\ ^^ 'V^ 5^ <^ -t\ o'^.>\:^'^ ^-^^ ."^ "^A v-^ ,^5 -^c^. vV ^:^ Iv^' A^ -n^^ 1^ c/> (^ "^ ..V T Wbt %ake €nslt£il) €la&&it& REVISED EDITION WITH HELPS TO STUDY TALES OF A TRAVELLER WITH SELECTIONS FROM THE SKETCH BOOK BY WASHINGTON IRVING ' EDITED FOR SCHOaL USE \ BY GEORGE PHILIP KRAPP COLUMBIA University SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY CHICAGO NEW YORK • rfO %^° Copyright 1901, 1920 By Scott, Foresman and Company MAK 29 1320 ROBERT O LAW COMPANY EDITION BOOK MANUFACTURERS CHICAGO, U. S. A ©CI.A565872 1 PREFACE For the intelligent reading of Irving very little critical apparatus seems necessary. In the Introduction to the present volume the endeavor has been to give a sym- ^pathetic sketch of the life of Irving, followed by a brief criticism of the group of three or four works to which the Tales of a Traveller and the Sketch Book belong. In the notes all but the most evident allusions have been explained and most of the foreign words and phrases have been translated. An occasional topic for class discussion is suggested; but generally all matters of criticism and opinion have been left untouched. A word in explanation of the reasons determining the choice of material in the present edition seems necessary. Generally in the high-school course there is time for but one example of Irving's work, and the volume usually chosen is the Sketch Book. Yet in some important ways (detailed more fully on pp. 27, 28), the Sketch Book is less representative of the best in Irving than the Tales of a Traveller or even the Alhamhra. But, yet again, the Sketch Book contains at least two numbers. Rip Van Winkle and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow^ which every reader must know before he can know Irving. It seemed best there- fore to add to the Tales of a Traveller these two num- bers from the Sketch Book^ giving thereby a collection which might stand as an adequate representation of one side of Irving's work. This position receives confirmation 6 PREFACE in a recent decision of Harvard University. In tlie list of books recommended to candidates for entrance into the college (see Annual Reports of the President and the Treasurer of Harvard College^ 1899-1900, p. 95), the suggested reading in Irving is the Tales of a Traveller^ the Legend of Sleepy Holloiv and Rip Van Winkle. The text of the present edition, the author's revised text of 1848, is taken, with the kind permission of the publishers, from Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons Student's Edition of the Sketch Book and the Tales of a Traveller, New York, May, 1901. CONTENTS Preface . Introduction I. Biography II. The Sketch Book and the Tales of a Traveller III. Bibliography Table of Chief Dates in Irving' s Life 5 9 27 '32 TALES OF A TRAVELLER PART FIRST— STRANGE STORIES BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN The Great Unknown The Hunting-Dinner .... The Adventure of my Uncle The Adventure of my Aunt . -The Bold Dragoon, or the Adventure of FATHER 'Adventure of the German Student Adventure of the Mysterious Ticture .J^dventure of the Mysterious Stranger The Story of the Young Italian MY Grand- 41 42 48 68 69 80 88 98 108 part second— buckthorne and his friends Literary Life . . 145 A Literary Dinner 148 The Club of Queer Fellows 152 The Poor-Devil Author 158 Notoriety 183 A Practical Philosopher ...... 186. Bttckthorne, or the Young Man of Great Expectations 188 Grave Reflections of a Disappointed Man . . 254 The Booby Squire 260 The Strolling Manager ^66 7 S CONTENTS PART THIRD— THE ITALIAN BANDITTI PA0B The Inn at Terracina . . . . ^ . . . .289 Adventure of the Little Antiquary . . . . 304 The Belated Travellers 315 Adventure of the Popkins Family .... 334 The Painter's Adventure 340 The Story of the Bandit Chieftain .... 350 The Story of the Young Robber 364 The Adventure of the Englishman .... 378 part fourth— the money-diggers Hell-Gate . . 389 KiDD THE Pirate 393 The Devil and Tom Walker 400 WoLFERT Webber, or Golden Dreams . . . 417 Adventure of the Black Fisherman .... 444 SELECTIONS FROM THE SKETCH BOOK Rip Van Winkle . . . . . . . ' . 485 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 509 Word Index > . 548 Appendix Helps to Study .552 Theme Subjects 556 Selections for Class Reading , » , , . 558 INTEODUCTION I. BIOGKAPHY There is a familiar engraving which represents an imaginary gathering of Washington Irving and his literary irvin and friends ^t Sunnyside, the home of Irving's Ms uterary later years. In the center of the foreground lends. Irving is seated, a somewhat portly, smooth- faced and kindly-looking man of fifty or more. At his near left stands James K. Paulding, an early literary comrade and life-long friend. Near by sit Bryant, the poet and editor. Cooper, the novelist, and Bancroft, the historian. Somewhat in the background stands a younger man — Emerson, the poet and philosopher. On the right the place of honor is held by Prescott, Irving's friendly rival in the field of Spanish history. Here also are Hal- leck, remembered as the author of Marco Bozzaris, and, again in the background, several younger men — Nathan- iel Parker Willis, William Gilmore Simms, Longfellow, Hawthorne, Holmes. But the center of the picture i£; Irving; all the other figures of the group combine to bring him, out with special prominence. This fancy of the artist pictures to us very well the place of Washington Irving in American letters during the later years of his life. Other names were becoming known — those of Longfellow, Hawthorne, Emerson — names that were destined to equal, some of them perhaps to surpass, his in renown; but they were the names 10 "^ INTRODUCTION of young men, candidates for fame and as yet hardly wel! breathed in the race. Irving was nearing the term of a long and prosperous career, a career that covers one-half of our whole literary history. He could look back to the time when American letters were not yet in existence, for he himself was the chief founder of them. literature Until witMn a few years of the Revolution- before ^j.j ^^^ jj^q^ ]^^^ bccu too much engaged in clearing farms and building homes to spend much time on the more leisurely pursuits of art and letters. There were historians, for example Bradford and Winslow ; and preachers, for example Cotton Mather and Jonathan Edwards. But often their work is crude in form and narrow in subiect- matter; when we read the writers of this period now it is with something of the anti- quarian's pleasure in their quaintness and archaisms, or the historian's interest in the information to be derived from them. In a somewhat later period the intellectual stir that preceded and accompanied the Revolution bore fruit in a plentiful yield of state papers, speeches, pamphlets, and even poetry. Some of it is extremely vigorous, and at its time it was effective. But, as is almost always true of lit- erature written for a special time or occasion, very little of it has outlived the period of its product! on^ With the possible exception of Woolman the Quaker's Journal, the only American book written before the close of the Revo- lutionary War that still holds a worthy place by reason of its literary excellence is Eranklin's Autobiography. Yet nothinff was further from Franklin's intention than the composition of a work of literature. Franklin was states- man, scientist, philanthropist, all more or less consciously ; but he has come to be counted among men of letters almost by .accident. The first writer in America who BIOGRAPHY 11 deliberately chose letters as a profession was Charles Brockden Brown, a moderately' successful journalist and novelist of the first decade of this century. But Brown's work did not have sufficient power or originality to draw together and give form to the incipient literary tendencies of the country. Irving, the first American to gain wide reputation abroad, was also the first to gain a reputation at home that has proved lasting. Cooper and Bryant were his near followers; but all the other names in the first flowering period of American literature came into promi- nence only after his fame had reached its zenith. Irving was born in New York in 1783, the year the Treaty of Paris was signed and the independence of the United States formally acknowledged. Irving's birth. Washington, for whom he was named, was inaugurated when Irving was six years old ; and we aro told that when he came to New York to take the oath of office as first President, he placed his hands upon the head of his youthful namesake and gave him his blessing. That America of which Washington took control in 1789 was an almost inconceivably different country from the America of to-day. The settled portions of it were still a mere fringe along the Atlantic coast. Eighteen years were to pass before Fulton made his first experi- ments with the *' Clermont" on the Hudson, and thirty- nine years before work was begun on the Baltimore and Ohio railroad, the first railroad to cross the Allegha- nieSc But perhaps the most astonishing changes of the past hundred years are those which have affected the cities of the country. When Irving was a boy in New York, that place was a town of less than 25,000 inhab- itants. It covered only the lower end, the point, of 12 INTRODUCTION Manhattan Island. The present Bleeker Stieet marked the northern limits of the little town.^ Beyond that stretched the rocky, hill-broken farms of the Dutch set- tlers — the Wolfert Webbers whom fate was to make rich in spite of themselves. The fashionable promenade was in Battery Park, now a region of grimy shipping and ugly warehouses; and William Street, in which Irving's father lived, now a street of tall office-buijdings, was then an uptown residence street. There was much in the life of this eighteenth-century New York to excite the imagination of a sensitive boy, and Irving spent his time in exploring the secret places of his native city and in wandering through the half -wild regions beyond the Harlem. The wandering instinct was strongly developed in him, and when his explorations on land grew tame, he tells how he would go down to the wharves at the city's edge and watch v;:th longing eye the great vessels mil slowly out of th& harbor on their long voyages across »he ocean. His own first long voyage was one he never forgot. In ^is seventeenth year his parents gave him permission to ^ake a summer visit to his sister, who lived near Albany, tn 1800 the best way to reach Albany from New York was 3y boat on the Hudson Eiver. Nowadays the distance is (rving's first Daadc in less than twelve hours ; but then it trip up the was aloug voyagc by sail, and Irving tells with adson. what anxiety intending passengers selected their boat and made all possible preparations for their com- fort. This journey made known to Irving for the first time the beauties of the river that he never ceased to love. The depth and vividness of the impressions he received at this 1 Of. Todd, The Story of New York, p. 438. BIOGRAPHY 13 time may be seen from the following description written many years afterwards: *'What a time of intense delight was that first sail through the Highlands! I sat on the deck as we slowly tided along at the foot of those stern mountains, and gazed with wonder and admiration at those stern cliffs impending far above me, crowned with forests, with eagles sailing and screaming around them; or listened to the unseen stream dashing down precipices; or beheld rock, and tree, and cloud, and sky reflected in the glassy stream of the river. And then how solemn and thrilling the scene as we anchored at night at the foot of these mountains, clothed with overhanging forests; and every- thing grew dark and mysterious ; and I heard the plaintive . note of the whip-poor-will from the mountain-side, or was startled now and then by the sudden leap and heavy splash of the sturgeon. ". . . But of all the scenery of the Hudson, the Kaatskill Mountains had the most witching effect on my boyish imagination. Never shall I forget the effect upon me of the first view of them predominating over a wide extent of country, part wild, woody, and rugged; part softened away into all the .graces of cultivation. As we slowly floated along, I lay on the deck and watched them through a long summer's day, undergoing a thousand mutations under the magical effects of atmosphere; some- times seeming to approach, at other times to recede ; now almost melting into hazy distance, now burnished by the setting sun, until, in the evening, they printed themselves against the glowing sky in the deep purple of an Italian landscape." — Life^ by P. M. Irving, vol. I, p. 19. Perhaps, as it so often proves with the recollections of childhood, Irving has unconsciously filled in the above picture from the recollection of his frequent later trips up the Hudson. Yet the fact that thdse later recollections all center around that first early experience shows that it was . a profound one, and, in Irving's life, the most form- ative of them all. i4 INTRODUCTION But manifestly a man's life could not all be spent in idle "wandering, however pleasant that might be. In the summer after this trip up the Hudson Irving -atiaw.^** began the serious study of the law. His preliminary education had been very slight indeed. He had attended a boy's school for some years, and had prepared for entrance to Columbia college. Two of his brothers had attended this college and had been graduated from it. But, perhaps through negligence or a dislike of all formal study, Irving himself did not enter the college. In after life he always regretted the omission of the formal discipline of a college course In liis education, for he thought it deprived him of an advan- tage he was never able to make up in other ways. With no more liking for the routine of law than for that of the school, Irving nevertheless gave his attention to the former subject for the next few years. Before he could be admitted to the bar, however, his health broke down, and in 1804, in hopes of restoring him, it was determined to send him on a voyage to Europe. Thus,' though doubtless in a way far different from that he had imagined, a long cherished wish was to be realized. The voyage across the water was made in May and June of 1804, and proved to be the thing Irving most needed. When, after a voyage of six weeks, he left fo^Europe?^^ ^^® ^^^P ^^ Bordcaux, his health was very much improved. For a year and a half, he was a traveller and sight-seer, visiting various places in France, Italy, and England, meeting many famous peo- ple, and passing through many exciting and whimsical adventures. He soon developed the true traveller's spirit and took the buffets and the favors of fortune with equal good will. During most of these journeyings, he kept BIOGRAPHY 15 a diary in which he noted his opinions and observa- tions and described the adventures of a traveller's life. Perhaps the most exciting of these experiences was an attack by Italian pirates. He was passenger on a ship bound from Genoa to Messina for a cargo of wine, and when several days, out the ship was attacked by pirates, off the coast of Italy near the Is'land of Elba. Though the affair proved a bloodless one, it was not unattended with danger. The description of it^ reads almost like an extract from one of Irving's own banditti stories in the Tales of a Traveller ., and often in writing those stories, he must have thought of his early experiences in Italy. Fortunately no more serious adventure than this of the pirates occurred to interrupt the journeyings of the youthful traveller. He continued on his way through France and Italy, and passed the latter part of his stay abroad in England. He took ship for America in Janu- ary, 1806, and after a rough voyage of over nine weeks, arrived safely at New York. As soon as he had settled down in his old place, Irving again took up the study of the law, and after several months, in November, 1806, was admitted to«i^*Bar. *^ ^^^® ^^^ 0^ ^®w York, His admission, however, was due more to the good-nature of his examiners than to the adequacy of his preparation ; for we may well suppose that what little legal learning had found its way into his brain before his departure had been quite crowded out by the many new experiences of his two years abroad. Even after his admission to the bar, he does not appear to have taken much interest in his profession. To his natural dislike of the dry routine of business there was added the further distraction of an 1 Life, by P. W. Irving, vol. I, p. 65 ff . ""* 16 INTRODUCTION active social life. He had many graces of nature and of majiner; his disposition was frank and kindly, and wher- evp.r he was known he was liked. His letters of this period from Eichmond and Baltimore and Washington show with what ease and pleasure he took his place in the best social life' of the coriimunity in which he hap- pened to find himself. About this time Irving made his first attempts 6f an;»' importance at literature. Together with his brother Wi^ liam and James K. Paulding a young friei and relative, he projected a Spectatoi like periodical called Salmagujidi. The first number of this . periodical appeared in January 1807, and nine- teen other numbers appeared at irregular intervals be- tween that time and the appearance of the last number in January, 1808. The purpose of the periodical as announced by the editors in the first number was impu- dent enough when we consider their age and inexperience : **Our purpose is simply to instruct the young, reform the old, correct the town, and castigate the age; this is an arduous task, and therefore we undertake it with confi- dence." The essays, broadly humorous and satirical, had the high-spirits and unrestraint of youth. They secured for the writers a considerable local popularity, but they were ephemeral in character and Irving himself was soon quite willing to have them forgotten. Irving 's second literary venture brought him a wideT and more lasting fame than the Salmagundi papers. In 1809 he published his Knickerhocker^ s His- Knickerbocker ^ . ^^^^^ yovk. This is a burlcsquc History. :J J history of New York, supposed to have been made up from the writings of a Dutch antiquary, Diedrich Knickerbocker. It undoubtedly ranks as BIOGRAPHY 17 irving's masterpiece of humor. Sir Walter Scott, who praised the book warmly, thought he saw in it great resemblance to the satire of Swift. The Knicherlocker History^ however, is without the deep seriousness of Swift's satire; like Salmagundi^ it shows more the high spirits of youth than the settled purpose of the satirist. At the time of the appearance of the book it was severely criticised by many of the Dutch families in New York, who felt personally aggrieved at the ludi- crous figures their Dutch ancestry made in its pages. And in fact there was slight justification for such treats ment of the burghers of New Amsterdam. Irving chose to present the unjustly exaggerated view of Dutch char- acter that had long been traditional in British literature. In England, where the Dutch with their armies and fleets had several times so frightened the English that the Eng- lish were driven to exaggerated satire to regain their self- respect, such a treatment of the subject as Irving's would have had point ; but in America no more inoffensive and industrious race of people than the Dutch was to be found in all the Colonies. But neither satire nor history was the main object of the KiiickerhocTcer History. Irving, "writing in 1848, thus outlines the purpose of the book: "It was to embody the traditions of our city in an amus- ing form; to illustrate its local humors, customs, and peculiarities ; to clothe home scenes and places and familiar names with those imaginative and whimsical associations so seldom met with in our new country, but which live like charms and spells about the cities of the old .world, binding the heart of the native inhabitant to his home." How well the book accomplished this purpose can be seen by a glance at its present-day effects. In New York the Knickerbocker legend has worked itself into the very fiber of the people. Allusions to it ^are familiarly used / 18 INTRODUCTION by many who have never read a line of Irving. The name itself, by an odd change, has become a synonym for aris- tocracy. In a thousand ways the legend has preserved traditions and sentiments that otherwise would have been speedily lost. It lives like a charm and a spell, binding the heart of the native inhabitant to his country ; it has become itself a part of the country. The Knickerbocker History was revised and brought to completion beneath the darkest shadow that ever obscured Irving 's sky. Matilda Hoffman, to whom he Hoffman. *** ^^^ engaged to be married, died after a brief illness in her eighteenth year. Her memory always lingered in his mind,ready to be called forth by the slightest occasion. He never again thought of marriage, and never accustomed himself to speak Miss Hoffman's name. There was something of fine chivalry in him that held him true even to a memory, and to the end he always kept before him the image of his early love in her first youth and beauty. The next few years after the appearance of the Knicker- hocker History saw nothing new from Irving's pen. His natural indolence must explain this, for his difficuuies. ^^^ practice made slight enough demands upon his time. In 1810 he was made a silent partner in a hardware business which was conducted by his brothers. This connection, though first the cause of much anxiety to him, was finally the making of his literary career. For the business affairs of the firm hav- ing become embarrassed, in 1815 Irving was sent to a branch house in Liverpool for the purpose of putting things in order. For three years he labored over the uncongenial details of business. But the affairs of the firm passed from bad to worse, and despite the brothers' BIOGRAPHY 19 best efforts, in 1318 they were finally driven to bank- ruptcy. In this apparent misfortune, however, there lay a blessing for Irving; his undisciplined nature always needed a strong incentive to work, and in the necessity of making a living he found this incentive. Leaving Liver- pool, he went up to London with no other defense against the hostility of fortune than his pen ; and the rest of Ii'v- ing's life is the story of the way he, with that single weapon^ not only won wealth abundant but an enduring fame and honor better than all wealth. The first fruit of Irving's activity in London was his most famous book — the Sketch Book. The story of the way this book was written shows clearly the diffi- culties under which Irving at the time labored. He was far from home, with no helpful friend to turn to for advice or comfort, and with no prospect of any certain income; worst of all, however, was his home friends' lack of faith in him. To them it seemed mad- ness wlien Irving; refused an unimportant government position at Washington which would have given him an assured income but would have shut the way entirely to any further literary advance. In the face of these diffi- culties Irving went bravely to work upon the project of the Sketch Book. His plan was to issue the book in num- bers, in America only, under the name of G eoffrey Crayon. In the prospectus prefixed to the first number, he announced the plan of his work in a very tentative and hesitating manner, showing clearly how unsure he was of himself : '*The following writings are published on experi- ment; should they please, they may be followed by others. The writer will have to* contend with some disadvantages. He is unsettled in his abode, subject to interruptions, and 20 INTRODUCTION has his share of cares and vicissitudes. He cannot, there- fore, promise a regular plan, nor regular periods of publi- cation. " The first number appeared in May, 1819, and contained The Author'' s Account of Himpelf^ Tlie Voyage^ Eoscoe, The Wife, and Rip Van Winkle. The second number appeared several months later and contained four essays — English Writers on America, Rural Life in England, The Brohen Heart, and Tlie Art of Boolc-maMng. A third number appeared in September of the same year and was followed at irregular intervals by four more numbers, the last number appearing in September, 1820. The success of the Sketch Booh was immediate and gen- eral. The pen-name Geoffrey Crayon could not hide the fact that the KnicTcerhocher History of New York and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow were written by the same hand, and to the liking for the sketches themselves was added all Irving's earlier popu- larity. The books sold well and relieved their author of the worry and trouble of immediate need. But better than this, their success restored to him some of the con- confidence in himself which the anxieties of the past few years had robbed him of. Sir Walter Scott offered him the editorship of a new periodical publication about to be established in Edinburgh; and Irving, though he declined the offer because he felt himself unfit for the reg- ular routine of such an occupation, was very much grati- fied at this renewed expression of good will on the part of the great author. The kind words of his intimate friends and the generous appreciation of many of the best critics in America revived him and gave him incentive to renewed effort. His fine sensitiveness to praise and blame shows clearly in the way in which he took the news of BIOGRAPHY 21 his success. The following extract is from a letter written to a friend in New York after the appearance of several numbers of the work : "The manner in which the work has been received, and the eulogiums that have been passed upon it in the Amer- ican papers and periodical works, have completely over- whelmed me. They go far, far beyond my most sanguine expectations; and, indeed, are expressed with such pecul- iar warmth and kindness, as to ajffect me in the tenderest manner. The receipt of your letter, and the reading of some of the criticisms this morning, have rendered me nervous for the whole day. I feel almost appalled by such success, and fearful that it cannot be real, or that it is not fully merited, or that I shall not act up to the expecta- tions that may be formed. We are whimsically consti- tuted beings. I had got out of conceit of all that I had written, and considered it very questionable stuff, and now that it is so extravagantly be-praised, I begin to feel that I shall not do as well again. However we shall see as we get on. As yet I am extremely irregular and pre- carious in my fits of composition. The least thing puts me out of the vein, and even applause flurries me, and prevents my writing; though, of course, it will ultimately be a stimulus. "I hope you will not attribute all this sensibility to tne kind reception I have met with to an author's vanity. I am sure it proceeds from very different sourceg. Vanity could not bring the tears into my eyes, as they have been brought by the kindness of my countrymen. I have felt cast down, blighted, and broken-spirited, and these sud- den rays of sunshine agitate even more than they revive me."— Xt/e, by P. M. Irving, vol. I, pp. 330, 31. After the first six numbers of the Sketch Booh had ap- peared in America, Irving was driven by the appearance of various unauthorized editions to publish them in Eng- land. The first attempt came to grief through the failure of his publisher ; but finally, aided by the good words of 22 INTRODUCTION Walter Scott, the book was accepted by Murray, the greatest of English publishers. Its success in England ' was as great as it was in America; perhaps f"^!!«?o*T the most evident mark of this is the fact in iiinglana* that twice the publisher begged the author to accept a sum of one hundred guineas in addition to the terms agreed upon by them. We, as Americans, however, have special reason to feel gratified that the success of the Sketch Book was first won in America. In that day, America q critical judgment depended only too often upon British example and it is a pleasure to know that our first native writer of importance was accepted by us without waiting upon foreign opinion. The next few years after the appearance of the Sketch Book \NQve years of wandering. The autumn and winter of 1820-21 wore speaton the continent, chiefly in Paris. Here Irving formed a firm friendship with Thomas Moore, the poet; and indeed we should expect sympathy of spirit be- tween the man who wrote the Broken Heart and the author of »the Irish Melodies. After his return to Bracebridge Loudon, iu Januarv, 1822, Irvinsr published HaU and Tales „ '. , y-r -,- n , - , - of a Tritveiier. BraceoriclfjG ilcdl^ iirst in America, and in May of the same year in England. In method the book resembles the Sketch Book; it is a miscellaneous collection of essays and short stories suggested by the experiences of travel or elaborated from the outlines of things that had long been ripening in the author's mem- ory. Though it did not have the charm of novelty, it was well received both in England and America. Again in 1822 Irving was on the continent, travelling through France and Germany. It was on this journey, while detained by illness at Mayence that he wrote the intro- duction to a volume which takes its title from the cir« BIOGRAPHY 33 cumstances of its composition — the Tales of a Traveller, The body of the book was written during the winter of 1823-24, in Paris, though the completed volume was not published until his return to England, in 1824. De- spite Irving's own special liking for the Tales of a Trav- eller and despite the fact that it contains some of the author's best work, it was coolly received by the pub- lic. The reason for this is evident. The three books that he had so far published — the Sketch Booh^ Brace- bridge Hall, and the Tales of a Traveller^ were of a kind. They were all books made up of pleasant descriptive and reflective essays and humorous short stories ; they all breathed the same quiet air of kindly though not very vigorous interest in the life of the world the author knew. Something of this was accepted eagerly and more was taken willingly; but Irving was guilty of the error of feed- ing to satiety the taste he had aroused and his readers murmured at the same dish continually set before them. Irving was not slow in seeing that the field he had hith- erto been cultivating was worked out. He determined to place himself in entirely new, fresh sur- Life in Spain, rouudiugs and to occupy himself with an en- tirely new sort of work. In 1826 he went to Spain, in which country he lived for three years. This period he spent in visiting the various famous places of the land and in much close reading of historical manu- scripts in the chief Spanish libraries. The results of these historical studies appeared in the publication of his Life of Golumhus^ in 1828; of the Conquest of Granada in 1829; of the Companions of Columius in 1831 ; and, as a final lighter postlude to these more serioits works, of the Alhambra m 1%^%. The year of the publication of the Alhamhra closes 24 INTRODUCTION a period in Irving's life. In that year, after an un- broken absence of seventeen years, lie came home to 'Nevi York. How eageriy he always looked forward to this return is made very evident in his letters to his friends throughout the whole of these seventeen years. He had never the slightest thought of a permanent residence abroad, and now that success had brought him a good name and an assured income, he rejoiced in home!^^^^ them chiefly because they helped him to realize what had always been his first hope. After the disturbances of the home-coming were over and after several extensive trips through the South and the West, sections of the country which were almost unbroken wilderness when he left America but now were filled with cities and towns, he purchased the little Dutch cottage on the bank of the Hudson near Tarrytown, called by its former owner Wolfert's Eoost, that is in English, Wol- fert's Rest, but known to us better by the name which Irving gave it, — Sunnyside. Here he passed the rest of his life with the exception of four years, from 1842-46, during which time he served as minister to Spain. During Irving's residence at Madrid, no diplomatic com- plications which might have tested his political wisdom arose. The distractions of his position were sufficient, however, to prevent him from carrying out any of his literary plans, and at the close of his four years he was glad to return to his home on the banks of the Hudson. These years at Sunnyside were serene and happy ones. Irving was the foremost man of letters in America and his home became the natural center of aU the literary life of the country. He was looked upon as both the founder and the patriarch of American letters. He was not however content to rest in honor, and as a result of BIOGRAPHY 25 these last labors he published in 1849 a Life of Oliver Goldsmith smd a Life of 3fahomet. His last work was a Last works Life of Washington. He had been engaged and death. upon this task f or many years and he intended that it should stand as the most lasting monument to his memory. The first volume was published in 1855; ill- health delayed the completion of the second volume and it was not until 1859 that it was ready for publication. It came as a fitting close to a life of unceasing industry. After a long and trying sickness, borne with great equa- nimity of spirit, Irving died in November of the same year. As a man, perhaps kindliness was Irving's main charac- teristic. There was nothing of self-assertion in him or of contempt for the wishes or the weaknesses Irving's Qf }^ig fellow-men. This side of his character disposition. . n .ii is well illustrated by an action of his later years. After his retui*n to America he was engaged upon a work which was to treat of the Spanish invasion of Mexico. He had gathered his material and had already begun the actual composition of the book when his atten- tion was called to the fact that a young man hitherto unknown to him, named Prescott, was engaged upon the same subject. After determining the seriousness of his rival and his ability to accomplish the task he had chosen, Irving generously relinquished the subject to him. As a result we gained Prescott 's Conquest of Mexico though we missed from Irving the story of a period that he was peculiarly fitted to treat. We cannot but feel, however, that one such action is worth more than a whole row of volumes. Throughout Irving's long and varied life, we do not know that he ever cherished a single enmity or that he was ever mixed up in any of the petty quarrels such as spot the lives of so many men of letters. Yet his 36 INTRODUCTION amiability was due to no weakness of character or want of fixed opinions. The sure judgment of his own powers maintained in the face of a disheartening opposition, the uninterrupted faithfulness to his country during a long residence abroad in which he had every encouragement to forget that country, and finally the depth and sincerity of the attachment of his half-dozen personal friends to him — these are sufficient indications of strength and individ- uality of character. The second main characteristic of the man was delicacy and refinement of feeling. Perhaps his was not a very profound or strenuous nature. He never cared to mix in His delicacy politics or in the daily concerns of a business and refinement life; his seusc of pcrsoual repugnaucc to- of feeling. wards sordid details was stronger than his sense of the good to be accomplished through the use of such tools. This attitude towards the things of daily life is not, to be sure, very unusual, nor is it generally to be commended. The justification of it in Irving is to be found in a real and not an affected delicacy of nature. Irving's temperament was that of a poet — a poet of a tender and somewhat sentimental cast of imagination. Always the characteristic of his work is beauty rather than power. However much he may have felt in his heart the deeper mysteries of existence, in open life he preferred the play of gentler feelings and emotions. As a corrective to what might otherwise have proved a cloying sweetness of nature, Irving was possessed of a His sens© third main characteristic — an unfailing sense of humor. ^f ^^^q humorous and whimsical in life. The world was not tragic to him; neither was it entirely happy. It was a place of mixed good and evil where one could rejoice at the good, sorrow at the evil, it is true, but for- SKETCHBOOK 27 get it chiefly/ in the distractions which a kind fate has put at our disposal. II. THE SKETCH BOOK AND THE TALES OF A. TRAVELLER Irving 's fame rests most securely upon four volumes of his earlier work — the Sketch Book, Bracehridge Hall, the Tales of a Traveller, and the Alhamhra. The most widely read of these four books and the one which engages the most lively popular interest, has always been the Sketch Book. Yet in some respects the Sketch Book, taken as a whole, is inferior to either of the last two books of the group. Irving, as an essayist, frankly belongs to the school of Addison and nowhere in his works are the marks of his discipleship so evident as in parts of the Sketch Book. In form, in style, and even in sentiment, such essays as Roscoe, The Wife, The Broken Heart, A Royal Poet, The Widow and Her Son, and The Pride of the Village, are copies of Irving's literary models — Addison and Gold- smith. Likewise in those numbers descriptive of English customs and localities, such as The Country Church, West- miiister Abbey, Christmas, and the other essays of that group, we have essentially the method of Addison, differing only in that it is applied by one who stands without the English life which he describes. Bracehridge Hall, which . is largely an elaboration of the Christmas essays of the Sketch Book, is clearly under the same influences. All of these sketches show literary taste and exquisite sensi- tiveness to literary impressions ; but no more. It was this characteristic of his work that led Hazlitt, the English critic, to say of Irving a short time after the appearance of the Sketch Book, that his writings were "very good copies of our British essayists and novelists, which may be very 28 INTRODUCTION well on the other side of the water, or as proofs of the capabilities of the national genius, but which might be dis- pensed with here, where we have to boast of the originals. " ^ Hazlitt's ears, however, were so filled with the old note in the Sketch Book, that he was deaf to what was new and individual in it. In Bip Van Winkle^ the Legend of Sleepy Holloiv^ and, to a less degree, in the Spectre Bride- groom^ we have examples of independent and original work. It is probably the interest of the first two of these three numbers of the Sketch Book that has enabled it to main- tain the distinguished place which it has always held among Irving's works. In the stories of this type Irving found himself; and the characteristics which mark these two stories are worked out, perhaps not more perfectly, but more consistently and with more conscious mastery of form,in the later volumes, the Alhamhra and the Tales of a Traveller. The first distinctive characteristic of the volumes of this group is one of form. In his reflective and descriptive essays, as has been said above, Irving is a manifest fol- lower of Addison. In his use of the short-story farm in English, however, Irving stands a pioneer. When he began to write, the short story still bore upon it the marks of its origin ; it was either a hard, formal, didactic treatise, derived The Short from the moral apologue or fable; or it was story. ^ sentimental love-tale, dei./ed from the arti- ficial love-romance that followed the romance of chivalry. Irving took this form and made of it merely -Hhe frame on which to stretch his materials. " His materials were not the old formal apologue, nor the worn-out romance of love, nor, again, mere ingenuity of plot and incident, but rather the materials which modern fiction has made specially ^ The Spirit of the Age, p. 405. TALES OF A TRAVELLER 29 its own — **the play of thought, and sentiment, and lan- guage; the weaving in of characters, lightly, yet expres- sively delineated ; the familiar and faithful exhibition of scenes in common life; and the half-concealed vein of humor that is often playing through the whole."