
 cliat'^ very sage^' in preferring tlie warm bed to the 
 flowers, they never said so, because madame did not like 
 to hear it. 
 
 Madame had been very unfortunate in her younger 
 days. She came with her parents to England during the 
 French Eevolutioii, and their deaths, which occurred long 
 before the temporary restoration of the Bourbon dynasty, 
 left her alone in our English world. She frequently spoke 
 of her earlierdays — of visions of splendour mingled with the 
 memories of the fountains and gardens of the ‘^old chateau,” 
 and still more of Madame la Comtesse^' her chere 
 maman^'‘ and Monsieur le Comtek' her clter 'pa'pa 
 and tears would roll down her cheeks while recounting 
 their rank — their virtue — their privations : this was her 
 constant theme, though she never alluded to her own 
 exertions, which had rendered their latter days more com- 
 fortable than the first years of their exile. Madame had 
 received much kindness from the belles and beauties of 
 Queen Charlotte’s court — had wreathed flowers for man}^ 
 a titled brow which long since had been entwined by the 
 red earth-worm — and she told a long, rambling story 
 about having once had the honour of presenting a 
 bouquet of her own manufacture to Queen Charlotte. 
 
 And how did you present it, madame ? ” I used to 
 inquire, though I had often heard, but the old lady liked 
 to tell. 
 
 I fall upon my knee, and take her royally beautiful 
 hand, and press it to my lip.” 
 
 And did you say anything, madame ? ” 
 
 I did make a few vords speech in my own head full 
 tree veeks before, and repeat it to myself day and night 
 to be ready ; but just at de beginning — de dear Majesty 
 — she had some littel bits of snulf stick to her royal 
 fingers — and they get up my nose — and I sneeze — sneeze — 
 sneeze like poor Tomas ven he gets enrliume ; and de court 
 ladies laugh — de littel ti-terre, ti-terre ; and her Majesty 
 — she smile — big smile — her royal mouth vas very longe 
 — and she smile — and say, ‘ Mademoiselle, you must lame 
 
 s 
 
258 
 
 MADAME RAYMOTTE. 
 
 — to take de snuff — and den you vill not sneeze ven yon 
 kiss my hand ; — and so I take snuff evere since.” 
 
 She certainly followed her Majesty’s advice, and would 
 not have sneezed for the last thirty years — at all events, at 
 anything in the shape of snuff. There was one subject, how- 
 ever, upon which the loquacious Frenchwoman was almost 
 always silent — her marriage. It was next to impossible 
 to get her to deliver any opinion whatever upon the state 
 matrimonial. If a wreath of orange-blossoms were bespoke, 
 she has often been heard to sigh and exclaim, “ Poor 
 fools ! ” in an under tone, after her customers’ departure. 
 
 Madame,” I ventured once to inquire, why did you 
 murmur ^ poor fool ! ’ when receiving the order from that 
 fine lady’s maid touching the flowers necessary for her 
 young mistress h ” 
 
 Because, my kind friend,” she replied, taking a large 
 pinch of snuff, because I have vorne 'em myself'' 
 
 Then you do not approve of matrimony V 
 Bah ! — poor fools 1 ” 
 
 ‘•ISTot under any circumstances'?” 
 
 'No — non I — poor fools 1 ” 
 
 But, madame, yoii married ! ” 
 
 “ Poor — poor — poor fools ! ” repeated the old florist, 
 shaking her head. I would not venture to continue my 
 inquiry, for the sad tones of her last reply were painful to 
 hear, though only the repetition of an exclamation which, 
 at first, had struck me as absurd. But, to my astonish- 
 ment, after placing her little feet more firmly on her 
 footstool, she of herself resumed the subject : — 
 
 “ I have been poor fools myself, dear ladie, and dat is de 
 raison vy I not like to make bridal garniture — de vedding 
 blossoms — to tremble over the poor innocent brows of 
 de young maids. I vill tell you — I am old now, but I 
 vas pretty little French vomans vonce j and a young man 
 — he vas very, very beautiful to look at — take my heart 
 all his own. It vas soon after de death of Monsieur le 
 Comte, my papa, and madame my angel mothere, vas 
 varry ill. She call me all day and night to her bedside,. 
 
MADAME RAYMOTTE. 
 
 2J9 
 
 and I could not cultivate my flowers — but have moclie 
 trouble between de love and de poverty. I say to myself, 
 bettere for me to marry him who loves me, and vill help 
 to keep my poor maman — he seemed gentleman in feel- 
 ings — he have great talent — teache music — sing 1 Ah I 
 le hon Dieu ! dat vas singing ! So, after moche 
 thought and great love, I said, ‘ Charles, I vill marry 
 you ! if you promise to love Madame la Comtesse, my 
 goot maman, as if she were your own parent and he 
 kneel at my feets, and vid hand upon vere a man’s heart 
 ought to be, he sware ! Veil, my dere madame, ve vere 
 married ! and at first I think, oh, vat angel mans my 
 Charles be ! — he play such music — he write such poetry 
 upon me, and de poor royal Marie Antoinette ! ah ! mon 
 Dieu ! he make de sun to shine in our little room, and 
 ven he present I make only flowers couleur de rose. My 
 maman — she, la Comtesse — die ! — ven I shed such tears 
 that le hon Dieu had not spare her longere ! I littel think 
 that, all in von small year, I bless Him that she have not 
 ear to hear or eye to see my misery ! 
 
 I became a mothere ; a living, breathing littel angel 
 sleep on my bosom — look in my eyes — stretch out its 
 littel hands to my face — coo — and laugh and cry de small 
 tear (I nevere let him shed large tear) — and twine his 
 rosy fingers in my hair. Oh, le hon Dieu I I vas happy ! 
 I vas more than happy ! — asleep or awake, it vas all de 
 same ; I see my child — hear my child — feel my child — 
 I make de most beautiful flowers by his cradel ; and at 
 first his father’s voice sung our boy asleeps ; den, ven he 
 come home, he too tired to sing ; den ! he change de 
 great change, and not come home for long between ; den, 
 hardly at all ! I cry overe my boy ; I sob till my heart 
 almost break ; I reproche Charles — I tell him dis not 
 treatment for a vife, and — ” 
 
 Madame paused. I did not think features, whose 
 every muscle seemed rigid and hard from age, could have 
 expressed anything like the proud, indignant feeling that 
 set every nerve in motion ; the whole crimson current of 
 
260 
 
 MADAME EAYMOTTE. 
 
 vitality flushed to her face, and her eyes glared like the 
 delusive meteor fire, that lasts but for a moment. She 
 drew her ^petite figure to its full height, and struck the 
 table so as to make the gossamer and silks that were piled 
 upon it rise into the air. 
 
 I tell him this not treatment for a vife, and he make 
 reply, I no vife of his ! — I, who was married to him law- 
 fully ! — I, nothing to him — nothing ; our marriage not 
 good in law, so he say ! — but there was one thing I was 
 — the mother of his child. He laugh me to scorne — I vas 
 almost mad — I sit and think, if it be so, vat is my boy % 
 Ah, le hon Dieu I I fall sick — sick in de brain — I forget 
 everything but my boy, my littel child. He say I mad, 
 and place me in mad-house — take my child from me — 
 leave me to die — me, his vife, the mother of his child ! 
 At last, I recovere ; I ask for Charles — for my boy ; dey 
 tell me grand ladie love my husband for his voice — dey 
 go abroad — avay — where ? I nevere know.” 
 
 But the child I inquired. 
 
 Ah ! my boy — he take my child — I get better — de 
 ire may he struck rid lightning arvd yet live ! I receive 
 von lettere from Charles, he tell me my boy vill be pro- 
 vided for, but I nevere to see him more ! — I nevere have.” 
 She covered her face with her wrinkled hands ; and, after 
 a pause, looking more cheerful than I could have deemed 
 possible after such a recital, added, “ ISTow, madam e, do 
 you wondere dat I say, ‘ Fools, poor fools !’ ven I hear of 
 de weddings ? Still I must make my wreaths aud she 
 commenced her preparations as if nothing had happened. 
 
 The ice once broken, the story once told, the old lady 
 seemed to derive consolation from the recapitulation of 
 her wrongs and sorrows. I never ordered a sprig of 
 jessamine that she would not in some way refer to her 
 lost child. 
 
 When her senses returned, some of her patrons remem- 
 bered her ; but every inquiry failed in discovering where 
 her perfidious husband had conveyed the child. 
 
 Towards the close of 1 8 — , I went to order some winter 
 
MADAME BAYMOTTE. 
 
 261 
 
 flowers, and found madame in very low spirits. She said 
 that New Year’s Day, instead of being as it was in her 
 country, un jour de fHe, was her great day of trial — her 
 child was born on New Year’s Day ; and on the following 
 New Year’s Day she received the letter, saying she should 
 never see him more. The possibility of his being dead 
 had evidently not occurred to her for a moment ; on the 
 contrary, she said he would be thirty- six his next birth- 
 day. It sounded oddly to hear her say he was nearly 
 thirty-six, and the next moment speak with the rapture 
 of a doating mother of his beaux yeux"' and “ littel 
 fingers.” Her mind dwelt upon the child ; the idea of its 
 growing into a man had never entered the old lady’s head. 
 She said New Year’s Day was her day of misery; and so 
 I determined to call on that day for my bouquet. 
 
 The flowers were a marvellous contrast to the fingers 
 which had given them the hues and grace of nature ; but, 
 while praising them to madam e’s content, the servant 
 ushered in a tall, large, but strikingly handsome foreign 
 gentleman. Madame curtsied, motioned him to a scat- 
 he appeared very much embarrassed. Madame, after 
 looking at him, caught at the back of her chair — her 
 fingers closed on it convulsively — she tried to speak — 
 became so ghastly that she seemed dying ; then rallying, 
 suddenly rushed towards the stranger, and grasping his 
 arm, exclaimed, Charles ! — Charles ! where is my boy ? — 
 give me back my son. I forgive you if you give me my 
 child!” She would have sunk at his feet had he not 
 caught her in his arms ; and, although suffocating from 
 emotion, she continued to repeat, “ Give me my child ! 
 child 1 child !” The gentleman endeavoured to soothe 
 her agitation, and at last replied, I have no child to give 
 you. Mother, I am youb child ! Until my father’s death 
 — until within the last six months, I knew not who my 
 mother was — did not know that she was alive.” It was 
 painful to witness the old lady’s looks of eagerness as she 
 gasped in his face, and called upon him with mingled sobs 
 and wild laughter to repeat that he was her son. Then 
 
262 
 
 MADAME RAYMOTTE. 
 
 her douhtings — snatching his hand, and after covering it 
 with kisses, muttering to herself, “ Eut my hoy’s fingers 
 vere so small and pink — ^twist in my hair ; and his face 
 like de lily and de rose. No viskers den — mon ange — 
 onon petit — mon — mais, ce riest pas possible ! a little boy 
 — a big man — Charles 1 mais, non — c'est onon enfant /” 
 and at last she laid her head on his bosom, and both wept 
 together. 
 
 Madame is now a person of consequence. Her worth- 
 less husband prospered as bad men often do — ^to outward 
 seeming — but his life was fevered, and the scythe of death 
 was sharpened by his crimes. He confessed to his son the 
 injustice he had done his mother, and his belief that she 
 still lived. You know the rest ; but you have not seen, 
 as I have seen, madame enlarged by black velvet and 
 motherly pride, smiling through her tears, while displaying 
 a jewelled snuff-box enriched with the portrait of her 
 good son, whom she declares is an angel ; her sorrows only 
 remembered in these her later days as themes of gratitude 
 for present blessings. 
 
263 
 
 THE INN AT TREMADOO. 
 
 It is now some years since w^e wandered through the 
 mountains and valleys of North Wales, and traced out 
 the scenes of its former magnificence. We wondered 
 then that there exists so little enthusiasm about so beau- 
 tiful a district, and that the English submit to be taunted 
 with the tameness” of their scenery, when such varied 
 and exquisite beauty is within a few hours’ express” of 
 their metropolis. Foreigners, especially, rush to Scotland, 
 and rave about its Highlands ; but few can tell them of 
 the might, majesty, and dominion of lofty Snowdon ; of 
 the lovely valleys, ancient castles, impatient rivers, deep 
 silent glades, and rich mountain torrents of North Wales. 
 Who that has ever seen, can forget the feast of beauty 
 outspread in the valley of the Clwyd? and after the 
 descent and pass through it, the variety and loveliness of 
 the scenery, independent of its historic interest — the 
 ravines and passes, the rugged rocks, high-placed sen- 
 tinels of deep-hearted valleys — abundant in every natural 
 beauty except lakes ? There, indeed, Wales must yield 
 the palm to Killarney and Loch Lomond — it has literally 
 no lakes, Bala being a flat-shored pool of water, in or 
 near an unpicturesque town. 
 