* Al- ready in his lifetime Irving found himself "elbowed by men who followed his footsteps. " Hawthorne and Poe were his near followers, and American writers since his time have always favored the short-story form. But whatever the excellence of his successors, Irving will always stand as the chief originator of one of the most characteristic forms of modern literature. A second and ever present element in the tales is humor. Perhaps we should not call Irving's humor characteristic- irving'8 ally American. The first notable American humor. humorist was Benjamin Franklin ; and in the mock-serious extravagance of some of his utterances we get strange foretastes of our latest and greatest humor- ist, Mark Twain. Irving's humor, perfectly individual and natural as it is, depends more upon the play of shades of feeling for its effects ; it is quiet and refined, sly and half-concealed. At times there is also a strain of mild satire mingled with it, as for example, in the Stor^/ of the Little Antiquary, or the Adventure of the FopJcins Family y both in the Tales of a Traveller. Usually, how- ever, the characters are depicted with a simple pleasure in their quaintness and oddities. They are sometimes exag- gerated to the point of grotesqueness, as, for example, the characters gathered together at The Huntiiig Dinner; yet the exaggeration is never carried so far as to take them beyond our sympathy. Dickens, who was a confessed admirer of Irving, probably learned something iLi/e, by P. M. Irving, II., 226. '^ 30 INTRODUCTION from this method in the humorous and whimsical exag« geration of some of his own characters. There is a touch also of the gruesome in some of the tales. It is prob- able that Irving here was somewhat influenced by his reading in the German romantic writers of the beginning of the last century. Sir Walter Scott, bi his essay Ooi the Supernatural in Fictitious Composition., in which he points out the excellence of the German stories of this type, praises Irving 's story of the Bold Dragoon in the Tales of a Traveller as the only example of the fantastic then to be found in English literature. But even in these tales of the grotesque, the main purpose is always humor- ous; in the most striking example of^this kind, the Story of the Ger7nan Student^ the possible weird effect of the story is destroyed by its humorous conclusion. This same fantastic element, deepened and made more somber, appears again in the writings of Poe; but we can not be sure here that Poe did not derive his inspiration directly from the writings of the same German romanticists that influenced Irving. Finally, the stories under discussion are remarkable for what we may call a sense of locality. Irving, perhaps bet- ter than any other English writer, has been able to seize Sens*- of upon the spirit of places and fix that spirit ^* in language. It is this power which gives unfailing interest to such essays in the Sketch Book as Westminster Abbey, Little Britain, Stratford on Avon, and others. The same power enabled him to transfer to his pages the atmosphere of faded splendor in the Alhambra, Similarly the romantic life of Italy a hundred years ago is revealed to us in the banditti stories of the Tales of a Traveller. In many ways Irving satisfied, and still con- tinues to satisfy, the natural cariosity which the people of TALES OF A TRAVELLER 31 America have always ha>^ concerning the manners and customs and famous places of Europe. The first ambas- sador whom the new world of letters sent to the old, as Thackeray called him, he was also the first messenger to bring back to this country an intelligent report of his embassy. But Irving was able not only to fix for us the places of the Old World with all their wealth of human association and story; he accomplished the much more difficult task of investing the life and nature of the New World with the same richness of tradition that charms us in the old. The legends of the Rhine mean no more to the German than the legends of the Hudson mean to us. Just how far the stories of which Irving made use were traditional among the inhabitants of the Hudson valley, it is perhaps impossible to determine. But it is certain that now they have become for everyone who passes through that region, the most appropriate expression of its poetry and beauty. A similar achievement was the creation of that part of the Knickerbocker legend which centers about the city of New York. This field Irving first entered in his Knicker- bocker History; and again and again in later works — nota- bly in the Money-Diggers of the Tales of a Traveller — he returns to the favorite subject of his youth. In this subject he was always successful. The legend has in- vested the island of Manhattan and its surrounding waters j with the glow of traditional romance. Knickerbocker has become the city's **most all -pervading and descriptive name"; and the humorous conception of Dutch character and history in the legend has become "as inseparable from New York as the form of the island and the encircling shores of the bay." In this achievement alone there is surety of lasting fame; for the city whose traditions 32 INTRODUCTION Irving- B pen first fashioned and enriched has itself become a chief monument to his memory. III. BIBLIOGEAPHY Irving's works are published in several standard editions by Gr. P. Putnam's Sons, New York City. The Life and Letters of Washington Irving^ by his nephew, Pierre M. Irving, was published in four volumes, New York, 1862-64. A new edition, revised and condensed int.o three volumes, was published by the Putnams in 1895. This Life is of special value because it is the only place in which Irving's letters and travelling journal are accessible. A shorter life is Charles Dudley Warner's Washington Irving, Boston, 1881, in the American Men of Letters Series. Mr. Warner also has a briefer sketch prefixed to the Geoffrey Crayon Edition of Irving's works; and a short study in a separate volume. Work of Washington Irving, published by Harpers. There are few critical works of importance. Besides the several studies by Warner given above and the standard histories of Ameri- can literature, the following may be mentioned: George William Curtis, in Literary and Social Essays; Edwin W. Morse, in the Warner Classics Historians and Essay- ists (Doubleday and McClure Company), pp. 143-168; and, for a discussion of the national element in Irving, Lodge, Studies in History, pp. 344-6. !l' TABLE OF CHIEF DATES IN IRVING'S LIFE L783 Irving born, April 3, in New York. 1799 Began the study of law. jl804-6 Travelled in Europe. 1806 Admitted to the bar. ,1807-8 Salmagundi written. 1809 Knickerbocker's History of New York published. 1810 Became a partner in the business of his brothers. 1815 Went to Liverpool. 1818 Failure in business. 1819 First number of Sketch Book publishedo ,1822 Bracebridge Hall published. '1824 Tales of a Traveller published. j 1826-29 Lived in Spain. 1828 Life of Columbus published. 1829 Conquest of Granada published. 1831 Companions of Columbus published. ( Alhambra published. ^ 1832 •% ( Returned to America. 1836 Astoria published. 1837 Adventures of Captain Bonneville published. (1842-46 Minister to Spain. 1849 Life of Oliver Goldsmith and Life of Mahomet publishedc 1855 Wolferfs Roost published. 1855-59 Life of Washington published. 1859 "' Death, November 28, at Sunnyside. TO THE READER* Worthy and Dear Reader! — Hast thou ever been waylaid in the midst of a pleasant tour by some treacherous malady ; thy heels tripped up, and thou left to count the tedious minutes as they passed, in the solitude of an inn- chamber? If thou hast, thou wilt be able to pity me. Behold me, interrupted in the course of my journeying up the fair banks of the RhinCj and laid up by indisposition in this old frontier town of Mentz. I have worn out every source of amusement. I know the sound of every clock that strikes, and bell that rings, in the place. I know to a second when to listen for the first tap of the Prussian drum,^ as it summons the garrison to parade, or at what hour to expect the distant sound of the Austrian military band. All these have grown wearisome to me; and even the well-known step of my doctor, as he slowly paces the corridor, mth healing in the creak of his shoes, no longer affords an agreeable interruption to the monotony of my apartment. For a time I attempted to beguile the weary hours by studying German under the tuition of mine host's pretty little daughter, Katrine; but I soon found even German had not power to charm a languid ear, and that the con- * Though this introductory chapter, To the Reader, was written at Maina (or Mentz) In September of 1822, the greater part of the volume was written in Paris during the following winter. '^ This was written long before the confederation of the German states which, in 1871, united to form the German empire. At this time Mataz, which lay in the Grand Duchy of Hesse, was garrisoned by the troops of the confederate powers, Prussia and Austria. 35 36 TALES OF A TRAVELLER jugating of ich liehe'^ might be powerless, however rosy the lips which uttered it. I tried to read, but my mind would not fix itself. I turned over volume after volume, but threw them by with distaste: "Well, then," said I at length, in despair, *'if I cannot read a book, I will write one." Never was there a more lucky idea ; it at once gave me occupation and amusement. The writing of a book was considered in old times as an enterprise of toil and difficulty, insomuch that the most trifling lucubration was denominated a ''work," and the world talked with awe and reverence of "the labors of the learned." These matters are better under- stood nowadays. Thanks to the improvements in all kind of manufac- tures, the art of book-making has been made familiar to the meanest capacity. Everybody is an author. The scribbling of a quarto is the mere pastime of the idle ; the young gentleman throws off his brace of duodecimos in the intervals of the sporting-season, and the young lady produces her set of volumes with the same facility that her great-grandmother worked a set of chair-bottoms. The idea having struck me, therefore, to write a book, the reader will easily perceive that the execution of it was no difficult matter. I rummaged^ my portfolio, and cast about, in my recollection, for those floating materials which a man naturally collects in travelling; and here I have arranged them in this little work. • As I know this to be a story-telling and a story-reading age, and that the world is fond of being taught by apologue, I have digested the instruction I would convey I I love. Katrine, the host's daughter, was not a fiction of Irving's. In a letter {Life and Letters, vol. II. of the four volume edition, p. 101) dated September 2, 1832, Irving says that he is "having daily lessons in French and German from one of the host's daughters, la belle Katrina, a pretty girl of sixteen, who has X*"'^'^ educated in a convent." TO THE RfeADER 37 into a number of tales. They may not possess tBie power of amusement which the tales told by many of my con- temporaries possess ; but then I value myself on the sound moral which each of them contains. This may not be apparent at first, but the reader will be sure to find it out in the end. I am for curing the world by gentle alter- atives, not by violent doses; indeed, the patient should never be conscious that he is taking a dose. I have learnt this much from experience under the hands of the worthy Hippocrates ^ of Mentz. I am not, therefore, for those barefaced tales which carry their moral on the surface, staring one in the face ; they are enough to deter the squeamish reader. On the con- trary, I have often hid my moral from sight, and disguised it as much as possible by sweets and spices, so that while the simple reader is listening with open mouth to a ghost or a love story, he may have a bolus of sound morality popped down his throat, and be never the wiser for the fraud. As the public is apt to be curious about the sources whence an author draws his stories, doubtless that it may know how far to put faith in them, I would observe, that the Adventure of the German Student, or rather the latter part of it, is founded on an anecdote related to me as existing somewhere in French; and, indeed, I have been told, since writing it, that an ingenious tale has been founded on it by an English writer ; but I have never met with either the former or the latter in print. Some of the circumstances in the Adventure of the Mysterious Picture, and in the Story of the Young Italian, are vague recollec- tions of anecdotes related to me some years since; but from what source derived, I do not know. The Adven- ture of the Young Painter among the banditti is taken * A famous Greek physician, standing here as a type of the profession. 38 , TALES OF A TRAVELLER almost entirely from an authentic narrative in manuscript. As to the other tales contained in this work, and indeed to my tales generally, I can make but one observation : I am an old traveller; I have read somewhat, heard and seen more, and dreamt more than all. My brain is filled, therefore, with all kinds of odds and ends. In travelling, these heterogeneous matters have become shaken up in my mind, as the articles are. apt to be in an ill-packed travel- ling-trunk; so that when I attempt to draw forth a fact, 1 cannot determine whether I have read, heard, or dreamt it ; and I am always at a loss to know how much to believe of my own stories. These matters being premised, fall to, worthy reader, with good appetite; and, above all, with good-humor to what is here set before thee. If the tales I have furnished should prove to be bad,^ they will at least be found short; so that no one will be wearied long on the same theme. *' Variety is charming," as some poet observes. There is a certain relief in change, even though it be from bad to worse ! As I have often found in travelling in a stage-coach, that it is often a comfort to shift one's position, and be bruised in a new place. Ever thine, Geoffrey Crayok.^ Dated from the Hotel de Darmstadt, ci-devant Hotel de Paris, Mentz, otherwise called Mayence. » Irving himself thought favorably of the Tales of a Traveller: "Those who have seen various parts of what I have prepared [of the Tales of a Traveller], think the work will be the best thing I have written, and that it will be very successful with the public. An author is not, perhaps, the best judge of his productions, otherwise I might throw my own opinion into the scale." Life, vol. IL, p. 24. Again, speaking of the same book he says: "Some parts of my last work were written rather hastily; yet I am con- vinced that a great part of it was written in a free and happier vein than almost any of my former writings." — Life, vol. II., p. 51. Is Irving serious when he recommends his stories for the moral lessons they contain? the 'Under the pen-name "Geoffrey Crayon," Irving had already published Sketch Book and Bracebridge Hall. PART FIRST STEANGE STORIES BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN I'll tell you more, there was a fish taken, A monstrous fish, with a sword by 's side, a long sword, A pike in's neck, and a gun in's nose, a huge gun. And letters of mart in'S mouth from the Duke of Florence Cleanthes. — This is a monstrous lie. Tony.— I do confess it Do you think I'd tell you truths ? Fletcher's Wife for a Month TALES OF A TEAVELLEE THE GKEAT UNKNOWN The following adventures were related to me by the same nervous gentleman who told me the romantic tale of the Stout Gentleman, published in ^'Bracebridge Hallo "^ It is very singular, that, although I expressly stated that story to have been told to me, and described the very person who told it, still it has been received as an adventure that happened to myself. Now I protest I never met with any adventure of the kind. I should not have grieved at this, had it not been intimated by the author of *'Waverley," in an introduction to his novel of "Peveril of the Peak," that he was himself the stout gen- tleman alluded to. I have ever since been importuned by questions and letters from gentlemen, and particularly from ladies without number, touching what I had seen of the Great Unknown. Now all this is extremely tantalizing. It is like being congratulated on the high prize when one has drawn a blank ; for I have just as great a desire as any one of the public to penetrate the mystery of that very singular per- sonage, whose voice fills every corner of the world, with- out any one being able to tell whence it comes. 1 The tale of the Stout Gentleman in Bracehridge Hall is in Irvlng's best vein: it should be read in order fully to appreciate the allusions here. The author of the Waverley novels, at the time this was written, was still the "great unknown." In the preface to the first edition of Peveril of the Peak, 1822, Scott playfully comments on his own anonymity, mentioning Irving's Stout Gentleman in the way described here. It was in a later edition of the same novel, 1831, that Scott for the first time formally acknowledged the authorship of the Waverley novels. 41 42 * TALES OF A TRAVELLER My friend, the nervous gentleman, also, who is a man of very shy, retired habits, complains that he has been excessively annoyed in consequence of its getting about in his neighborhood that he is the fortunate personage. Insomuch, that he has become a character of considerable notoriety in two or three country-towns, and has been repeatedly teased to exhibit himself at blue-stocking parties, for no other reason than that of being "the gen- tleman who has had a glimpse of the author of 'Wav- erley.'^' Indeed the poor man has grown ten times as nervous as ever since he has discovered, on such good authority, who the stout gentleman was ; and will never forgive himself for not having made a more resolute effort to get a full sight of him. He has anxiously endeavored to call up a recollection of what he saw of that portly personage ; and has ever since kept a curious eye on all gentlemen of more than ordinary dimensions, whom he has seen getting into stage-coaches. All in vain ! The features he had caught a glimpse of seem common to the whole race of stout gen- tlemen, and the Great Unknown remains as great an unknown as ever. Having premised these circumstances, I will now let the nervous gentleman proceed with his stories. THE HUNTING-DINNER I was once at a hunting-dinner, given by a worthy fox- hunting old Baronet, who kept bachelor's hall in Jovial style in an ancient rook-haunted family-mansion, in one of the middle counties. He had been a devoted admirer of the THE HUNTING DINNER 43 fair sex in his younger days; but, having travelled much, studied the sex in various countries with distinguished success, and returned home profoundly instructed, as he supposed, in the ways of woman, and a perfect master of the art of pleasing, had the mortification of being jilted by a little boarding-school girl, Avho was scarcely versed in the accidence of love. The Baronet was complete!}^ overcome by such an incredible defeat ; retired from the world in disgust ; put himself under the government of his housekeeper; and took to fox-hunting like a perfect Nimrod. Whatever poets may say to the contrary, a man will grow out of love as he grows old; and a pack of fox-hounds may chase out of his heart even the memory of a boarding-school goddess. The Baronet was, when I sa^ him, as merry and mellow an old bachelor as ever followed a hound; and. the love he had once felt for one woman had spread itself over the whole sex, so that there was not a pretty face in the whole country round but came in for a share. The dinner was prolonged till a late hour ; for our host having no ladies in his household to summon us to the drawing-room, the bottle maintained its true bachelor sway, unrivalled by its potent enemy, the tea-kettle. The old hall in which we dined echoed to bursts of robustious fox-hunting merriment, that made the ancient antlers shake on the walls. By degrees, however, the wine and the wassail of mine host began to operate upon bodies already a little jaded by the chase. The choice spirits which flashed up at the beginning of the dinner, sparkled for a time, then gradually went out one after another, or only emitted now and then a faint gleam from the socket. Some of the briskest talkers, who had given tongue so bravely at the first burst, fell fast asleep; and none kept 44 TALES OF A TRAVELLER on their way but certain of those long-winded prosers, who, like short-legged hounds, worry on unnoticed at the bottom of conversation, but. are sure to be in at the death. Even these at length subsided into silence ; and scarcely anything was heard but the nasal communications of two or three veteran masticators, who having been silent while awake, were indemnifying the company in their sleep. At length the announcement of tea and coffee in the cedar-parlor roused all hands from this temporary torpor. Every one awoke marvellously renovated, and while sip- ping the refreshing beverage out of the Baronet's old- fashioned hereditary china, began to think of departing for their several homes. But here a sudden difficulty arose. While we had been prolonging our repast, a heavy winter storm had set in, with snow, rain, and sleet, driven by such bitter blasts of wind, that they threatened to penetrate to the very bone. ^'It's all in vain," said our hospitable host, "to think of putting one's head out of doors in such weather. So, gentlemen, I hold you my guests for this night at least, and will have your quarters prepared accordingly." The unruly weather, which became more and more tempestuous, rendered the hospitable suggestion unanswer- able. The only question was, whether such an unexpected accession of company to an already crowded house would not put the housekeeper to her trumps to accommodate them. "Pshaw," cried mine host; "did you ever know a bachelor's hall that was not elastic, and able to accom- modate twice as many as it could hold?" So, out of a good-humored pique, the housekeeper was summoned to a consultation before us all. The old lady appeared in her gala suit of faded brocade, which rustled with flurry and THE HUNTING DINNER 45 agitation; for, in spite of our host's bravado, slie was a little perplexed. But in a bachelor's house, and with bachelor guests, these matters are readily managed. There is no lady of the house to stand upon squeamish points about lodging gentlemen in odd holes and corners, and exposing the shabby parts of the establishment. A bachelor's housekeeper is used to shifts and emergen^ cies; so, after much worrying to and fro, and divers con- sultations about the red-room, and the blue-room, and the chintz-room, and the damask-room, and the little room with the bow-window, the matter was finally arranged. When all this was done, we were once more summoned to the standing rural amusement of eating. The time that had been consumed in dozing after dinner, and in the refreshment and consultation of the cedar-parlor, was sufficient, in the opinion of the rosy-faced butler, to engender a reasonable appetite for supper. A slight repast had, therefore, been tricked up from the residue of dinner, consisting of a cold sirloin of beef, hashed vem*- son, a devilled leg of a turkey or so, and a few other of those light articles taken by country gentlemen to ensure sound sleep and heavy snoring. The nap after dinner had brightened up every one's wit; and a great deal of excellent humor was expended upon the perplexities of mine host and his housekeeper, by certain married gentlemen of the company, who con- sidered themselves privileged in joking with a bachelor's establishment. From this the banter turned as to what quarters each would find, on being thus suddenly billeted in so antiquated a mansion. \ *'By my soul," said an Irish captain of dragoons, one of the most merry and boisterous of the party, "by my soul. 46 TAI^ES OF A TRAVELLER but I should not be surprised if some of those good-look- ing gentlefolks that hang along the walls should walk about the rooms of this stormy night ; or if I should find the ghosts of one of those long-waisted ladies turning into my bed in mistake for her' grave in the churchyard." "Do you beliere in ghosts, then?" said a thin, hatchet- faced gentleman, with projecting eyes like a lobster. I had remarked this last personage during dinner-time for one of those incessant questioners, who have a crav- ing, unhealthy appetite in conversation. He never seemed satisfied with the whole of a story ; never laughed when others laughed; but always put the joke to the question. He never could enjoy the kernel of the iiut, but pestered himself to get more out of the shell. "Do you believe in ghosts, then?" said the inquisitive gentleman. "Faith, but I do," replied the jovial Irishman. "I was brought up in the fear and belief of them. We had a Benshee in our own family, honey." "A Benshee, and what's that?" cried the questioner. "Why, an old lady ghost that tends upon- your real Milesian families, and waits at their window to let them know when some of them are to die." "A mighty pleasant piece of information!" cried an elderly gentleman with a knowing look, and with a flexible nose, to which he could give a whimsical twist when he wished to be waggish. "By my soul, but I'd have you to know it's a piece of distinction to be waited on by a Benshee. It's a proof that one has pure blood in one's veins. But i' faith, now we are talking of ghosts, there never was a house or a night better fitted than the present for a ghost adven- ture. Pray, Sir John, haven't you such a thing as a haunted chamber to put a guest in?" THE HUNTING DINNER 47 '^Perhaps," said the Baronet, smiling, "I might accom- modate you even on that point. " '*0h, I should like it of 'all things, my jewel. Some dark oaken room, with ugly woe-begone portraits, that stare dismally at one ; and about which the housekeeper has a power of delightful stories of love and murder. And then a dim lamp, a table with a rusty sword across it, and a spectre all in white, to draw aside one's curtains at midnight" — ^'In truth," said an old gentleman at one end of the table, *'you put me in mind of an anecdote" — "Oh, a ghost-story! a ghost-story!" was vociferated round the board, every one edging his chair a little nearer. The attention of the whole company was now turned upon the speaker. He was an old gentleman, one side of whose face was no match for the other. The eye-lid drooped and hung dowii like an unhinged window-shutter. Indeed, the whole side of his head was dilapidated, and seemed like the wing of a house shut up and haunted. I'll warrant that side was well stuffed witl\ ghost- stories. There was a universal demand for the tale. **Nay," said the old gentleman, "it's a mere anecdote, and a very commonplace one ; but such as it is you shall have it. It is a story that I once heard my uncle tell as having happened to himself. He was a man very apt to meet with strange adventures. I have. heard him tell of others much more singular. " "What kind of a man was your uncle?" said the ques- tioning gentleman. "Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd kind of body; a great traveller, and fond of telling his adventures." *'Pray, how old might he have been when that hap- pened?" 4:8 TALES OF A TRAVELLER "When what happened?" cried the gentleman with the flexible nose, impatiently. "Egad, yon have not given anything a chance to happen. Oome, never mind our uncle's age; let us have his adventures." The inquisitive gentleman being for the moment silenced, the old gentleman with the haunted head proceeded. THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE Many years since, some time before the French Revolu- tion, my uncle passed several months at Paris. The Eng- lish and French were on better terms in those days than at present, and mingled cordially in society. The English went abroad to spend money then, and the French were always ready to help them : they go abroad to save money at present, and that they can do without French assist- ance. Perhaps the travelling English were fewer and choicer than at present, when the whole nation has broke loose and inundated the continent. At any rate, they circulated more readily and currently in foreign society, and my uncle, during his residence in Paris, made many very intimate acquaintances among the French noblesse. Some time afterwards, he was making a journey in the winter-time in that part of Normandy called the Pays de Caux, when, as evening was closing in, he perceived the turrets of an ancient chateau rising out of the trees of its walled park; each turret with its high conical roof of gray slate, like a candle with an extinguisher on it. "To whom does that chateau belong, friend?" cried my uncle t(5 a meagre but fiery postilion, who, with tremendous jack-boots and cocked hat, was floundering on before him. *'To Monseigneur the Marquis de ," said the pos- THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE 49 tilion, touching his hat, partly out of respect to my uncle, and partly out of reverence to the noble name pro- nounced. My uncle recollected the Marquis for a particular friend in Paris, who had often expressed a wish to see him at his paternal chateau. My uncle was an old traveller, one who knew well how to turn things to account. He., revolved for a few moments in his mind, how agreeable it would be to his friend the Marquis to be surprised in this sociable way by a pop visit ; and how much more agreeable to himself to get into snug quarters in a chateau, and have a relish of the Marquis's well-known kitchen, and a smack of his superior Champagne and Burgundy, rather than put up with the miserable lodgment and miserable fare of a provincial inn. In a few minutes, therefore, the meagre postilion was cracking his whip, like a very devil, or like a true Frenchman, up the long, straight avenue that led to the chateau. You have no doubt all seen French chateaus, as every- body travels in France nowadays. This was one of the oldest; standing naked and alone in the midst of a desert of gravel walks and cold stone terraces; with a cold-looking, formal garden, cut into angles and rhom- boids; and a cold, leafless park, divided geometrically by straight alleys; and two or three cold-looking noseless statues; and fountains spouting cold water enough to make one's teeth chatter. At least such was the feeling they imparted on the wintry day of my uncle's visit; though, in hot summer weather, I'll warrant there was glare enough to scorch one's eyes out. The smacking of the postilion's whip, which grew more and more intense the nearer they approached, frightened a flight of pigeons out of a dove-cot, and rooks out of the 50 TALES OF A TRAVELLER roofs, and finally a crew of servants out of the chateau, with the Marquis at their head. He was enchanted to see my uncle, for his chateau, like the house of our worthy host, had not many more guests at the time than it could accommodate. So he kissed my uncle on each cheek, after the French fashion, and ushered him into the castle. The Marquis did the honors of the house with the urbanity of his country. In fact, he was proud of his old family chateau, for part of it was extremely old. There was a tower and. chapel which had been built almost before the memory of man; but the rest was more modern, the castle having been nearly demolished during the wars of the league.^ The Marquis dwelt upon this event with great satisfaction, and seemed really to entertain a grate- ful feeling towards Henry the Fourth, for having thought his paternal mansion worth battering down. He had many stories to tell of the prowess of his ancestors ; and several skull-caps, helmets, and cross-bows, and divers huge boots and buff jerkins, to show, which had been worn by the leaguers. Above all, there was a two-handed sword, which he could hardly wield, but which he dis- played, as a proof that there had been giants in his family. In truth, he was bui a small descendant from such great warriors. When you looked at their bluff visages and brawny limbs, as depicted in their portraits, and then at the little Marquis, with his spindle shanks, and his sallow lantern visage, flanked with a pair of powdered ear-locks, or ailes de pigeon ^^ that seemed ready to fly away with it, you could hardly believe him to be of the same race. But 1 The Holy League was a CathoUc alliance formed in 1576 for the pTiri)os9 of excluding Huguenot princes from the throne of France. Henry IV. was a Huguenot. 2 Pigeon-wings, THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE 51 when you looked at the eyes that sparkled out like a beetle's from each side of his hooked nose, you saw at once that he inherited all the fiery spirit of his forefathers. In fact, a Frenchman's spirit never exhales, however his body may dwindle. It rather rarefies, and grows more inflam- mable, as the earthly particles diminish ; and I have seen valor enough in a little fiery-hearted French dwarf to have furnished out a tolerable giant. When once the Marquis, as was his wont, put on one of the old helmets stuck up in his hall, though his head no more filled it than a dry pea its peascod, yet his eyes flashed from the bottom of the iron cavern with the bril- liancy of carbuncles; and when he poised the ponderous two-handed sword of his ancestors, you would have thought you saw the doughty little David wielding the sword of Goliath, which was unto him like a weaver's beam. However, gentlemen, I am dwelling too long on this description of the Marquis and his chateau, but you must excuse me; he was an old friend of my uncle; and when- ever my uncle told the story, he was always fond of talk- ing a great deal about his host. — Poor little Marquis! He was one of that handful of gallant courtiers who made such a devoted but hopeless stand in the cause of their sover- eign, in the chateau of the Tuileries, against the irruption of the mob on the sad tenth of August.^ He displayed the valor of a preux ^ French chevalier to the last ; flourish- ing feebly his little court-sword with a ^a-^al^ in face of a whole legion of sans-ciilottes^\ but was pinned to the wall » The tenth of August, 1792, was the date of the taking of the palace of the TuUeries in Paris by the revolutionists. 2 Bold. 3 An inter jection meaning, " Come on ! " < Literally, "without breeches," a term applied to the extreme revolu- tionists, probably because they wore long trousers and looked ui)on knee breeches as the distinctive dress of the aristocracy. 52 TALES OF A TRAVELLER like a butterfly, by the pike of a poissarde,^ and his heroic soul was borne up to heaven on his atles de pigeon. But all this has nothing to do with my story. To the point, then. When the hour arrived for retiring for the night, my uncle was shown to his room in a venerable old tower. It was the oldest part of the chateau, and had in ancient times been the donjon or strong-hold; of course the chamber was none of the best. The Marquis had put him there, however, because he knew him to be a traveller of taste, and fond of antiquities; and also because the bet- ter apartments were already occupied. Indeed, he per- fectly reconciled my uncle to his quarters by mentioning the great personages who had once inhabited them, all of whom were, in some way or other, connected with the family. If you would take his word for it, John Baliol,^ or as he called him, Jean de Bailleul, had died of chagrin in this very chamber, on hearing of the success of his rival, Robert de Bruce, at the battle of Bannockburn. And when he added that the Duke de Guise had slept in it, my uncle was fain to felicitate himself on being honored with such distinguished quarters. The night was shrewd and windy, and the chamber none of the warmest. An old, long-faced, long-bodied servant, in quaint livery, who attended upon my uncle, threw down an armful of wood beside the fireplace, gave a queer look about the room, and then wished him bon repos^ with a grimace and a shrug that would have been suspicious from any other than an old French servant. 1 A fish-woinan, a woman of the lowest class; readers of Dickens's Tah of 7'wo Cities will recall the part which women took in the French Revo- lution. 2 John Baliol and Robert Bruce were rival claimants of the throne of Scotland. The Duke of Guise here referred to was probably Henry (1550- 1588), head of the Holy League. 3 Good-night. THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE 53 •The chamber had indeed a wild, crazy look, enough to strike any one who had read romances with apprehension and foreboding. The windows were high and narrow, and had once been loop-holes, but had been rudely enlarged, as well as the extreme thickness of the walls would permit ; and the ill-fitted casements rattled to every breeze. You would have thought, on a windy night, some of the old leaguers were tramping and clanking about the apartment in their huge boots and rattling spurs. A door which stood ajar, and, like a true French door, would stand ajar in spite of every reason and effort to the contrary, opened upon a long dark corridor, that led the Lord knows whither, and seemed just made for ghosts to air themselves in, when they turned out of their graves at midrtight. The wind would spring up into a hoarse murmur through this passage, and creak the door to and fro, as if some dubious ghost were balancing in its mind whether to come in or not. In a word, it was precisely the kind of com- fortless apartment that a ghost, if ghost there were in the chateau, would single out for its favorite lounge. My uncle, however, though a man accustomed to meet with strange adventures, apprehended none at the time. He made several attempts to *shut the door, but in vain. Not that he apprehended anything, for he was too old a traveller to be daunted by a wild-looking apartment; but the night, as I ha ^e said, was cold and gusty, and the wind howled about the old turret pretty much as it does round this old mansion at this moment, and the breeze from the long dark corridor came in as damp and as chilly as if from a dungeon. My uncle, therefore, since he could not close the door, threw a quantity of wood on the fire, which soon sent up a flame in the great wide-mouthed chimney that illumined the whole chamber ; and made the shadow of i 54 TALES OF A TRAVELLER . 4 the tongs on the opposite wall look like a long-legged giant. My uncle now clamhered on the top of the half- score of mattresses which form a French bed, and which stood in a deep recess ; then tucking himself snugly in, and burying himself up to the chin in the bedclothes, he lay looking at the fire, and listening .to the wind, and thinking how knowingly he had come over his friend the Marquis for a night's lodging — and so he fell asleep. He bad not taken above half of his first nap when he was awakened by the clock of the chateau, in the turret over his chamber, which struck midright. It was just such an old clock as ghosts are fond of. It had a deep, dismal tone, and struck so slowly and tediously that my uncle thought it would never have done. He counted and counted till he was confident he counted thirteen, and then it stopped. The fire had burnt low, and the blaze of the last fagot was almost expiring, burning in small blue flames, which now and then lengthened up into little white gleams. My uncle lay with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn almost down to his nose. His fancy was already wandering, and began to mingle up the present scene with the crater of Vesuvius, the French Opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly's chop-house ^ in London, and all the far- rago of noted places with which the brain of a traveller is crammed, — in a word, he was just falling asleep. Suddenly he was roused by the sound of footsteps, slowly pacing along the corridor. My uncle, as I have often heard him say himself, was a man not easily fright- ened. So he lay quiet, supposing this some other guest, or some servant on his way to bed. The footsteps, how- » A famous London eating-house near Paternoster Row. It was torn down in 1883. THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE 55 ever, approached the door; the door gently opened; whether of its own accord, or whether pushed open, my uncle could not distinguish: a figure all in white glided in„ It was a female, tall and stately, and of a command- ing air„ Her dress was of an ancient fashion, ample in volume, and sweeping the floor. She walked up to the fireplace, without regarding my uncle, who raised his nightcap with one hand, and stared earnestly at her. She remained for some time standing by the fire, which, flash- ing up at intervals, cast blue and white gleams of light, that enabled my uncle to remark her appearance minutely. Her face was ghastly pale, and perhaps rendered still more so by the bluish light of the fire. It possessed beauty, but its beauty was saddened by care and anxiety. There was the look of one accustomed to trouble, but of one whom trouble could not cast down nor subdue; for there was still the predominating air of proud, unconquer- able resolution. Such at least was the opinion formed by my uncle, and he considered himself a great physiognomist. The figure remained, as I said, for some time by the fire, putting out first one hand, then the other ; then each foot alternately, as if warming itself ; for your ghosts, if ghost it really was, are apt to be cold. My uncle, further- more, remarked that it wore high -heeled shoes, after an ancient fashion, with paste or diamond buckles, that sparkled as though they were alive. At length the figure turned gently round, casting a glassy look about the apart- ment, which, as it passed over my uncle, made his blood run cold, and chilled the very marrow in his bones. It then stretched its arms towards heaven, clasped its hands, and wringing them in a supplicating manner, glided slowly out of the room. ; k " My uncle lay for some t^ime medicating on tliis^ visita^ 56 TALES OF A TRAVELLER tion, for (as he remarked when he told me the story) though a man of firmness, he was also a man of reflection, and did not reject a thing because it was out of the regular course of events. However, being as I have before said, a great traveller, and accustomed to strange adventures, he drew his nightcap resolutely over his eyes, turned his back to the door, hoisted the bedclothes high over his shoul- ders, and gradually fell asleep. How long he slept he could not say, when he was awak- ened by the voice of some one at his bedside. He turned round, and beheld the old French servant, with his ear- locks in tight buckles on each side of a long lantern face, on which habit had deeply wrinkled an everlasting smile. He made a thousand grimaces, and asked a thousand par- dons for disturbing Monsieur, but the morning was con- siderably advanced. While my uncle was dressing, he called vaguely to mind the visitor of the preceding night. He asked the ancient domestic what lady was in the habit of rambling about this part of the chateau afc night. The old valet shrugged his shoulders as high ^ his head, laid one hand on his bosom, threw open the other with every finger extended, made a most whimsical grimace which he meant to be complimentary, and replied, that it was not for him to know anything of les bonnes fortunes^ of Monsieur. My uncle saw there was nothing satisfactory to be learned in this quarter. After breakfast, he was walking with the Marquis through the modern apartments of the chateau, sliding over the well-waxed floors of silken saloons, amidst furniture rich in gilding and brocade, until they came to a long picture-gallery, containing many portraits, some in oil and some in chalks. J The good luck. THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE 57 Here was an ample field for the eloquence of his host, who had all the pride of a nobleman of the micien regime.^ There was not a grand name in Normandy, and hardly one in France, which was not, in some way or other, connected with his house. My uncle stood listening with inward impatience, resting sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the other, as the little Marquis descanted, with his usual fire and vivacity, on the achievements of his ancestors, whose portraits hung along the wall; from the martial deeds of the stern warriors in steel, to the gallantries and intrigues of the blue-eyed gentlemen, with fair smiling faces, powdered ear-locks, laced rufiles, and pink and blue silk coats and breeches ; — not forgetting the conquests of the lovely shepherdesses, with hooped petticoats, and waists no thicker than an hour-glass, who appeared ruling over their sheep and their swains, with dainty crooks dec- orated with fluttering ribbons. In the midst of his friend's discourse, my uncle was startled on beholding a full-length portrait, the very coun- terpart of his visitor of the preceding night. *'Methinks," said he, pointing to it, *'I have seen the original of this portrait." *'Pardonnez moi,"^ replied the Marquis politely, "that can hardly be, as the lady has been dead more than a hun- dred years. That was the beautiful Duchess de Longue- ville, who figured during the minority of Louis the Fourteenth." ' **And was there anything remarkable in her , history?" Never was question more unlucky. The little Marquis immediately threw himself into the attitude of a man about to tell a long story. In fact, my uncle had pulled * The old system, i.e. before the French Revolution. * Pardon me. 58 TALES OF A TRAVELLER upon himself the whole history of the eivil war of the Fronde, ^ in which the beautiful Duchess had played so distinguished a part. Turenne, Coligni, Mazarin, were called up from their graves to grace his narration; nor were the affairs of the Barricades, nor the chivalry of the portes-cocheres forgotten. My uncle began to wish him- self a thousand leagues off from the Marquis and his merci- less memory, when suddenly the little man's recollections took a more, interesting turn. He was relating the imprisonment of the Duke de Longueville with the Princes Conde- and Conti in the chateau of Vincennes, and the ineffectual efforts of the Duchess to rouse the sturdy Nor- mans to their rescue. He had come to that part where she was invested by the royal forces in the Castle of Dieppe. "The spirit of the Duchess," proceeded the Marquis, **rose from her trials. It was astonishing to see so deli- cate and beautiful a thing buffet so resolutely with hard- ships. She determined on a desperate means of escape. You may have seen the chateau in which she was mewed up* — an old ragged wart of an edifice, standing on the knuckle of a hill, just above the rusty little town of Dieppe. One dark unruly night she issued secretly out of a small postern gate of the castle, which the enemy had neglected to guard. The postern gate is there to this very day; opening upon a narrow bridge over a deep fosse between the castle and the brow of the hill. She was fol- owed by her female attendants, a few domestics, and some gallant cavaliers, who still remained faithful to her for- ,1 The civil war of the Fi'onde in France lasted from 1648 to 1652. Turenne and Coligni were military leaders in this war; Mazarin was a cardinal and minister of state. The "affairs of the Barricades" was an episode of the war, in Paris, August 26, 1648; the "chivalry of the portes-cocheres " was a mounted force raised by compelling every porte-cochere, i.e. every house with a special carriage entrance, to furnish a horse and a man. THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE 59 tunes. Her object was to gain a small port about two leagues distant, where she had privately provided a vessel for her escape in case of emergency. "The little band of fugitives were obliged to perform the distance on foot. When they arrived at the port the wind was high and stormy, the tide contrary, the vessel anchored far off in the road, and no means of getting on board but by a fishing-shallop which lay tossing like a cockle-shell on the edge of the surf. The Duchess deter- mined to risk the attempt. The seamen endeavored to dissuade her, but the imminence of her danger on shore, and the magnanimity of her spirit, urged her on. She had to be borne to the shallop in the arms of a mariner. Such was the violence of the wind and waves that he fal- tered, lost his foothold, and let his precious burden fall into the sea. "The Duchess was nearly drowned, but partly through her own struggles, partly by the exertions of the seamen, she got to land. As soon as she had a little recovered strength, she insisted on renewing the attempt. The storm, however, had by this time, become so violent as to set all efforts at defiance. To delay, was to be discovered and taken prisoner. As the only resource left, she pro- cured horses, mounted with her female attendants, e7i croupe^ ^ behind the gallant gentlemen who accompanied her, and scoured the country to seek some temporary asylum. "While the Duchess," continued the Marquis, laying his forefinger on my uncle's breast to arouse his flagging attention — "while the Duchess, poor lady, was wandering amid the tempest in this disconsolate manner, she arrived at this chateau. Her approach caused some uneasiness; > Rid* 4g JouDJie, uiie t)ehind the saddle. 60 TALES OF A TRAVELLER for the clattering of a troop of horse at dead of night up the avenue of a lonely chateau, in those unsettled times, and in a troubled part of the country, was enough to occasion alarm. "A tall, broad-shouldered chasseur, armed to the teeth, galloped ahead and announced the name of the visitor. All uneasiness was dispelled. The household turned out with flambeaux to receive her, and never did torches gleam on a more weather-beaten, travel-stained band than came tramping into the court. Such pale, careworn faces, such bedraggled dresses, as the poor Duchess and her females presented, each seated behind her cavalier : while the half- drenched, ha]f-drowsy pages and attendants seemed ready to fall from their horses with sleep and fatigue. "The Duchess was received with a hearty welcome by my ancestor. She was ushered into the hall of the chateau, and the fires soon crackled and blazed, to cheer herself and her train ; and every spit and stew-pan was put in requisition to prepare ample refreshment for the way- farers. *'She had a right to our hospitalities," continued the Marquis, drawing himself up with a slight degree of stateliness, **for she was related to our family. I'll tell you how it was. Her father, Henri de Bourbon, Prince of Conde" "But did the Duchess pass the night in the chateau?" said my uncle rather abruptly, terrified at the idea of get- ting involved in one of the Marquis's genealogical discus- sions. "Oh, as to the Duchess, she was put into the very apartment you occupied last night, which at that time was a kind of state-apartment. Her followers were quartered in the chambers opening upon the neighboring corridor. THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE 61 and her favorite page slept in an adjoining closet. Up and down the corridor walked the great chasseur who had announced her arrival, and who acted as a kind of sentinel or guard. He was a dark, stern, powerful-looking fellow ; and as the light of a lamp in the corridor fell upon his deeply marked face and sinewy form, he seemed capable of defending the castle with his single arm. "It was a rough, rude night; about this time of the year — apropos ! — now I think of it, last night was the anniver- sary of her visit. I may well remember the precise date, for it was a night not to be forgotten by our house. There is a singular tradition concerning it in our family." Here the Marquis hesitated, and a cloud seemed to gather about his bushy eyebrows. '* There is a tradition — that a strange occurrence took place that night. — A strange j mysterious, inexplicable occurrence." — Here he checked himself, and paused. ''Did it relate to that lady?" inquired my uncle, eagerly. "It was past the hour of midnight," resumed the Mar- quis, — "when the whole chateau" Here he paused again, v My uncle made a movement of anxious curiosity. "Excuse me," said the Marquis, a slight blush streak- ing his sallow visage. "There are some circumstances connected with our family history which I do not like to relate. That was a rude period. A time of great crimes among great men : for you know high blood, when it runs wrong, will not run tamely, like the blood of the canaiMe ^ — poor lady! — But I have a little family pride, that — excuse me — we will change the subject if you please" — My uncle's curiosity was piqued. The pompous and magnificent introduction had led him to expect something wonderful in the story to which it served as a kind of Babble. " ~" ^2 TALES OF A TRAVELLER avenue. He had no idea of being cheated out of it by a sudden fit of unreasonable squeamishness. Besides, being a traveller in quest of information, he considered it his duty to inquire into everything. The Marquis, however, evaded every question. ^'Well," said my uncle a little petulantly, ** whatever you may think of it, I saw that lady last night." The Marquis stepped back and gazed at him with sur- prise. **She paid me a visit in my bedchamber." The Marquis pulled out his snuff-box with a shrug and smile ; taking this no doubt for an awkward piece of Eng- lish pleasantry, which politeness required him to be charmed with. My uncle went on gravely, however, and related the whole circumstance. The M.arquis heard him through with profound attention, holding his snuff-box unopened in his hand. When the story Avas finished, he tapped on the lid of his box deliberately, took a long, sonorous pinch of snuff , "Bah !" said the Marquis, and walked towards the other end of the gallery. Here the narrator paused. The company waited for some time for him to resume his narration ; but he con- tinued silent. *'Well," said the inquisitive gentleman, — "and what ^id your uncle say then?" "Nothing," replied the other. "And what did the Marquis say farther?" "IS^thing." .llcUs that all?" "That is^jiU," said the narrator, filling a glass of wine. THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT 63 **I surmise," said the shrewd old gentleman with the waggish nose, — **I surmise the ghost must have been the old housekeeper, walking her rounds to see that all was right." *'Bah!" said the narrator. '*'My uncle was too much accustomed to strange sights not to know a ghost from a housekeeper." There was a murmur round the table, half of merri- ment, half of disappointment. I was inclined to think the old gentleman had really an after -part of his story in reserve; but he sipped his wine and said nothing more; and there was an odd expression about his dilapidated countenance which left me in doubt whether he were in drollery or earnest. / *'Egad," said the knowing gentleman, with the flexible nose, ^*this story of your uncle puts me in mind of one that used to be told of an aunt of mine, by the mother's side; though I don't know that it will bear a comparison, as the good lady was not so prone to meet with strange adventures. But any rate you shall have it. " * THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT My aunt was a lady of large frame, strong mind, and great resolution : she was what might be termed a very manly woman. My uncle was a thin, puny little man, very meek and acquiescent, and no match for my aunt. It was observed that he dwindled and dwindled gradually away, from the day of his marriage. His wife's powerful i^iind was too much for him; it wore him out. My aunt, * Is the reader's expectation really disappointed in the conclusion of this story? 64 TALES OF A TRAVELLER however, took all possible care of him; had half the doc- tors in town to prescribe for him; made him take all their prescriptions, and dosed him with physic enough to cure a whole hospital. All was in vain. My uncle grew worse and worse the more dosing and nursing he underwent, until in the end he added another to the long list of matri- monial victims who ,have been killed with kindness. "And was it his ghost that appeared to her?" asked the inquisitive gentleman, who had questioned the former story-teller. "You shall hear," replied the narrator. — My aunt took on mightily for the death of her poor dear husband. Perhaps she felt some compunction at having given him so much physic, and nursed him into the grave. At any rate, she did all that a widow could do to honor his memory. She spared no expense in either the quantity or quality of her mourning weeds ; wore a miniature of him about her neck as large as a little sun-dial, and had a iuU length portrait of him always hanging in her bed- chamber. All the world extolled her conduct to the skies ; and it was determined that a woman who behaved so well to the memory of one husband deserved soon to get another. It was not long after this that she went to take up her residence in an old country-seat in Derbyshire, which had long been in the care of merely a steward and housekeeper. She took most of her servants with her, intending to make it her principal abode. The house stood in a lonely wild part of the country, among the gray Derbyshire hills, with a murderer hanging in chains on a bleak height in full view. The servants from town were half frightened out of their wits at the idea of living in such a dismal, pagan- looking place; especially when they got together in the THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT 35 servant's hall in the evening, and compared notes on all the hobgoblin stories picked up in the course of the day. They were afraid to venture alone about the gloomy, black- looking chambers. My lady's maid, who/ was troubled with nerves, declared she could never sleep alone in such a- ''gashly rummaging old building" ^; and the footman, who was a kind-hearted young fellow, did all in his power to cheer her up. My aunt was struck with the lonely appearance of the. house. Before going to bed, therefore, she examined well the fastnesses of the doors and windows; locked up. the plate with her own hands, and carried the keys, together with a little box of money and jewels, to her own room; for she was a notable woman, and always sjaw to all things herself. Having put the keys under her pillow,, and dismissed her maid, she sat by her toilet, arranging: her hair; for being, in spite of her grief for my uncle, rather a buxom widow, she was somewhat particular about her person. She sat for a little while looking at her face* in the glass, first on one side, then on the other, as ladies are apt to do when they would ascertain Avhether they have been in good looks ; for a roistering country squire of the neighborhood, with whom she had flirted when a girl, had called that day to welcome her to the country. All of a sudden she thought she heard something move- behind her. She looked hastily round, but there was nothing to be seen. Nothing but the grimly painted por- trait of her poor dear man, hanging against the wall. She gave a heavy sigh to his memory, as she was accus- tomed to do whenever she spoke of him in company, and then went on adjusting her night-dress^ and thinking of the squire. Her sigh was reechoed, or answered, by a - Does she mean "ghastly rmnous old building?" m TALES OF A TRAVELLER long-drawn breath. She looked round again, but no one was to be seen. She ascribed these sounds to the wind oozing through the rat-holes of the old mansion, and pro- ceeded leisurely to put her hair in papers, wh0h, all at once, she thought she perceived one of the eyes of the portrait move. "The back of her head being towards it!" said the story-teller with the ruined head, — "good!" "Yes, sir!" replied dryly the narrator, "her back being towards the portrait, but her eyes fixed on its reflection in the glass." — Well, as I was saying, she perceived one of the eyes of the portrait move. So strange a circumstance, as you may well suppose, gave her a sudden shock. To assure herself of the fact, she put one hand to her fore- head as if rubbing it; peeped through her fingers, and moved the candle with the other hand. Tlie light of the taper gleamed on the eye, and was reflected from it. She was sure it moved. Nay, more, it seemed to give her a wink, as she had sometimes known her husband to do when living! It struck a momentary chill to her heart; for she was a lone woman, and felt herself fearfully situ- ated. The chill was but transient. My aunt, who was almost as resolute a personage as your uncle, sir, (turning to the old story-teller,) became instantly calm and collected. She went on adjusting her dress. She even hummed an air, and did not make even a single false note. She casu- ally overturned a dressing-box ; took a candle and picked up the articles one by one from the floor ; pursued a roll- ing pin-cushion that was making the best of its way under the bed ; then opened the door ; looked for an instant into the corridor, as if in doubt whether to go; and then walked quietly out. THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT 67 She hastened down-stairs, ordered the servants to arm themselves with the weapons first at hand, placed herself at their head, and returned almost immediately. Her hastily levied army presented a formidable force. The steward had a rusty blunderbuss, the coachman a loaded whip, the footman a pair of horse-pistols, the cook a huge chopping-knife, and the butler a bottle in each hand. My aunt led the van with a red-hot poker, and in my opinion she was the most formidable of the party. The waiting-maid, who dreaded to stay alone in the serv- ant's hall, brought up the rear, smelling to a brokeii bot- tle of volatile salts, and expressing her terror of the ghostesses. **Grhosts!" said my aunt, resolutely. "I'll singe their whiskers for them!" They entered the chamber. All was still and undis- turbed as when she had left it. They approached the portrait of my uncle. *'Pull down that picture!" cried my aunt. A heavy groan, and a sound like the chattering of teeth, issued from the portrait. The servants shrunk back ; the maid uttered a faint shriek, and clung to the footman for sup- port. "Instantly!" added my aunt, with a stamp of the foot. The picture was pulled down, and from a recess behind it, in which had formerly stood a clock, they hauled forth a .--^-shouldered, black-bearded varlet, with a knife as long as my a,xm, but trembling all over like an aspen-leaf. "Well, and who was he? No ghost, I suppose," said the inquisitive gentleman. "A Knight of the Post,"^ replied the narrator, "who had been smitten with the worth of the wealthy widow ; J In general, a rogue; perhaps more specifically, a highwayman. See trving's use of the phrase in "The Poor Devil Author," la. 174. 68 TALES OF A TRAVELLER or rather a marauding Tarquin, who had stolen into hei chamber to violate her purse, and rifle her strong box, when all the house should be asleep. In plain terms," continued he, "the vagabond was a loose idle fellow of the neighborhood, who had once been a servant in the house, and had been employed to assist in arranging it for the reception of its mistress. He confessed that he had con- trived this hiding-place for his nefarious purpose, and had . borrowed an eye from the portrait by way of -a reconnoi- tring-hole." *'And what did they do with him? — did they hang him?" resumed the questioner. *'Hang him! — how could they?" exclaimed a beetle- browed barrister, with a hawk's nose. "The offence was not capital. No robbery, no assault had been committed. No forcible entry or breaking into the premises" — • "My aunt," said the narrator, "was a woman of spirit, and apt to take the law in her own hands. She had her own notions of cleanliness also. She ordered the fellow to be drawn through the horse-pond, to cleanse away all offences, and then to be well rubbed down with an oaken towef." "And what became of him afterwards?" said the inquisitive gentleman. "I do- not exactly know. I^ believe he was sent on a voyage of improvement to Botany Bay."^ "And your aunt," said the inquisitive gentlpTn^"*- ' ^ A warrant she took care to make her maid sleep m the room with her after that." "No, sir, she did better; she gave her hand shortly after to the roistering squire; for she used to observe, that it was a dismal thing for a woman to sleep alone in the country." 1 Formerly a British x)enal colony in Australia. THE BOLD DRAGOON 69 "She was right," observed the inquisitive gentleman, nodding sagaciously; "but I am sorry they did not hang that fellow." It was agreed on all hands that the last narrator had brought his tale to the most satisfactory conclusion, though a country clergyman present regretted that the uncle and aunt, who figured in the different stories, had not been married together; they certainly would have been well matched. "But I don't see, after all," said the inquisitive gentle- man, "that there was any ghost in this last story." "Oh! If it's ghosts you want, honey," cried the Irish Captain of Dragoons, "if it's ghosts you want, you shall have a whole regiment of them. And since these gentle- men have given the adventures of their uncles and aunts, faith, and I'll even give you a chapter out of my own family-history." THE BOLD DRAGOON OR, THE ADYEI^TURE OF MY GRANDFATHER My grandfather was a bold dragoon, for it's a profes- sion, d'ye see, that has run in the family. All my fore- fathers have been dragoons, and died on 'the field of honor, except myself, and I hope my posterity may be able to say the same; however, I don't mean to be vainglorious. Well, my grandfather, as I said, was a bold dragoon, and had served in the Low Countries.^ In fact, he was one of that very army, which, according to my uncle Toby,^ swore so terribly in Flanders. He could ^ The Netherlands. 2 One of the principal characters in Sterne's novel Tristram Shandy. Corporal Trim is Uncle Toby's servant. See the novel. Book V, Chap. 35 ff. 70 TALES OF A TRAVELLER swear a good stick himself ; and moreover was the very man that introduced the doctrine Corporal Trim mentions of radical heat and radical moisture, or, in other words, the mode of keeping out the damps of ditch-water by burnt brandy. Be that as it may, it's nothing to the purport of my story. I only .tell it to show you that my grandfather was a man not easily to be humbugged., He had seen service, or, according to his own phrase, he had seen the devil — and that's saying everything. Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was on his way to Eng- land, for which he intended to embark from Ostend — bad luck to the place ! for one where I was kept by storms and head-winds for three long days, and the devil of a jolly companion or pretty girl to comfort me. Well, as I was saying, my grandfather was on his way to England, or rather to Ostend — no matterwhich, it's all the same. So one evening, towards nightfall, he rode jollily into Bruges. — Very like you all know Bruges, gentlemen; a queer, old-fashioned Flemish town, once, they say, a great place for trade and money-making in old times, when the Mynheers^ were in their glory ; but almost as large and as empty as an Irishman's pocket at the present day. — Well, gentlemen, it was at the time of the annual fair. All Bruges was crowded; and the canals swarmed with Dutch boats, and the streets swarmed with Dutch merchants; and there was hardly any getting along for goods, wares, and merchandises, and peasants in big breeches, and women in half a score of petticoats. My grandfather rode jollily along, in his eas}^ slashing way, for he was a saucy, sunshiny fellow — starjng about him at the motley crowd, and the old houses with gable iThe Dutch equivalent of "Mr' Here used loosely for "prosperous Ijui'ghers. " THE BOLD DRAGOON 71 ends to the street, and storks' nests in the chimneys; winking at the juffrouws^ who showed their faces at the windows, and joking the women right and left in the street; all of whom laughed, and took it in amazing good part; for though he did not know a word of the language, yet he had always a knack of making himself understood among the women. Well, gentlemen, it being the time of the annual fair, ail the town was crowded, every inn and tavern full, and my grandfather applied in vain from one to the other for admittance. At length he rode up to an old rickety inn, that looked ready to fall to pieces, and which all the rats- would have run away from, if they could have found room in any other house to put their heads. It was just such a queer building as you see in Dutch pictures, with a tall roof that reached up into the clouds, and as many garrets, one over the other, as the seven heavens of Mahomet. Nothing had saved it from tumbling down but a stork's nest on the chimney, which always brings good luck to a house in the Low Countries; and at the very time of my grandfather's arrival, there were two of these long-legged birds of grace standing like ghosts on the chimney-top. Faith, but they've kept the house oii its legs to this very day, for you may see it any time you pass through Bruges, as it stands there yet, only it is turned into a brewery of strong Flemish beer, — at Icjast it was so when I came that way after the battle of Waterloo. My grandfather eyed the house curiously as he approached. It might not have altogether struck his fancy, had he not seen in large letters over the door, HIER VERKOOPT MAIf GOEDEIf DRAJs^K ^ My grandfather had learnt euous^h of the language to 1 Young women. 2 Yoii get good liquor here. 72 TALES OF A TRAVELLER kno^ -eiiat the sign promised good liquor. *'This is the house for me," said he, stopping short before the door. The sudden appearance of a dashing dragoon was an event in an old inn frequented only by the peaceful sons of traffic. A rich burgher of Antwerp, a stately ample man in a broad Flemish hat, and who was the great man and great patron of the establishment, sat smoking a clean long pipe on one side of the door; a fat little distiller of Oeneva,^ from Schiedam, sat smoking on the other; and the bottle-nosed host stood in the door, and the comely hostess, in crimped cap, beside him; and the hostess's daughter, a plump Flanders lass, with long gold pen- dants in her ears, was at a side-window. *' Humph!" said the rich burgher of Antwerp, with a sulky glance at the stranger. "De duyvel!" said the fat little distiller of Schie- dam. The landlord saw, with the quick glance of a publican, that the new guest was not at all to the taste of the old ones; and, to tell the truth, he did not like my grand- father's saucy eye. He shook his head. '*!N"ot a garret in the house but was full." *'Not a garret!" echoed the landlady. *'Not a garret!" echoed the daughter. The burgher of Antwerp, and the little distiller of Schiedam, continued to smoke their pipes sullenly, eyeing the enemy askance from under their broad hats, but said nothing. My grandfather was not a man to be browbeaten. He threw the reins on his horse's neck, cocked his head on one side, stuck one arm akimbo, — * 'Faith and troth!" said he, **but I'll sleep in this house this very night." — As he > Gin ; Schiedam was famous for its gin distilleries. ' THE BOLD DRAGOON 73 said this lie gave a slap on his thigh, by way of emphasis — the slap went to the landlady's heart. ^ He followed up the vow by jumping off his horse, and making his way past the staring Mynheers into the public I'oom. — Maybe you've been in the bar-room of an old Flemish inn — faith, but a handsome chamber it was as you'd wish to see; with a brick floor, and a great fire- place, with the whole Bible history in glazed tiles, and then the mantelpiece, pitching itself head foremost out of the wall, with a whole regiment of cracked tea-pots and earthen jugs paraded on it; not to mention half a dozen great Delft platters, hung about the room by way of pic- tures ; and the little bar in one corner, and the bouncing bar-maid inside of it, with a red calico cap, and yellow ear-drops. My grandfather snapped his fingers over his head, as he cast an eye round the room, — "Faith, this is the very house I've been looking after," said he. There was some further show of resistance on the part of the garrison ; but my grandfather was an old soldier, and an Irishman to boot, and iiot easily repulsed, espe- cially after he had got into the fortress. So he blarneyed the landlord, kissed the landlord's wife, tickled the land- lord's daughter, chucked the bar-maid under the chin; and it was agreed on all hands that it would be a thousand pities, and a burning shame into the bargain, to turn such a bold dragoon into the streets. So they laid their heads together, that is to say, my grandfather aad the landlady, and it was at length agreed to accommodate' him with an old chamber that had been for some time shut up. **Some say it's haunted," whispered the landlord's daughter; "but you area bold dragoon, and I dare say don't fear ghosts." H TALES OF A TRAVELLER ^'The devil a bit!" said my grandfather, pinching her plump cheek. *'Biit if I should be troubled by ghosts, I've been to the Red Sea^ in my time, and have a pleasant way of laying them, my darling." And then he whispered something to the girl which^ made her laugh, and give him a good-humored box qn the ear. In short, there was nobody knew better how to make his way among the petticoats than my grandfather. In a little while, as was his usual way, he took complete possession of the house, swaggering all over it; into the stable to look after his horse, into the kitchen to look after his supper. He had something to say or do with every one; smoked with the Dutchmen, drank with the Ger- mans, slapped the landlord on the shoulder, romped with his daughter and the bar-maid : — never, since the days of Alley Croaker,^ had such a rattling blade been seen. The landlord stared at him with astonishment ; the landlord's daughter hung her head and giggled whenever he came near; and as he swaggered along the corridor, with his sword trailing by his side, the maids looked after him, and whispered to one another, *'What a proper ^ mani" At supper, my grandfather took command of the table d'hote as though he had been at home ; helped everybody, not forgetting himself; talked with every one, whether he understood their language or not ; and made his way into the intimacy of the rich burgher of Antwerp, who had never been known to be sociable with any one during his life. In fact, he revolutionized the whole establishment, i"The Red Sea is the reputed resting place of exorcised spirits." The Legendary Lore of the Holy Wells of England, by R. C. Hope, F. R. S. L., p. Sixiii. 