 There is also something about Wales and the Welsh 
 which gave us an impression that we were far away from 
 England — the thinly-scattered population, the black-Aa^^ec? 
 women scampering through the country on their shaggy 
 ponies, the seemingly unnatural sounds of their tongue, 
 the ruggedness of their Alpine scenery ! Much exposure 
 to the weather, and the masculine effect of their head- 
 dress, united to their want of cultivation, give to the 
 
264 
 
 THE INN AT TREMADOC. 
 
 female peasants a harsli and unpleasing expression. We 
 never saw a fine countenance, and seldom a pretty one, 
 among them. The men are still more unprepossessing ; 
 thickset, gruff, short-tempered fellows ; looking like serfs, 
 yet possessing all the self-satisfied air of despots. Of 
 course, amongst the latter class there were exceptions, 
 and our host at Tan-y-Bwlch was certainly amongst the 
 brightest. Indeed, the inn is one of the most delightful 
 resting-places to be found amid the lovely valleys of this 
 romantic country ; it is situated in the Yale of Festinioff, 
 and the host brimful of the knowledge which tourists 
 ought to delight in — the local knowledge of his own 
 country, and especially of his own district. He knew 
 rather too little of the legends of his land to please us ; 
 but perhaps he imagined it beneath his dignity as master 
 of Tan-y-Bwlch, and finder^ as well as proprietor, of a 
 real lead-mine, to take too much interest in foolish stories. 
 It is now some years past, and yet we remember so well 
 the two days we spent in that happy valley, although one 
 of them was a wet Sunday ; but ‘^a Avet Sunday” is not 
 to be so mourned over in a pastoral district, Avhere the 
 working man has the fresh air, the breeze, and the sun- 
 shine always with him, — where he can see the sun set 
 and rise, and Avhere the song of the bird and the hum of 
 the bee are with him to and from the scene of healthful 
 toil — as in a pent-up city, where the Sabbath is the only 
 day when the tradesman or the artisan can look upon a 
 tree, or let his children’s little feet run upon the green 
 carpet of paradise. We remember observing the deep, 
 rich green of the foliage of some noble groups of elm- 
 trees that dotted an equally green amphitheatre in front, 
 and the incessant activity of two little grey birds, who 
 were occupied in catching flies, — or rather, until the rain 
 subsided, in flitting restlessly through the damp air 
 uttering every instant a plaintive cry ; and then we ob- 
 served the listless curiosity with which diflbrent peasants, 
 returning from their worship amongst the hills, peered 
 into a window, which we soon learned was the deaddetter 
 
THE INN AT TREMADOC. 
 
 265 
 
 office of this mountain district. Many paused, and read, 
 and laughed, and chattered, and pointed at the time-soiled 
 epistles, over which spiders had woven their nets, and 
 mould accumulated. Alas ! what records were sealed up 
 within those decaying papers ! — 
 
 Short and simple annals of the poor” — 
 
 ill-spelt, yet deep-felt, tales of love ; the hope of better 
 prospects, leading to marriage ; high-beating fancies, high- 
 hearted aspirations ! others, stained with tears, telling of 
 woe, of misery, of want ! the earnest pleadings of a child 
 for j)ardon ; the husband’s long-expected letter come at 
 last to ONE now resting where the grass grows high, and 
 cowslips bud and blossom ; he thinks that her soft heart 
 will turn to him again — that she will really forget and 
 forgive all, as woman only can, and expects a quick 
 reply ; now he is doomed, but from far different cause, to 
 wait, as he forced her to do ; and he may wait ! and watch 
 the postman’s short, quick step and hasty knock — ay ! he 
 may watch for ever ! that tedious ever, whose very sound 
 is as a long-drawn sigh ! 
 
 One by one the crowd disappeared, the rain ceased, and 
 the warm, delicious sun of June poured a torrent of light 
 and heat into the Yale of Festiniog ; it was as though a 
 shower of diamonds had fallen upon and gemmed the 
 earth ; every blade of grass shook its radiant jewel in the 
 breeze, and every leaf quivered with joy ! We could not 
 resist the temptation to ramble up the hill. We passed 
 to a rustic gate, upon which some sunburnt rosy children 
 were sitting, not swinging, for the quietness of the Sabbath 
 was over them, as well as over the landscape — that holy 
 stillness which must be felt by all Sabbath wanderers in 
 our English glades ; felt, yet cannot be expressed. We 
 saw smoke climbing in a blue column above the trees 
 that clothed the mountain we were ascending, and asked 
 a little girl, whom any artist would have joyed to sketch, 
 who was creeping into the valley, peering every second 
 moment into the calyx of the pink fox-glove, and watch- 
 
26G 
 
 THE INN AT TREMADOC. 
 
 ing, without disturbing, tlie butterflies that rested on the 
 wild-rose, — we asked, Who lives up there V She shook 
 her head ; the little mountaineers do not understand our 
 language : we pointed to the smoke ; she smiled and 
 blushed, and said twice, Hal, hal.” We found after- 
 wards the place from whence the smoke proceeded was 
 called ^‘The Hall.” We pursued our path, which was 
 literally picked from out the mountain, and hung at one 
 side over precipices ; on the other, trees of all kinds and 
 colours were grouped by the hand of nature, while rocks 
 of rugged blue slate, overgrown by moss, lichens, and all 
 sorts of wild plants, were lost in the skies. At last the 
 precipitous aj^pearance of our path decreased ; a flat 
 table-land jutted over the valley we had quitted^ and 
 upon this the Hall ” had been built. 
 
 It was a plain edifice of grey stone ; a broad terrace 
 extending from the front to the end of the elevated plain 
 on wdiich it stood, while the back was sheltered by the 
 mountain which towered behind, as high as the eye could 
 reach. 
 
 The prospect from the esplanade was beautiful. The 
 valley of Festiniog extended at our feet, unfolding like a 
 panorama, glowing and glittering in the sunlight ; and 
 we gazed dovm upon it as from the midway clouds. We 
 looked along and along that beautiful vale, and could not 
 see a single object to disturb its repose. A merry child 
 was with us, agile as a fawn, restless as a nightingale ; 
 but, after one or two shouts, which awoke the drowsy 
 echoes of the hills, she, too, felt the stillness of the scene, 
 and murmured her delight. Few things are more inte- 
 resting than to mark the influences of nature upon a 
 child ; and while we were watching the hushed expression 
 of her admiration, suddenly something touched her hand 
 that made her start back ; it was the taper nose of a 
 beautiful greyhound, black as a raven, his coat shining 
 like satin ; the creature looked up to her face and smiled 
 — yes, smiled ; and if you have not noted that smiling 
 look which is so peculiar to a greyhound’s face, you have 
 
THE INN AT TREMADOC. 
 
 267 
 
 not yet learned to appreciate one of tlie most pleasing 
 manifestations of canine cordiality. The dog bounded 
 about us, and wooed us to advance still farther on the 
 esplanade, so as to take a still closer survey of the Hall. 
 It was quite glorious to look at the hills and mountains, 
 piling themselves up, and up, and up, until (for the sun 
 ■was setting) it was impossible to tell which were the 
 rosy summits and which the rosy clouds. Beneath lav 
 the valley of woods, rills, and cottages, exquisitely inter- 
 spersed with field and meadows ; they were all sunshine, 
 and seemed a sunshine in themselves. It is extraordinary 
 how apt we are to connect happiness with beauty. One 
 of us exclaimed, Oh 1 how I should like to dwell in 
 such a spot, ivhere sorroiv covld not enter 1 ” 
 
 The foolish words were hardly uttered, -when a heavy 
 sigh caused us to look back, and we saw an old, grey- 
 headed servant in deep mourning ; he did not merely 
 touch, he removed his hat, and asked if w^e would like to 
 see the front of the house?” We followed him. As we 
 passed the entrance he paused, and pointed to a hatch- 
 ment w'hich was suspended over the door. The warm 
 blood, which was rushing joyfully through each heart, 
 crept slowly back to its citadel. 
 
 “ I beg pardon — I humbly beg pardon for my freedom,” 
 said the old servitor ; but I thought I would show the 
 young lady ‘ that sorroiv has entered here^ ” And so it 
 had ! the stern taskmaster had read aloud a fearful lesson 
 in that lovely valley : — a tender wife had there been de- 
 prived of the chosen object of her affections immediately 
 after the birth of their first child : their tastes and pur- 
 suits assimilated j they were nearly of equal age (both 
 young) ; their fortune abundant ; they fed, clothed, and 
 educated those who needed ; they were blessed by the 
 poor, honoured by the rich. Did we say their -tastes 
 and pursuits assimilated ? ” That conveys but a faint 
 idea of the one-heartedness of these two creatures ; every- 
 body declared they were made for each other, and to be a 
 blessing to the Yale of Festiniog ; but, after an illness of 
 
268 
 
 THE INN AT TREMADOC. 
 
 a few days, tlie oak was uprooted, and the Avoodbine, de- 
 prh^ed of its support, is crushed and fading*, withered and 
 broken in spirit and in beauty where once it flourished 1 
 
 Every one visiting North Wales makes a pilgrimage to 
 Beddgellert. We spent another long summer evening 
 there, and drove the following morning, amid the most 
 implacable of all rain, to the inn at Tremadoc. If our 
 host of Tan-y-Bwlch was an exception to the cloddisli 
 race of Welsh peasants, the young hostess at Tremadoc 
 was the most favourable specimen of loomankind we saw 
 in Wales. I have recorded the incident elsewhere, but 
 only in one of those monthly sepulchres where, as in our 
 cemeteries, things are mingled together to be forgotten. 
 Besides, flfteen years have passed — black hairs have 
 become white — children, married men and Avomen — - 
 wives, AvidoAvs and Avives again, since then ! But though 
 the party that made that happy excursion Avas a numerous 
 one — filling a large barouche inside and out, requiring 
 four horses to drag them from one end of the principality 
 to the other — they are all at this moment in the land of 
 the liAung. 
 
 And sad though this little sketch may be, it is so true, 
 so full of mingled memories, that Ave may be pardoned for 
 returning to the inn at Tremadoc. 
 
 She stood at the door of the barouche, Avhich had just 
 been opened, one small white hand placed so as to shield 
 my dress from the wheel, and the other held upwards, 
 ready if I needed its assistance. We had driven from 
 the comforts of a cheerful inn in the valley of Beddgellert 
 through a furious rain-storm — such a storm as can be ex- 
 perienced only in a highland country; and the village, 
 built and roofed with slate, had that cold and leaden 
 aspect Avhich the AYelsh villages invariably present in 
 gloomy Aveather. The clouds had descended the moun- 
 tains, and emptied themselves on our devoted heads ; and 
 when I entered the inn at Tremadoc, I regretted still 
 
THE INN AT TREMADOC. 
 
 269 
 
 more the cheerfulness of Beddgellert. The girl I had 
 first seen was dressed in the deepest mourning ; the ser- 
 vant was also habited in black ; the rough-faced ostler 
 had a strip of faded crape round his sealskin cap ; the 
 stair-carpets were only half down ; the dwelling had that 
 drear, lonely, and uncomfortable aspect which a bright 
 smile from a good-humoured landlady dispels : but here 
 there appeared neither landlady nor smiles ; the very little 
 dog I stumbled over was black, and as he ran to the side 
 of his young mistress, and she spoke a kindly wnrd to him 
 in her native language, I thought the Welsh tongue 
 musical, and the young maiden pretty. I said there were 
 no smiles ; yet there was no lack of attentive service ; and 
 when we ladies descended to the kitchen, to see to the 
 drying of sundry furs, boas, and cloaks, we found the 
 waiter and the pretty maiden alike busy in providing for 
 our comfort. Nothing could exceed the young girl’s 
 gentle kindness ; it was more like the attention shown by 
 one lady to another than the sort of service rendered for 
 hire. I had been told by one of our party that she had 
 only lost her mother a few weeks before, and that this 
 wayside inn had now two mistresses, sisters, one of whom 
 was the girl whose small white hand had attracted my 
 attention in the rain-storm. Two creatures,” thought 1, 
 ^^left without a mother’s guidance, without a mother’s 
 care, in a situation like this ! ” I looked more intently 
 upon the young hostess, and her gentle, quiet beauty 
 crept into my heart : yet I do not know that she w’ould 
 have been considered handsome by many. The gentle- 
 men of our party did not call her so ; but men, I have 
 frequently observed, think more of the mere flesh and blood 
 formation than of the sentiment which gives the purer 
 part of life — ex]jTession — to the whole ; they value the 
 shape and colour of the flower more highly than the per- 
 fume. Her figure was slight and delicate j I do not think 
 she could have numbered sixteen summers, still I never 
 saw a sadder face ; it had the unrufiled look of silent 
 sorrow, that deep-consuming sorrow which eats into the 
 
270 
 
 THE INN AT TREMADOC. 
 
 heart : lier mouth was small, and beautifully formed, but 
 no smile parted the full, yet delicate lips, or dimpled the 
 well-formed cheek. Her eyes were full and round, not 
 hazel or black ; they had neither the brightness of the 
 first, nor the fire of the last ; they were, I believe, a dark, 
 deep blue ; round, full, not projecting, yet largely set, 
 beneath well-defined, but gentle brows : they seemed as 
 windows to the affections ; for none but kindly expres- 
 sions escaped them, and they discoursed more eloquently 
 than the sweet lips, for which words seemed all too harsh 
 interpreters of such gentle feelings as only possessed her 
 soul. Again the little black dog crept to her side, and 
 half nestled into the fur cape she was drying most 
 carefully. 
 
 “ Was the dog hers ? ” “ Yes.” 
 