2 The allusion is to an English ballad in which "Alley Croaker," an Irish girl, is very vigorously wooed by her lover. See Tales of a Traveller, ed. Brander Matthews and G. R. Carpenter, p. 41. 3 In the Elizabethan sense, " handsome." THE BOLD DRAGOON 75 and gave it such a rouse, that the very house reeled with it. He outsat every one at table, excepting the little fat distiller of Schiedam, who sat soaking a long time before he broke forth; but when he did, he was a very devil incarnate. He took a violent affection for my grand- father; so they sat drinking and smoking, and telling stories, and singing Dutch and Irish songs, without under- standing a word each other said, until the little Hollander was fairly swamped with his own gin and water, and carried off to bed, whooping and hickuping, and trolling the burden of a Low Dutch love-song. Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was shown to his quarters up a large staircase, composed of loads of hewn timber; and through long rigmarole passages, hung with blackened paintings of fish, and fruit, and game, and country frolics, and huge kitchens, and portly burgo- masters, such as you see about old-fashioned Flemish inns, till at length he arrived at his room. An old-tim-^ chamber it was, sure enough, and crowded with all kinds of trumpery. It looked like an infirmary for decayed and superannuated furniture, where every- thing diseased or disabled was sent to nurse or to be for- gotten. Or rather it might be taken for a general congress of old Jegitimate movables, where every kind and country had a representative. No two chairs were alike. Such high backs and low backs, and leather bottoms, and worsted bottoms, and straw bottonis, and no bottoms; and cracked marble tables with curiously carved legs, holding balls in their claws, as though they were going to play at ninepins. My grandfather maJo a bow to the motley assemblage as he entered, and, having undressed himself, placed his light in the fireplace, asking pardon of the tongs, which 76 TALES OF A TRAVELLER seemed to be making love to the shovel in the chimney* corner, and whispering soft nonsense in its ear. The rest of the guests were by this time sound asleep, for your Mynheers are huge sleepers. The housemaids, one by one, crept up yawning to their attics ; and not a female head in the inn was laid on a pillow that night without dreaming of the bold dragoon. My grandfather, for his part, got into bed, and drew over htm one of those great bags of down, under which they smother a man in the Low Countries; and there he lay, melting between two feather beds, like an anchovy sandwich^ between two slices of toast and butter. He was a warm-complexioned man,^ and this smothering played the very deuce with him. So, sure enough, in a little time it seemed as if a legion of imps were twitching at him, and all the blood in his veins was in a fever-heat. He lay still, however, until all the house was quiet, excepting the snoring of the Mynheers from the different chambers ; who answ^red one another in all kinds of tones and cadences, like so many bull-frogs in a swamp. The quieter the house became, the more unquiet became my grandfather. He waxed warmer and warmer, until at length the bed became too hot to hold him. "Maybe the maid had warmed it too nyich?" said the curious gentleman, inquiringly. "I rather think the contrary," replied the Irishman. *'But, be that as it may, it grew too hot for my grand- father." "Faith, there's no standing this any longer, ' ' says he. So lie jumped out of bed, and went strolling about the house. » Perhaps Irving wrote "sandwiched." 2 "Complexion" means here, as frequently in older Engl^ Jh, "tempera- ment" or "natural disposition." So "warm-complexioned" paeans "of a hot blood." THE BOLD DRAGOON 77 *'What for?" said the inquisitive gentleman. **Wliy, to cool himself, to be sure — or perhaps to find a more comfortable bed — or perhaps — But no matter what he went for — he never mentioned — and there's no use in taking up our time in conjecturing." Well, my grandfather had been for some time absent from his room, and was returning, perfectly cool, when just as he reached the door, he heard a strange noise within. He paused and listened. It seemed as if some one were trying to hum a tune in defiance of the asthma. He recollected the report of the room being haunted ; but he was no believer in ghosts, so he pushed the door gently open and peeped in. Egad, gentlemen, there was a gambol carrying on within enough to have astonished St. Anthony^ himself. By the light of the fire he saw a pale weazen-faced fellow, in a long flannel gown and a tall white night- cap with a tassel to it, who sat by the fire with a bellows under his arm by wa} of bagpipe, from which he forced the asthmatical music that had bothered my grandfather. As he played^ too, he kept twitching about with a thousand queer con- tortions, nodding his head, and bobbing about his tasselled night-cap. My grandfather thought this very odd and mighty pre- sumptuous, and was about to demand what business he had to play his wind-instrument in another gentleman's quarters, when a new cause of astonishment met his eye. From the opposite side of the room a long-backed, bandy- legged chair, covered with leather, and studded all over in a coxcombical fashion with little brass nails, got suddenly into motion, thrust out first a claw-foot, then a crooked » St. Anthony, (251-356) an anchorite, was much disturbed in his medita* tions and devotions by many wonderful and alluring visions. The subject "Was a favorite one with the early painters. 78 ^ TALES OF A TRAVELLER arm, and at length, making a leg, slided gracefully up tc an easy-chair of tarnished brocade, with a hole in its bot- tom, and led it gallantly out in a ghostly minuet about the floor. The musician now played fiercer and fiercer, and bobbed his head and his night-cap about like mad. By degrees the dancing mania seemed to seize upon all other pieces of furniture. The antique, long-bodied chairs paired olf in couples and led down a country- dance; a three-legged stool danced a hornpipe, though horribly puzzled by its supernumerary limb ; while the amorous tongs seized the shovel round the waist, and whirled it about the room in a German waltz. ^ In short, all the movables got in motion : pirouetting hands across, right and left, like so many devils; all except a great clothes-press, which kept courtesying and courtesying in a corner, like a dowager, in exquisite time to the music ; being rather too corpulent to dance, or perhaps at a loss for a partner. My grandfather concluded the latter to be the reason; so being, like a true Irishman, devoted to the sex, and at all times ready for a frolic, he bounced into the room, called to the musician to strike up Paddy O'Rafferty, capered up to the clothes-press, and seized upon the two handles to lead her out ; when — whirr ! the whole revel was at an end. The chairs, tables, tongs and shovel, slunk in an instant as quietly into their places as if noth- ing had happened, and the musician vanished up the chimney, leaving the bellows behind him in his hurry. My grandfather found himself seated in the middle of the floor with the clothes-press sprawling before him, and the two handles jerked off, and in his hands. 'The "German waltz" consists almost entirely of a spinning circular motion, with very little gliding for\N ard or backward. THE BOLD DRAGOON 79 ''Then, after all, this was a mere dream!" sairl the inquisitive gentleman. "The divil a bit of a dream!" replied the Irishman. *' There never was a truer fact in this world. Faith, I should have liked to see any man tell my grandfather it was a dream." Well, gentlemen, as- the clothes-press was a mighty heavy body, and my grandfather likewise, particularly in rear, you may easily suppose that 4;wo such heavy bodies coming to the ground would make a bit of a noise. Faith, the old mansion shook as though it had mistaken ib for an earthquake. The whole garrisou was alarmed. The landlord, who slept below, hurried up with a candle to inquire the cause, but with all his haste his daughter had arrived at the scene of uproar before him. The land- lord was followed by the landlady, who was followed by the bouncing bar-maid, who was followed by the simper- ing chambermaids, all holding together, as well as they could, such garments as they first laid hands on ; but all in a terrible hurry to see what the deuce was to pay in the chamber of the bold dragoon. My grandfather related the marvellous scene he had witnessed, and the broken handles of the prostrate clothes- press bore testimony to the fact. There was no contesting such evidence; particularly with a lad of my grandfather's complexion, who seemed able to make good every word either with sword or shillelah. So the landlord scratched his head and looked silly, as he was apt to do when puzzledo The landlady scratched — no, she did not scratch her head, but she knit her brow, and did not seem half pleased with the explanation. But the landlady's daughter corroborated it by recollecting that the last per- son who had dwelt in that chamber was a famous juggler 80 TALES OF A TRAVELLER who died of St. Vitus's dance, and had no doubt infected all the furniture. This set all things to rights, particularly when the chambermaids declared that they had all witnessed strange carryings on in that room; and as they declared this "upon their honors," there could not remain a doubt upon this subject. *'And did your grandfather go tp bed again in that room?" said the inquisitive gentleman. "That's more than I can tell. Where he passed the rest of the night was a secret he never disclosed. In fact, though he had seen much service, he was but indifferently acquainted with geography, and apt to make blunders in his travels about inns at night, which it would have puzzled him sadly to account for in the morning.'"' "Was he ever apt to walk in his sleep?" said the know- ing old gentleman. "Never that I heard of. " There was a little pause after this rigmarole Irish romance, when the old gentleman with the haunted head observed, that the stories hitherto related had rather a burlesque tendency. "I recollect an adventure, how- ever," added he, "which I heard of during a residence at Paris, for the truth of which I can undertake to vouch, and which is of a very grave and singular nature." ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT On a stormy night, in the tempestuous times of the French revolution, a young German was returning to his lodgings, at a late hour, across the old part of Paris. The lightning gleamed, and the loud claps of thunder ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT 81 rattled through the lofty narrow streets — but I should first tell you something about this young German. Gottfried Wolfgang was a young man of good family. He had studied for some time at Gottingen/ but being of a visionary and enthusiastic character, he had wandered into those wild and speculative doctrines which have so often bewildered German students. His secluded life, his intense appHcation, and the singular nature of his studies, had an effect on both mind and body. His health was impaired; his imagination diseased. He had been indulg- ing in fanciful speculations on spiritual essences, until, . like Swedenborg,^ he had an ideal world of his own around him. He took up a notion, I do not know from what cause, that there was an evil influence hanging over him; an evil genius or spirit seeking to ensnare him and ensure his perdition. Such an idea working on his melancholy temperament, produced the most gloomy effects. He became haggard and desponding. His friends discovered the mental malady ipr eying upon him, and determined that the best cure was a change of scene ; he was sent, there- fore, to finish his studies amid the splendors and gayeties of Paris. Wolfgang arrived at Paris at the breaking out of the revolution. The popular delirium at first caught his enthusiastic mind, and he was captivated by the political and philosophical theories of the day: but the scenes of blood which followed shocked his sensitive nature, dis- gusted him with society and the world, and made him more than ever a recluse. He shut himself up in a soli- tary apartment in the Pays Latin,^ the quarter of stu- 1 Gottingen is a university town. 2 Emanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772) was a religious mystic. He constructed for himself a spiritual world in which the dead moved with the living. 3 Literally, " Latin country" ; the section of Paris in which students for merl'y lived, and to less extent In which they still live. 82 TALES OF A TRAVELLER dents. There, in a gloomy street not far from the monastic walls of the Sorbonne/ he pursued his favorite speculations. Sometimes he spent hours together in the great libraries of Paris, those catacombs of departed authors, rummaging among their hoards of dusty and obsolete works in quest of food for his unhealthy appetite. He was, in a manner, a literary ghoul, feeding in the charnel-house of decayed literature, Wolfgang, though solitary and recluse, was of an ardent temperament, but for a time it operated merely upon his imagination. He was too shy and ignorant of the world to make any advances to the fair, but he was a passionate admirer of female beauty, and in his lonely chamber would often lose himself in reveries on forms and faces which he had seen, and his fancy would deck out images of loveliness far surpassing the reality. While his mind was in this excited and sublimated state, a dream produced an extraordinary effect upon him. It was of a female face of transcendant beauty. So strong was the impression made, that he dreamt of it again and again. It haunted his thoughts by day, his slumbers by night ; in fine, he became passionately enamoured of this shadow of a dream. This lasted so long that it became one of those fixed ideas which haunt the niinds of melan- choly men, and are at times mistaken for madness. Such was Gottfried Wolfgang, and such his situation at the time Jl mentioned. He was returning home late one stormy night, through some of the old and gloomy streets of the Marais^ the ancient part of Paris. The loud claps of thunder rattled among the high houses of the narrow streets. He came to the Place de Greve,^the square where 1 The college of the Sorbonne, an ancient seat of learning in Paris. 2 The Quartier du Marais, atiother of the quarters, or sections of Paris. ^The name is now "Place de I'Hotel (ie Ville." ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT 83 public executions are performed. Tlie lightning quivered about the pinnacles of the ancient Hotel de Ville/ and shed flickering gleams over the open space in front. As Wolfgang was crossing the square, he shrank back with horror at finding himself close by the guillotine. It was the height of the reign of terror, when this dreadful instru- ment of death stood ever ready, and its scaffold was con- tinually running with the blood of the virtuous and the brave. It had that very day been actively employed in the work of carnage, and there it stood in grim array, amidst a silent and sleeping city, waiting for fresh victims. Wolfgang's heart sickened within him, and he was turn- ing shuddering from the horrible engine, when he beheld a shadowy form, cowering as it were at the foot of the steps which led up to the scaffold. A succession of vivid flashes of lightning revealed it more distinctly. It was a female figure, dressed in black. She was seated on one of the lower steps of the scaffold, leaning forward, her face hid in her lap; and her long dishevelled tresses hanging to the ground, streaming with the rain which fell in tor- rents. Wolfgang paused. There was something awful in this solitary monument of woe. The female had the appearance of being above the common order. He knew the times to be full of vicissitude, and that many a fair head, which had once been pillowed on down, now wan- dered houseless. Perhaps this was some poor mourner whom the dreadful axe had rendered desolate, and who sat here heart-broken on the strand of existence, from which all that was dear to her had been launched into eternity. He approached, and addressed her in the accents of 1 The great town-hall of Paris. It was destroyed by the leaders of the Commune in 1871, but was reconstructed in its old form and on its old site after the Revolution. It still stands one of the finest of the architectural monuments of Paris. 84 TALES OF A TRAVELLER sympathy. She raised her head and gazed wildly at him, What was his astonishment at beholding, by the bright glare of the lightning, the very face which had haunted him in his dreams. It was pale and disconsolate, but ravishingly beautiful. Trembling with violent and conflicting emotions, Wolf- gang again accosted her. He spoke something of her being exposed at such an hour of the night, and to the fury of such a storm, and offered to conduct her to her friends. She pointed to the guillotine with a gesture of dreadful signification. "I have no friend on earth!" said she. "But you have a home," said Wolfgang. '*Yes — in the grave!" ' The heart of the st' aent melted at the words. "If a stranger d^re make an offer," said he, "without danger of being misunderstood, I would offer my humble dwelling as a shelter; myself as a devoted friend. lam friendless myself in Paris, and a stranger in the land; but if my life could be of service, it is at your disposal, and should be sacrificed before harm or indignity should come to you. ' * There was an honest earneitness in the young man's manner that had its effect. His foreign accent, too, was in his favor ; it showed him not to be a hackneyed inhabit- ant of Paris. Indeed, there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm that is not to be doubted. The homeless" stranger confided herself implicitly to the protection of the student. He supported her faltering steps across the Pont Neuf, and by the place where the statue of Henry the Fourth had been overthrown by the populace. The storm had abated, and the thunder rumbled at a distance. All Paris ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT 85 was quiet ; that great volcano of human passion slumbered for a while, to gather fresh strength for the next day's eruption. The student conducted his charge through the ancient streets of the Pays Latin^ and by the dusky walls of the Sorbonne, to the great dingy hotel which he .inhabited. The old portress who admitted them stared with surprise at the unusual sight of the melancholy Wolfgang with a female companion. On entering his apartment, the student, for the first time, blushed at the scantiness and indifference of his dwelling. He had but one chamber — an old-fashioned saloon — heavily carved, and fantastically furnished with the remains of former magnificence, for it was one of those hotels^ in the quarter of the Luxembourg palace, which had once belonged to nobility. It was lumbered with books and papers, and all the ^sual apparatus of a stu- dent, and his bed stood in a recess at one end. When lights were brought, and Wolfgang had a better opportunity of contemplating the stranger, he was more than ever intoxicated by her beauty. Her face was pale, but of a dazzling fairness, set off by a profusion of raven hair that hung clustering about it. Her eyes were large and brilliant, with a singular expression approaching almost to wildness. As far as her black dress permitted her shape to be seen, it was of perfect symmetry. Her whole appearance was highly striking, though she was dressed in the simplest style. The only thing approaching to an ornament which she wore, was a broad black band round her neck, clasped by diamonds. The perplexity now commenced with the student how to dispose of the helpless being thus thrown upon his pro- * To be understood in the French sense of the word, i.e., mansion, or palace. 86 TALES OF A TRAVELLER tection. He thought of abandoning his chamber to her, and seeking shelter for himself elsewhere. Still, he was so fascinated by her charms, there seemed to be such a spell npon his thoughts and senses, that he could not tear himself from her presence. Her manner, too, was sin- gular and unaccountable. She spoke no more of tlie guillotine. Her grief had abated. The attentions of the student had first won her confidence, and then, appar- ently, her heart. She was evidently an enthusiast like himself, and enthusiasts soon understand each other. In the infatuation of the moment, Wolfgang avowed his passion for her. He told her the story of his mysterious dream, and how she had possessed his heart before he had even seen her. She was strangely affected by his recital, and acknowledged to have felt an impulse towards him equally unaccountable. It was the time for wild theory and wild actions. Old prejudices and superstitions were done away; everything was under the sway of the "God- dess of Reason. " ^ Among other rubbish of the old times, the forms and ceremonies of marriage began to be consid- ered superfluous bonds for honorable minds. Social com- pacts were the vogue. Wolfgang was too much ' of a theorist not to be tainted by the liberal doctrines of the day. "Why should we separate?" said he: ''our hearts are united; in the eye of reason and honor we are as one. What need is there of sordid forms to bind high souls together?" The stranger listened with emotion: she had evidently received illumination at the same school. "You have no home nor family," continued he: "let me 1 To take the place of traditional religion the Revolutionists fashioned a new one founded solely on reason; on the occasion of the inauguration of this religion, Reason was represented by a beautiful woman of Paris. ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT 87 be everything to you, or rather let us be everything to one another. If form is necessary, form shall be observed — there is my hand. I pledge myself to you forever. ' ' "Forever?" said the stranger, solemnly. "Forever!" replied Wolfgang. I The stranger clasped the hand ^extended to her: "Then I am yours, ' ' murmured she, and sank upon his bosom. The next morning the student left his bride sleeping, and sallied forth at an early hour to seek more spacious apartments suitable to the change in his situation. When he returned, he found the stranger lying with her head hanging over the bed, and one arm thrown over it. He spoke to her, but received no reply. He advanced to awaken her from her uneasy posture. On taking her hand, it was cold — there was no pulsation — her face was pallid and ghastly. In a word, she was a corpse. Horrified and frantic, he alarmed the house. A scene of confusion ensued. The police was summoned. As the officer of police entered the room, he started back on beholding the corpse. "Great heaven!" cried he, "how did this woman come here?" *'Do you know anything about her?" said Wolfgang eagerly. "Do I?" exclaimed the officer: "she was guillotined yesterday." He stepped forward ; undid the black collar round the neck of the corpse, and the head rolled on the floor! The student burst into a frenzy. "The fiend! the fiend has gained possession of _me ! " shrieked he: "lam lost forever." They tried to soothe him, but in vain. He was pos- sessed with the frightful belief that an evil spirit had 88 TALES OF A TRAVELLER reanimated the dead body to ensnare him. He went dis- tracted, and died in a mad-house. Here the old gentleman with the haunted head finished his narrative. "And is this really a fact?" said the inquisitive gentle- man. "A fact not to be doubted," replied the other. "I had it from the best authority. The student told it me him- self. I saw him in a mad-house in Paris." ^ ADVENTUEE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE As one story of a kind produces another, and as all the company seemed fully engrossed with the subject, and dis- posed to bring their relatives and ancestors upon the scene, there is no knowing how many more strange adven- tures we might have heard, had not a corpulent old fox- hunter, who had slept soundly through the whole, now suddenly awakened, with a loud and long-drawn yawn. The sound broke the charm : the ghosts took to flight, as though it had been cock-crowing,' and there was a univer- sal move for bed. **And now for the Ixaunted chamber," said the Irish Captain, taking his candle. "Ay, who's to be the hero of the night?" said the gen- tleman with the ruined head. "That we shall see in the morning," said the old gen- tleman with the nose: "whoever looks pale and grizzly will have seen the ghost, ' ' 1 An interesting comparison might be made between this story and some of Poe's stories, e. g., Tales of Ratiocination, and Tales of the Grotesque aTtd Arabesque. ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE S!> ''Well, gentlemen," said the Baronet, "there's many a true thing said in jest — in fact, one of yom will sleep in the room to-night" "What — a haunted room? — a haunted room? — I claim the adventure — and I — and I — and I," said a dozen guests, talking and laughing at the same time. "No, no," said mine host, "there is a secret about one of my rooms on which I feel disposed to try an experi- ment : so, gentlemen, none of you shall know who has the haunted chamber until circumstances reveal it. I will not even know it myself, but will leave it to chance and the allotment of the housekeeper. At the same time, if it will be any satisfaction to you, I will obserA^e, for the honor of my paternal mansion, tliat there's scarcely a chamber in it but is well worthy of being haunted. ' ' We nov/ separated for the night, and each went to his allotted room. Mine was in one wing of the building, and I could not but smile at its resemblance in style to those eventful apartments described in the tales of the supper- table. It was spacious and gloomy, decorated with lamp- black portraits; a bed of ancient damask, with a tester sufficiently lofty to grace a couch of state, and a number pf massive pieces of old-fashioned furniture. I drew a great claw-footed arm-chair before the wide fireplace; stirred up the fire; sat looking into it, and musing upon the odd stories I had heard, until, partly overcome by the fatigue of the day's hunting, and partly by the wine and wassail of mine host, I fell asleep in my chair. The uneasiness of my position made my slumber troubled, and laid me at the mercy of all kinds of wild and fearful dreams. Now it was that my perfidious dinner and supper rose in rebellion against my peace. I was hag-rid- den by a fat saddle of mutton; a plum-pudding weighed 90 TALES OF A TRAVELLER like lead upon my conscience; the merry- thought^ of a capon filled me with horrible suggestions; and a devilled leg of a turkey stalked in all kinds of diabolical shapes through my imagination. In short, I had a violent fit of the nightmare. Some strange, indefinite evil seemed hanging over me which I could not avert ; something ter- rible and loathsome oppressed me which I could not shake off. I was conscious of being asleep, and strove to rouse myself, but every effort redoubled the evil ; until gasping, struggling, almost strangling, I suddenly sprang bolt upright in my chair, and awoke. The light on the mantel -piece had burnt low, and the wick was divided; there was a great winding-sheet made by the dripping wax on the side towards nie. The dis- ordered taper emitted a broad flaring flame, and threw a strong light on a painting over the fireplace which I had not hitherto observed. It consisted merely of a head, or rather a face, staring full upon me, with an expression that was startling. It was without a frame, and at the first glance I could hardly persuade myself that it was not a real face thrusting itself out of the dark oaken panel. I sat in my chair gazing at it, and the more I gazed the more it disquieted me. I had never before been affected in the same way by any painting. The emotions it caused were strange and indefinite. They were something like what I have heard ascribed to the eyes of the basilisk, or like that mysterious influence in reptiles termed fascination. I passed my hand over my eyes several times, as if seeking instinctively to brush away the illusion — in vain. They instantly reverted to the picture, and its chilling, creeping influence over my flesh and blood was redoubled. I looked round the room on other pictures, either to divert my 1 The wish-bone. ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE 91 attention, or to see whether the same effect would be pro- duced by them. Some of them were grim enough to pro- duce the effect, if the mere grimness of the painting produced it. — No such thing — my eye passed over them all with perfect indifference', but the moment it reverted to this visage over the fireplace, it was as if an electric shock darted through me. The other pictures were dim and faded, but this one protruded from a plain background in the strongest relief, and with wonderful truth of color- ing. The expression was that of agony — the agony of intense bodily pain ; but a menace scowled upon the brow, and a few sprinklings of blood added to its ghastliness. Yet it was not all these characteristics ; it was some horror of the mind, some inscrutable antipathy awakened by this picture, which harrowed up my feelings. I tried to persuade myself that this was chimerical, that my brain was confused by the fumes of mine host's good cheer, and in some measure by the odd stories about paintings which had been told at supper. I determined to shake off these vapors of the mind; rose from my chair; walked about the room; snapped my fingers; rallied myself; laughed aloud. It was a forced laugh, and the echo of it in the old chamber jarred upon my ear. — I walked to the window, and tried to discern the landscape through the glass. It was pitch darkness, and a howling- storm without ; and as I heard the wind moan among the trees, I caught a reflection of this accursed visage in the pane of glass, as though it were staring through the win- dow at me. Even the reflection of it was thrilling. How was this vile nervous fit, for such I now persuaded myself it was, to be conquered? I determined to force myself not to look at the painting, but to undress quickly and get into bed. — I began to undress, but in spite of 92 TALES OF A TRAVELLER every effort I could not keep myself from stealing a gljance every now and then at the picture; and a glance was sufficient to distress me. Even when my back was turned to it, the idea of this strange face behind me, peeping over my shoulder, was insupportable. I threw off my clothes and hurried into bed, but still this visage gazed upon me. I had a full view of it in my bed, and for some time could not take my eyes from it. I had grown nerv- ous to a dismal degree. I put out the light, and tried to force myself to sleep — all in vain. The fire gleaming up a little, threw an uncertain light about the room, leaving, however, the region of the picture in deep shadow. What, thought I, if this be the chamber about which mine host spoke as having a mystery reigning over it? I had taken his words merely as spoken in jest; might they have a real import? I looked around. The faintly lighted apart- ment had all the qualifications requisite for a haunted chamber. It began in my infected imagination to assume strange appearances — the old portraits turned paler and paler, and blacker and blacker ; the streaks of light and shadow thrown among the quaint articles of furniture gave them more singular shapes and characters. — There was a huge dark clothes-press of antique form, gorgeous in brass and lustrous with wax, that began to grow oppressive to me. "Am I then," thought 1, "indeed the hero of the haunted room? Is there really a spell laid upon me, or is this all some contrivance of mine host to raise a laugh at my expense?" The idea of being hag-ridden by my own fancy all night, and then bantered on my haggard looks the next day, was intolerable; but the very idea was sufficient to produce the effect, and to render me still more nervous. — "Pish," said I, "it can be no such thing. ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE 93 How could my worthy host imagine that I, or any man, would be so worried by a mere picture? It is my own diseased imagination that torments me. ' ' I turned in bed, and shifted from side to side, to try to fall asleep; but all in vain; when one cannot get asleep by lying quiet, it is seldom that tossing about will effect the purpose. The fire gradually went out, and left the room in total darkness. Still I had the idea of that inexplicable countenance gazing and keeping watch upon me through the gloom — nay, what was worse, the very darkness seemed to magnify its terrors. It was like having an unseen enemy hanging about one in the night. Instead of hav- ing one picture now to worry me, I had a hundred. I fancied it in every direction — "There it is," thought I, "and there! and there! with its horrible and mysterious expression still gazing and gazing on me ! No — if I must suffer the strange and dismal influence, it were better face a single foe than thus be haunted by a thousand imagoes of it." Whoever has been in a state of nervous agitation, must know that the longer it continues the more uncontrollable it grows. The very air of the chamber seemed at length infected by the baleful presence of this picture. I fancied it hovering over me. I almost felt the fearful visage from the wall approaching my face — it seemed breathing upon me. "This is not to be borne," said I, at length, spring- ing out of bed: "I can stand this no longer — I shall only tumble and toss about here all night; make a very spectre of myself, and become the hero of the haunted chamber in good earnest. Whatever be the ill consequences, I'll quit this cursed room and seek a night's rest elsewhere — they can but laugh at me, at all events, and they'll be sure to have the laugh upon me if I pass a sleepless night, and 04 TALES OF A TRAVELLER show them a haggard and woe-begone visage in the morn- ing." All this was half-miittered to myself as I hastily slipped on my clothes, which having done, I groped my way out of the room and down-stairs to the drawing-room. Here, after tumbling over two or three pieces of furniture, I made out to re^ich a sofa, and stretching myself upon it, determined to bivouac there for the night. The moment I found myself out of the neighborhood of that strange picture, it seemed as if the charm were broken. All its influence was at an end. I felt assured that it was con- fined to its own dreary chamber, for I had, with a sort of instinctive caution, turned the key when I closed the door. I soon calmed down, therefore, into a state of tranquillity ; from that into a drowsiness, and finally into a deep sleep; out of which I did not awake until the housemaid, with her besom and her matin-song, came to put the room in order. She stared at finding me stretched upon the sofa, but I presume circumstances of the kind were not uncom- mon after hunting-dinners in her master's bachelor estab- lishment, for she went on with her song and her work, and took no further heed of me. . I had an unconquerable repugnance to return to my chamber; so I found my way to the butler's quarters, made my toilet in the best way circumstances would per- mit, and was among the first to appear at the breakfast- table. Our breakfast was a substantial fox-hunter's repast^ and the company generally assembled at it. AYhen ample justice had, been done to the tea, coffee, cold meats, and humming ale, for all these were furnished in abun- dance, according to the tastes of the different guests, the conversation began to break out with all the liveliness and freshness of morning mirth. ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE 95 ^*Bnt who is the hero of the haunted chamber — ^who has seen the ghost last night?" said the inquisitive gentleman, rolling his lobster-eyes about the table. The question set every tongue in motion; a vast deal of bantering, criticising of countenances, of mutual accusa- tion and retort took place. Some had drunk deep, and some were unshaven, so that there were suspicious faces enough in the assembly. I alone could not enter with ease and vivacity into the joke — I felt tongue-tied, embar- rassed. A recollection of what I had seen and felt the preceding night still haunted my mind. It seemed as if the mysterious picture still held a thrall upon me. I thought also that our host's eye was turned on me with an air of curiosity. In short, I was conscious that I was the hero of the night, and felt as if every one might read it in my looks. The joke, however, passed over, and no sus- picion seemed to attach to me. I was just congratulating myself on my escape, when a servant came in saying, that the gentleman who had slept on the sofa in the drawing- room, had left his watch under one of the pillows. My repeater was in his hand. "What!" said the inquisitive gentleman, "did any gen- tleman sleep on the sofa?" "Soho! soho!^ a hare — a hare!" cried the old gentle- man with the flexible nose. I could not avoid acknowledging the watch, and was ris- ing in great confusion, when a boisterous old squire who sat beside me exclaimed, slapping me on the shoulder, ** 'Sblood, lad, thou art the man as has seen the ghost!" The attention of the company was immediately turned on me : if my face had been pale the moment before, it now glowed almost to burning. I tried to laugh, but could » A hunting cry given on starting a hare. 96 TALES OF A TRAVELLER Only make a grimace, and fonnd the muscles of my face twitching at sixes and sevens, and totally out of all control. It takes but little to raise a laugh among a set of fox- hunters ; there was a world of merriment and joking on the subject, and as I never relished a joke overmuch when it was at my own expense, I began to feel a little nettled. I tried to look cool and calm, and to restrain my pique ; but the coolness and calmness of a man in a passion are confounded treacherous. "Gentlemen," said I, with a slight cocking of the chin and a bad attempt at a smile, ''this is all very pleasant — ha! ha! — ^very pleasant — but I'd have you know, I am as little superstitious as any of you — ha! ha! — and as to any- thing like timidity — you may smile, gentlemen, but I trust there's no one here means to insinuate, that — as to a room's being haunted — I repeat, gentlemen, (growing a little warm at seeing a cursed grin breaking out round me,) as to a room'? being haunted, I have as little faith in such silly stories as any one. But, since you put the matter home to me, I will say that I have met with something in my room strange and inexplicable to me. (A shout of laughter.) Gentlemen, I am serious; I know well what I am saying; I am calm, gentlemen, (striking my fist upon the table,) by Heaven I am calm. I am neither trifling,. nor do I wish to be trifled with. (The laughter of the- company suppressed, and with ludicrous attempts at gravity.) There is a picture in the room in which I was put last night, that has had an effect upon me the most singular and incomprehensible." '*A picture?" said the old gentleman with the haunted head. *'A picture!" cried the narrator with the nose. *'A picture! a picture!" echoed several voices. Here- there was an ungovernable peal of laughter. I could not. ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE 9"? contain myself. ' I started up from my seat ; looked round on the company with fiery indignation ; thrust both of my hands into my pockets, and strode up to one of the win- dows as though I would have walked through it. . I stopped short, looked out upon the landscape without dis- tinguishing a feature of it, and felt my gorge rising almost to suffocation. Mine host saw it was time to interfere. He had main- tained an air of gr-avity through the whole of the scene; and now stepped forth, as if to shelter me from the over- whelming merriment of my companions. *' Gentlemen," said he, "I dislike to spoil sport, but you. have had your laugh, and the joke of the haunted cham- ber has been enjoyed. I must now take the part of my guest. I must not only vindicate him from your pleasan- tries, but I must reconcile him to himself, for I suspect he is a little out of humor with his own feelings ; and> above all, I must crav^e his pardon for having made him. the subject of a kind of experiment. Yes, gentlemen, there is something strange and peculiar in the chamber tO' which our friend was shown last night ; there is a picture in my house which possesses a singular and mysterious influence, and with which there is connected a very curious story. It is a picture to which I attach a value from a variety of circumstances; aind though I have often been tempted to destroy it, from the odd and uncomfortable^ sensations which it produced in every one that beholds it, yet I have never been able to prevail upon myself to make the sacrifice. It is a picture I never like to look upon myself, and which is held in awe by all my servants. I have therefore banished it to a room but rarely used, and should have had it covered last night, had not the nature of our conversation, and the whimsical talk, about a. 98 TALES OF A TRAVELLER haunted chamber, tempted me to let it remain, by way oi experiment, to see whether a stranger, totally unacquainted with its story, would be affected by it. ' * The words of the Baronet had turned every thought into a different channel. All were anxious to hear the story of the mysterious picture ; and , for myself, so strangely were my feelings interested, that I forgot to feel piqued at the experiment my host had made upon my nerves, and joined eagerly in the general entreaty. As the morning was stormy, and denied all egress, my host was glad of any means of entertaining his company; so, drawing his arm- chair towards the fire, he began. ADVENTUEE OF THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER Many years since, when I was a young man, and had just left Oxford, I was sent on the grand tour^ to finish my education. I believe my parents had tried in vain to inoc- ulate me with wisdom; so they sent me to mingle with society, in hopes that I might take it the natural way. Such, at least, appears the reason for which nine-tenths of our youngsters are sent abroad. In the course of my tour I remained some time at Venice. The romantic character of that place delighted me ; I was very much amused by the air of adventure and intrigue prevalent in this region pf masks and gondolas ; and I was exceedingly smitten by a pair of languishing black eyes, that played upon my heart from under an Italian mantle ; so I persuaded myself that I was lingering at Venice to study men and manners ; at least I persuaded my friends so,, and that answered all my purposes. 1 The "grand tour" is the tour through France, Italy, and Germany. ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER 99 I was a little pr6ne to be struck by peculiarities in char- acter and conduct, and my imagination was so full of romantic associations with Italy that I was always on the look-out for adventure. Everything chimed in with such a humor in this old mermaid of a city. My suite of apart- ments were* in a proud, melancholy palace on the grand canal, formerly the residence of a magnifico,^ and sumptuous with the traces of decayed grandeur. My gondolier was one of the shrewdest of his class, active, merry, intelli- gent, and, like his brethren, secret as the grave ; that is to say, secret to aJJ the world except his master. I had not had him a week, before he put me behind all the cur- tains in Venice. I liked the silence and mystery of the place, and when I sometimes saw from my window a black gondola gliding mysteriously along in the dusk of the evening, with nothing visible but its little glimmering lan- tern, I would jump into my own zendeletta,^ and give a signal for pursuit — "But I am running away from my sub- ject with the recollection of youthful follies," said the Baronet, checking himself. "Let us come to the point.'* Among my familiar resorts was a casino* under the arcades on one side of the grand square of St. Mark.^ Here I used frequently to lounge and take my ice, on those warm summer-nights when in Italy everybody lives abroad until morning. I was seated here one evening when a group of Italians took their seat at a table on the opposite side of the saloon. Their conversation was gay and ani- mated, and carried on with Italian vivacity and gesticula- tion. I remarked among them one young man, however, 1 S trict grammar required ' 'was. ' ' 3 A noble or grandee. 3 The word is a diminutive; a light gondola. 4 A place where light refreshments are served, a caf6. 5 The principal square and promenade in Venice. The cathedral of St Mark, the Ducal Palace, and other famous buildings are on this square. 100 TALES OF A TRAVELLER who appeared to take no share, and find no enjoyment in the conversation, though he seemed to force himself to attend to it. He was tall and slender, and of extremely prepossessing appearance. His features were fine, though emaciated. He had a profusion of black glossy hair, that curled lightly about his head, and contrasted with the extreme paleness of his countenance. His brow was hag- gard; deep furrows seemed to have been ploughed into his visage by care, not by age, for he was evidently in the prime of youth. His eye was full of expression and fire, but wild and unsteady. He seemed to be tormented by some strange fancy or apprehension. In spite of every effort to fix his attention on the conversation of his com- panions, I noticed that every now and then he would turn his head slowly round, give a glance over his shoulder, and then withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something painful met his eye. This was repeated at intervals of about a minute, and he appeared hardly to have recovered from one shock, before I saw him slowly preparing to encounter another. After sitting some time in the casino, the party paid for the refreshment they had taken, and departed. The young man was the last to leave the saloon, and I remarked him glancing behind him in the same way, just as he passed out of the door. I could not resist the impulse to rise and follow him; for I was at an age when a romantic feeling of curiosity is easily awakened. The party walked slowly down the arcades, talking and laugh- ing as they went. They crossed the Piazzetta,^ but paused in the middle of it to enjoy the scene. It was one of those moonlight nights, so brilliant and clear in the pure » The Piazzetta (the word is a diminutive of "piazza") is a smaller con tinuation leading off from the squai-^ of St. Mark. ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERiOUS STRANGER 101 atmosphere of Italy. The moonbeams streamed on the tall tower of St. Mark, and lighted up the magnificent front and swelling domes of the cathedral. The party expressed their delight in animated terms. I kept my eye upon the young man. He alone seemed abstracted and self -occupied. I noticed the .same singular and, as it were, furtive glance over the shoulder, which had attracted my attention in the casino. The party moved on, and I followed; they passed along the walk called the Brogiio,^ turned the corner of the Ducal Palace, and getting into the gondola, glided swiftly away. The countenance and conduct of this young man dwelt upon my mind, and interested me exceedingly. I met him a day or two afterwards in a gallery of paintings. He was evidently a connoisseur, for he always singled out the most masterly productions, and a few remarks drawn from him by his companions showed an intimate acquaintance with the art. His own taste, however, ran on singular extremeso On Salvator Rosa, in his most savage and soli- tary scenes; on Raphael, Titian, and Correggio,^ in their softest delineations of female beauty; on these he would occasionally gaze with transient enthusiasm. But this seemed only a momentary forgetfulness. Still would recur that cautious glance behind, and always quickly withdrawn, as though something terrible met his view. 1 encountered him frequently afterwards at the theatre, at balls, at concerts ; at promenades in the gardens of San Georgio;^ at the grotesque exhibitions in the square of St. Mark ; among the throng of merchants on the exchange by » The Brogiio is that part of the Piazzetta immediately .iu front of the 2 Raphael, Titian, and Correggio were Italian painters of the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries. Salvator Rosa was a late Italian painter of the seventeenth century. For further characterization of Salvator Rosa see pp. 355, 363. 8 One of the islands on which Venice is builk 102 TALES OF A TRAVELLER the Sialto.^ He seemed, in fact, to seek crowds; to hunt after bustle and amusement ; yet never to take any interest in either the business or the gayety of the scene. Ever an air of painful thought, of wretched abstraction ; and ever that strange and recurring movement of glancing fearfully over the shoulder. I did not know at first but this might be caused by apprehension of arrest ; or, perhaps, from dread of assassination. But if so,why should he go thus continually abroad? why expose himself at all times and in all places? I became anxious to know this stranger. I was drawn to him by that romantic sympathy which sometimes draws young men towards each other. His melancholy threw a charm about him, no doubt heightened by the touching- expression of his countenance, and the manly graces of his person ; for manly beauty has its effect even upon men. I had an Englishman's habitual diffidence and awkwardness to contend with; but from frequently meeting him in the casinos, I gradually edged myself into his acquaintance. I had no reserve on his part to contend with. He seemed, on the contrary, to court society; and, in fact, to seek anything rather than be alone. When he found that I really took an interest in him, he threw himself entirely on my friendship. He clung to me like a drowning man. He would walk with me for hours up and down the place of St. Mark — or would sit, until night was far advanced, in my apartments. He took rooms under the same roof with me; and his constant request was that I would permit him, when it did not incommode me, to sit by me in my saloon. It was not that he seemed to take a particular delight in my conver- sation, but rather that he craved the vicinity of a human * A section of Venice near the place at which the Ponte di Rialto crosses the Grand Canal ; it was the center of trade and commerce. ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER 103 being ; and above all, of a being that sympathized with him. "I have often heard," said he, "of the sincerity of English- men — thank God I have one at length for a friend!" Yet he never seemed disposed to avail himself of my sympathy other than by mere companionship. He never sought to unbosom himself to me : there appeared to be a settled corroding anguish in his bosom that neither could' be soothed *'by silence nor by speaking." A devouring melancholy preyed upon his heart, and seemed to be drying up the very blood in his veins. It was not a soft melancholy, the disease of the affections, but a parching, withering agony. I could see at times that his mouth was dry and feverish; he panted rather than breathed; his eyes were bloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid ; with now and then faint streaks of red athwart them, baleful gleams of the fire that was consuming his heart. As my arm was within his, I felt him press it at times with a convulsive motion to his side; his hand^ would clinch themselves involuntarily, and a kind of shud- der would run through his frame. I reasoned with him about liis melancholy, sought to draw from him the cause ; he shrunk from all confiding , "Do not seek to know it," said he, "you could not relievo it if you knew it ; you would not even seek to relieve it On the contrary, I should lose your sympathy, and that,' said he, pressing my hand convulsively, "that I feel has- become too dear to me to risk." I endeavored to awaken hope within him. He war young; life had a thousand pleasures in store for him^ 'here was a healthy reaction in the youthful heart; it medicines all its own wounds; "Come, come," said I, "there is no grief so great that youth cannot outgrow it.'' —"No! no!" said he, clinching his teeth, and striking 104 TALES OF A TRAVELLER repeatedly, with the energy of despair, on his bosom, — "it is here! here! deep-rooted; draining my heart's blood. Ifc grows and grows, while my heart withers and withers. I have a dreadful monitor that gives me no i-epose — that follows me step by step — and will follow me step by step, until it pushes me into my grave!" As he said this he involuntarily gave one of those fearful glances over his shoulder, and shrunk back with more than asual horror. I could not resist the temptation to allude to this movement, which I supposed to be some mere malady of the nerves. The moment I mentioned it, his face became crimsoned and convulsed; he grasped me by both hands — "For God's sake," exclaimed he, with a piercing voice, "never allude to that again. — Let us avoid this subject, my friend; you cannot relieve me, indeed you cannot relieve me, but you may add to the torments I suffer. — At some future day you shall know all. " I never resumed the subject; for however much my curiosity might be roused, I felt too true a compassion for his sufferings to increase them by my intrusion. . I sought various ways to divert his mind, and to arouse him from the constant meditations in which he was plunged. He saw my efforts, and seconded them as far as in his power, for there was nothing moody or wayward in his nature. On the contrary, there was something frank, generous, unassuming, in his whole deportment. All the senti- ments he uttered were noble and lofty. He claimed no indulgence, "^asked no toleration, but seemed content to carry his load of misery in silence, and only sought to carry it by my side. There was a mute beseeching man- ner about him, as if he craved companionship as a char- itable boon ; and a tacit thankfulness in his looks, as if he felt grateful to me for not repulsing him. ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER 105 I felt this melancholy to be infectious. It stole over my spirits; interfered with all my gay pursuits, and gradually saddened my life ; yet I could not prevail upon myself to shake off a being who seemed to hang upon me for support. In truth, the generous traits of character which beamed through all his gloom penetrated to my heart. His bounty was lavish and open-handed; his charity melting and spontaneous; not confined to mere donations,- which humiliate as much as they relieve. The tone of his voice, tlie beam of his eye, enhanced every gift, and surprised the poor suppliant with that rarest and sweetest of charities, the charity not merely of the hand, but of the heart. Indeed his liberality seemed to have something in it of self-abasement and expiation. He, in a manner, humbled himself before the mendicant. "What right have I' to ease and affluence" — would he murmur to himself — "when innocence wanders in misery and rags?" The carnival-time arrived. I hoped the gay scenes then presented might have some cheering^ effect. I mingled with him in the motley throng that crowded the place of St. Mark. We frequented operas, masquerades, balls — all in vain. The evil kept growing on him. He became more and more haggard and agitated. Often, after we had returned from one of those scenes of revelry, I have entered his room and found him lying on his face on the sofa; his hands clinched in his fine hair, and his whole countenance bearing traces of the convulsions of his mind. The carnival passed away ; the time of Lent succeeded ; passion-week arrived ; we attended one evening a solemn service in one of the churches, in the course of which a grand piece of vocal and instrumental mi^sic was per- formed relating to the death of our Saviour.' I had remarked that he was always powerfully affected 106 TALES OP A TRAVELLER by music; on this occasion he was so in an extraordinary degree. As the pealing notes swelled through the lofty aisles, he seemed to kindle with fervor; his eyes rolled upwards, until nothing but the whites were visible ; his hands were clasped together, until the fingers were deeply :mprinted in the flesh. When the music expressed the dying agony, his face gradually sank upon his knees; and at the touching words resounding through the church, ^^Gesic morif^^^ sobs burst from him uncontrolled — I had never seen him weep before. His had always been agony rather thau sorrow. I augured well from the circum- stance, and let him weep on uninterrupted. When the service was ended, we left the church. He hung on my arm as we walked homewards with something of a softer and more subdued manner, instead of that nervous agita- tion I had been accustomed to witness. He alluded to the service we had heard. *' Music," said he, "is indeed the voice of heaven; never before have I felt more impressed by the story of the atonement of our Saviour. — Yes, my friend," said he, clasping his hands with a kind of trans- port, *'I know that my Redeemer liveth!" We parted for the night. His room was not far from mine, and I heard him for some time husied in it. I fell asleep, but was awakened before daylight. The young man stood by my bedside, dressed for travelling. He held a sealed packet and a large parcel in his hand, which he laid on the table. "Farewell, my friend," said he, "I am about to set forth on a long journey; but, before I go, I leave with you these remembrances. In this packet you will find the par- ticulars of my story. When you read them I shall be far away; do not remember me with aversion. — You have been 5 The plirase refers to the death of Jesus. ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER lOT indeed a friend to me. — You have poured oil into a broken heart, but you could not heal it. Farewell ! let me kiss your hand — lam unworthy to embrace you." He sank on his knees, seized my hand in despite of my efforts to the contrary, and covered it with kisses. I was so sur- prised by all the scene, that I had not been able to say a word. — '^But we shall meet again," said I, hastily, as I saw him hurrying towards the door. "Never, never, in this world!" said he, solemnly. — He sprang once more to my bedside — seized my hand, pressed it to his heart and to his lips, and rushed out of the room. Here the Baronet paused. He seemed lost in thought, and sat looking upon the floor, and drumming with his fingers on the arm of his chair. "And did this mysterious personage return?" said the inquisitive gentleman. "Never!" replied the Baronet, with a pensive shake of the head, — "I never saw him again." "And pray what has all this to do with the picture?" inquired the old gentleman with the nose. "True," said the questioner; "is it the portrait of that crack-brained Italian?" "No," said the Baronet, dryly, not half .liking the appellation given to his hero; "but this picture was enclosed in the parcel he left with me. The sealed packet contained its explanation. There was a request, on the outside that I would not open it until six months had elapsed. I kept my promise in spite of my curiosity. I have a translation of it by me, and had meant to read it, by way of accounting for the mystery of the chamber; but I fear I have already detained the company too long." Here there was a general wish expressed to have the manuscript read, particularly on the part of the inquisitive 108 TALES OF A TRAVELLER gentleman ; so the worthy Baronet drew out a f aii'ly writ- ten manuscript, and, wiping his spectacles, read aloud the following story. — THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN^ . I was born at Naples. My parents, though of noble jank, were limited in fortune, or rather, my father was ostentatious beyond his means, and expended so much on his palace, his equipage, and his retinue, that he was con- tinually straitened in his pecuniary circumstances. I was a younger son, and looked upon with indifference by my father, who, from a principle of family pride, wished to leave all his property to my elder brother. I showed, when quite a child, an extreme sensibility. Everything affected me violently. While yet an infant in my mother's arms, and before I had learned to talk, I could be wrought upon to a wonderful degree of anguish or delight by the power of music. As I grew older, my feelings remained equally acute, and I was easily transported into paroxysms of pleasure or rage. It was the amusement of my rela- tions and of the domestics to play upon this irritable temperament. I was moved to tears, tickled to laughter, provoked to fury, for the entertainment of company, who were amused by such a tempest of mighty passion in a pigmy frame; — they little thought, or perhaps little heeded the dangerous sensibilities they were fostering. I thus became a little creature of passion before reason was developed. In a short time I grew too old to be a play- thing, and then I became a torment. The tricks and pas- sions I had been teased into became irksome, and I was disliked by my teachers for the very lessons they had » For pronunciation of Italian words see p. 288. x THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 109 taught me. My mother died ; and my power as a spoiled child was at an end. There was no longer any necessity to humor or tolerate me, for there was nothing to be gained by it, as I was no favorite of my father. I there- fore experienced the fate of a spoiled child in such a situa- tion, and was neglected, or noticed only to be crossed and contradicted. Such was the early treatment of a heart which, if I can judge of it at all, was naturally disposed to the extremes of tenderness and affection. My father, as I have already said, never liked me — in fact, he never understood me ; he looked upon me as wil- ful and wayward, as deficient in natural affection. It was the stateliness of his own manner, the loftiness and grandeur of his own look, which had repelled me from his arms. I always pictured him to myself as I had seen him, clad in his senatorial robes, rustling with pomp and pride. The magnificence of his person daunted my young imagination. I could never approach him with the confiding affection of a child. My father's feelings were wrapt tip in my elder brother. He was to be the inheritor of the family-title and the family-dignity, and everything was sacrificed to him — I, as well as everything else. It was determined to devote me to the Church, so my humors and myself might be removed out of the way, either of tasking my father's time and trouble, or interfering with the interests of my brother. At an early age, therefore, before my mind had dawned upon the world and its delights, or known anything of it beyond the precincts of my father's palace, I was sent to a convent, the superior of which was my. uncle, and was confided entirely to his care. My uncle was a man totally estranged from the world : he had never relished, for he had never tasted its pleas- 110 TALES OF A TRAVELLER ures; and he regarded rigid self-denial as the great basis of Christian virtue. He considered every one's temper- ament like his own ; or at least he made them conform to it. His character and habits had an influence over the fraternity of which he was superior: a more gloomy, saturnine set of beings were never assembled together. The convent, too, was calculated to awaken sad and solitary thoughts. It was situated in a gloomy gorge of those mountains away south of Vesuvius." All distant views were shut out by sterile volcanic heights. A moun- tain-stream raved beneath its walls, and eagles screamed about its turrets. I had been sent to this place at so tender an age as soon to lose all distinct recollection of the scenes I had left behind. As my mind expanded, therefore, it formed its idea of the world from the convent and its vicinity, and a dreary world it appeared to me. An early tinge of melancholy was thus infused into my char- acter ; and the dismal stories of the monks, about devils and evil spirits, with which they affrighted my young imagination, gave me a tendency to superstition which I could never effectually shake off. They took the same delight to work upon my ardent feelings, that had been so mischievously executed by my father's household. I can recollect the horrors with which they fed my heated fancy during an eruption of Vesuvius. We were distant from that volcano, with mountains between us; but jts convulsive throes shook the solid foundations of nature. Earthquakes threatened to topple down our convent- towers. A lurid, baleful light hung in the heavens at night, and showers of ashes, borne by the wind, fell in our narrow valley. The monks talked of the earth being honeycombed beneath us; of streams of molten lava THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 111 raging through its veins; of caverns of snlphnrous flames roaring in the centre, the abodes of demons and the damned; of fiery gulfs ready to yawn beneath our. feet. All these tales were told to the doleful accompaniment of the mountain's thunders, whose low bellowing made the walls of our convent vibrate. One of the monks had been a painter, but had retired from the world, and embraced this dismal life in expiation of some crime. He 'was a melancholy man, who pursued his art in the solitude of his cell, but made it a source of penance to him. His employment was to portray, either on canvas, or in waxen models, the human face and human form, in the agonies of death, and in all the stages of dissolution and decay. The fearful mysteries of the charnel-house were unfolded in his labors; the loath- some banquet of the beetle and the worm. I turn with shuddering even from the recollection of his works ; yet, at the time, my strong but- ill- directed imagination seized with ardor upon his instructions 'in his art. Anything was a variety from the dry studies and monot- onous duties of the cloister. In a little while I became expert with my pencil, and my gloomy productions were thought worthy of decorating some of the altars of the chapel. In this dismal way was a creature of feeling and fancy brought up. Everything genial and amiable in my nature was repressed, and nothing brought out but what was unprofitable and ungracious. I was ardent in my tem- perament; quick, mercurial, impetuous, formed to be a creature all love and adoration ; but a leaden hand was laid on all my finer qualities. I was taught nothing but fear and hatred. I hated my uncle. I hated the monks. I hated the convent in which I was immured. I hated the 112 TALES OF A TRAVELLEK world; and I almost liated myself for being, as I sup- posed, SQ hating and hateful an animaL When I had nearly attained the age of sixteen, I was suffered, on one occasion, to accompany one of the breth- ren on a mission to a distant part of the country. We soon left behind ns the gloomy valley in which I had been pent np for so many years, and after a short journey among the mountains, emerged upon the voluptuous land- scape that spreads itself about the Bay of Naples. Heav- ens! how transported was I, when I stretched my gaze over a vast reach of delicious sunny country, gay with groves and vineyards: with Vesuvius rearing its forked summit to my right ; the blue Mediterranean to my left, with its enchanting coast, studded with shining towns and sumptuous vilks; and Naples, my native Naples, gleaming far, far in the distance. Good God! was this the lovely world from which I had been excluded! I had reached that age when the sensi- bilities are in all their bloom and freshness. Mine had been checked and chilled. They now burst forth with the suddenness of a retarded spring-time. My heart, hitherto unnaturally shrunk up, expanded into a riot of vague but delicious emotions. The beauty of nature intoxicated — bewildered me. The song of the peasants; their cheerful looks; their happy avocations; the pictur- esque gayety of their dresses; their rustic music; their dances; all broke upon me like witchcraft. My soul responded to the music, my heart danced in my bosom. All the men appeared amiable, all the women lovely. I returned to the convent; that is to say, my body returned, but my heart and soul never entered there again. I could not forget this glimpse of a beautiful and a,jhi|ppy w orld — a world so suited to my natural charactei^ i \w,d / THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN ll^ felt so happy while in it; so different a being from what I felt myself when in the convent — that tomb of the living. I contrasted the countenances of the beings I had seen, full of fire and freshness and enjoyment, with the pallid, leaden, lack-lustre visages of the monks: the dance with the droning chant of the chapel. I had before found the exercises of the cloister wearisome, they now became intolerable. The dull round of duties wore away my spirit ; my nerves became irritated by the fretful tinkling of the convent-bell, evermore dinging among the moun- tain-echoes, evermore calling me from my repose at night my pencil by day, to attend to son^e tedious and mechan- ical ceremony of devotion. I was not of a nature to meditate long without putting my thoughts into action. My spirit had been suddenly aroused, and was now all awake within me. I watched an opportunity, fled from the convent, and made my way on foot to Naples. As I entered its gay and crowded streets, and beheld the variety and stir of life around me, the lux- ury of palaces, the splendor of equipages, and the panto- mimic animation of the motley populace, I seemed as if awak- ened to a world of enchantment, and solemnly vowed that nothing should force me back to the monotony of the cloister. I had to inquire my way to my father's palace, for I had been so young on leaving it that I knew not its situa- tion. I found some difficulty in getting admitted to my father's presence ; for the domestics scarcely knew that there was such a being as myself in .existence, and my monastic dress did not operate in my favor. Even my father entertained no recollection of my person. I told him my name, threw myself at his feet, implored his forgiveness, and entreated that I might not be sent back to the convent. He received me with the condescension of a patron, rather 114 TALES OF A TRAVELLER than the fondness of a parent; listened patiently, but coldly, to my tale of monastic grievances and disgusts, and promised to think what else could be done for me. This coldness blighted and drove back all th^ frank affection of my nature, that was ready to spring forth at the least warmth of parental kindness. All my early feelings towards my father revived. 1 again looked up to him as the stately magnificent being that had daunted my childish imagination, and felt as if I had no pretensions to his sympathies. My brother engrossed all his care and love ; he inherited his nature, and carried himself towards me with a protecting rather than a fraternal air. It wounded my pride, which was great. I could brook condescension from my father, for I looked up to him with awe, as a superior being; but I could not brook patronage from a brother, who I felt was intellectually my inferior. The servants perceived that I was an unwelcome intruder in the paternal mansion, and, menial-like, they treated me with neglect. Thus baffled at every point, my affections outraged wherever they would attach themselves, I became sullen, silent, and desponding. My feelings, driven back upon myself, entered and preyed upon my own heart. I remained for some days an unwelcome guest rather than a restored son in my father's house. I was doomed nevei to be properly known there. I was made, by wrong treat- ment, strange even to myself, and they judged of me from my strangeness. I was startled one day at the sight of one of the monks of my convent gliding out of my father's room. He saw me, but pretended not to notice me, and this very hypoc- risy made me suspect something. I had become soi'e and susceptible in my feelings, everything inflicted a wound on them. In this state of mind, I was treated with THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 115 marked disrespect by a pampered minion, the favorite servant of my father. All the pride and passion of my nature rose in an instant, and I struck him to the earth. My father was passing by ; he stopped not to inqfuire the reason, nor indeed could he read the long course of men- tal sufferings which were the real cause. He rebuked me with anger and scorn ; summoning all the haughtiness of his nature and grandeur of his look to give weight to the contumely with which he treated me. I felt that I had not deserved it. I felt that I was not appreciated. I felt that I had that within me which merited better treat- ment. My heart' swelled against a father's injustice. I broke through my habitual awe of him — I replied to him Avith impatience. My hot spirit flushed in my cheek and kindled in my eye; but my sensitive heart swelled as quickly and before I had half vented my passion, I felt it suffocated and quenched in my tears. My father was astonished and incensed at this turning of the worm, and ordered me to my chamber. 1 retired in silence, choking with contending emotions. I had not been long there when I overheard voices in an adjoining apartment. It was a consultation between my father and the monk, about the means of getting me back quietly to the convent. My resolution was taken. 