 Y/hat a pretty dog ! Was she fond of him ? ” 
 
 “ Oh ! yes ; he was so affectionate — followed her every- 
 where, excejit on Sundays, and then he always knew she 
 was going to church, and so waited at the door till she 
 returned. She loved him, he was so faithful ! ” 
 
 Ah ! ” thought I, here is another example of those 
 who set their hearts upon the truthfulness and affection of 
 such as they love ; and if disappointed, the brightness of 
 their day is gone, the tunefulness of their existence 
 destroyed, their vase broken, and the perfume, which, if 
 cared for, would have endured to the end of life, scattered 
 in an hour to the winds ! ” I left her caressing one 
 creature, however, who would never deceive her. 
 
 AYe waited for the rain to cease, but it poured on ; and 
 I watched from a window at the back of the house a wild 
 mountain rill make its way to a sort of terrace-garden, 
 which had been cut out of the solid rock ; the mountain 
 towered perpendicularly, and as the eye followed its steep 
 ascent — taking into account the various fissures, the rocky 
 fragments, the different coloured earths, the many-tinted 
 heaths, the groups of Alpine plants, and the waving 
 tufts of the pink fox-glove — it was a positive relief to 
 find that the summit was lost in the clouds, and, con- 
 
THE INN AT TREMADOC. 
 
 271 
 
 sequently, it was necessary to come clown again. The 
 rain ceased as suddenly as it commenced ; and there was 
 again my maid of the inn, with a plateful of what seemed 
 to me chopped curd, ascending the steps which led up the 
 mountain, her little dog (who, by the way, bore the heroic 
 name of Moscow”) walking step by step behind his 
 mistress. On she went, first up one flight, then another, 
 until she came to a shelving fiat, where presently I saw 
 her surrounded by a group of young turkeys, who de- 
 voured their food with very turkey-like greediness, while 
 their silly-looking mother made sundry passes with her 
 long neck at my friend Moscow ; but he, cunning fellow ! 
 avoided them all by twisting round his liege lady, leaving 
 only his tail exposed to the assaults of the enemy. 
 
 I ascended the first four steps leading to the terrace- 
 garden, and there was a flat, where flowers once had been, 
 and one or two very fine rose-trees still flourished ; but 
 the garden w’as not exempt from the air of sadness which 
 pervaded the inn. I went higher still : another cultivated 
 spot — cultivated, but neglected. Alas ! it is sad for us if 
 weeds grow as rapidly in our mental as in our earthly 
 gardens, when we cease to watch over and eradicate the 
 evil so quickly planted, and so quickly grown ! Higher 
 still the wild plants of the mountain had quite triumphed 
 over the flowers of the garden, and the young turkeys 
 were hunting the insects which the first gleam of sunshine 
 had almost called into existence. 
 
 Are you fond of birds ? ” I inquired of my young 
 hostess. 
 
 “ Yes, ma’am ; they are helpless little things.” 
 
 Alas ! when I looked upon her young beauty, and 
 remembered she had no mother, I thought her more 
 helpless than the birds which their parent was at the 
 instant calling to shelter beneath her wing. 
 
 ‘‘We shall get the garden done up immediately,” she 
 said, seeing I was looking on its desolation ; “ but we 
 have been sadly put out lately.” 
 
 “ So I was sorry to hear ; but the summer will repair 
 
272 
 
 THE INN AT TREMADOC. 
 
 the devastation of winter here, and you are so young, that 
 I trust in God the winter of your summer will pass even 
 more quickly away ! ” 
 
 She shook her head, but made no reply, and stooped to 
 gather some wild roses. Alas ! I saw that her tears added 
 to the dew-drops on their leaves. I wished that she might 
 not become as one who presses sorrow so closely to the 
 heart, that it forms therein a cave to dwell as long as life 
 remains. Take from me my sorrow,” said a v/idow, 
 once, to whom I sj)oke of consolation, — ‘‘ take from me 
 my sorrow, and then, indeed, I shall be utterly alone in 
 this cold world.” At last I began to imagine which of the 
 men I had seen about the inn-yard could be this fair girl’s 
 father ; — it could not be the tall person who sat in the 
 corner, under the long-shaped window, nor the other who 
 read the paper, — one eye being fixed thereon, the other on 
 ourselves : these were the only respectable-looking per- 
 sons there : and to suppose any of the short, thickset old 
 fellows, who guzzled “ creiOy' and jabbered Welsh, — to 
 fancy one of those the father of my new-found favourite ! 
 it was impossible. One might as well expect to see a 
 moss-rose blossoming on a wayside brier ! 
 
 The garden looks so desolate 1” she exclaimed, gazing 
 round her, as she placed the roses she had pulled in my 
 hand — the garden looks so desolate ; the very bees seem 
 as if there was no honey for them.” 
 
 Yet it is a beautiful spot,” I replied. And so it was : 
 every little nook where garden shrubs could live was 
 covered by their luxuriant vegetation ; all mingling 
 together without let or hindrance, terrace over ten-ace, 
 each communicating with the other, by means of those 
 stone steps, hewn out of the mountain, which, as the sun 
 now shone upon it, seemed as if swathed by rainbows, 
 even to the clouds which still hovered upon its head. 
 
 Oh ! those glorious mountains i toppling and towering 
 unto the mysteries of heaven ; hearkening to the whisper- 
 ing of Omnipotence, and remaining unscathed by its 
 lightnings, unmoved by its thunders.” I thought we 
 
THE INN AT TREMADOC. 
 
 2T3 
 
 looked like insects at tlie base of this small giant of the 
 •universe but I remembered, not without pride, that we 
 had that within us which raised us far above where 
 “ mountains congregate.” 
 
 It is a beautiful spot,” I repeated. Is not your 
 father fond of gardening ? ” 
 
 The girl looked into my face, but did not speak ; I shall 
 never forget the expression of her eyes ; it was that of 
 utter and perfect desolation. Earnestly she gazed ; her 
 lips moved, but I heard no sound ; then, covering her face 
 with her hands, she rushed from the terrace on which we 
 stood, and — I saw her no more. 
 
 Poor girl ! I afterwards ascertained that she had lost 
 both father and mother within one little month ! 
 
 T 
 
274 : 
 
 EDWARD LAYTOFS REWARD. 
 
 “I COULD not have believed it ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Pierce 
 Rradshaw. I could not have believed it ! ” she repeated, 
 over and over again ; and then she fell into a fit of 
 abstraction. 
 
 Her husband, who had been glancing wearily over 
 a magazine, turning leaf after leaf without reading, or 
 perhaps seeing even the heading of a page, at length 
 said, “ I could ! ” 
 
 You have large faith, my dear,” observed the lady. 
 
 “ Fortunately for Selina, I had no faith in him,” was 
 the reply. 
 
 Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw was not an eloquent person ; she 
 never troubled her husband or any one else with many 
 words; so she only murmured, in a subdued voice, For- 
 tunately, indeed ! ” 
 
 “ What a fellow he was ! ” said Mr. P. Bradshaw, as he 
 closed the magazine. Do you remember how delighted 
 you were with him the evening of the tableaux at Lady 
 Westrophe’s ? There was something so elegant and 
 dignified in his bearing ; so much ease and grace of man- 
 ner ; his address was perfect — the confidence of a well- 
 bred gentleman, subdued, almost but not quite, into 
 softness by the timidity of youth. This was thrown into 
 strong relief by the manners of the young men of the 
 family, whose habits and voices might have entitled them 
 to take the lead, even now, in the go-ahead school, which 
 then was hardly in existence — at all events in England.” 
 You were quite as much taken with him as I was.” 
 
 ‘‘No, my dear, not quite. Edward Layton was espe- 
 cially suited for the society of ladies. His tastes and 
 
EDWARD Layton’s reward. 
 
 275 
 
 feelings are — or were at that time — all sincerely refined ; 
 he was full of the impulse of talent, which he never had 
 strength to bring forth : his thoughts were ever wander- 
 ing, and he needed perpetual excitement, particularly the 
 excitement of beauty and music, to bring them and keep 
 them where he was. He was strongly and strangely 
 moved by excellence of any kind, so that it loas excel- 
 lence ; and the only thing I ever heard him express 
 contempt for was wealth ! — yes, wealth ! ” 
 
 I could not have believed it ! ” said Mrs. Pierce 
 Bradshaw again. 
 
 That particular night it was whispered he was engaged 
 to Lelia Medwin. When she sang, he stood like a young 
 Apollo at her harp, too entranced to turn over the leaves 
 of music, his eyes overflowing with delight, and the ] 30 or 
 little girl so bewitched by his attentions that she fancied 
 every whisper a declaration of love.” 
 
 Shameful ! ” said Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw. 
 
 “ Then her mother showed every one what a lovely 
 sketch he had made of Lelia’s head, adding that indeed it 
 was too lovely ; but then, he was a partial judge.” 
 
 “ She was a silly woman,” observed the lady. 
 
 She would not have been considered so if they had 
 been married,” replied the gentleman. Mammas have 
 no mercy on each other in those delicate manceuvrings. 
 Well, he waltzed with her always ; and bent over her, 
 willow-fashion ; looked with her at the moon ; and wrote 
 a sonnet which she took to herself, for it was addressed 
 
 ‘To mine own dear and then, when about eight 
 
 weeks afterwards we met him at the dejeuner at Sally 
 Lodge, he was as entranced with Lizzy Grey’s guitar as he 
 had been with Lelia’s harp, sketched her little tiger-head 
 for her grandmamma, waltzed with her, bent over her 
 willow-fashion, looked with her at the moon, and wrote 
 another sonnet, addressed ‘ To the loved one.’ ” 
 
 “ Such men ” exclaimed Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw. 
 
 She did not flnish the sentence, but looked as if such men 
 ought to be exterminated. And so they ought ! 
 
276 
 
 EDWARD Layton’s reward. 
 
 There was so much about him that I liked : his fine 
 talents, good manners, excellent position in society, added 
 to his good nature, and ” 
 
 Good fortune,” added Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw. 
 
 No, Mary,” said her husband, quietly, I never was a 
 Mammon worshipper. This occurred, if you remember, 
 before the yellow pestilence had so completely subverted 
 London that the very aristocracy knelt and worshipped 
 the golden calf ; and no blame to the calf to receive 
 the homage, whatever we may say of those who paid 
 it.” 
 
 I did not mean that as a reproof. Pierce,” replied his 
 wife, most truly. I think it quite natural to like young 
 men of fortune — we could not get on without them, you 
 know ; and it would be very imprudent — very imprudent, 
 indeed — to invite any young man, however excellent, 
 when we want to get these young girls, our poor nieces, 
 olF. I declare it is quite melancholy. Jane is becoming 
 serious since she has grown so thin ; and I fear the men 
 will think Belle a blue, she has so taken to the British 
 Museum. Oh, how I wish people would live, and bring 
 up and get ofi* their own daughters ! Four marriageable 
 nieces, with such farthing fortunes, are enough to drive 
 any poor aunt distracted ! ” 
 
 This was the longest speech Mrs. Bradshaw ever made 
 in her life, and she sighed deeply at its conclusion. 
 
 ‘‘ You may well sigh ! ” laughed the gentleman ; for 
 the case seems hopeless. But I was going to say, that as 
 I knew him better I was really going to take the young 
 gentleman a little to task on the score of his philandering. 
 Lelia was really attached to him, and had refused a very 
 advantageous offer for his sake ; but the very next week, 
 at another house, I found him enchained by a sparkling 
 widow — correcting her drawings, paying the homage of 
 intelligent silence and sweet smiles to her wit, leaning his 
 white-gloved hand upon her chair, and looking in her eyes 
 with his most bewitching softness. The extent of this 
 flirtation no one could anticipate ; but the sudden appear- 
 
EDAVAKD Layton’s reward. 
 
 277 
 
 ance of Lady Di Johnson effected a total change. She 
 drove four-in-hand and was a dead shot — the very anti- 
 podes of sentiment. We said her laugh ^vould drive 
 Edward Layton distracted, and her cigarette be his death. 
 But, no ! the magnificence of her tomboyisni caught his 
 fancy. He enshrined her at once as Diana, bayed the 
 moon with hunting songs, wrote a sonnet to the chase, 
 and then, with his own hands, twisted it into a cigarette, 
 with which her ladyship pufl[ed it to the Avinds of heai^en, 
 while wandering with the Lothario amid a grove of 
 fragrant limes. The miracle was, that at breakfast the 
 next morning Lady Di was subdued, A'Oted driving unfe- 
 minine, and asked Edward to take the reins for her after 
 lunch. You remember we left them there ; and I next 
 met him at Killarney, giving his chestnut locks to the 
 breeze, his arm to the oar, and his eyes to a lady of blue- 
 stocking celebrity, who, never having had many lovers, was 
 inclined to make the most of the present one. Circum- 
 stances rendered me acquainted Avith some facts relating 
 to his ‘ flirtations,’ if his soft and sentimental Avays could 
 be called by such a name. I had seen poor Lelia at 
 Baden Baden ; and I dare say you can recall Avhat Ave 
 heard of another love of his nearer home. Well, I 
 encountered my hero of ladies that very eA^ening, 
 wandering amid the ruined aisles of Mucross Abbey. I 
 saAv that his impressible nature had taken a thoughtful, 
 if not a religious tone, from the scene, and he commenced 
 the conversation by declaring, that ‘ he A\ms a great 
 fool.’” 
 