1 had no longer a home nor a father. That very night I left the paternal roof. I got on board a vessel about making sail from the harbor, and abandoned myself to the wide world. No matter to what port she steered ; any part of so beautiful a world was better than my convent. No matter where I wa^ cast by fortune ; any place would be more a home to me than the home I had left behind. The vessel was bound to Genoa. We arrived there ^fter a voyage, of a few days. 1]6 TALES OF A TRAVELLER As I entered the harbor between the moles which embrace it, and beheld the amphitheatre of palaces, and churches, and splendid gardens, rising one above another, I felt at once its title to the appellation of Genoa the Superb. I landed on the mole an utter stranger, without knowing what to do, or whither to direct my steps. No matter: I was released from the thraldom of the convent and the humiliations -of home. When I traversed the Strada Balbi and the Strada Nuova, those streets of pal- aces, and gazed at the wonders of architecture around me ; when I wandered at close of day amid a gay throng of the brilliant and the beautiful, through the green alleys of the Acquaverde,^ or among the colonnades and terraces of the magnificent Doria gardens; I thought it impossible to be ever otherwise than happy in Genoa. A few days sufficed to show me my mistake. My scanty purse was exhausted, and for the first time in my life I experienced the sordid distress of penury. I had never known the want of money, and had never adverted to the possi- bility of such an evil. I was ignorant of the world and all its ways ; and when first the idea of destitution came over my mind, its effect was withering. I was wandering penniless through the streets which no longer delighted my eyes, when chance led my steps into the magnificent church of the Annunciata.^ A celebrated painter of the day was at that moment superintending the placing of one of his pictures over an altar. The proficiency which I had acquired in his art during my residence in the convent, had made me an enthusiastic amateur. I was struck, at the first glance, with the painting. It was the face of a Madonna. So ' ■ — — — 2 — ! ■ » A piazza or square in Genoa. 2 Annunciata— AnnuneiatiGii. THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 117 innocent, so lovely, such a divine expression of maternal tenderness! I lost, for the moment, all recollection of myself in the enthusiasm of my art. I clasped my hands together, and uttered an ejaculation of delight. The painter perceived my emotion. He was flattered and gratified by it. My air and manner pleased him, and he accosted me. I felt too much the want of friendship to repel the advances of a stranger ; and there was something in this one so benevolent and winnirig, that in a moment he gained my confidence. I told him my story and my situation, concealing only my name and rank. He appeared strongly interested by my recital, invited me to his house, and from that time I became his favorite pupil. He thought he perceived in me extraordinary talents for the art, and his encomiums awakened all my ardor. What a blissful period of my existence was it that I passed beneath his roof! Another being seemed created within me; or rather, all that was amiable and excellent was drawn out. I was as recluse as ever I had been at the convent, but how different was my seclusion! My time was spent in storing my mind with lofty and poetical ideas; in meditating on all that was striking and noble in history and fiction ; in studying and tracing all that was sublime and beautiful in nature. I was always a visionary, imaginative being, but now my reveries and imaginings all elevated me to rapture. I looked up to my master as to a benevolent genius that had opened to me a region of enchantment. He was not a native of Genoa, but had been drawn thither by the solici- tations of several of the nobility, and had resided there but a few years, for the completion of certain works. His health was delicate, and he had to confide much of the filling up of his designs to the pencils of his scholars. He 118 TALES OF A TRAVELLER considered me as particularly happy in delineating the human countenance; in seizing upon characteristic though fleeting expressions, and fixing them powerfully upon my canvas. I was employed continually, therefore, in sketch- ing faces, and often, when some particular grace or beauty of expression was wanted in a countenance, it was intrusted to my pencil. My benefactor was fond of bring- ing me forward; and partly, perhaps, through my actual skill, and partly through his partial praises, 1 began to be noted for the expressions of my countenances. 3 Among the various works which he had undertaken, was an historical piece for one of the palaces of Genoa, in which were to be introduced the likenesses of several of the family. Among these was one intrusted to my pencil. It was that of a young girl, as yet in a convent for her education. She came out for the purpose of sitting for the picture. I first saw her in an apartment of one of the sumptuous palaces of Genoa. She stood before a casement that looked out upon the bay; a stream of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed a kind of glory round her, as it lit up the rich crimson chamber. She was but sixteen years of age — and oh, how lovely! The scene broke upon me like a mere^ vision of spring and youth and beauty. I could have fallen down and wor- shiped her. She was like one of those fictions of poets and painters, when they would express the beau ideal that haunts their minds with shapes of indescribable perfec- tion. I was permitted to watch her countenance in vari- ous positions, and I fondly protracted the study that was undoing me. The more I gazed on her, the more I became enamoured; there was something almost painful in my intense admiration. I was but nineteen years of age, shy, 1 The word is used in its somewhat unusual, etymological sense of "sheer." THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 119 diffident, and inexperienced. I was treated with attention by her mother ; for my youth and my enthusiasm in my art had won favor for me ; and I am inclined to think something in my air and manner inspired interest and respect. Still the kindness with which I was treated could not dispel the embarassment into which my own imagination threw me when in presence of this lovely being. It elevated her into something almost more than mortal. She seemed too exquisite for earthly use; too delicate and exalted for human attainment. As I sat tracing her charms on* my canvas, with my eyes occa- sionally riveted on her features, I drank in delicious poison that made me giddy. My heart alternately gushed with tenderness, and ached with despair. Now I became more than ever sensible of the violent fires that had lain dor- mant at the bottom of my soul. You who were born in a more temperate climate, and uruder a cooler sky, have little idea of the violence of passion in our southern bosoms. A few days finished my task. Bianca returned to her convent, but her image remained indelibly impressed upon my heart. It dwelt in my imagination; it became my pervading idea of beauty. It had an effect even upon my pencil. I became noted for my felicity in depicting female loveliness : it was but because I multiplied the image of Bianca. I soothed and yet fed my fancy by introducing her in all the productions of my master. I have stood, ,with delight, in one of the chapels of the Annunciata, and heard the crowd extol the seraphic beauty of a saint which I had painted. I have seen them bow down in adoration before the painting; they were bowing before the loveliness of Bianca. I existed in this kind of dream, I might almost say 1^0 TALES OF A TRAVELLER delirium, for upwards of a year. Such is the tenacity of my imagination, that the image formed in it continued in all its power and freshness. Indeed, I was a solitary, meditative being, much given to reverie, and apt to foster ideas which had once taken strong possession of me. I was roused from this fond, melancholy, delicious dream by the death of my worthy benefactor. I cannot describe the pangs his death occasioned me. It left me alone, and almost broken-hearted. He bequeathed to me his little property, which, from the liberality of his disposition, and his expensive style of living, was indeed but small ; and he most particularly recommended me, in dying, to the protection of a nobleman who had been his patron. The latter was a man who passed for munificent. He was a lover and an encourager of the arts, and evidently wished to be thought so. He fancied he saw in me indications of future i excellence ; my pencil had already attracted attention; he took meat once under his pro- tection. Seeing that I was overwhelmed with grief, and incapable of exerting myself in the mansion of my late benefactor, he invited me to sojourn for a time at a villa which he possessed on the border of the sea, in the picturesque neighborhood of Sestri di Ponente.^ I found at the villa the count's only son, Filippo. He was nearly of my age ; prepossessing in his appearance, and fascinating in his manners, he attached himself to me, and seemed to court my good opinion. I thought there was something of profession in his kindness, and of caprice in his disposition ; but I had nothing else near me to attach myself to, and my heart felt the need of something to repose upon. His education had been neglected; he looked upon me as his superior in mental powers and * West Sestri nes on the sea coast four or five miles west of Genoa. THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 121 acquirements, and tacitly acknowledged my superiority. I felt that I was his equal in birth, and that gave independ- ence to my manners, which had its effect. The caprice and tyranny I saw sometimes exercised on others, over whom he had power, were never manifested towards me. We became intimate friends and frequent companions. Still I loved to be alone, and to indulge in the reveries of my own imagination among the scenery by which I was surrounded. The villa commanded a wide view of the Mediterranean, and of the picturesque Ligurian coast. It stood alone in the midst of ornamented grounds, finely decorated with statues and fountains, and laid out in groves and alleys and shady lawns. Everything was assembled here that could gratify the taste, or agreeably occupy the mind. Soothed by the tranquillity of this elegant retreat, the turbulence of my feelings gradually subsided, and blending with the romantic spell which still reigned over my imagination, produced a soft, voluptuous melancholy. I had not been long under the roof of the count, when our solitude was enlivened by another inhabitant. It was ' a daughter of a relative of the count, who had lately died in reduced circumstances, bequeathing this only child to his protection. I had heard much of her beauty from Fil- ippo, but my fancy had become so engrossed by one idea of beauty, as not to admit of any other. We were in the central saloon of the villa when she arrived. She was still in mourning, and approached, leaning on the count's arm. As they ascended the marble portico, I was struck by the elegance of her figure and movement, by the grace with which the mezzaro^ the bewitching veil of Genoa, was folded about her slender form. They entered. Heavens ! what was my surprise when I beheld Bianca before me 1 It 122 TALES OF A TRAVELLER was herself pale with grief, but still more matured in love- liness than when I had last beheld her. The time that had elapsed had developed the graces of her person, and the sorrow she had undergone had diffused over her coun- tenance an irresistible tenderness. She blushed and trembled at seeing me, and tears rushed into her eyes, for she remembered in whose com-, pany she had been accustomed to behold me. For my part, I cannot express what were my emotions. By degrees I overcame the extreme shyness that had formerly paralyzed me in her presence. We were drawn together by sympathy of situation. We had each lost our best friend in the world; we were each, in some measure, thrown upon the kindness of others. When I came to know her intellectually, all my ideal picturings of her were confirmed. Her newness to the world, her delight- ful susceptibility to everything beautiful and agreeable in nature, reminded me of my own emotions when first I escaped from the convent. Her rectitude of thinking delighted my judgment; the sweetness of her nature wrapped itself round my heart ; and then her young, and tender, and budding loveliness, sent a delicious madness to my brain. I gazed upon her with a kind of idolatry, as something more than mortal ; and I felt humiliated at the idea of my comparative unworthiness. Yet she was mortal ; and one of mortality's most susceptible and loving compounds ; — for she loved me ! How first I discovered the transporting truth I cannot recollect. I believe it stole upon me by degrees as a won- der past hope of belief. We were both at such a tender and loving age ; in constant intercourse with each other ; mingling in the same elegant pursuits, — for music, poetry, THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 125 and painting were our mutual delights; and we were almost separated from society among lovely and romantic scenery. Is it strange that two young hearts, thus brought together, should readily twine round each other? Oh, gods! what a dream — a transient dream of unal- loyed delight, then passed over my soul ! Then it was that the world around me was indeed a paradise ; for I j had woman — lovely, delicious woman, to share it with me ! How often have I rambled along the picturesque , shores of Sestri, or climbed its wild mountains, with the coast gemmed with villas, and the blue sea far below me, ; and the slender Faro^ of Genoa on its romantic promontory I in the distance; and as I sustained the faltering steps of Bianca, have thought there could no unhappiness enter , into so beautiful a world ! How often have we listened i together to the nightingale, as it poured forth its rich notes among the moonlight bowers of the garden, and have wondered that poets could ever have fancied anything melancholy in its song! Why, oh why is this budding season of life and tenderness so transient ! why is this rosy cloud of love, that sheds such a glow over the morning of our days, so prone to brew up into the whirlwind and the storm ! I was the first to awaken from this blissful delirium of the affections. I had gained Bianca's heart, what was I to do with it? I had no wealth nor prospect to entitle me to he^ hand ; was I to take advantage of her ignorance of the world, of her confiding affection, and draw her down to my own poverty? Was this requiting the hos- pitality of the count? was this requiting the love of Bianca? Now first I began to feel that even successful love may have its bitterness. A corroding care gathered about my >i — r I » Light-house. 124 TALES OF A TRAVELLER heart. I moved about the palace like a guilty being. 1 felt as if I had abused its hospitality, as if I were a thief within its walls. I could no longer look with unembarassed mien in the countenance of the count. I accused myself of perfidy to him, and I thought he read it in my looks, and began to distrust and despise me. His manner had always been ostentatious and condescending; it now appeared cold and haughty. Filippo, too, became reserved and distant ; or at least I suspected him to be so. Heav- ens ! was this the mere coinage of my brain? Was I to become suspicious of all the world? a poor, surmising wretch; watching looks and gestures; and torturing myself with misconstructions? Or, if true, was I to remain "beneath a roof where I was merely tolerated, and linger there on sufferance? "This is not to be endured!" exclaimed I: *'I will tear myself from this state of self-abasement — I will break through this fascination and fly — Fly! — Whither? from the world? for where is the world when I leave Bianca behind me?" My spirit was naturally proud, and swelled within me at the idea of being looked upon with contumely. Many times I was on the point of declaring my family and rank, and asserting my equality in the presence of Bianca, when I thought her relations assumed an air of superiority. But the feeling was transient. I considered myself discarded and condemned by my family; and had solemnly vowed never to own relationship to them until they themselves should claim it. The struggle of my mind preyed upon my happiness and my health. It seemed as if the uncertainty of being loved would be less intolerable than thus to be assured of it, and yet not dare to enjoy the conviction. I was no longer the enraptured admirer of Bianca; I no longer hung in \ THE STO|lY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 125 ecstasy on the tones of her voice, nor drank in with insatiate gaze the beauty of her countenance. Her very smiles ceased to delight me, for I felt culpable in having won them. She could not but be sensible of the change in me, and inquired the cause with her usual frankness and simplic- ity. I could not evade the inquiry, -for my heart was full to aching. I told her all the conflict of my soul; my devouring passion, my bitter self -upbraiding. "Yes," said I, "I am unworthy of you. I am an offcast from my family — a wanderer — a nameless, homeless wanderer — with nothing but poverty for my portion; and yet I have dared !to love you — have dared to aspire to your love." My agitation moved her to tears, but she saw nothing in my situation so hopeless as I had depicted it. Brought Inp in a convent, she knew nothing of the world — its wants — ^its cares: and indeed what woman is a worldly casuist 'in the matters of the heart? Nay, more, she kindled into isweet enthusiasm when she spoke of my fortunes and myself. We had dwelt together on the works of the famous masters. I related to her their histories; the high reputation, the influence, the magnificence to jwhich they had attained. The companions of princes, the Ifavorites of kings, the pride and boast of nations. All 'this she applied to me. Her love saw nothing in all their j^reat productions that I was not able to achieve; and when I beheld the lovely creature glow with fervor, and 'her whole countenance radiant with visions of my glory, [ was snatched up for the moment into the heaven of hen 3wn imagination. I am dwelling too long upon this part of my story; yet I cannot help lingering over a period of my life on which, ^th all its cares and conflicts, I look back with fondness, 126 TALES OF A TRAVELLER for as yet my soul was unstained by a crime. I do not know what might have been the result of this struggle between pride, delicacy, and passion, had I not read in a Neapolitan gazette an account of the sudden death of my brother. It was accompanied by an earnest inquiry for intelligence concerning me, and a prayer, should this meet my eye, that I would hasten to Naples to comfort an infirm and afflicted father. I was naturally of an affectionate disposition, but my brother had never been as a brother to me. I had long considered myself as disconnected from him, and his death caused me but little emotion. The thoughts of my father, infirm and suffering, touched me, however, to the q^uick ; and when I thought of him, that lofty, magnificent being, now bowed down and desolate, and suing to me for com- fort, all my resentment for past neglect was subdued, and a glow of filial affection was awakened within me. The predominant feeling, however, that overpowered all others, was transport at the sudden change in my whole fortunes. A home, a name, rank, wealth, awaited me; and love painted a still more rapturous prospect in the distance. I hastened to Bianca, and threw myself at her feet. '*0h, Bianca!" exclaimed I, "at length I can claim you for my own. I am no longer a nameless adventurer, a neglected, rejected outcast. Look — read — behold the tidings that restore me to my name and to myself!" I will not dwell on the scene that ensued. Bianca rejoiced in the reverse of my situation, because she saw it' lightened my heart of a load of care ; for her own part, she had loved me for myself, and .had never doubted that my own merits would command both fame and fortune. I now felt all my native pride buoyant within me. I no longer walked with my eyes bent to the dust; hope ele- THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 127 vated them to the skies — my soul was lit up with fresh fires, and beamed from my countenance. I wished to impart the change in my circumstances to the count ; to let him know who and what I was — and to make formal proposals for the hand of Bianca ; but he was absent on a distant estate. I opened my whole soul to Filippo. Now first I told him of my passion, of the doubts and fears that had distracted me, and of the tid- ings that had suddenly dispelled them. He overwhelmed me with congratulations, and with the warmest expres- sions of sympathy ; I embraced him in the fulness of my heart; — I felt compunctions for having suspected him of coldness, and asked his forgiveness for ever having doubted his friendship. Nothing is so warm and enthusiastic as a sudden expan- sion of the heart between young men. Filippo entered into our concerns with the most eager interest. He was our confidant and counsellor. It was determined that I should hasten at once to Naples, to reestablish myself in my father's affections, and my paternal home; and the moment the reconciliation was effected, and my father's consent insured, I should return and demand Bianca of the count. Filippo engaged to secure his father's acquies- cence ; indeed he undertook to watch over our interest, and to be the channel through which we might corre- spond. My parting with Bianca was tender — delicious — agoniz ing. It was in a little pavilion of the garden which had been one of our favorite resorts. How often and often did I return to have one more adieu, to have her look once more on me in speechless emotion; to enjoy once more the rapturous sight of those tears streaming down her lovely cheeks; to seize once more on that delicate hand, the 'VZS TALES OF A TRAVELLER frankly accorded pledge of love^ and cover it with tears and kisses? Heavens ! there is a delight even in the part- ing agony of two lovers, worth a thousand tame pleasures of the world. I have her at this moment before my eyes, at the window of the pavilion, putting aside the vines which clustered about the casement, her form beaming forth iji virgin light, her countenance all tears and smiles, sending a thousand and a thousand adieus after me, as hesitating, in a delirium of fondness and agitation, I faltered my way down the avenue. As the bark bore me out of the harbor of Genoa, how eagerly my eye stretched along the coast of Sestri till it discovered the villa gleaming from among the trees at the foot of the mountain. As long as day lasted I gazed and gazed upon it, till it lessened and lessened to a mere white speck in the distance; and still my intense and fixed gaze discerned it, when all other objects of the coast had blended into indistinct confusion, or were lost in the even- ing gloom. On arriving at Naples, I hastened to my paternal home. My heart yearned for the long-withheld blessing of a father's love. As I entered the proud portal of the ances- tral palace, my emotions were so great that I could not speak. No one knew me, the servants gazed at me with curiosity end surprise. A few years of intellectual elevation and development had made a prodigious change in the poor fugitive stripling from the convent. Still, that no one should know me in my rightful home was overpowering. I felt like the prodigal son returned. 1 was a stranger in the house of my father. I burst into tears and wept aloud. When I made myself known, how- ever, all was changed. I, who had once been almost repulsed from its walls, and forced to fly as an exile, was THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 129 welcomed back with acclamation, with servility. One of the servants hastened to prepare my father for my recep- tion ; my eagerness to receive the paternal embrace was so great that I could not await his return, but hurried after him. What a spectacle met my eyes as I entered the chamber! My father, whom I had left in the pride of vigorous age, whose noble and majestic bearing had so awed my young imagination, was bowed down and with- ered into decrepitude. A paralysis had ravaged his stately form, and left it a shaking ruin. He sat propped up in his chair, with pale, relaxed visage, and glassy, wandering eye. His intellect had evidently shared in the ravages of his frame. The servant was endeavoring to make him comprehend that a visitor was at hand. I tottered up to him, and sank at his feet. All his past coldness and neglect were ^forgotten in his present sufferings. I remembered only that he was my parent, and that I had deserted him. I clasped his knee: my voice was almost filled with convulsive sobs. ''Pardon — pardon! oh! my father!" was all that I could utter. His apprehension seemed slowly to return to him. He gazed at me for some moments with a vague, inquiring look, a convulsive tremor quivered about his lips; he feebly extended a shaking hand; laid it upon my head, and burst into an infantine flow of tears. From that moment he would scarcely spare me from his sight. I appeared the only object that his heart responded to in the world; all else was as a blank to him. He had almost lost the power of speech, and the reasoning faculty seemed at an end. He was mute and passive, excepting that fits of childlike weeping would sometimes come over him without any immediate cause. If I left the room at any time, his eye was incessantly fixed on the 130 TALES OF A TRAVELLER door till my return, and on my entrance there was another gush of tears. To talk with him of all my concerns, in this ruined sta^e of mind, would have been worse than useless ; to have left him for ever so short a time would have been cruel, unnat« aral. Here then was a new trial for my affections. I wrote to Bianca an account of my return, and of my actual situation, painting in colors vivid, for they were true, the torments I suffered at our being thus separated ; for the youthful lover every day of absence is an age of love lost. I enclosed the letter in one to Filippo, who was the chan- nel of our correspondence. I received a reply from him full of friendship and sympathy; from Bianca, full of assurances of affection and constancy. Week after week, month after month elapsed, without making any change in my circumstances. The vital flame which had seemed nearly extinct when first I met my father, kept fluttering on without any apparent diminution. I watched him constantly, faithfully, I had almost said patiently. I knew that his death alone would set me free — ^yet I never at any moment wished it. I felt too glad to be able to make any atonement for past disobedience; and denied, as I had been, all endearments of relationship in my early days, my heart yearned towards a father, who in his age and helplessness had thrown himself entirely on me for comfort. My passion for Bianca gained daily more force from absence: by constant meditation it wore itself a deeper and deeper channel. 1 made no new friends nor acquaint- ances ; sought none of the pleasures of Naples, which my rank and fortune threw open to me. Mine was a heart that confined itself to few objects, but dwelt upon them with the intenser passion. To sit by my father, adminis- THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 131 ter to his wants, and to meditate on Bianca in the silence of his chamber, was my constant habit. Sometimes I amused myself with my pencil, in portraying the image ever present to my imagination. I transferred to canvas every look and smile of hers that dwelt in my heart. I showed them to my father, in hopes of awakening an interest in his bosom for the mere shadow of my love ; but he was too far sunk in intellect to take any notice of them. When I received a letter from Bianca, it was a new source of solitary luxury. Her letters, it is true, were less and less frequent, but they were always full of assurances of unabated affection. They breathed not the frank and hmocent warmth with which she expressed herself in con- versation, but I accounted for it from the embarrassment which inexperienced minds have often to express them- selves upon paper. Filippo assured me of her unaltered constancy. They both lamented, in the strongest terms, our continued separation, though they did justice to the filial piety that kept me by my father's side. Nearly two years elapsed in this protracted exile. To me they were so many ages. Ardent and impetuous by nature, I scarcely know how I should have supported so long an absence, iiad I not felt assured that the faith of Bianca was equal to my own. At length my father died. ' Life went from him almost imperceptibly. I hung over him in mute affliction, and watched the expiring spasms of nature. His last faltering accents whispered repeatedly a blessing on me. Alas! how has it been fulfilled ! When I had paid due honors to his remains, and laid them in the tomb of our ancestors, I arranged briefly my . affa,irs, put them in a posture to be easily at my command from a distance, and embarked once more with a bounding heart for Genoa. 132 TALES OF A TRAVELLER Our voyage was propitious, and oh! what was my rap- ture, when first, in the dawn of morning, I saw the shadowy summits of the Apennines rising almost like clouds above the horizon! The sweet breath of summer just moved us over the long wavering billows that were rolling US on towards Genoa. By degrees the coast of Sestri rose like a, creation of enchantment from the silver bosom of the deep. I beheld the line of villages and paiaces stud- ding its borders. My eye reverted to a well-known point, and at length, from the confusion of distant objects, it sin- gled out the villa which contained Bianca. It was a mere speck in the landscape, but glimmering from afar, the polar star of my heart. Again I gazed at it for a livelong summer's day, but oh ! how different the elnotions between departure and return. It now kept growing and growing, instead of lessening and lessening on my sight. My heart seemed to dilate with it. I looked at it through a telescope. I gradually defined one feature after another. The balconies of the central saloon where first I met Bianca beneath its roof; the terrace where we so often had passed the delightful sum- mer evenings; the awning which shaded her chamber- window; I almost fancied I saw her form beneath it. Could she but know her lover was in the bark whose white sail now gleamed on the sunny bosom of the sea ! My fond impatience increased as we neared the coast; the ship seemed to lag lazily over the billows; I could almost have sprang into the sea, and swam to the desired shore. The shadows of evening gradually shrouded the scene ; but the moon arose in all her fulness and beauty, and shed the tender light so dear to lovers, over the romantic coast of Sestri. My soul was bathed in unutterable THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIA^ 133 tenderness. I anticipated the heavenly evenings I should pass in once more wandering with Bianca by the light of that' blessed moon. It was late at night before we entered the harbor. As early next morning as I could get released from the for- malities of landing, I threw myself on horseback, and hastened to the villa. As I galloped round the rocky promontory on which stands the Faro, and saw the coast of Sestri opening upon me, a thousand anxieties and doubts suddenly sprang up in my bosom. There is something fearful in returning to those we love, while yet uncertain what ills or changes absence may have effected. The tur- bulence of my agitation shook my very frame. I spurred my horse to redoubled speed; he was covered with foam when we both arrived panting at the gateway that opened to the grounds around the villa. I left my horse at a cot- tage, and walked through the grounds, that I might regain tranquillity for the approaching interview. I chid myself for having suffered mere doubts and surmises thus sud- denly to overcome me; but I was always prone to be car- ried away by gusts of the feelings. On entering the garden, everycning bore the same look as when I had left it; and this unchanged aspect of things reassured me. There were the alleys in which I had so often walked with Bianca, as we listened to the song of the nightingale; the same shades under which we had so often sat during the noontide heat. There were the same flowers of which she was so fond; and which appeared still to be under the ministry of her hand. Everything looked and breathed of Bianca; hope and joy flushed in my bosom at every step. I passed a little arbor, in which we had often sat and read together ; — a book and giove lay on the bench; — it was Bianca 's glove; 134 TALES OF A TRAVELLER it was a volume of the "Metastasio'* ^ I had given her. The glove lay in my favorite passage. I clasped them to my heart with rapture. "All is safe!" exclaimed I; "she loves me, she is still my own!" I bounded lightly along the avenue, down which I had faltered slowly at my departure. I beheld her favorite pavilion, which had witnessed our parting-scene. The window was open, with the same vine clambering about ft, precisely as when she waved and wept me an adieu. how transporting was the contrast in my situation! As 1 passed near the pavilion, I heard the tones of a female voice: they thrilled through me with an appeal to my heart not to be mistaken. Before I could think, 1 felt they were Bianca's. For an instant I paused, over- powered with agitation. I feared to break so suddenly upon her. I softly ascended the steps of the pavilion. The door was open. I saw Bianca seated at a table ; her back was towards me, she was warbling a soft melancholy air, and was occupied in drawing. A glance sufficed to show me that she was copying one of my own paintings. I gazed on her for a moment in a delicious tumult of emo- tions. She paused in her singing: a heavy sigh, almost a sob, followed. I could no longer contain myself o "Bian- ca!" exclaimed I, in a half -smothered voice. She started at the sound, brushed back the ringlets that hung cluster- ing about her face, darted a glance at me, uttered a pierc- ing shriek, and would have fallen to the earth, had I not caught her in my arms. "Bianca! my own Bianca!" exclaimed I, folding her to my bosom, my voice stifled in sobs of convulsive joy. She lay in my arms without sense or motion. Alarmed at the effects of my precipitation, I scarce knew what to do, I » An Italian Doet, 1698-1782. THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 135 tried by a thousand endearing words to call her back to consciousness. She slowly recovered, and half opened hex eyes. — "Where am I?" murmured she faintly. "Here!" exclaimed I, pressing her to my bosom, "here — close to the heart that adores you — in the arms of your faithful Ottavio!" "Oh no! no! no!" shrieked she, starting into sudden life and terror, — "away! away! leave me! leave me!'' She tore herself from my arms ; rushed to a corner of the saloon, and covered her face with her hands, as if the very sight of me were baleful. I was thunderstruck. I could not believe my senses. I followed her, trembling — confounded. I endeavored to take her hand; but she shrunk from my very touch with horror. "Good heavens, Bianca!" exclaimed I, "what is the meaning of this? Is this my reception after so long an absence? Is this the love you professed for me?" At the mention of love, a shuddering ran through her. She turned to me a face wild with anguish: "No more or that — ^no more of that!" gasped she: "talk not to me of love — I — I — am married!" I reeled as if I had received a mortal blow — a sickness struck to my very heart. I caught at a window-frame for support. For a moment or two everything was chaos around me. When I recovered, I beheld Bianca lying on a sofa, her face buried in the pillow, and sobbing con- vulsively. Indignation for her fickleness for a? moment overpowered every other feeling. "Faithless! perjured!" cried I, striding across the room. But another glance at that beautiful being in dis- tress checked all my wrath. Anger could not dwell together with her idea in my soul. "Oh! Bianca," exclaimed I, in anguish, "could I have 136 TALES OF A TRAVELLER dreamt of fchis? Could I have suspected you would have been false to me?" She raised her face all streaming with tears, all dis- ordered with emotion, and gave me one appealing look. "False to you? — They told me you were dead!" "What," said I, "in spite of our constant correspond- ence?" She gased wildly at me : "Correspondence? what corre- spondence?" "Have you not repeatedly received and replied to my letters?" She clasped her hands with solemnity and fervor. "As I hope for mercy — never!" A horrible surmise shot through my brain, "Who told you I was dead?" "It was reported that the ship in which you embarked for Naples perished at sea." "But who told you the report?" She paused for an instant, and trembled; — "Filippo!" "May the God of heaven curse him!" cried I, extending my clenched fists aloft. "Oh do not curse him, do not curse him!" exclaimed she, "he is — he is — my husband!" This was all that was wanting to unfold the perfidy that had been practised upon me. My blood boiled like liquid fire in my veins. I gasped with rage too great for utter- ance — I remained for a time bewildered by the whirl of horrible thoughts that rushed through my mind. The poor victim of deception before me thought it was with her I was incensed. She faintly murmured forth her exculpation. I will not dwell upon it. I saw in it more than she meant to reveal, I saw with a glance how both of us had been betrayed. THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 137 " 'Tis well," muttered I to myself in smothered accents of concentrated fury, *'He shall render an account of all this." Bianca overheard me. New terror flashed in her coun- tenance. "For mercy's sake, do not meet him! — say nothing of what has passed — for my sake say nothing to him — I only shall be the sufferer!" A new suspicion darted across my mind. — "What!'' exclaimed I, "do you then fear him? is he unkind to you? Tell me," reiterated I, grasping her hand, and looking her eagerly in the face, "tell me — dares he to use you harshly?" "No! no! no!" cried she, faltering and embarrassed; but the glance at her face had told yolumes. I saw in her pallid and wasted features, in the prompt terror and sub- dued agony of her eye, a whole history of a mind broken down by tyranny. Great God! and was this beauteous flower snatched from me to be thus trampled upon? The idea roused me to madness. I clinched my teeth and hands ; I foamed at the mouth ; every passion seemed to have resolved itself into the fury that like a lava boiled within my heart. Bianca shrunk from me in speechless affright. As I strode by the window, my eye darted down the alley. Eatal moment ! I beheld Filippo at a distance ! my brain was in delirium— I sprang from the pavilion, and was before him with the quickness of lightning. He saw me as I came rushing upon him — he turned pale, looked wildly to right and left, as if he would have fled, and trembling, drew his sword. "Wretch!" cried I, "well may you draw your weapon!" I spoke not another word — I snatched forth a stiletto, put by the sword which trembled in his hand, and buried my poniard in his bosom. He fell with the blow, but my 138 TALES OF A TRAVELLER rage was unsated. I sprang upon him with the blood- thirsty feeling of a tiger ; redoubled my blows ; mangled him in my frenzy, grasped him by the throat, until, with reiterated wounds and strangling convulsions, he expired in my grasp. I remained glaring on the countenance, horrible in death, that seemed to stare back with its pro- truded eyes upon me. Piercing shrieks roused me from my delirium. I looked round and beheld Bianca flying distractedly towards us. My brain whirled — I waited not to meet her ; but fled from the scene of horror. I fled forth from tlie garden like another Cain, — a hell within my bosom, and a curse upon my head. I fled without knowing whither, almost without knowing why. My only idea was to get farther and farther from the horrors I had left be- hind ; as if I could throw space between myself and my con- science. I fled to the Apennines, and wandered for days and days among their savage heights. How I existed, I cannot tell ; what rocks and precipices I braved, and how I braved them, I know not. I kept on and on, trying to out-travel the curse that clung to me. Alas ! the shrieks of Bianca rung forever in my ears. The horrible coun- tenance of my victim was forever before my eyes. The blood of Filippo cried to me from the ground. Rocks, trees, and torrents, all resounded with my crime. Then it was I felt how much more insupportable is the anguish of remorse than every other mental pang. Oh ! could I but have cast off this crime that festered in my heart — could I but have regained the innocence that reigned in my breast as I entered the garden at Sestri — could I have but restored my victim to life, I felt as if I could look on with transport, even though Bianca were in his arms. By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse settled into a THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 139 permanent malady of tlie miucl — into one of the most hor- rible that ever poor wretch was cursed with. Wherever I went, the countenance of him I had slain appeared to fol- low me. Whenever I turned my head, I beheld it behind me, hideous with the contortions of the dying moment. I have tried in every way to escape from this horrible phantom, but in vain. I know not whether it be an illusion of the mind, the consequence of my dismal educa- tion at the convent, or whether a phantom really sent by Heaven to punish me, but there it ever is — at all times — in all places. Nor has time nor habit had any effect in familiarizii^g me with its terrors. I have travelled from place to place — plunged into amusements — tried dissipa- tion and distraction of every kind — all — all in vain. I oiice had recourse to my pencil, as a desperate experiment. I painted an exact resemblance of this phantom-face. 1 placed it before me, in hopes that by constantly contem- plating the copy, I might diminish the effect of the orig- inal. But I only doubled instead of diminishing the misery. Such is the curse that has clung «to my footsteps — that has made my life a burden, but the thought of death terrible. God knows what I have suffered — what days and days, and nights and nights of sleepless torment — what a never-dying worm has preyed upon my heart — what an .unquenchable fire has burned within my brain! He knows the wrongs that wrought upon my poor weak nature ; that converted the tenderest of affections into the deadliest of fury. He knows best whether a frail erring creature has expiate/i by long-enduring torture and meas- ureless remorse the crime of a moment of madness. Often, often have I prostrated myself in the dust, and implored that he would give me a sign of his forgiveness, and let me die 140 TALES OF A TRAVELLER Thus far had I written some time since. I had meant to leave this record of misery and crime with you, to be read when I should be no more. My prayer to Heaven has at length been heard. You were witness to my emotions last evening at the church, when the vaulted temple resounded with the words of atonement and redemption. I heard a voice speaking to me from the midst of the music ; I heard it rising above the pealing of the organ and the voices of the choir — it spoke to me in tones of celestial melody — it promised mercy and forgiveness, but demanded from me full expia- tion. I go to make it. To-morrow I shall be on my way to Genoa, to surrender myself to justice. You who have pitied my sufferings, who have poured the balm of sym- pathy into my wounds, do not shrink from my Inemory with abhorrence now that you know my story. Recollect, that when you read of my crime I shall have atoned for it with my blood ! When the Baronet had finished, there was .a universal desire expressed to see the painting of this frightful visage. After much entreaty the Baronet consented, on condition that they should only visit it one by one. He called his housekeeper, and gave her charge to conduct the gentle- men, singly, to the chamber. They all returned varying in their stories: some affected in one way, some in another ; some more, some less ; but all agreeing that there was a certain something about the painting that had a very odd effect upon the feelings. I stood in a deep bow-window with the Baronet, and could not help expressing riy wonder. "After all," said 1, "there are certain mysteries in our nature, certain inscrutable impulses and influences, which warrant one in THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN 141 being superstitious. AYho can account for so many per- sons of different characters being thus strangely affected by a mere painting?" "And especially when not one of them has seen it!" said the Baronet, with a smile. "How!" exclaimed I, "not seen it?" "Not one of them!" replied he, laying his finger on his lips, in sign of secrecy. "I saw that some of them were in a bantering vein, and did not choose that the memento of the poor Italian should be made jest of. So Fgave the housekeeper a hint to show them all to a different cham- i)er!" Thus end the stories of the Nervous Gentleman.* ^ » Note tbe definite growth in seriousness of the stories of this gr *'Have I?" cried he, **to be sure I have! A hearty old blade that. Sound as pitch. Old Turpentine ! as we used to call him. A famous fine fellow, sir." *'Well, sir," continued I, **I have visited Waltham Abbey and Chingford Church merely from the stories I heard when a boy of his exploits there, and I have searched Epping Forest for the cavern where he used, to conceal himself. You must know," added I, **that I am 1 Robin Hood and the other persons mentioned here are characters in English hallad literature. The ballads are accessible in various forms; e.g. AUingham, Golden Treasury Series, Ballad Book; Giinimere, Old English Ballads; Child, English and Scottish Ballads. 2 Prom a song in As Tou Like It, Act II. Sc. 5. 3 Dick Turpin, who is here turned into a valorous knight-errant was a notorious highwayman executed in 1739. 174 TALES OF A TRAVELLER a sort of amateur of highwaymen. They were dashing daring fellows: the best apologies that we had for the knights-errant of yore. Ah, sir! the country has been sinking gradually into tameness and commonplace. We are losing the old English spirit. The bold knights of the Post have all dwindled down into lurking footpads, and sneaking pickpockets ; there's no such thing as a dashing, gentleman-like robbery committed nowadays on the King's highway: a man may roll from one end of England to the other in a drowsy coach, or jingling post- chaise, without any other adventure than that of being occasionally overturned, sleeping in damp sheets, or hav- ing an ill-cooked dinner. We hear no more of public coaches being stopped and robbed by a well -mounted gang of resolute fellows, with pistols in their hands, and crapes over their faces. What a pretty poetical incident was it, for example, in domestic life, for a family-carriage, on its way to a country-seat, to be attacked about dark; the old gentleman eased of his purse and watch, the ladies of their necklaces and ear-rings, by a politely-spoken highwayman on a blood-mare, who afterwards leaped the hedge and galloped across the country, to the admiration of Miss Caroline, the daughter, who would write a long and roman- tic account of the adventure to her friend, Miss Juliana, in town. Ah, sir ! we meet with nothing of such inci- dents nowadays. " **That, sir," said my companion, taking advantage of a pause, when I stopped to recover breath, and to take a glass of wine which he had just poured out, "that, sir, craving your pardon, is not owing to any want of old English pluck. It is the effect of this cursed system of banking. People do not travel with bags of gold as they did formerly. They have post-notes, and drafts on THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR 175 bankers. To rob a coach is like catching a crow, where you have nothing but carrion flesh and feathers for your pains. But a coach in old times, sir, was as rich as a Spanish galleon. It turned out the yellow boys * bravely. And a private carriage was a cool hundred or two at least. " 1 cannot express how much I was delighted with the sallies of my new acquaintance. He told me that he often frequented the Castle, and would be glad to know more of me ; and I proposed myself many a pleasant afternoon with him, when I should read him my poem as it proceeded, and benefit by his remarks ; for it was evident he had the true poetical feeling. "Come, sir," said he, pushing the bottle: "Damme, I like you! you're a man after my own heart. I'm cursed slow in making new acquaintances.. One must be on the reserve, you know. But when I meet with a man of your kidney, damme, my heart jumps at once to him. Them's my sentiments, sir. Come, sir, here's Jack Straw's health! I presume one can drink it nowadays without treason!" "With all my heart," said I, gayly, "and Dick Tur- pin's into the bargain!" "Ah, sir," said the man in green, "those are the kind of men for poetry. The Newgate Calendar,^ sir! the Newgate Calendar is your only reading! There's the place to look for bold deeds and dashing fellows." "We were so much pleased with each other that we sat until a late hour, I insisted on paying the bill, for both my purse and my heart were full, and I agreed that he should pay the score at our next meeting. As the coaches had all gone that run between Hampsfcead and » Gold coins. 2 The list of the famous criminals of Newgate prison. 176 TALES OF A TRAVELLEK London, we had to return on foot. He was so delighted with the idea of my poem, that he could talk of nothing else. He made me repeat such passages as I could remember; and though I did it in a very mangled manner, having a wretched memory, yet he was in rap- tures. Every now and then he would break out with some scrap which he would misquote most terribly, would rub his hands and exclaim, "By Jupiter, that's fine, that's noble! Damme, sir, if I can conceive how you hit upon such ideas!" I must confess I did not always relish his misquota- tions, which sometimes made absolute nonsense of the passages ; but what author stands upon trifles when he is praised? Never had I spent a more delightful evening. I did noo perceive how the time flew. I could not bear to separate, but continued walking on, arm in arm, with him, past my lodgings, through Camden Town, and across Crackskull Common, talking the whole way about my poem. When we were half-way across the common, he inter- rupted me in the midst of a quotation, by telling me that this had been a famous place for footpads, and was still occasionally infested by them ; and that a man had recently been shot there in attempting to defend himself. — "The more fool he!" cried I; "a man is an idiot to risk life, or ^ven limb, to save a paltry purse of money. It's quite a different case from that of a duel, where one's honor is concerned. For my part," added I, "I should never think of making resistance against one of those despera- does." "Say you so?" cried my friend in green, turning sud- denly upon me, and putting a pistol to my breast; *'why. THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR 17? then, have at you, my lad! — come — disburse! empty! unsack!''- In a word, I found that the muse had played me another of her tricks, and had betrayed me into the hands of a footpad. There was no time to parley 5 he made me turn my pockets inside out; and hearing the sound of distant footsteps, he made one fell swoop ^ upon purse, watch, and all ; gave me a thwack on my unlucky pate that laid me sprawling- on the ground, and scampered away with his booty. I saw no more of my friend in green until a year or two afterwards ; when I caught sight of his poetical counten- ance among a crew of scapegraces heavily ironed, who were on the way for transportatioUo He recognized me at once, tipped me an impudent wink, and asked me how I came on with the history of Jack Straw's Castle. The catastrophe at Crackskull Common put an end to my summer's campaign. I was cured of my poetical enthusiasm for rebels, robbers, and highwaymen. I was put out of conceit of my subject, and, what was worse, I was lightened of my purse, in which was almost every farthing I had in thQ world. So I abandoned Sir Richard Steele's cottage in despair, and crept into less celebratedj though no less poetical and airy lodgings in a garret in town, I now determined to cultivate the society of the literary, and to enroll myself in the fraternity of authorship. It is by the constant collision of mind, thought I, that authors strike out the sparks of genius, and kindle up with glorious conceptions. Poetry is evidently a contagious complaint. I will keep company with poets ; who knows but I may catch it as others have done? » Macbeth, IV. iiL 3ia 178 TALES OF A TRAVELLER I found no difficulty in making a circle of literary acquaintances, not having the sin of success lying at my door : indeed the failure of my poem was a kind of recom- mendation to their favor. It is true my new friends were not of the most brilliant names in literature ; but then if you would take their words for it, they were like the prophets of old, men of whom the world was not worthy ; and who were to live in future ages, when the ephemeral favorites of the day should be forgotten. I soon discovered, however, that the more I mingled in literary society, the less I felt capable of writing; that poetry was not so catching as I imagined; and that in familiar life there was often nothing less poetical than a poet. Besides, I wanted the esprit de corps ^ to turn these literary fellowships to any account. I could not bring myself to enlist in any particular sect. I saw something to like in them all, but found that would never do, for that the tacit condition on which a man enters into one of these sects is, that he abuses all the rest. I perceived that there were little knots of authors who lived with, and for, and by one another. They consid- ered themselves the salt of the earth. They fostered and kept up a conventional vein of thinking and talking, and joking on all subjects; and they cried each other up to the skies. Each sect had its particular creed; and set up certain authors as divinities, and fell down and wor- shipped them; and considered every one who did not worship them, or who worshipped any other, as a heretic, and an infideL In quoting the writers of the day I generally founcl them extolling names of which I had scarcely heard, and talking slightingly of others who were the favorites of tbQ ' Cass feeling ; fellow feeling with other members of a body of men. THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR 179 public. If I mentioned any recent work from the pen of a first-rate author, they had not read it ; they had not time to read all that was spawned from the press; he. wrote too much to write well; — and then they would break out into raptures about some Mr. Timson, or Tom- son, or Jackson, whose works were neglected at the pres- ent day, but who was to be the wonder and delight of posterity! Alas! what heavy debts is this neglectful world daily accumulating on the shoulders of poor pos- terity ! But, above all, it was edifying to hear with what con- tempt they would talk of the great. Ye gods ! how immeasurably the great are despised by tlie small fry of literature! It is true, an exception was now aad then made of some nobleman, with whom, perhaps, they had casually shaken hands at an election, or hob or nobbed at a public dinner, and was pronounced a *' devilish good fellow," and "no humbug"; but, in general, it was enough for a man to have a title, to be the object of their sovereign disdain: you have no idea how poetically and philosophically they would talk of nobility. For my part, this affected me but little ; for though I had no bitterness against the great, and did not think the worse of a man for having innocently been born to a title, yet I did not feel myself at present called upon to resent the indignities poured upon them by the little. But the hostility to the great writers of the day went sore against the grain with me. I could not enter into such feuds, nor participate in such animosities. I had not become author sufficiently to hate other authors. I coald still find pleasure in the novelties of the press, and could find it in my heart to praise a contemporary, even though he were successful. Indeed I was miscellaneous in my taste,. 180 TALES OF A TRAVELLER and could not confine it to any age or growth of writers. I could turn with delight from the glowing pages of Byron to the cool and polished raillery of Pope; and after wandering among the sacred groves of "Paradise Lost,'' I could give myself up to voluptuous abandonment in the enchanted bowers of "Lalla Rookh." ^ "I would have my authors," said I, "as various as my wines, and, in relishing the strong and the racy, would never decry the sparkling and exhilirating. Port and Sherry are excellent standbys, and so is Madeira; but Claret and Burgundy may be drunk now and then with- out disparagement to one's palate, and Champagne is a beverage by no means to be despised." Such was the tirade I uttered one day when a little flushed with ale at a literary club. I uttered it, too, with something of a flourish, for I thought my simile a clever one. Unluckily, my auditors were men who drank beer and hated Pope ; so my figure about wines went for noth- ing, and my critical toleration was looked upon as down- right heterodoxy. In a word, I soon became like a free- thinker in religion, an outlaw from every sect, and fair game for all. Such are the melancholy consequences of not hating in literature. I see you are growing weary, so I will be brief with the residue of my literary career. I will not detain you with a detail of my various attempts to get astride of Pegasus; of the poems I have written which were never printed, the plays I have presented which were never performed, and the tracts I have published which were never pur- chased. It seemed as if booksellers, managers, and the very public, had entered into a conspiracy to starve me. Still I could not prevail upon myself to give up the trial, '• A long narrative poem on an Oriental subject by Thomas Moore. THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR iOi nor abandon those dreams of renown in which I had indulged. How should I be able to look the literary circle of my native village in the face, if I were so com- pletely to falsify their predictions? For some time longer, therefore, I continued to write for fame, and was, of course, the most miserable dog in existence, besides being in continual risk of starvation. I accumulated loads of literary treasure on my shelves — loads which were to be treasures to posterity; but, alas! they put not a penny into my purse. What was all this wealth to my present necessities? I could not patch my elbows with an ode ; nor satisfy my hunger with blank verse. *' Shall a man fill his belly with the east wind?" ^ says the proverb. He may as well do so as with poetry. I have many a time strolled sorrowfully along, with a sad heart and an empty stomach, about five o'clock, and looked wistfully down the areas in the west end of the town, and seen through the kitchen-windows the fires gleaming, and the joints of meat turning on the spits and dripping with gravy, and the cook-maids beating up pud- dings, or trussing turkeys, and felt for the moment that if I could but have the run of one of those kitchens, Apollo and the Muses might have the hungry heights of Parnassus for me. Oh, sir! talk of meditations among the tombs, — they are nothing so melancholy as the medi- tations of a poor devil without a penny in pouch, along a line of kitchen-windows towards dinner-time. At length, when almost reduced to famine and despair, the idea all at once entered my head, that perhaps I, was not so clever a fellow as the village and myself had sup- posed. It was the salvation of me. The moment the idea popped into my brain it brought conviction and com- » Joh XV., 2. 182 TALES OF A TRAVELLER fort with it. I awoke as from a dream : I gave np immor- tal fame to those who could live on air; took to writing for mere bread ; and have ever since had a very tolerable life of it. There is no man of letters so much at his ease, sir, as he who has no character to gain or lose. I had to train myself to it a little, and to clip my wings short at first, or they would have carried me up into poetry in spite of myself. So I determined to begin by the opposite extreme, and abandoning the higher regions of the craft, I came plump down to the lowest, and turned creeper. "Creeper! and pray what is that?" said I. **0h, sir, I see you are ignorant of the language of the craft; a creeper is one who furnisheg the newspapers with paragraphs at so much a line ; and who goes about in quest of misfortunes ; attends the Bow Street Office ; ^ the Courts of Justice, and every other den of mischief and iniquity. We are paid at the rate of a penny a line, and as we can sell the same paragraph to almost every paper, we sometimes pick up a very decent day's work. Now and then the Muse is unkind, or the day uncommonly quiet, and then we rather starve; and sometimes the unconscionable editors will clip our paragraphs when they are a little too rhetorical, and snip off twopence or three- pence at a go. I have many a time had my pot of porter snipped off my dinner in this way, and have had to dine with dry lips. However, I cannot complain. I rose gradually in the lower ranks of the craft, and am now, I think, in the most comfortable region of literature." **And pray," said I, "what may you be at present?" "At present," said he, "I am a regular job-writer, and turn my hand to anything. I work up the writings of others at so much a sheet, turn off translations; write •- — II I I ^> I ■ ■iiiiii.i... II 1^ » The Bow Street police court. NOTORIETY 183 second-rate articles to fill up reviews and magazines; compile travels and voyages, and furnish theatrical criti- cisms for the newspapers. All this authorship, you per- ceive, is anonymous; it gives me no reputation, except among the trade; where I am considered an author of all work, and am always sure of employ. That's the only reputation I want. I sleep soundly, withput dread of duns or critics, and leave immortal fame to those that choose to fret and fight about it. Take my word for it, the only happy author in this world is he who is below the care of reputation. " NOTORIETY When we had emerged from the literary nest of honest x^ribble, and had passed safely through the dangers of Breakneck Stairs, and the labyrinths of Fleet Market, Buckthorne indulged in many comments upon the peep into literary life which he had furnished me. I expressed my surprise at finding it so different a world from what I had imagined. "It is always so,'* said he, "with strangers. The land of literature is a fairy land to those who view it at a distance, but, like all other land- scapes, the charm fades on a nearer approach, and the thorns and briars become visible. The republic of letters is the most factious and discordant of all republics, ancient or modem." . "Yet," said I, smiling, "you would not have me take honest Dribble's experience as a view of the land. He is but a mousing owl ; a mere groundling. We should have quite a different strain from one of those fortunate authors whom we see sporting about the empyreal heights 184: TALES OF A TRAVELLER of fashion, like swallows in the blue sky of a summer's day." *' Perhaps we might," replied he, "but I doubt it. I doubt whether, if any one, even of the most successful, were to tell his actual feelings, you would not find the truth of friend Dribble's philosophy with respect to repu- tation. One you would find carrying a gay facfe to the world, while some vulture critic was preying upon his very liver. Another, who was simple enough to mistake fash- ion for fame, you would find watching countenances, and cultivating invitations, more ambitious to figure in the heau monde * than the world of letters, and apt to be ren- dered wretched by the neglect of an illiterate peer, or a dissipated duchess. Those who were rising to fame, you would find tormented with anxiety to get higher; and those who had gained the summit, in constant apprehen- sion of a decline. "Even those who are indifferent to the buzz of noto- riety, and the farce of fashion, are not much better off, being incessantly harassed by intrusions on their leisure, and interruptions of their pursuits; for, whatever may be his feelings, when once an author is launched into noto- riety, he must go the rounds until the idle curiosity of the day is satisfied, and he is thrown aside to make way for some new caprice. Upon the whole, I do not know but he is most fortunate who engages in the whirl through ambition, however tormenting; as it is doubly irksome to be obliged to join in the game without being interested in the stake. "There is a constant demand in the fashionable world for novelty ; .every nine days must have its wonder, no . matter of what kind. At one time it is an author; at » The fashionable world. NOTORIETY 185 another, a fire-eater; at another, a composer, an Indian juggler, or an Indian chief; a man from the North Pole or the Pyramids; each figures through his brief term of notoriety, and then makes way for the succeeding wonder. You must know that we have oddity fanciers among our ladies of rank, who collect about them all kinds of remark- able beings ; fiddlers, statesmen, singers, warriors, artists, ' philosophers, actors, and poets; every kind of personage, in short, who is noted for something peculiar; so that their routs are like fancy-balls, where every one comes *in character.' *'I have had infinite amusement at these parties in noticing how industriously every one was playing a part, and acting out of his natural line. There is not a more complete game at cross purposes than the intercourse of the literary and the great. The fine gentleman is always anxious to be thought a wit, and the wit a fine gentleman. '*I have noticed a lord endeavoring to look wise and talk learnedly with a man of letters, who was aiming at a fashionable air, and the tone of a man who had lived about town. The peer quoted a score, or two learned authors, .,with whom he would fain be thought intimate, while the author talked of Sir John this, and Sir Harry that, and extolled the Burgundy he had drunk at Lord Such-a- one's. Each seemed to forget that he could only be inter- esting to the other in his proper character. Had the peer been merely a man of erudition, the author would never have listened to his prosing; and had the author known all the nobility in the Court Calendar, it would have given him no interest in the eyes of the peer. "In the same way I have seen a fine lady, remarkable for beauty, weary a philosopher with flimsy metaphysics, while the philosopher put on an awkward air of gallantry, 186 TALES OF A TRAVELLER played with her fan, and prattled about the opera. I have heard a sentimental poet talk very stupidly with a statesman about the national debt ; and on joining a knot of scientific old gentlemen oonversing in a corner, expect- ing to hear the discussion of some valuable discovery, I found they were only amusing themselves with a fat story. " A PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHER The anecdotes I had heard of Buckthorne's early schoolmate, together with a variety of peculiarities which I had remarked in himself, gave me a strong curiosity to Jinow something of his own history. I am a traveller of the good old school, and am fond of the custom laid down in books, according to which, whenever travellers met, they sat down forthwith, and gave a history of them- selves and their adventures. This Buckthorne, too, was a man much to my taste; he had seen the world, and min- gled with society, yet retained the strong eccentricities of a man who had lived much alone. There was a careless dash of good-humor about him, which pleased me exceedingly; and at times an odd tinge of melancholy mingled with his humor, and gave it an additional zest. He was apt to run into long speculations, upoiy society and manners, and to indulge in whimsical views of human nature; yet there was nothing ill-tempered in his satire. It ran more upon the follies than the vices of mankind; and even the follies of his fellow-man were treated with the leniency of one who felt himself to be but frail. He had evidently been a little chilled and buffeted by fortune without being soured thereby: as some fruits become A PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHER 187 mellower and more generous in their flavor from having been bruised and frost-bitten. I have always had a great relish for the conversation of practical philosophers of this stamp, who have profited by the "sweet uses" ^ of adversity without imbibing its bitterness; who have learned to estimate the world rightly, yet good-humoredly; and who, while they per- ceive the truth of the saying, that **all is vanity," are yet able to do so without vexation of spirit. Such a man was Buckthorne. In general a laughing philosopher; and if at any time a shade of sadness stole across his brow, it was but transient ; like a summer cloud, which soon goes by, and freshens and revives the fields over which it passes. I was walking with him one day in Kensington Gar- dens, — for he was a knowing epicure in all the cheap pleasures and rural haunts within reach of the metropolis. It was a delightful warm morning in spring; and he was in the happy mood of a pastoral citizen, when just turned loose into grass and sunshine. He had been watching a lark which, rising from a bed of daisies and yellow-cups, had sung his way up to a bright snowy cloud floating in the deep blue sky. ** Of all birds," said he, "I should like to be a lark. He revels in the brightest time of the day, in the happiest season of the year, among fresh meadows and opening flowers ; and when he has sated himself with the sweetness of earth, he wings his flight up to heaven as if he would drink in the melody of the morning stars. Hark to that note ! How it comes thrilling down upon the ear ! What a stream of music, note falling over note, in delicious cadence! Who would trouble his head about operas and » A$ You Like It, II. i. 12. 188 TALES OF A TRAVELLER concerts when he could walk in the fields and hear such music for nothing? These are the enjoyments which set viches at scorn, and make even a poor man independent : " 'I care not, Fortune, what you me deny: You cannot rob me of free nature's grace ; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her bright'ning face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns by living streams at eve' — ' **Sir, there are homilies in nature's works worth all the wisdom of the schools, if we could but read them rightly, and one of the pleasantest lessons I ever received in time of trouble, was from hearing the notes of the lark. " I profited by this communicative vein to intimate to Buckthorne a wish to know something of the events of his life, which I fancied must have been an eventful one. He smiled when I expressed my desire. *'I have no great story," said he, *Ho relate. A mere tissue of errors and follies. But, such as it is, you shall have one epoch of it, by which you may judge of the rest." And so, without any further prelude, he gave me the following anecdotes of his early adventures. BUCKTHORNE: OR THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS I was born to very little property, but to great expecta- tions — which is, perhaps, one of the most unlucky fortunes a man can be born to. My father was a country gentle-. man, the last of a very ancient and honorable, but decayed family, and resided in an old hunting-lodge in Warwick- » From Thomson's Castle of Indolence, Canto 11. THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 189 shire. He was a keen sportsman, and lived to the extent of his moderate income, so that I had little to expect from that quarter; but then I had a rich uncle by the mother's side, a penurious, accumulating curmudgeon, who it was confidently expected would make me his heir, because he was an old bachelor, because I was named after Aim, and because he hated all the world except myself. He was, in fact, an inveterate hater, a miser even in misanthropy, and hoarded up a grudge as he did a guinea. Thus, though my mother was an only sister, he had never forgiven her marriage with my father, against whom he had a cold, still, immovable pique, which had lain at the bottom of his heart, like a stone in a well, ever since they had been school -boys together. My mother, however, considered me as the intermediate being that was to bring everything again into harmony, for she looked upon mo as a prodigy — God bless her! my heart overflows when- ever I recall her tenderness. 