 Knave, rather,” said Mrs. Pierce BradshaAv. 
 
 Ko,” replied her husband ; not a knave — but a sin- 
 gular example of a man whose feelings and susceptibilities 
 never deepen into affection — unstable as water — tossed 
 hither and thither for want of fixed principles, and suffer- 
 ing intensely in his better moods from the knoA\dedge of 
 the weakness he had not the courage to overcome. I Avas 
 not inclined to let him spare himself, and did not contra- 
 dict his opinion that he Avas a ‘fool,’ but told him he 
 
278 
 
 EDWARD Layton’s reward. 
 
 miglit be what he pleased himself as long as he did not 
 make fools of others. 
 
 ^ I tell every woman I know that I am not a marry- 
 ing man/ he replied. 
 
 ‘ That/ I said, ^ does not signify, as long as you act 
 the lover, each fair one believing you will revoke in her 
 favour.’ 
 
 ‘ I give you my honour,’ he exclaimed, ^ as a man and 
 a gentleman, I never entertained for twenty-four hours the 
 idea of marrying any woman I ever knew.’ ” 
 
 The villain ! ” exclaimed the lady. “ I hope. Pierce, 
 you told him he was a villain ! ” 
 
 ISTo ; because I knew the uncertainty of his disposition : 
 but I lectured him fully and honestly, and yet said nothing 
 to him so severe as what he said of himself. I told him 
 he would certainly be caught in the end by some unworthy 
 person, and then he would look back with regret and 
 misery upon the chances he had lost, and the unhappiness 
 he had caused to those whose only faults had been in 
 believing him true when he was false. 
 
 “ ^ Better that,’ he answered, ^ than marrying when he 
 could not make up his mind.’ 
 
 ^ Then why play the lover ? ’ 
 
 ‘ He only did so while infatuated — he was certain to 
 find faults where he imagined perfection.’ ” 
 
 What assurance ! ” said Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw. 
 
 “ ^ I am sure,’ I said, ^ Lelia was very charming. Lelia 
 Medwin was an excellent, amiable little creature, with 
 both good temper and good sense.’ 
 
 “ ^ That was it,’ he said : ‘ only fancy the six-feet-one-and- 
 three-quarters wedded to barely five feet ! The absurdity 
 struck me one night as we were waltzing and whirling 
 past a looking-glass ; I was obliged to bend double, though 
 I never felt it till I saw it.’ ” 
 
 Beally I have not patience,” observed. Mrs. Bradshaw ; 
 ‘‘ and so her feelings were to be trampled upon because 
 she was not tall enough to please him ! Why did he not 
 think of that before % ” 
 
EDWARD Layton’s reward. 279 
 
 “ ‘ But there was Lizzy Grey, related to half the aristo- 
 cracy, with a voice like an angel.’ 
 
 ‘ A vixen,’ he said, ‘ though of exquisite beauty — 
 could have torn ray eyes out for the little attention I paid 
 Mrs. Green.” 
 
 ^ Little attention 1 ’ I repeated — ^ more than little.’ 
 
 ^ Her wit was delicious,’ he replied ; ^ but she was 
 a widow ! Only fancy the horror of being compared with 
 — My dear first husband ! ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Then your conquest of Lady Hi Johnson ! How 
 badly you behaved to her 1 ’ 
 
 ‘ She was magnificent on horseback ; and her cigarette 
 as fascinating as the fan of a Madrid belle, or the tourmire 
 of a Parisian lady. They were her two points. But when 
 she relinquished both, I believe in compliment to me, she 
 became even more commonplace than the most common- 
 place woman.’ ” 
 
 The puppy ! ” muttered the lady : the dreadful 
 
 puppy ! I could not have believed it ! ” 
 
 Mr. Bradshaw did not heed the interruption, but con- 
 tinued : — 
 
 “ ^ And who,’ I inquired, ^ was the lady of the lake h I do 
 not mean of this lake, for I see her reign is already over — 
 your passion expired with the third chapter of her novel, 
 which I know she read to you by moonlight — but the fair 
 lady of Geneva, whose betrothed called you out 2 ’ 
 
 ‘ Her father was a sugar-boiler,’ was the quiet reply, 
 ^ a sugar-boiler, or something of the kind. What would 
 my aristocratic mother say to that ? Of course I could 
 have no serious intention there. Indeed, I never had a 
 serious intention for a whole week.’ 
 
 “ ‘ But, my dear fellow, when presents are given, and 
 letters written, and locks of hair and vows exchanged — ’ 
 
 ‘ No, no ! ’ he exclaimed ; ‘no vows exchanged 1 I 
 never broke my word to a woman yet. It was admiration 
 for this or that — respect, esteem, perhaps a tender bewil- 
 derment — mere brotherly love. And in that particular 
 instance her intended got angry at my civility. I know 
 
280 
 
 EDWARD Layton’s reward. 
 
 I was wrong ; and, to confess tlie truth, I am ashamed of 
 that transaction — it taught me a lesson ; and, but for the 
 confounded vacillation of my taste and temper, I might 
 perhaps have been a Benedict before this. You may 
 think it puppyism, if you please ; but I am really sorry 
 when I make an impression, and resolve never to attempt 
 it again : but the next fine voice, or fine eyes — ’ 
 
 ** Or cigarette,’ I suggested ; and I then said as much 
 as one man can say to another — for you know a woman 
 can say much more to a man in the way of reproof than 
 he would bear from his own sex — but he silenced me very 
 quickly by regrets and good resolutions. It was after 
 that our little niece, Selina, made an impression upon 
 him.” 
 
 I did not know all you have now told me,” expostu- 
 lated his wife. I own I thought it would have been a 
 good match for Selina ; and he was evidently deeply 
 smitten before he knew she was your niece. I managed 
 it beautifully ; but you cut the matter short by offending 
 him.” 
 
 There, say no more about it,” said the sensible hus- 
 band ; “ you thought your blue-eyed, fair-haired, doll-like 
 favourite could have enchained a man who had escaped 
 heart-whole from the toils of the richest and rarest in the 
 land. It really is fearful to see how women not only 
 tolerate, but pursue this sort of men. You call them 
 ^ villains,’ and I know not what, when you are foiled ; but 
 if you succeed, you temper it : ‘ They have been a little 
 wild, to be sure — but then, and then — you really could 
 not refuse your daughter ;’ and add, ^ Men are such 
 creatures, that if the world knew but all, he is not worse 
 than others.” 
 
 “ For shame. Pierce ! how can you ? ” said the lady. 
 
 I told him then,” continued Mr. Bradshaw, that he 
 would take ‘ the croohed stick at last f but that he should 
 not add a tress of Selina’s hair to his collection, to be 
 turned over by his wife one of those days. Of course he 
 was very indignant, and we parted j but I did not think 
 
EDWAKD Layton’s rewaed. 
 
 281 
 
 my prophecy would come true so soon. I have long since 
 given up speculating how marriages will turn out, for it is 
 quite impossible to tell. If women could be shut up in a 
 harem, as in the East, a man who Was ashamed of his wife 
 might go into society without her ; but for a refined and 
 well-educated gentleman, as Edward Layton certainl}^ is, 
 to be united to the widow of a sugar-boiler ! — yes, abso- 
 lutely ! — who is an inch shorter than pretty Lelia and 
 more tiger-headed than Lizzy Grey, and who declares she 
 hates music, although her dear husband took her Z^often to 
 the Hoj^era — who adds deformity to shortness, talks 
 loudly of the /influence of wealth, and compares the pre- 
 sentations at the Mansion House which she has seen, to 
 those at St. James’s, which she has not seen ! Yerily, 
 Edward Layton has had his r^ivard ! ” 
 
282 
 
 BLANCHE OF BROOMSIDE. 
 
 A JOYOUS and a liappy girl was Blanche Seabright, 
 the beauty and favourite of Broomside, a lonely and 
 pastoral village in Devon. She was the only daughter of 
 a gentleman of small but independent fortune ; and as 
 her mother died in giving her birth, and her father had 
 remained unmarried, Blanche was exactly what old maids 
 and bachelors call a ‘^spoiled child,’' before she entered 
 her teens. Nor was this much to be wondered at — her 
 extreme beauty wmuld have rendered her an object of 
 admiration even in crowded cities, where female loveliness 
 is so frequently seen ; moreover, she had precisely the 
 acquirements that are valuable in country society — she 
 danced and sang to perfection, played on the lute, and 
 possessed more wit than any one in the village, except- 
 ing, perhaps, old Admiral Granby, a hale veteran of 
 seventy-six, who told all the stock jokes of the navy for 
 the last fifty years, with an energy which astonished the 
 clergyman, squire, and justice every Christmas and 
 Michaelmas, when they regularly met at the Bell and 
 Crown to settle all matters touching church and state, 
 and to discuss the question whether the county member 
 did his duty or not. Certainly Blanche’s wit was the 
 most original, but her auditors were seldom particular as 
 to that. The maiden’s spirits, when she was about seven- 
 teen (that age of sentiment and insipidity, when the girl 
 is donning the womanly robe, and has not made up her 
 mind whether she will at once become stately and arti- 
 ficial or remain joyous and natural) — at that critical age 
 such were her spirits, that every body set her down as a 
 confirmed mad-cap ; when suddenly, or as old peoj)le say, 
 
BLANCHE OF BROOMSIDE. 
 
 283 
 
 in less tlian no time,” matters changed, and she became 
 serious and reserved ; her cheek, even that blooming 
 cheek, faded, and her bright blue eyes were often filled 
 with tears. Then every body” wondered what could be 
 the matter : some t^ked of consumption, others of 
 catarrh, and even some of love. This the wise on^ 
 laughed at — Blanche Seabright in love ! With whom ? 
 Not old Admiral Granby, or the lame boy at the apothe- 
 cary’s, and they were the only presentable” bachelors in 
 the district. It could not be ; in love, indeed ! — what 
 absurdity ! W ere the wise ones right or wrong ? — we 
 shall see. I have said before that Brooraside was beauti- 
 fully situated, but I have not stated that it possessed 
 attractions, passing great, to sportsmen : there were a fine 
 trout stream, good covers for game ; and, moreover, about 
 a mile up the hill, a shooting-box, which was let in a 
 miscellaneous way, every season, to whoever chose to take 
 it. The resident gentry knew nothing, and cared little, 
 about its inhabitants, who were seldom seen at that legi- 
 timate place for all people to be seen at — the parish 
 church — sweet, tranquil spot, which centuries scarcely 
 altered, save that moss and lichens entirely covered, with 
 their bright greenery, the patches of roof from whence 
 some ancient storm had scared the ivy. The parties who, 
 at the time I allude to, occupied the lodge, were the rout 
 lord of Dunmeade, and his cousin, Mr. Evershara. Dun- 
 raeade was a childless widower, with broken constitution, 
 and well known in the fashionable circles as uyi homme 
 celelre. Plain, simple-minded people would call him a 
 dangerous character,” but the haul monde are too well 
 bred to designate things by common terms. Eversham 
 was a very different being from his titled cousin ; he was 
 the second son of a beneficed clergyman, and intended for 
 the sacred profession — in fact, he had just taken orders, 
 and was one who did so for conscience sake. To please 
 his mother, who was naturally anxious that, if possible, 
 some of his lordship’s worldly goods might hereafter 
 become the property of her son, he joined the noble on a 
 
284 
 
 BLANCHE OP BEOOMSIDE. 
 
 shooting excursion. Few could have been more power- 
 fully contrasted — the Earl of Dunmeade was verging on 
 his fiftieth birthday, diminutive in stature, and every 
 feature of his face telling of dissipation — the full, gloating 
 eye, the satyr-like mouth, and the sallow spotted skin ; 
 his manners, however, were courtly and insinuating, and 
 to this he owed the popularity he undoubtedly possessed 
 in certain circles. 
 
 Mr. Eversham was in the first bloom of manhood. His 
 boyish days had been spent at his father’s vicarage ; and 
 at college his time was devoted to the attainment of 
 literary, distinction. When, therefore, he launched into 
 the world, he was in the full possession of a vigorous and 
 untainted mind. His expressive countenance was as a 
 beautiful title-page to a virtuous and learned book ; and 
 his whole bearing was that of a scholar and a gentleman. 
 A country event occasioned a meeting between the trio, 
 namely, Blanche Seabright and the cousins — a passing 
 shower caused both parties to take shelter in a small 
 cottage between Broomside and the hill lodge. The 
 maiden’s beauty attracted the gentlemen’s attention, and 
 they soon discovered who she was. With what different 
 feelings were their inquiries made. What man would 
 exchange the first beatings of affection — such love as 
 might dwell in the lily’s bosom, without contaminating its 
 purity — for the sordid, cold calculation with which in 
 after life he heaps gold — and marries h She is a fine 
 girl,” said his lordship — wants an air, a manner — a 
 style in short, which fashionable society would soon give. 
 Bringing out such a creature would create — the most 
 difficult thing in the world to achieve in^polished society 
 — a sensation — eh, Eversham % ” 
 
 Eversham bowed. 
 
 ‘‘Good family — domestic, doubtless,” continued the noble 
 musingly. “ Make an attentive nurse — getting gouty 
 at times (rubbing his leg). Eversham, what do you think,. 
 — ought I to bind myself again in matrimonial chains ? ” 
 
 Eversham started, and looked at his cousin. 
 
BLANCHE OF BROOMSIDE. 
 
 285 
 
 My dear lord, what are you thinking of ? ” 
 
 “ Why of that rustic beauty — that oriental pearl — Miss 
 Seabright. Should you like her for a relative ? ” 
 
 ^Wery much,” was the young gentleman’s laconic reply, 
 as he darted a look of defiance at the noble, which must 
 have annihilated him had he seen it. 
 
 The when and the where of the next meeting of Blanche 
 and Eversham is of little consequence. An aged oak, a 
 shady dell, or, sweetest of all, a rippling brook, have been 
 lovers’ land-marks time out of mind ; and though their 
 first, second, perhaps even their third rencontre Avere 
 of course accidental, Eversham was too honourable — 
 Blanche too candid — to carry on clandestine ^courtship. 
 And after the necessary inquiries, Avhich every parent 
 finds it right to make when the happiness of a beloved 
 child is concerned, Mr. Eversham was received by Mr. 
 Seabright as his daughter’s suitor. 
 
 The course of true love never did run smooth.” Lord 
 Dunmeade discovered the proceeding, and was enraged. 
 To be foiled by a boy was too bad — not to be forgiven. 
 His power in town was on the decline ; but, could he have 
 produced such a wife as Blanche, his house would again 
 have been the resort of all the rank and fashion of the 
 time. He knew and felt this, and his bitterness increased 
 when not only his lady-love, but her father also, rejected 
 his addresses with cold and firm civility. It was now the 
 latter end of November, and the wise ones were convinced 
 they Avere wrong, for the Avedding-day was fixed, and the 
 bride in constant consultation with the village milliner. 
 
 “ It is a bright and glorious moonlight, dearest,” whis- 
 pered Eversham to his betrothed ; “you have not been 
 out for many days. Do, sir,” he continued, turning to 
 Mr. Seabright, “ prevail upon Blanche to Avalk once, only 
 once, round the laAvn.” 
 
 Mr. Seabright seconded the request, and the happy 
 three issued from the folding doors, which opened on the 
 glittering grass. When they reached the bottom of the 
 green, Mr. Seabright wished to extend his walk to the 
 
286 
 
 BLANCHE OF BROOMSIDE. 
 
 meadow, and prevailed upon Eversham to accompany 
 him. Blanche can remain in the green-honse until our 
 return, as I fear the dampness of the long herbage for 
 her. We will not be absent ten minutes,” said the old 
 gentleman. Blanche leaned her head against the door, 
 and watched their figures recede amongst the trees. How 
 perfectly did she feel the change which a few weeks had 
 wrought in her mind and feelings. She was no longer 
 the thoughtless, light-hearted maiden of Broom side. 
 Love, that pure and holy passion, when it throbs in the 
 bosom of a young and virtuous woman, elevates and re- 
 fines even while it subdues ; the heart, as it were, turning 
 back upon itself, wonders at its former triflings, and owns 
 but one all-guiding influence — devotion to the being it 
 has singled from the crowd for ever. Of such a nature 
 was Blanche Seabright’s affection — and although the 
 forms of the two beings dearest to her upon earth had 
 disappeared, her eye still rested on the path they had 
 taken. Suddenly she started and uttered a faint scream, 
 for a hand rested upon her arm. She turned, and beheld, 
 almost breathing upon hers, the face of an old crone 
 known by the name of Madge Willis. This creature en- 
 joyed the double reputation of knave and fool, and from 
 her infancy had been an object of terror to Blanche. 
 Her figure was short and square, her fingers and arms 
 of unnatural length and size ; and as she clutched the 
 maiden’s arm and peered into her face, the young lady 
 trembled beneath her eye. I cannot harm yg, Blanche 
 Seabright,” she commenced ; and as she spoke, the ker- 
 chief which confined her grizzled locks fell back, and her 
 large and twisted features stood in strong relief from the 
 bright blue sky — I do not want to harm ye, but I 
 must look upon this palm — there ! 1 knew ye’d wed a 
 lord. Such beauty for a plain gentleman — oh no ! — the 
 wliitest meat to the kite’s nest. To the court, fair lady ! — 
 to the court ! — to catch fools. You'll never die a plain 
 man’s wife.” 
 
BLANCHE OF BROOMSIDE. 
 
 287 
 
 “ Woman, imliand me ! ” cried Blanche, much terrified, 
 ‘‘loosen your hold, I say! Eversham ! Father!” she 
 exclaimed. “ Off, woman ! how dare you presume.” 
 Madire Willis still grasped her as firmly as with a vice, 
 and heeded not her struggles, apparently intent on ex- 
 amining her hand. “ The lines tell of early sorrow and 
 death — well,” she continued — “ and that is the end of all ; 
 but first — ay, first, there is gold and rank. J7ow listen, 
 lady 1 it is fated that you ” — poor Blanche again screamed ; 
 and to her great relief sa^v Eversham springing across the 
 field. “ Curse on your mummeries, ye old hag ! ” ex- 
 claimed the young man, as he caught Blanche almost 
 fainting in his arms ; “ you have murdered her with your 
 sorceries. Away 1 ” he cried, stamping his foot with im- 
 patience, for the woman calmly folded her arms, and 
 looked upon them both. 
 
 “ I am going — poor Madge is going ; but as this — ” and 
 she pulled up a tuft of primroses that, in defiance of the 
 season, were budding amid the grass — as this is pulled, 
 even so in your early prime shall ye be torn asunder, and 
 so wither. Don’t lay hand on me, young man — ye scorn 
 me, and no cross or coin of yours ever touched my palm — 
 but no matter — I’ll see the end of ye yet 1 ” So saying, 
 and before Mr. Seabright came uj:), she walked into the shrub- 
 bery, and the gentlemen supported Blanche to the house. 
 
 W'hatever impression this singular scene made on 
 the pride of the village, it is a recorded fact that 
 she never looked so lovely as when, on the following 
 Monday, she plighted her faith in the old church to Henry 
 Cavendish Eversham. After the ceremony, as she was 
 leaning on her husband’s arm, passing to the carriage 
 amid the blessings of the assembled peasantry, her eye 
 rested on the countenance of Madge Willis. The woman’s 
 stern features wore an aspect of fixed melancholy ; and 
 she silently obeyed the summons of the bride’s small 
 gloved finger. 
 
 “Madge!” said Blanche, blushing, and struggling with. 
 
288 
 
 BLANCHE OP BROOMSIBE. 
 
 the terror with which the wild woman inspired her, you 
 said I would never be a plain man’s wife — here is some- 
 thing to console ye for being a false prophet.” 
 
 I’ll not take your gold,” she replied, gloomily. I 
 said you’d never die a plain man’s wife. I’m no false 
 prophet, lady.” The carriage drove on. 
 
 The world talks a great deal, and writes a great deal, 
 about there being no such thing on earth as perfect hap- 
 piness. I believe it is not general ; but as to the non- 
 existence of such a thing, they who assei*t the contrary 
 never experienced or witnessed the perfect union of souls 
 — the devotion — the all-absorbing happy devotion of per- 
 fect love. I am not now going into the question whether 
 such a passion may not detract from the duty which the 
 creature owes the Creator. Nor am I about to inquire 
 whether this more than earthly happiness will bear the 
 wear and tear of a cold and selfish world, which is ever 
 anxious to destroy that in which it cannot participate. 
 But I believe, as the poet sings, that — but let him speak 
 for himself — 
 
 There’s a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told. 
 
 When two that are link’d in one heavenly tie, 
 
 With heart never changing, and brow never cold, 
 
 Love on through all ills, and love on till they die ; 
 
 One hour of a passion so faithful, is worth 
 Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss. 
 
 And, oh ! if there be an elysium on earth, 
 
 It is this — it is this ! ” 
 
 Eversham and his wife certainly enjoyed this elysium. 
 And when Blanche became a mother, such was the ex- 
 tremity of her happiness that she would silently ask 
 herself if it could always last. Gradually — to her imper- 
 <jeptibly — a change came over the beauty of her beloved ; 
 his eye was more bright, his cheek, too, more coloured, 
 and his forehead dazzlingly white. He did not com- 
 plain of either pain or sickness, but there was a lassi- 
 tude, an inactivity in his very step — and then a short 
 cough and restless nights. And at length his wife, with 
 
BLANCHE OF BROOMSIDE. 
 
 289 
 
 her infant sleeping in her bosom, watched by the death 
 couch of her pride — her husband ! Nothing could save 
 him. She wearied Heaven with prayers ; with her face 
 buried in the pillow that supported his head, would she 
 kneel, beseeching the Almighty to spare the idolized 
 being from whom she could not bear to think of parting. 
 “ Oh, Father ! ” she would exclaim, “ can it be ! Must I 
 resign him to the cold earth, to the worm, and to cor- 
 ruption ! And then in his calm, low voice, while his 
 fast fleeting breath fell upon her burning brow like the 
 chill breeze of early spring, he would say that over the 
 spirit death had no dominion — that he, the soul, the 
 mind she so much loved, could not be committed to the 
 silent tomb. But even the tabernacle of that noble 
 essence was dear to her heart — and Blanche Eversham 
 would not be comforted. 
 
 Alas for the changes of this mortal life ! The second 
 anniversary of their union was commemorated bj^ his 
 funeral. As the hearse passed slowly from the door, 
 Blanche, clasping her baby-boy wildly to her bosom, rushed 
 from her friends, and stood at the window, as if anxious 
 to Yvdtness the last — the very last dread ceremony; and, 
 unwittingly, her eye fell upon the hated figure of Madge 
 Willis. There she was — her hair streaming on the wintry 
 blast, giving to the winds the torn remains of what in 
 her distraction Blanche imagined to be the very tuft of 
 wild primroses she had pulled on the night of her evil 
 prophecy. The woman looked at the stiffening figure of 
 the youtliful widow, and pointing to the sable hearse, dis- 
 appeared amongst the villagers. What were Blanche’s 
 ideas as to the mysterious appearance of this weird 
 woman she never communicated ; but it was evident that 
 it had made a strong impression U]3on her intense imagi- 
 nation. Her troubles did not terminate with her Pius- 
 band’s death; Mr. Seabright, deprived of his daughter’s 
 society, felt listless in his lonely cottage, and had been 
 induced to embark part of his property in a mercantile 
 speculation, with which, like most country gentlemen, he 
 
290 
 
 BLANCHE OF I3KOOMSIDE. 
 
 was perfectly tiiiacquaintecl. After her husband’s death, 
 Blanche returned to the dwelling of her childhood ; but, 
 although her father’s affection was unchanged, he had 
 not leisure to devote his sole attention to his daughter 
 as in former times. Poor Blanche suffered from an 
 overwrought sensibility, and fancied what was only the 
 result of occupation, the result of coldness. Had she not 
 had her child’s welfare so strongly at heart, she must have 
 sunk a victim to real and artificial sorrow. Mr. Sea- 
 bright at length became gloomy and ill-tempered ; and 
 even the infantine caresses of his little grandson failed at 
 times to engage his attention. Suddenly he absented 
 himself almost entirely from his dwelling, and his daughter 
 became really alarmed. Unskilled in the world’s ways, 
 she was at a loss to account for his strange habits ; and 
 when, one gloomy December evening, he returned, after 
 a ten days’ absence, brooding and melancholy, she ven- 
 tured upon the dreaded task of inquiring %oliy he was so- 
 altered. 
 
 “ Blanche,” he replied, you cannot understand how 
 my affairs have been mismanaged, or how perfectly we 
 are all on the very brink of ruin; in a few days we shall 
 have hardly a roof to shelter us, and I have been occupied 
 in consulting with old Mr. Eversham as to the means of 
 our preservation. Blanche, it is in your power not only 
 to save me from destruction — me, your old grey-headed 
 parent — but to secure for this your fatherless boy a rich 
 and noble heritage.” Blanche replied not, but pressed 
 her son to her bosom, and looked towards her father with 
 an imploring countenance. know not, my child, 
 
 whether or not you can bear me to proceed — but I rest 
 my hopes on your strength of mind, and the pure affec- 
 tion you bear your relatives.” There was a long pause. 
 
 You know how anxious, about three years ago, your 
 mother-in-law was for your husband to retain the friend- 
 ship of Lord Dunmeade.” Blanche started. When 
 that nobleman mentioned to me his love (Blanche shud- 
 dered) for you, I yielded to your feelings from fatherly 
 
BLANCHE OF BROOMSIDE. 
 
 291 
 
 affection, and permitted you to make your own choice. 
 Your son is his lordship’s relative; and as he is even now 
 anxious to make you his wife, we all think that it would 
 be very unwise in you to lose the opportunity of securing 
 the property to the family — the chances are that this 
 child will be his sole heir.” Blanche arose from her chair, 
 and walked with a steady step to the door. One glance 
 at her pale but firm-set countenance told her father that 
 his cause was lost. The old man, in a voice rendered 
 tremulous by agitation, called ujDon her to stoj), and he 
 advanced to her at an uneven pace. 
 
 “ Blanche,” he exclaimed, taking her hand, pause a 
 moment ere you decide. I tell you another week will 
 find me a degraded man : my credit gone, my hopes 
 blasted. I have engaged in speculation, and been ruined. 
 Lord Dunmeade discovered it, and has generously of- 
 fered to free me from ray difficulties, to marry you, and 
 be a father to your child. Blanche, will you render your 
 father houseless, and a wanderer? Will you sacrifice 
 this boy on the shrine of unavailing grief? Will you 
 permit him to say in after-life, when struggling with 
 poverty, and smarting under the scourge of adversity, 
 ‘ My mother could have prevented this, but she would 
 not.’ Eversham’s family are anxious for it — I speak not 
 of myself,” added the old man. Blanche pressed her 
 hand to her forehead, and with a hasty action folded the 
 mourning robe around her figure, and rushed from the 
 room. Long and bitterly did she weep, and earnestly 
 did she pray to the Almighty for advice and support. 
 The well-being of her father and her child — the prospect 
 (and who does not tremble at such) the prospect of Avant 
 — and then the natural romance of character, Avhich cir- 
 cumstances had deadened, not destroyed — all worked 
 upon her mind ; and, after a long struggle, she resolved to 
 immolate herself, to stand at God’s altar and to pledge 
 her hitherto unpolluted faith to one she loathed — for the 
 sake of her father and her child. 
 
 She had collected all the energies of body and mind to 
 
 u 2 
 
292 BLANCHE OF BROOMSIDE. 
 
 communicate her resolution to her father. As she was 
 leaving the room a weight seemed to oppress her, even 
 to suffocation, and she threw open the latticed window 
 to admit the air ; she shrank quickly from it, for she 
 saw or imagined she saw, under the shadow of the green- 
 house wall, the mammering fortune-teller, crouched to 
 the earth, and watching her movements with the eye 
 and attitude of an insidious cat. ‘^It is fated,” mur- 
 mured the future bride of Dunmeade, as she rapidly 
 descended the stairs — “ it is vain to strive with fate.” 
 Rich were the jewels, and gorgeous the equipages that 
 av/aited the bridal ; and the world talked of the fair 
 prospects of the house of Eversham — and still more of 
 the extraordinary good fortune which awaited a dower- 
 less widow. Notes of congratulation, lace, feathers and 
 satins crowded the house ; and the boy, in his childish 
 glee, delighted in the pageantry, and tore open afresh (if 
 indeed they had ever healed) the heart-wounds of his 
 fading mother — ever and anon prattling his childish 
 fantasies, and inquiring if his dead papa had been as little 
 and as ugly as his new one. Blanche, to the eye, bore it 
 all astonishingly — even the fulsome and disgusting atten- 
 tions of her intended lord. Oh how abominable are such 
 tributes ! The settlements were drawn — her father and 
 child provided for ; but, contrary to all received opinions, 
 Blanche persisted in her resolution of being married in 
 her village church. This was a whim nobody could account 
 for ; Lord Dunmeade was anxious that the ceremony 
 should have been performed in town, but the lady was 
 resolute, and people [good-natured peoiole)^ when talking 
 about her fine fortune, added, that ‘‘ she had no more feel- 
 ing than a stone, notwithstanding her pale looks and pre- 
 tence, for if she had, she would never be married twice in 
 the same church, particularly as she must pass the simple 
 white tomb of her late husband in the churchyard — the 
 very tomb she had placed over his grave.” 
 
 As Blanche descended from her carriage Madge Willis 
 stood in the church-porch. A cold shudder thrilled through 
 
BLANCHE OF BROOMSIDE. 
 
 293 
 
 lier frame, and, heedless of ceremony, she withdrew her 
 hand hastily from the gouty earl, and passed along into 
 the aisle. The words, “ Said I not the whitest meat to 
 the kite’s nest,” echoed to her ear ; and she also noted 
 the half-muttered Peace, woman ! ” of Lord Dunmeade, 
 as he passed a purse into the witch’s hand. Before the 
 conclusion of the ceremony, all obseryed the rapidly 
 changing countenance and fearfully heaving breast of 
 the beautiful bride ! As she proceeded out of the church 
 the aged bridegroom’s arm w’as insufficient for her sup- 
 port, and her father almost carried her into the open air. v 
 She revived a little, and murmured the words, “ Stop — 
 stop ! ” in his ear ; she looked wildly around for a moment, 
 and then witli a convulsive effort threw herself upon 
 Eversham’s grave. They raised her tenderly from the 
 earth — her father knelt — her child pressed her cold hands 
 to his little bosom — all were agitated by one common 
 feeling — even the Lord of Dunmeade felt deeply. It 
 was useless — the sacrifice was made — the victim had 
 expired ! 
 
294 
 
 OUR COUSIN KATHERINE. 
 
 No, no 1 ” interrupted our Cousin Katherine, closing 
 the book she had been reading, with a clajD that startled. 
 Snow from his afternoon nap, and frightened the bullfinch 
 off his perch. “ No, I tell you, that was not the way of 
 it. You are all wrong ! Surely I ought to know ! ” 
 
 We never supposed there was anything Cousin Ka- 
 therine did not know ; though we had discovered, and 
 yet kept it a profound secret, that she was sometimes 
 misled, or misinformed : but Cousin Katherine was so 
 decided in her words and ways that she never received a 
 contradiction, even in its mildest form. We respected 
 her and feared her ; we all declared, whenever she came 
 to stay with us, that we were ‘^delighted.” We repeated 
 this to each other, and to our friends, in an hysterical 
 sort of way ; but we did not say so to her, because she 
 would have exclaimed, Delighted ! ah, well, you will be 
 more delighted when I go ! ” 
 
 She understood human nature to well for us to con- 
 tradict that. We knew we ought to be delighted when 
 Cousin Katherine came ; but somehow her bold and un- 
 flinching truthfulness, her rigid proprieties, her habit of 
 calling things by their right names at the wrong time, 
 the stern superiority which steadfastness and a brave, 
 uncompromising spirit, give over the weak creatures of 
 society and circumstances, made us uncomfortable in her 
 presence (for a “presence” it was). She was not above 
 the ordinary height of woman, yet everybody called her 
 “tall;” and the clear, firm, and yet harmonious, voice 
 which accompanied the earnest gaze of her deep, frank, 
 uncompromising eyes, looking directly into the very spirit 
 
OUR COUSIN KATHERINE. 295 
 
 and intent of those she addressed or replied to, silenced 
 the braggart and put the evil-speaker to shame. 
 
 Then she was so fearfully neat and particular ; and, not 
 content with that coming-out-of-a-band-box look which 
 her toilette always had, I felt when those eyes rested 
 upon me that I had not “come out of a band-box.” 
 Cousin Katherine noted every defect, but she took every 
 perfection as a matter of course. After seizing upon my 
 unfortunate bonnet-strings, and snipping the edges with 
 those folding scissors that were ever ready to her nimble 
 fingers, she would find fault with my hair — object that 
 one curl was larger than another (those were the days of 
 ringlets, when the hair was neither tightly banded off 
 high cheek-bones, nor rolled round heads already too 
 “ largely developed ”) ; once having laid hands upon me, 
 there was no escape. 
 
 “ Now,” she Avould say, “ kneel down upon this foot- 
 stool : turn to the light. Minnie, your bonnet-cap is 
 soiled, and the blonde drawn. How can you think of 
 going out in that state V’ 
 
 “ My veil, Cousin Katherine, hides ” 
 
 (Suggested in a low tone) “ A young lady’s veil is 
 intended to hide her blushes, not her carelessness. — And, 
 I declare, that glove is split ! Oh, Minnie ! ” 
 
 “ Where, cousin 
 
 “ There 1 And, my dear, tell me, is that bracelet real 
 gold r 
 
 “ No, cousin ; I could not afford real gold.” 
 
 “ Then why condescend to act an untruth ? You wish 
 people to believe it is real gold, do you not ? I think it 
 beneath the simple dignity of an Englishwoman to wear 
 mock — anything 1 No mock lace, no mock jewellery ; all 
 right, and bright, and true ! ” 
 
 Of course I felt ashamed, and unclasped the bracelet, 
 and so exposed a tiny rent in my sleeve, which produced 
 another lecture ; not that such lectures were ever long ; 
 on the contrary, they were curt and dry — little scraps to 
 tremble a.t. She discovered facts and frauds in a mira- 
 
296 
 
 OUR COUSIN KATHERINE. 
 
 culous way of her own. A distant relative of oiir Cousin 
 Katherine, Mrs. Popendale, brought her son Wilfred to ' 
 town to be articled to a solicitor. The poor lad wished 
 to go into the Church ; but, unfortunately, a fourth-rate 
 solicitor ” had “ got round ” his mother and her money, 
 and the indentures were ready for signing. Cousin 
 Katherine heard of it — she never told how — and 
 posted immediately to Mrs. Popendale’s lodgings. She 
 was but just gone, the maid-of-all-work said, to some 
 bewildering court in the City, where lawyers ‘‘ most do 
 congregate,” whither our cousin followed. 
 
 After astounding the lean clerk (who told her she 
 could not see Mr. Spunge, because he was engaged) by 
 the retort, noi courteous, That is an untruth ; for I will 
 see him she annihilated him by a look, and swept into 
 the grim and dusty receptacle of the human spider, where 
 Mrs. Popendale was being instructed (in the presence of a 
 witness) to say, “ I deliver this as my act and deed.” 
 
 Cousin Katherine was never what is called taken by 
 surprise” — does things promptly, but not in haste. She 
 neither remonstrated nor a}:)pealed ; but she took the in- 
 dentures off the table, rolled them up, took a piece of red 
 tape out of the very fingers of the witness,” tied the 
 parchment, thrust it into her pocket, shook it till it 
 settled down, told the witness” to leave the room and 
 shut the door, put on her spectacles, and looked stead- 
 fastly at the man of law; while Mrs. Poj^endale, one of 
 those meek women who seem born to be imposed on and 
 tyrannized over, either by a husband or somebody else, 
 cringed up into the farthest corner, ejaculating words 
 which no one heard ; and the boy fixed his large lustrous 
 eyes upon a relative he did not know even by sight, and 
 yet to whose side he was drawn by an uncontrollable 
 instinct. 
 
 The lawyer, when able to collect his thoughts, addressed 
 our cousin by name, and inquired what she meant. 
 
 Then you do remember me ! and that might have 
 spared you the question,” she answered. “ I mean to 
 
OUR COUSIN KATHERINE. 
 
 297 
 
 frustrate your plan, and so have a hope of meeting this 
 hoy, as well as his father, hereafter. I never looked in 
 his face until this moment, for which that shrinking lady 
 is to blame, not me ; but he is none the less my cousin 
 Wilfred’s child. She owes you money — let me know the 
 sum, and all demands you have against her, and I will 
 pay you. I do not ask your just demands ; because I 
 believe you never had a demand in your life that was not 
 the result of injustice I Come, let us arrange our business, 
 and we will wish you good morning immediately.” 
 
 Mrs. Popendale was in an agony of bewilderment, and 
 Wilfred could hardly forbear shouting for joy. 
 
 Mr. Spunge, my Cousin Katherine — my Cousin 
 Katherine, Mr. Spunge,” suggested Mrs. Popendale from 
 her corner. 
 
 “ Thank you,” said our cousin ; “ but Mr. Spunge had 
 the pleasure of an introduction to me before poor Wil- 
 fred’s death, and I dare say he has not forgotten it. Shall 
 I recall it to your memory, Mr. Spunge P’ 
 
 Kot necessary, madam ; will you be seated, and suffer 
 me to explain how my anxiety for this sweet boy’s inte- 
 rests ” 
 
 “ Kot necessary,” interrupted our cousin. “ My memory 
 is good, and I know the difference you make between 
 your own interests and the interests of others ; and you 
 know Qiie, as they say of old. Yes, I saw, the moment 
 I entered the room, that I was remembered : permit me 
 at once to satisfy all your demands. I brought my 
 cheque-book — expect you to take off ten per cent, for 
 prompt payment — five minutes will do it all. I have 
 only five minutes to give you.” 
 
 The young Wilfred pressed closely to his new-found 
 friend. There,” she said, after scrutinizing him closely, 
 sit down, like a rational boy ; I have no room for you 
 in my sleeve j keep your mother quiet, if you can — there, 
 that will do. I shall expect large duty-rate for this — 
 hard work at Oxford, and a faithful ministry hereafter.” 
 Strange to say, the man who had so frequently made 
 
298 
 
 OUR COUSIN KATHERINE. 
 
 the straight crooked, perverted reason, blindfolded truth 
 (the more easily to pick its pockets) — who could bully in 
 a court, intimidate or entangle a jury — did as our cousin 
 directed, and chuckled when the trio were fairly out of 
 his office, at having ^^got off” so easily. Of course she sent 
 Wilfred to Oxford, and it was of him she spoke when 
 she told the greatest newsmonger in our neighbourhood, 
 she was all wrong.” 
 
 Our cousin w'as undoubtedly fond of contradiction; and 
 persons who are so, frequently believe they are moved 
 thereunto, not by the fondness I have named, not by any 
 affection for the thing itself, but by a love of truth. 
 
 Katherine’s really noble nature was frequently dis- 
 turbed by this propensity, which prevented her being 
 beloved as she deserved to be. She never would suffer 
 people to cherish their little pet peculiarities, or preju- 
 dices, or superstitions, in peace and quietness ; and her 
 knowledge of human nature (which, when her combative- 
 ness was unexcited, enabled her to see clearly, and to see 
 far) became useless when that active organ came into full 
 play, as it was sure to do in anticipation of an argument. 
 At the whisper of a contradiction — at the appearance of 
 a foible — or even the fag-end of a weakness, be it ever so 
 simple — off she went full tilt. Our Cousin Katherine, as 
 I have clearly intimated, (take it as a rule with an occa- 
 sional exception,) was always right — and invariably true ; 
 but she loved to kick against the pricks, and was, conse- 
 quently, often wounded — not that she minded that, but 
 we who loved her did ; and, besides, we felt for our 
 friends. Mrs. Bremell, for instance, dyed her hair, and 
 everybody knew it ; while dear, gentle, mysterious Mrs. 
 Bremell, thought it a profound secret ; this provoked our 
 cousin, who asked her what hair-dye she used, and which 
 she considered best. Of course, after that, whenever 
 Cousin Katherine pays us a visit, we never see Mrs. 
 Bremell. Mrs. Lightfoot is really one of the most bene- 
 volent and useful women in our entire neighbourhood — 
 walking fearlessly through sunshine and shower on mis- 
 
OUR COUSIN KATHERINE. 
 
 299 
 
 sions of love and charity to all who need. District 
 societies — soup-kitchens — benevolent work — industrial 
 homes — Lazarus schools ! everywhere and in every good 
 movement is Mrs. Lightfoot ; but Cousin Katherine 
 found out that she left her sick child to the perpetual care 
 of an idle nursemaid, and that her husband had taken to 
 club-dinners, because his wife could never leave her 
 boards of green cloth in time for his favourite dinner-hour 
 of old-fashioned five o’clock. Cousin Katherine blazed 
 out like a meteor at this, and told Mrs. Lightfoot that 
 she ought to remember that charity began at home, &c. 
 &c. (kc, ; husbands were forced to club-life by inattentive 
 wives — and her own child had a greater claim on her 
 time and attention than the children at the Lazarus 
 school. It was wonderful how well Mrs. Lightfoot bore 
 it all ; and, though her cheek fin shed (and no wonder), 
 she thanked our rough cousin, and, when shaking hands 
 at parting, declared that she felt grateftil for her advice. 
 Despite our desire not to irritate Katherine, she had 
 nothing but black looks from us all the evening ; but we 
 have never received a visit from Mrs. Lightfoot since, and 
 now she passes us without speaking. 
 
 ‘^So much the better,” says our cousin; “those who 
 will not bear to hear the truth are not worth knowing.” 
 
 She told young Bridgeman, of the Guards, that he 
 ought to learn to speak plain before he gave the word of 
 command (he has never danced with one of us since); 
 and Edward Cranford, that his moustache was a make- 
 believe, for he had not S2)irit enough for a soldier. She 
 turned Lady Jane Potter’s landscapes upside down, and 
 declared they were wonderful, for they looked as well one 
 way as the other. She attacked one of the greatest lead- 
 ers of temperance societies at a dinner-party, and told 
 him that as long as he took wine himself he had no right 
 to preach abstinence to those who had not one of his 
 numerous luxuries. She called Signor Leonti’s playing 
 “ drum and rattle;” and declared that the modern piano- 
 forte-players were in the pay of the pianoforte-makers,. 
 
300 
 
 OUR COUSIN KATHERINE. 
 
 and were bribed to wear out the pianos as fast as possible. 
 She tells a lady whose dress lingers about her person in an 
 infantine sort of way, that she ought to take care at her 
 time of life of the rheumatism ; and has offended both an 
 American and an Irish gentlewoman by the declaration 
 that she knew the moment they spoke whence they came : 
 both with heightened complexions declared they were not 
 ashamed of their country, and gloried in their accent — 
 adding, with ill-suppressed indignation, ‘‘ that it was the 
 first time it had ever been observed.” 
 
 She glories in treating the merely rich with contempt ; 
 but she has a weakness for what she terms ‘‘ blood,” which- 
 we smile at. When her back is turned, can you wonder 
 that our cousin is considered very peculiar and is, 
 even by those who estimate her high qualities, more 
 feared than loved ? And yet she is wonderfully popular, 
 with her own and everybody’s poor relations ; she never 
 snubs them. Popular, too, with governesses, whom she 
 draws out of corners and patronizes without paining 
 popular with little children, whom she pets and spoils ; 
 popular with animals, especially if they are ugly and ill- 
 used — a contradiction, and yet consistent — a terror, yet a 
 blessing. 
 
301 
 
 HIDDEN TREASURE. 
 
 AN IRISH FAIRY TALE. 
 
 Two men were leaning against the buttress of an old 
 park wall, which in many places was overgrown with ivy : 
 the youngest was hardly more than a youth, although 
 there was evidence in his firm and assured manner that 
 he had for some time considered himself a man ; the other 
 was considerably advanced in years, and was of a much 
 humbler class in society than the younger, to whom he 
 looked wdth all the affection which an Irish foster-father 
 bears for the child his wife has nursed. 
 
 The young man was of noble bearing, well grown and 
 finely proportioned ; the jesting expression of a mouth 
 whose muscles seemed almost too flexible for a determined 
 purpose, was corrected by the intelligence and fervour of 
 the eyes, and the breadth and dignity of a lofty brow. 
 He had thrown off his hat ; perhaps it pressed too heavily 
 upon his throbbing temples ; perhaps it was cast upon the 
 grass that the breeze might play more freely through his 
 clustering hair : but his temples did throb, and his lips 
 ■were trembling with emotion. He spoke no word in 
 reply to the aged servitor’s garrulity, yet he talked on, as 
 though his heart rather than his mind overflowed. Seat- 
 ing himself on a fragment of rock at the young man’s feet, 
 the old man talked as earnestly and respectfully to the 
 youth as though he had been the heir of the O’Briens, not 
 a discarded younger brother of the name and race. 
 
 Things must mend, Masther George — they must 
 mend !” he said, over and over again. “Many an Irish 
 
302 
 
 HIDDEN TREASURE. 
 
 gentleman would be j)roud to have fifty young brothers 
 like you, just to make divarshm for himself and his friends, 
 and keep the pulses of life bating through the house — 
 why don’t you turn to the army at once, sir ? I’ve heard 
 the old master say he had forty promises of commissions 
 for the whole of ye. Or marry a heiress, sir ? Well for 
 her to get you ! Ay, sir, you’ve looked too often in the 
 
 glass not to believe that — or But where’s the use of 
 
 thinking ? Thoughts are nothing — not worth a thrashed 
 straw! Who would have thought your own brother 
 
 could Well, there. I’ll not say a word against him — 
 
 only he’s the most unnatural Well, I’m done 1 But 
 
 it’s no matter — I wonder how he’ll look his father in the 
 
 face hereafter ! But he never can Well, there, 
 
 Masther George, I’m finished ! Sure, i± you must make 
 your way, you’ve a power of talents and beautiful book- 
 learning. Can’t you be a counsellor or a judge at once, 
 sir — or a clergyman ? They say they always put the fool 
 of the family into orders ; but there never was a fool 
 among the O’Briens — that’s the rason there’s none of 
 them there. ’Deed, Masther George, you’re breaking my 
 heart with your silence, so you are, sir j and I’ve thought 
 of everything 1 ” 
 
 And done nothing,” added the young man. As 
 usual — plenty of words but no acts !” 
 
 What can I do, dear ? ” replied the servant. Sure, 
 I’ll lay dawn my life any day, or follow you to the world’s 
 end. I’ll do that, and never lave you while there’s a 
 shadow of trouble over you ; I’ll never lave you until 
 you’re a great man, sir ; and then, maybe, I’d come back 
 to my own little place, and lay my bones beside hers that 
 loved you dearly. Sure I wonder she’s not stirring in 
 her grave with the knowledge of your trouble ! I don’t 
 know what’s to be done now at all, barriug you’d drarne ! 
 
 Now, don’t look that way — don’t 1 But it’s as true 
 
 as Gospel 1 There’s a deal of ‘ hidden treasure' about 
 the place, and if you could but drame of it, you’d be sure 
 to find it 1” 
 
HIDDEN TUEASURE. 303 
 
 Corney,” answered the young man, Corney, I’ve 
 been dreaming all my life ; it’s quite time I awoke.” 
 
 “ Oh, sir, how can you say that ? Sorra a more 
 active young gentleman is in the county — or a better 
 sliot — or a more beautiful dancer — or a finer horseman 
 — or one with a better voice ; and the while you was at 
 school and college you flogged all, I heard them say.” 
 
 Or got flogged, Corney '? ” 
 
 “ I don’t believe that, Masther George. And all the 
 world knows you’re a fine hand at the pen ; and, sure, 
 the beautiful song you wrote last is sung by all the ladies 
 in the county, as well as every ballad-singing blackguard 
 in the street — and that’s Jcwie anyhow ; and they tell 
 me there isn’t a head in the kingdom you could not take 
 off with your pencil ; and one I know said, ^ If Masther 
 George had only one of tlm talents he possesses, he could 
 get good bread by it all over the world.’ Dreaming, 
 indeed ! Faix, no ! its wide-awake you’ve been — not a 
 wink on your eyes or ears, sir — but I wish you would 
 drame. You’re the seventh son, with only a trifle of girls 
 between ; and that’s luck ; and you’ve only to lay your 
 head on the draming-stone on the seventh day of the 
 seventh month, as the morning comes alone out of the 
 dark twelve of midnight (morning-drames are always 
 truest), and I’ll lay any wager your eyes will be opened 
 — in your sleep — and you’ll drame of the hidden treasure 
 that all the world knows is in the family, if it CDuld only 
 be got at. It’s a pleasant place, sir — sheltered, and to 
 itself — close to the bohereen you cross to get to Slieve- 
 burgh when you go shooting. They say a white doe 
 comes once a year to drink at the stream, and it’s close 
 to a holy well, and in sight of a cross road, so that alto- 
 gether it’s a place you may rely on.” 
 
 “ I know the dreaming-stone well, Corney,” answered 
 young O’Brien ; but if hidden treasure is to be dis- 
 covered, why don’t you send my brother there, or some 
 of the elder ones ; they’re the legitimate dreamers'?” 
 
 They might lie there for ever, Masther George, and 
 
304 
 
 HIDDEN TREASURE. 
 
 no light given them. Haven’t I told you it was the 
 seventh son that should be after draming % Besides, 
 dear, sure you’re my foster-child, and she that loved your 
 shadow in the sun — God help us ! — stiff and cold in her 
 grave.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, I’ll think about it, Corney.” 
 
 “Don’t, sir, dear, don’t think about it — whenever the 
 old master went to think about anything it was never 
 done — do it, dear, do it. To-morrow is the seventh of the 
 seventh month ; do it, darling ! and, maybe, it’s over our 
 heads in silver and goold we’ll be before this day week. 
 I wonder what will the young master think then of his 
 seventh brother?” 
 
 George O’Brien was a bright-hearted clever fellow, full 
 of intelligence and talent, which from many causes had 
 lain fallow. He had high aspirations and high hopes ; 
 but the live-hard and yet do-nothing sort of life he had 
 led since his father’s death, had impaired rather than 
 strengthened his mind. The associations of childhood 
 bound him to the spot where he had been born. Slieve- 
 burgh, the giant-headed mountain, which was the wea- 
 ther-glass of all his excursions, was also his landmark 
 when away from home, and the moment he saw its peak 
 rising from amid the clouds, he shouted as if to an ancient 
 friend. But he must not think of that now; his brother 
 had insulted him — he had rudely bidden him forth, with a 
 sneer at his “ fine sentiments,” like Orlando’s brother. 
 Bull of sad thoughts, mingling as they did with fancies — 
 those misty futures that 
 
 Come like shadows — so depart.” 
 
 — thoughts, the very vapours of the imagination, gathered 
 into something more formed and fixed, as some plan for 
 the hereafter crossed his brain and then vanished. 
 
 Making some excuse to get rid of his old follower, 
 George O’Brien wandered through what was now only 
 the brushwood of a forest which had been for centuries 
 
HIDDEN TREASURE. 
 
 305 
 
 the pride of his ancestors. As the evening gathered in, 
 he threw himself on the grass beside the stream where 
 he had thrown his first fly, and, after much patience, 
 hooked his first trout. Now, he thought the clouds 
 seemed as though their dark and gloomy shadows im- 
 peded the stream and pressed heavily upon its waters. 
 The dinner-bell rang ; its cracked and bitter tone 
 sounded in his ears rather as a warning from, than an 
 invitation to, the festive board ; he felt he could sit there 
 no more : was it really no more ? The bright vision of 
 his mother’s smile, the very echo of his father’s blessing, 
 floated round him ; and, covering his face with his hands, 
 he wept bitterly — and those tears relieved him. He 
 reviewed the past, and was only roused from his reverie 
 by the gathering of a thunder-storm. It must have been 
 near midnight when he left the cottage of an old game- 
 keeper, where he had taken shelter from the heavy rain 
 of a July storm that would have drenched him to the 
 skin. Peal after peal of thunder rolled through the 
 heavens, and the lightning played the most fearsome 
 pranks round the peak of Slieveburgh — now circling his 
 rocky head as with a glory — then fixing, as it were, its 
 centre there, and radiating round the summit in lines of 
 many-tinted light. Despite his determination not to 
 enter it, he wandered in the direction of the old Hall, 
 more moody and thoughtful, and yet as planless for the 
 future as ever. It might have been the light falling in a 
 particular way — but as he stood for a moment upon the 
 ruined wall of the deer-park, surveying with aching eyes 
 the hill and dale of his favourite haunt, he thought he saw a 
 white doe rush into the glade in which the draming-stone” 
 had lain for centuries. Prompted by the instinct of a keen 
 sportsman, he rushed after it ; and surel^^ he could not be 
 twice deceived — the creature paused and looked back, and 
 then darted forward as before. Of course he followed, 
 but still more strangely lost sight of it exactly where the 
 ‘^‘draming-stone” was sheltered by a projecting rock that 
 
306 
 
 HIDDEN TREASUDE. 
 
 was overgrown witli every species of wild flower and fern ; 
 while a little bright gurgling stream, whose bed was 
 dotted with silvery pebbles, meandered round the rock, 
 now almost laving its base, at other times rambling far 
 away as if it intended to return there no more. George 
 thought he had never seen the spot look half so lovely : 
 the sky, cleared of every vestige of cloud by the past 
 storm, was one canopy of blue, starred by the countless 
 multitudes of unknown worlds ; the young moon was 
 like a bride amid her handmaids ; the earth beneath glit- 
 tering with dew and fragrant from the herbs and thyme 
 he had crushed beneath his feet. The half-sleepy chirp 
 of the tender nestlings, disturbed in their repose by his 
 hasty footsteps, was answered by the insect murmur 
 which is felt rather than heard, to be a noise in the still- 
 ness of the holy night. 
 
 An unaccountable stupor arrested his steps — he passed 
 his hand over his brow in vain. By a violent efibrt he 
 sprang over the bubbling brook, but it seemed as though 
 he had entered a charmed circle. Nothing could control 
 his drowsiness j the winking stars became paler and more 
 pale ; the winds whispered the softest music through the 
 trees ; the air was warm and perfumed ; he endeavoured 
 to keep his eyes open, but they closed and closed, and at 
 last, completely overcome by the drowsy god,” he sank 
 beneath the shelter of the rock, his head resting upon 
 the “ dreaming-stone,” which, covered as it was by a deep 
 bed of the softest moss, was as soothing and refreshing a 
 pillow as a weary man could desire. But however much 
 overpowered, when he laid down his head, George O’Brien 
 declared he found it impossible to sleep when once fairly 
 resting on the moss. But if he found it impossible to 
 sleep, he found it also as impossible to move — he was 
 spell-bound — everything painful or unpleasant passed 
 from his memory, which was rendered jDure, and gentle, 
 and docile as the mind of a little child. All that he had 
 heard and loved in his infancy was with' him in that 
 
HIDDEN TREASURE. 
 
 307 
 
 perfect aud entire repose wliicli Lis restless spirit tasted 
 for tlie first time ; and as the moments passed, elevated by 
 a new nature, all was peace. Gradually a veil of mist, 
 soft and transparent, descended from the brow of the 
 overhanging rock, and curtained him round about ; and 
 although another manner of spirit possessed him, he still 
 retained enough of the spirit of the old wmrld, to wonder 
 if he should really dream or learn aught of the hidden 
 treasure” which tradition said should one day be revealed 
 to whichever of the O’Briens was most worthy the reve- 
 iatioii — provided he sought the mysterious knowledge on 
 the ‘hi reaming-stone.” 
 
 This idea seemed gradually to take possession of his 
 imagination, overwdielming all other thoughts. It was 
 rather a curiosity to discover what lie feared would not 
 be revealed, than any desire to profit by the red bars of 
 gold or jewelled plate, which every one said had long 
 been concealed “ somewhere” about his ancestral castle ; 
 it was a species of ambition to learn to unravel mystery, 
 to seek and find that which had been lost, to say, “ I 
 have been chosen from among many to do this thing.” 
 The idea of its being superstitious never occurred to him, 
 nor did he, for a moment, think how the mist folded 
 itself in such graceful ever- moving drapery around his 
 couch, as if invisible hands arranged and re-arranged it 
 for his enjoyment. By degrees the forms so busied be- 
 came apparent, outlined in the most delicate tracery, as 
 they floated from beneath the weaving fern, or rounded 
 into perfect beauty from out of the full-bosomed roses 
 that clustered beside the “ dreaming-stone ;” tremsparent, 
 fragile, delicate things they were as they mingled to- 
 gether in fantastic movements, tinted by the tone or hue 
 of the flowers that gave them shelter. Some, smaller than 
 the rest — indications of life, rather than life itself — 
 seemed born of the purple heath ; others, of the elastic 
 harebell ; others, severe-looking elves, with a certain air 
 of self-gratulation, showing a trifling degree of pretty 
 
308 
 
 HIDDEN TREASURE. 
 
 scorn for their companions, were the denizens of a Scot- 
 tish thistle; while those more particularly of his own land, 
 green and gay as grasshoppers, sporting in emblematic 
 trios — 
 
 one thing constant never/’ — 
 
 enlivened his imagination, and quickened his fancy, by 
 their rapid and elastic movements. Many, of a sedate 
 digoity, came and went with diadems on their brows ; 
 others with wands which they seemed to have the power 
 of elongating at pleasure. There were few, if any, of the 
 ordinary mischieis supposed to belong to fairyland, the 
 diminutive gnomes and little mocking sprites ; few 
 distorted or robbed of their fair proportions ; no matter 
 how minute they were, their tiny forms were well defined 
 and full of grace and motion ; and the last troop that 
 gathered round him seemed more intent on pleasing the 
 ‘‘ child of earth” who had come among them, than on 
 sporting with each other. And yet there were some — and 
 those, too, came nearest to the young man, bending above 
 his brow, and raising the curls that clustered round his 
 head — who looked at him with earnest eyes, in which 
 there was an expression of the deepest interest — an 
 interest devoid of jest, a solemn, deep expression, as 
 though they knew the past, and would fain direct him as 
 to the future ; and, soft as the whispering of the south 
 wind, questions were breathed into his ears which he had 
 not the power to reply to. 
 
 At last, after the moon had sunk and the stars disap- 
 peared, or become fainter and still more faint in the 
 expanse around them, it seemed that those benevolent 
 spirits comprehended his desire, for he heard strange, 
 unearthly whispers repeating, Hidden treasure, hidden 
 treasure 1” And while all retreated and continued wreath- 
 ing themselves above and around the rock, or swinging 
 to and fro upon their favourite flowers, or bathing in the 
 stream that murmured on its way, or caught the dew- 
 
HIDDEN TREASURE. 
 
 309 
 
 drops, and, by some wonderful alchemy, converted them 
 into solid gems, — one of tall and majestic stature (for a 
 fairy) advanced to the young man’s side, and bent the 
 wand she carried in her hand over his eyes. It looked at 
 a distance like a silver rod, but he found it was only a 
 line of light ; and it gave him the power of seeing all 
 things contained in the secret vaults of his family. The 
 rumour went that much treasure had been hidden in the 
 sullen chambers where the great shut in their bodies to 
 moulder in proud and ghastly solitude ; and he looked 
 there, but there was nothing, except bones, heaps on 
 heaps of bones, round which the cerements of the grave 
 mouldered, witli here and there a jewel, or a chain of 
 gold, or a stray white pearl, but no treasure beyond that ; 
 and if there had been, he would not have despoiled the 
 crackling relics of humanity of what they most foolishly 
 held so dear. It was refreshing to escape these gloomy 
 charnel-houses ; his wandering spirit shudderingly re- 
 turned to its dwelling, and was grateful to be again with 
 the fields and flowers. ISTone there!” murmured the 
 fair lady ; no fit place to seek treasures from amid our 
 buried ancestors— none there. Again 1” And again the 
 wand of light passed over his eyes, and the foundations 
 of the rude fortress, its prisons, its secret passages, its 
 labyrinths, were traversed, encountering nothing save 
 headless arrows, a notched battle-axe — and then, in a 
 square cell, one end of a huge rusty chain was fastened 
 to the wall, and at the other end, within a ring-like 
 fetter, was a long white bone dangling above a heaj) of 
 mouldering humanity, a 'skull, round which some fair 
 hair twisted, and fragments of cloth still bright, a 
 broken pitcher, and an iron lamp whose oil was all 
 burnt out — the fragments of a deed of sin and death ! 
 On and on, carefully too, for his hope of gain had roused 
 him to exertion ; but no treasure — not enough of gold or 
 silver coin to All an infant’s hand. Fatigued and worn 
 by disappointment, his spirit came back, as it were, to 
 
310 
 
 HIDDEN TREASURE. 
 
 his breathing home, and then the fairy smiled and said, 
 
 Beneath the waters seek ! ” And the wand again did 
 its behest ; but fruitless was the search beneath the 
 lake, — no hidden treasure there ; nothing below the 
 waters but the long entwining roots of the aquatic 
 plants, and the small fish flying like arrows to escape 
 the jaws of the devouring giants of the lake ; once, 
 indeed, he thought something that lay coiled round with 
 rope was worth investigating, but it was only a heap of 
 iron-headed pikes, that, as sweet Mercy willed, had never 
 tasted blood. 
 
 George O’Brien had never admitted that he believed 
 in the story of the ^diidden treasure,” and }7^et he lelt 
 disappointed when its falsehood v/as so completely es- 
 tablished ; he clung to the tale, as, according to the old 
 line, drowning men cling to straws, but now that it 
 proved nought, he was disappointed — chilled — distressed. 
 He thought, Out upon all })rophecy ! none but fools 
 would listen to such old wives’ tales. And I to be such 
 an idiot, — and these misty phantoms to deceive me so, 
 making such sport of my credulity ! ” 
 
 You have hidden treasure still to seek,” said the lady 
 of the wand, but, unfortunately, you would not seek it 
 where it lies, until your mind was disabused of its false 
 hope ; you would not seek it where it is to be found, 
 until all other chance was gone. Why is it that crea- 
 tures such as you, endowed with rarest gifts, will stir 
 amongst old bones, exist amid the rubbish of the universe, 
 ponder over mildewed chronicles, watch and wait for dead 
 men’s shoes — with life, and health, and energy, and in- 
 tellect, in the very flower of their strength, beating 
 through their veins 1 ” 
 
 As the fairy spoke, her form dilated, and she became a 
 creature of such infinite light and life that the youth felt 
 as though he could have worshipped while listening to 
 the music of her voice and words. 
 
 ‘‘ Why should you,” she continued, — why should you 
 
HIDDEN TREASURE. 
 
 311 
 
 seek ivithout for ‘ hidden treasure,’ when your hidden trea- 
 sure is loithin ? when every true feeling, cherished into 
 action, runs as a silver stream at your command — when the 
 lever of intellect, fixed to one purpose, can do whate’er 
 it wills ] Oh, that men would have but faith in them- 
 selves ! that they would but render the homage due to 
 Him who gave, by using well the gift 1 Behold 1” 
 
 And she circled his head with her wand of light, and, 
 as it were, the hidden treasure” of the refined gold 
 and jewelled worth, heaped up and stored away in idle- 
 ness within the secret recesses of his own mystic frame, 
 were laid bare unto himself. His astonishment increased 
 at their magnitude — he had no words to express his 
 wonder at their immensity — he could not comprehend 
 why he had not before turned his eyes upon his inner 
 self. 
 
 See you not,” she continued, while waving her wand 
 around him — “see you not these treasures, ^hidden'' 
 now no longer, waiting but to be used, ready to leave 
 their prison-house, and joy in light, and life, and ac- 
 tivity — the source of wealth and station, power and 
 independence, to yourself, and of good to all within and 
 far beyond your sphere 1 These are the hidden treasures 
 of ” 
 
 “ Oh, Masther George ! — Masther George, dear ! I 
 couldn’t help waking you, you looked so happy ; and 
 such a smile, sweet as an angel’s, upon your lips. I 
 know your dream’s for good — only the sun shouldn’t touch 
 the dreamer’s lids, for if he does, he steals the dream and 
 the dew together. So I woke you, dear, and to-night 
 we’ll have the treasure up.” 
 
 “Hot quite so soon as that,” said George, “though 
 treasure we certainly shall have, Corney — sound, healthy 
 treasure, in abundance.” 
 
 “ I told you so — I told you so,” cried the old man, 
 rubbing his hands. “ But why not to-night 
 
 “ My treasure will come with time, Corney, — be all 
 
312 
 
 HIDDEN TREASURE. 
 
 my own — my immortality ! It is not buried in the earth, 
 but is abroad — living — breathing. I feel it now.” 
 
 Corney feared his dear young master had gone crazed ; 
 but he was wrong. He had found his senses v/ith the 
 hidden treasure ; and a few years of hard labour proved 
 to him and to his faithful Corney that truth may be 
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