'She was the most exeellert, the most indulgent of mothers. I was her only child: it was a pity she had no more, for she had fondness of heart enough to have spoiled a dozen ! I was sent at an early age to a public school, sorely against my mother's wishes; but my father insisted that it was the only way to make boys hardy. The school was kept by a conscientious prig of the ancient system, who did his duty by the boys intrusted to his care, — that is to say, we were flogged soundly when we did not get our lessons. We were pat in classes, and thus flogged on in droves along the highway of knowledge, in much the same manner as cattle are driven to market ; where those that are heavy in gait, or short in leg, have to suffer for the superior alertness or longer limbs of their companions. For my part, I confess it with shame, I was an incor- 190 lALES OF A TRAVELLER rigible laggard. I have always had the poetical feeling, that is to say, I have always been an idle fellow, and prone' to play the vagabond. I used to get away from my books and school whenever I could, and ramble about the fields. T was surrounded by seductions for such a temperament. The school-house was an old-fashioned whitewashed man- sion, of wood and plaster standing on the skirts of a beau^ tiful village: close by it was the venerable church, with a tall Gothic spire; before it spread a lovely green valley, with a little stream glistening along through willow groves ; while a line of blue hills bounding the landscape gave rise to many a summer-day-dream as to the fairy land that lay beyond. In spite of all the scourgings I suffered at that school to make me love my book, I cannot but look back upon the place with fondness. Indeed, I considered this fre- quent flagellation as the common lot of humanity, and the regular mode in which scholars were made. My kind mother used to lament over my details of the sore trials I underwent in the cause of learning ; but my father turned a deaf ear to her expostulations. He had been flogged through school himself, and he swore there was no other way of making a man of parts; though, let me speak it with all due reverence, my father was bi;t an indifferent illustration of his theory, for he was considered a grievous blockhead. My poetical temperament evinced itself at a very early period. The village church was attended every Sunday by a neighboring squire, the lord of the manor, whose park stretched quite to the village, and whose spacious coun- try-seat seemed to take the church under its protection. Indeed, you would have thought the church had been con- secrated to him instead of to the Deity. The parish clerk THE yOUNG MAiSI OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 191 bowed low before him, and the vergers ^ humbled themselves unto the dust in his presence. He always entered a little late, and with some stir; striking his cane emphatically on the ground, swaying his hat in his hand, and looking loftily to the right and left as he walked slowly up the aisle; and the parson, who always ate his Sunday dinner with him, never commenced service until he appeared. He sat with his family in a large pew, gorgeously lined, humbling himself devoutly on velvet cushions, and read- ing lessons of meekness and lowliness of spirit out of splendid gold and morocco prayer-books. Whenever the parson spoke of the difficulty of a rich man's entering the kingdom of heaven, the eyes of the congregation would turn towards the "grand pew," and I thought the squire seemed pleased with the application. The pomp of this pew, and the aristocratical air of the family struck my imagination wonderfully ; and I fell des- perately in love with a little daughter of the squire's, about twelve years of age. This freak of fancy made me more truant from my studies than ever. I used to stroll about the squire's park, and lurk near the house, to catch glimpses of this damsel at the windows, or playing about the lawn, or walking out with her governess. I had not enterprise nor impudence enough to venture from my concealment. Indeed I felt like an arrant poacher, until I read one or two of Ovid's Metamorphoses, when I pictured myself as some sylvan deity, and she a coy wood-nymph of whom I was in pursuit. There is something extremely delicious in these early awakenings of the tender passion. I can feel even at this moment the throbbing in my boyish bosom, whenever by chance I 1 The word, derived from Latin virga, "staff," meant originally the one who bears the staff of ofiElce before a dignitary. Here it means "ushers" or "care-takers." 192 ' TALES OF A TRAVELLER caught a glimpse of her white frock fluttering among the shrubbery. I carried about in my bosom a volume of Waller,^ which I had purloined from my mother's library; and I applied to my little fair one all the compliments lavished upon Sacharissa. At length I danced with her at a school-ball. I was so awkward a booby, that I dared scarcely speak to her ; I was filled with awe and embarrassment in her presence ; but I was so inspired, that my poetical temperament for the first time broke out in verse, and I fabricated some glowing rhymes, in which I berhymed the little lady under the favorite name of Sacharissa. I slipped the verses, trembling and blushing, into her hand the next Sunday as she came out of church. The little prude handed them to her mamma; the mamma handed them to the squire; the squire, who had no soul for poetry, sent them in dudgeon to the schoolmaster; and the schoolmaster, with a barbarity worthy of the dark ages, gave me a sound and peculiarly humiliating flogging for thus trespassing upon Parnassus. This was a sad outset for a votary of the Muse ; it ought to have cured me of my passion for poetry ; but it only confirmed it, for I felt the spirit of a martyr rising within me. What- was as well, perhaps, it cured me of my passion for the young lady ; for I felt so indignant at the ignominious horsing^ I had incurred in celebrating her charms, that I could not hold up my head in church. Fortunately for my wounded sensibility, the Midsummer holidays came on, and I returned home. My mother, as usual, inquired into all my school > concerns, my little pleasures, and cares, and sorrows ; for -boyhood 1 Edmund Waller (1605-1687) -wrote love poems, excellent in form but artificial in feeling, which he addressed to Lady Dorothy Sidney, naming her Sachari^ssa. 3 Flogging. THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 193 has its share ite a piece out of his cheek. Our tragedian was a rough joker off the stage; our prime clown the most peevish * mortal living. The latter used to go about snapping and snarling, with a broad laugh painted on his countenance; and I can assure you, that, whatever may be said of the gravity of a monkey, or the melancholy of a gibed cat,' there is no more melancholy creature in existence than a mountebank off duty. The only thing in which all parties agreed, was to back- bite the manager, and cabal against his regulations. This, however, I have since discovered to be a common trait of human nature, and to take place in all communities. It would seem to be the main business of man to repine at government. In all situations of life, into which I have 1 Hamlet, I. il. 65. * Characters in Thomas Otway's tragedy Venice Preserved. 3 A gib-cat is a tom-cat. Gib is the abbreviation of Gilbert, the conven- tional name of the cat, as Bruin is of the bear and Reynard of the fox. The illusion is to I King Henry IV., I. ii. 83. 212 TALES OF A TRAVELLER looked, I have found mankind divided into two grand parties: those who ride, and those who are ridden. The great struggle of life seems to be which shall keep in the saddle. This, it appears to me, is the fundamental prin- ciple of politics, whether in great or little life. However, I do not mean to moralize — but one cannot always sink the philosopher. Well, then, to return to myself, it was determined, as I said, that I was not fit for tragedy, and unluckily, as my study was bad, having a very poor memory, I was pro- nounced unfit for comedy also; besides, the line of young gentlemen was already engrossed by an actor with whom I could not pretend to enter into competition, he having filled it for almost half a century. I came down again, therefore, to pantomime. In consequence, however, of the good offices of the manager's lady, who had taken a liking to me, I was promoted from the part of the satyr to that of the lover; and with my face patched and painted, a huge cravat of paper, a steeple-crowned hat, and dangling long-skirted sky-blue coat, was metamorphosed into the lover of Columbine. My part did not call for much of the tender and sentimental. I had merely to pursue the fugitive fair one; to have a door now and then slammed in my face ; to run my head occasionally against a post; to tumble and roll about with Pantaloon and the Clown ; and to endure the heart}^ tliwacks of Harlequin's Avooden sword. As ill luck would have it, my poetical temperament began to ferment within me, and to work out new troubles. The inflammatory air of a great metropolis, added to the rural scenes in which the fairs were held, such as Green- wich Park, Epping Forest, and the lovely valley of the West End, had a powerful effect upon me. While in THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 213 Greenwich Park, I was witness to the old holiday games of running down-hill, and kissing in the ring ; and then the firmament of blooming faces and blue eyes that j\^ould be turned towards me, as I was playing antics on the stage; all these set my young blood and my poetical vein in full flow. In short, I played the character to the life, and became desperately enamored of Columbine. She was a trim, well-made, tempting girl, with a roguish dimpling face, and fine chestnut hair clustering all about it. The moment I got fairly smitten, there was an end to all play- ing. I was such a creature of fancy and feeling, that I could not put on a pretended, when I was powerfully affected by a real emotion. I could not sport with a fic- tion that came so near to the fact. I became too natural in my acting to succeed. And then, what a situation for a lover! I was a mere stripling, and she played with my passion ; for girls soon grow more adroit and knowing in these matters than your awkward youngsters. What agonies had I to suffer ! Every time that she danced in front of the booth, and made such liberal displays of her charms, I was in torment. To complete my misery, I had a real rival in Harlequin, an active, vigorous, knowing varlet, of six -and -twenty. What had a raw, inexperienced youngster like me to hope from such a competition? I had still, however, some advantages in my favor. In spite of my change of life, I retained that indescribable something which always distinguishes the gentleman ; that something which dwells in a man's air and deportment and not in his clothes; and which is as difficult for a gen- tleman to put off, as for a vulgar fellow to put on. The company generally felt it, and used to call me Little Gen- tleman Jack. The girl felt it, too, and, in spite of her predilection for my powerful rival, she liked to flirt with 214 TALES OF A TRAVELLER me. This only aggravated my troubles, by increasing my passion, and awakening the jealousy of her party-colored lover. Alas ! think what I suffered at being obliged to keep up an ineffectual chase after my Columbine through whole pantomimes; to see her carried off in the vigorous arms of the happy Harlequin; and to be obliged, instead of snatch- ing her from him, to tumble sprawling with Pantaloon and the Clown, and bear the infernal and degrading thwacks of my rival's weapon of lath, which, may heaven confound him! (excuse my passion), the villain laid on with a malicious good- will : nay, I could absolutely hear him chuckle and laugh beneath his accursed mask — I beg par- don for growing a little warm in my narrative — I wish to bjB cool, but these recollections will sometimes agitate me. I have heard and read of many desperate and deplorable situations of lovers, but none, I think, in which true love was ever exposed to so severe and peculiar a trial. This could not last long; flesh and blood, at least such flesh and blood as mine, could not bear it. I had repeated heart-burnings and quarrels with my rival, in whicli he treated me with the mortifying forbearance of a man towards a child. Had he quarrelled outright with me, I could have stomached it, at least I should have known what part to take ; but to be humored and treated as a child in the presence of my mistress, when I felt all the bantam spirit of a little man swelling within me — Grods ! it was insufferable ! At length, we were exhibiting one day at West End fair, which was at that time a very fashionable resort, and often ^beleaguered with gay equipages from town. Among the spectators that filled the first row of our little canvas theatre one afternoon, when I had to figure in a panto- THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 216 mime, were a number of young ladies from a boarding- school, with their governess. Guess my confusion, when, in the midst of my antics, I beheld among the number my quondam flame ; her whom I had berhymed at school, her for whose charms I had smarted so severely, the cruel Sacharissa! What was worse, I fancied she recollected me, and was repeating the story of my humiliating flagel- lation, for I saw her whispering to her companions and her governess. I lost all consciousness of the part I was acting, and of the place where I was. I felt shrunk to nothing, and could have crept into a rat-hole, — unluckily, none was open to receive me. Before I could recover from my confusion, I was tumbled over by Pantaloon and the Clown, and I felt the sword of Harlequin making vigorous assaults in a manner most degrading to my dig- nity. Heaven and earth ! was I again to suffer martyrdom in this ignominious manner, in the knowledge, and even before the very eyes of this most beautiful, but most dis- dainful of fair ones? All my long-smothered wrath broke out at once; the dormant feelings of the gentleman arose within me. Stung to the quick* by intolerable mortifica- tion, I sprang on my feet in an instant; leaped upon Har- lequin like a young tiger; tore off his mask; buffeted him in the face ; and soon shed more blood on the stage than had been spilt upon it during a whole tragic campaign of battles and murders. As soon as Harlequin recovered from his surprise, he returned my assault with interest. I was nothing in his hands. I was game, to be sure, for I was a gentleman; but he had the clownish advantage of bone and muscle. I felt as if I could have fought even unto the death ; and I was likely to do so, for he was, according to the boxing 216 TALES OF A TRAVELLER phrase, '^putting my head into chancery,"^ when the gentle Columbine flew to my assistance. Grod bless the women! they are always on the side of the weak and the oppressed ! The battle now became general ; the dramatis personae ranged on either side. The manager interposed in vain; in vain were his spangled black bonnet and towering white feathers seen whisking about, and nodding, and bobbing in the thickest of the fight. Warriors, ladies, priests, satyrs, kings, queens, gods, and goddesses, all joined pell- mell in the affray; never, since the conflict under the walls of Troy, had there been such a chance-medley warfare of combatants, human and divine. The audience applauded, the ladies shrieked, and fled from the theatre; and a scene of discord ensued that baffles all description. Nothing but the interference of the peace-officers restored some degree of order. The havoc, however, among dresses and decorations, put an end to all further acting for that day. The battle over, the next thing was to inquire why it was begun : a common question among politicians after a bloody and unprofitable war, and one not always easy to be answered. It was soon traced to me, and my unaccountable transport of passion, which they could only attribute to my having, run amuclc.^ The manager was judge and jury, and plaintiff into the bargain; and in such cases justice is always speedily administered. He came out of the fight as sublime a wreck as the Santissima Trinidada.^ His gallant plumes, which once towered aloft, were drooping about his ears; 1 Pinning his head down under his arm so that he could not free him- self. Cases in the chancery courts were proverbially difficult to get out. 3 An interesting phrase ; see any good dictionary for the explanation. 8 A Spanish war- vessel, captured and sunk by Lord Nelson at the battle ol Trafalgar In 1805. THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 217 Ms robe of state hung in ribbons from his back, and but ill concealed the ravages he had suffered in the rear. He had received kicks and cuffs from all sides during the tumult; for every one took the opportunity of slyly grati- fying some lurking grudge on his fat carcass. He was a discreet, man, and did not choose to declare war with all his company, so he swore all those kicks and cuffs had been given by me, and I let him enjoy the opinion. Some wounds he bore, however, which were the incontestable traces of a woman's warfare: his sleek rosy cheek was scored by trickling furrows, which were ascribed to the nails of my intrepid and devoted Columbine. The ire of the monarch was not to be appeased; he had suffered in his p^erson, and he had suffered in his purse; his dignity, too, had been insulted, and that went for something; for dignity is always more irascible, the more petty the poten- tate. He wreaked his wrath upon the beginners of the affray, and Columbine and myself were discharged, at once, from the company. Figure me, then, to yourself, a stripling of little more than sixteen, a gentleman by birth, a vagabond by trade, turned adrift upon the world, making the best of my way through the crowd of West End fair; my mountebank 'dress fluttering in rags about me; the weeping Columbine hanging upon my arm, in splendid but tattered finery; the tears coursing one by one down her face, carrying off the red paint in torrents, and literally "preying upon her damask cheek." ^ The crowd made way for us as we passed, and hooted in our rear. I felt the ridicule of my situation, but had too much gallantry to desert this fair one, who had sacrificed 1 Twelfth Night, II. iv. 115. The quotation is slightly altered from thQ original, 218 TALES OF A TRAVELLER everything for me. Having wandered through the fair, we emerged, like another Adam and Eve, into unknown regions, and *'had the world before us. where to choose.^" Never was a more disconsolate pair seen in the soft valley of West End. The luckless Columbine cast many a lin- gering look at the fair, which seemed to put on a more than usual splendor: its tents, and booths, and parti- colored groups, all brightening in the sunshine, and gleaming among the trees; audits gay flags and streamers fluttering in the light summer airs. With a heavy sigh she would lean on my arm and proceed. I had no hope nor consolation to give her; but she had linked herself to my fortunes, and she was too much of a woman to desert me. Pensive and silent, then, we traversed the beautiful fields which lie behind Hampstead, and wandered on, until the fiddle and the hautboy, and the shout, and the laugh, were swallowed up in the deep sound of the big bass-drum, and even that died away into a distant rum- ble. We passed along the pleasant, sequestered walk of Nightingale Lane. For a pair of lovers, what scene could be more propitious? — But such a pair of lovers! Not a nightingale sang to soothe us: the very gypsies, who were encamped there during the fair, made no offer to tell the fortunes of such an ill-omened couple, whose fortunes, I suppose, they thought too legibly written to need an interpreter; and the gypsy children crawled into their cabins, and peeped out fearfully at us as we went by. For a moment I paused, and was almost tempted to turn gypsy, but the poetical feeling, for the present, was fully satisfied, and I passed on. Thus we travelled and trav- elled, like a prince and princess in a nursery tale, until 1 One of the closing lines of the last book of Paradise Lost. THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 219 we had traversed a part of Hampstead Heath, and arrived in the vicinity of Jack Straw's Castle. Here, wearied and dispirited, we seated ourselves on the margin of the hill, hard by the very milestone where Whittington ^ of yore heard the Bow-bells ring out the presage of his future greatness. Alas! no hell rung an invitation to us, as we looked disconsolately upon the distant city. Old London seemed to wrap itself unsociahly in its mantle of brown smoke, and to offer no encouragement to such a couple of tatterdemalions. For once, at least, the usual course of the pantomime was reversed, Harlequin was jilted, and the lover had car- ried off Columbine in good earnest. But what was I to do with her? I could not take her in my hand, return to my father, throw myself on my knees, and crave his forgive- ness and blessing, according to dramatic usage. The very dogs would have chased such a draggled-tailed beauty from the grounds. In the midst of my doleful dumps, some one tapped me on the shoulder, and, looking up, I saw a couple of rough sturdy fellows standing behind me. Not knowing what to expect, I jumped on my legs, and was preparing again to make battle, but was tripped up and secured in a twink- ling, "Come, come, young master," said one of the fellows in a gruff but good-humored tone, *' don't let's have any of your tantrums; one would have thought you had had swing enough for this bout. Come; it's high time to leave off harlequinading, and go home to your father." In fact, I had fallen into the hands of remorseless men. 1 Sir Richard Whittington, a popular chap-book hero of London, rose from a very, humhle position to be Lord Mayor of London. As a boy apprentice, the story goes, he was prevented from running away from his master by hearing these words in the bells of Bow-church j "Turn again, Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London." 220 TALES OF A TRAVELLER The cruel Sacharissa had proclaimed who I was, and that a reward had been offered throughout the country for any tidings of me ; and they had seen a description of me which had been inserted in the public papers. Those harpies, therefore, for the mere sake of filthy lucre, were resolved to deliver me over into the hands of my father, and the. clutches of my pedagogue. In vain I swore I would not leave my faithful and afflicted Columbine. In vain I tore myself from their grasp, and flew to her, and vowed to protect her; and wiped the tears from her cheek, and with 'them a whole blush that might have vied with the carnation for bril- liancy. My persecutors were inflexible ; they even seemed to exult in our distress; and to enjoy this theatrical dis- play of dirt, and finery, and tribulation. I was carried off in despair, leaving my Columbine destitute in the wide world; but many a look of agony did I cast back at her as she stood gazing piteously after me from the brink of Hampstead Hill; so forlorn, so fine, so ragged, so bedraggled, yet so beautiful. Thus ended my first peep into the world. I re- turned home, rich in good-for-nothing experience, and dreading the reward I was to receive for my improvement. My reception, however, was quite different from what I had expected. My father had a spice of the devil in him, and did not seem to like me the worse for my freak, which he termed "sowing my wild oats." He happened to have some of his sporting friends to dine the very day of my return ; they made me tell some of my adventures, and laughed heartily at them.^ ^ The father of Buckthorne, as he is presented here, seems to be a some- what diluted version of a popular eighteenth century type, the fox-hunting squire. A good representative of the class is Squire Western in Fielding's Tom Jones. THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 321 One old feliow, with an outrageously red nose, took to me hugely. I heard him whisper to my father that I was a lad of mettle, and might make something clever; to which my father replied, that I had good points, but was an ill-broken whelp, and required a great deal of the whip. Perhaps this very conversation raised me a little in his esteem, for I found the red-nosed old gentleman was a veteran fox-hunter of the neighborhood, for whose opinion my father had vast deference. Indeed, I believe he would have pardoned anything in me more readily than poetry, which he called a cursed, sneaking, puling, housekeeping employment, the bane of all fine manhood. He swore it was unworthy of a youngster of my expectations, who was one day to have so great an estate, and would be able to keep horses and hounds, and hire poets to write songs for him into the bargain. I had now satisfied, for a time, my roving propensity. I had exhausted the poetical feeling. I had been heartily buffeted out of my love for theatrical display. I felt humiliated by my exposure, and willing to hide my head anywhere for a season, so that I might be oat of the way of the ridicule of the world; for I found folks not alto- gether so indulgent abroad as they were at my father's table. I could not stay at home ; the house was intoler- ably doleful now that my mother was no longer there to cherish me. Everything around spoke mournfully of her. The little flower-garden in which she delighted, was all in disorder and overrun with weeds. I attempted for a day or two to arrange it, but my heart grew heavier and heavier as I labored. Every little broken-down flower, that I had seen her rear so tenderly, seemed to plead in mute eloquence to my feelings. There was a favorite honeysuckle which I had seen her often training with 222 TALES OF A TRAVELLER assiduity, and had heard her say it would be the pride of her garden. I found it grovelling along the ground, tan- gled and wild, and twining round every worthless weed ; and it struck me as an emblem of myself, a mere scatterr ling, running to waste and uselessness. I could work no longer in the garden. My father sent me to pay a visit to my uncle, by way of keeping the old gentleman in mind of me. I was received, as usual, without any expression of discontent, which we always considered equivalent to a hearty welcome. Whether he had ever heard of my strolling freak or not, I could not discover, he and his man were both so taciturn. I spent a day or two roaming about the dreary mansion and neglected park, and felt at one time, I believe, a touch of poetry, for I was tempted to drown myself in a fish-pond; I rebuked the evil spirit, however, and it left me. I found the same red-headed boy running wild about the park, but I felt in no humor to hunt him at present. On the contrary, I tried to coax him to me, and to make friends with him; but the young savage was untamable. When I returned from my uncle's, I remained at home for some time, for my father was disposed, he said, to make a man of me. He took me out hunting with him, and I became a great favorite of the red-nosed squire, because I rode at everything, never refused the boldest leap, and was always sure to be in at the death. I used often, howevei^, to offend my father at hunting-dinners, by taking the wrong side in politics. My father was amaz- ingly ignorant, so ignorant, in fact, as not to know that he knew nothing. He was stanch, however, to church and king, and full of old-fashioned prejudices. Now I had picked up a little knowledge in politics and religion during my rambles with the strollers, and found myself capable THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 223 of setting him right as to many of his antiquated notions. I felt it my duty to do so; we were apt, therefore, to differ occasionally in the political discussions which some- times arose at those hunting-dinners. I was at that age when a man knows least, and is most vain of his knowledge, and when he is extremely tenacious in defending his opinion upon subjects about which he knows nothing. My father was a hard man for any one to argue with, for he never knew when he was refuted. I sometimes posed him a little, but then he had one argu- ment that always settled the question; he would threaten to knock me down. I believe he at last grew tired of me, because I both out-talked and out-rode him. The red- nosed squire, too, got out of conceit with me, because, in the heat of the chase, I rode over hirh one day as he and his horse lay sprawling in the dirt : so I found myself get- ting into disgrace with all the world, and would have got heartily out of humor with myself, had I not been kept in tolerable self-conceit by the parson's three daughters. They were the same who had admired my poetry on a former occasion, when it had brought me into disgrace at school; and I had ever since retained an exalted idea of their judgment. Indeed, they were young ladies not merely of taste but of science. Their education had been superintended by their mother, who was a blue-stocking. They knew enough of botany to tell the technical names of all the flowers in the garden, and all their secret con- cerns into the bargain. They knew music, too, not mere commonplace music, but Eossini and Mozart, and they sang Moore's Irish Melodies^ to perfection. They had pretty little work-tables, covered with all kinds of objects 1 Thomas Moore published his Irish Melodies at various times between 1807 and 1834. 224 ^ TAL'ES OF A TRAVELLEE of taste: specimens of lava, and pamtied tggs, and work- boxes, painted and* varnished by themselves. They excelled in knotting and netting, and painted in water- colors; and made feather fans, and fire-screens, and worked in silks and worsteds; and talked French and Italian, and knew Shakspeare by heart. They even knew something of geology and mineralogy; and went about the neighborhood knocking stones to pieces, to the great admiration and perplexity of t^ le country folk. I am a little too minute, perhaps, in detailing their accomplishments, but I wish to let you see that these were not commonplace young ladies, but had pretensions quite above the ordinary run. It was some consolation to me, therefore, to find favor in such eyes. Indeed, they had always marked me out for a genius, and eonsidered my late vagrant freak as fresh proof of the fact. They observed that Shakspeare himself had been a mere pickle in his youth ; that he had stolen a deer, as every one kiiew, and kept loose company, and consorted with actors : so I comforted myself marvellously with the idea of having so decided a Shakspearian trait* in my character. The youngest of the three, however, was my grand con-, solation. She was a pale, sentimental girl, with long-j ^^hyacinthine" ringlets hanging about her face. She j wrote poetry herself, and we kept up a poetical correspond- ence. She had a taste for the drama, too, and I taught her how to act several of the scenes in "Eomeo and Juliet." I used to rehearse the garden-scene under her lattice, which looked out from among woodbine and honeysuckles into the church-yard. I began to think her amazingly pretty as well as clever, and I believe I should have finished by falling in love with her, had not her father discovered our theatrical studies. He was a stu- THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 225^ dious, abstracted man, generally too much absorbed in his learned and religious labors to notice the little foibles of his daughters, and perhaps blinded by a father's fond- ness ; but he unexpectedly put 'hi& head: out of his study- window one day in the midst of a scene, and put a stop ta our rehearsals. He had a vast deal of that prosaic good sense which I forever found a stumbling-block in my poetical path. My rambling freak had not struck the* good man as poetically as it had his daughters. He- drew his comparison from a different manual. He looked upon me as a prodigal son,, and doubted whether 1 should ever arrive at the happy catastrophe of the fatted calf. I fancy some intimation was given to my father of this new breaking out of my poetical temperament, for he sud- denly intimated that it was high time I should prepare for the university. I dreaded a return to the school whence I had eloped: the ridicule of my fellow-scholars, and the glance from the squire's pew, would have been worse than, death to me, I was fortunately spared the humiliation. My father sent me to board with a country gentleman,, who had three or four boys under his care. I went to him joyfully, for 1 had often heard my mother mention him^ with esteem. In fact he had been an admirer of hers in his younger days, though too humble in fortune and modest in pretentions to aspire to her hand; but he had ever retained a tender regard for her. He was a good man; a worthy specimen of that valuable body of our country clergy who silently and unostentatiously do a- vast deal of good; who are, as it were, woven into the whole- system of rural life, and operate upon it with the steady yet unobtrusive influence of temperate piety and learned good sense. He lived in a small village not far from War- 226 TALES OF A TRAVELLER wick, one of those little communities where the scant]^ flock is, in a manner, folded into the bosom of the pastor. The venerable church, in its grass -grown cemetery, was one of those rural temples scattered about our country as if to sanctify the land. I have the worthy pastor before my mind's eye at this moment, with his mild benevolent countenance, rendered still more venerable by his silver hairs. I have him before me, as I saw him on my arrival seated in the embowered porch of his small parsonage, with a flower- garden before it, and his pupils gathered round him like his children. I shall never forget his reception of me; for I believe he thought of my poor mother at the time, and his heart yearned towards her child. His eye glis- tened when he received me at the door, and he took me into his arms as the adopted child of his affections. Never had I been so fortunately placed. He was one of those excellent members of our church, who help out their nar- row salaries by instructing a few gentlemen's sons. I am convinced those little seminaries are among the best nurseries of talent and virtue in the land. Both heart and mind are cultivated and improved. The preceptor is the companion and the friend of his pupils. His sacred character gives him dignity in their eyes, and his solemn functions produce that elevation of mind and sobriety of conduct necessary to those who are to teach youth to think and act wprthily. I speak from my own random observation and expe- rience ; but I think 1 speak correctly. At any rate, I can trace much of what is good in my own heterogeneous compound to the short time I was under the instruction of that good man. He entered into the cares and occupa- tions and amusements of his pupils ; and won his way into THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 227 our confidence, and studied our hearts and minds more intently than we did our books. He soon sounded the depth of my character. I had become, as I have already hinted, a little liberal in my notions, and apt to philosophize on both politics and religion ; having seen something of men and things, and learnt, from my fellow-philosophers, the strollers, to despise all vulgar prejudices. He did not attempt to cast down my vainglory, nor to question my right view of things ; he merely instilled into my mind a little informa- tion on these topics ; though in a quiet unobtrusive way, that never ruffled a feather of my self-conceit. I was astonished to find what a change a little knowledge makes in one's mode of viewing matters; and how different a- subject is when one thinks, or when one only talks about it. I conceived a vast deference for my teacher, and was ambitious of his good opinion. In my zeal to make a favorable impression, I presented him with a whole ream of my poetry. He read it attentively, smiled, and pressed my hand when he returned it to me, but said nothing. The next day he set me at mathematics. Somehow or other the process of teaching seemed robbed by him of all its austerity. I was not conscious that he thwarted an inclination or opposed a wish ; but I felt that, for the time, my inclinations were entirely changed^ I became fond of study, aiid zealous to improve myself. I made tolerable advances in studies which I had before considered as unattainable, and I wondered at my own proficiency. I thought, too, I astonished my precep- tor; for I often caught his eyes fixed upon me with a peculiar expression. I suspect, since, that he was pen- sively tracing in my countenance the early lineaments of my mother. 228 TALES OF A TRAVELLER Education was not apportioned by liim into tasks, and enjoined as a labor, to be abandoned with joy the moment the hour of study was expired. We had., it is true, our allotted hours of occupation, to give us habits of method, and of the distribution of time; but they were made pleasant to us, and our feelings were enlisted in the cause. When they were over, education still went on. It pervaded all our relaxations and amusements. There was a steady march of improvement. Much of his instruction was given during pleasant rambles, or when seated on the margin of the Avon; and informa- tion received in that way, often makes a deeper impres- sion than when acquired by poring over books. I have many of the pure and eloquent precepts that flowed from his lips associated in my mind with lovely scenes in nature, which make the recollection cf them indescribably delightful. I do not pretend to say that any miracle was effected with me. After all said and done, I was but a weak dis- ciple. My poetical temperament still wrought within me and wrestled hard with wisdom, and, I fear, maintained the mastery. I found mathematics an intolerable task in fine weather. I would be prone to forget my problems, to watch the birds hopping about the windows, or the bees humming about the honeysuckles ; and whenever I could steal away, I would wander about the grassy borders of the Avon, and excuse this truant propensity to myself with the idea that I was treading classic ground, over which Shakspeare had wandered. What luxurious idle- ness have I indulged, as I lay under the trees and watched the silver waves rippling through the arches of the broken "bridge, and laving the rocky bases of old Warwick Oastle; and how often have I thought of sweet Shakspeare, THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 329 and in my boyish enthusiasm have kissed the waves which had washed his native village. My good preceptor would often accompany me in. these desultory rambles. He sought to get hold of this vagrant mood of mind and turn it to some account. He endeavored to teach me to mingle thought with mere sensation ; to moralize on the scenes around ; and to make the beauties of nature administer to the understanding of the heart. He endeavored to direct my imagination to high and noble objects, and to fill it with lofty images. In a word, he did all he could to make the best of a poetical temperament, and to counteract the mischief which had been done to me by my great expectations. Had I been earlier put under the care of the good pas- tor, or remained with him a longer time, I really believe he would have made something of me. He had already brought a great deal of what had been flogged into me into tolerable order, and had weeded out much of the unprofitable wisdom which had sprung up in my vagabond- izing. I already began to find that with all my genius a. little study would be no disadvantage to me; and, in spite of my vagrant freaks, I began to doubt my being a second Shakspeare. Just as I was making these precious discoveries the good parson died. It was a melancholy day throughout the neighborhood. He had his little flock of scholars, his children, as he used to call us, gathered round him in his dying moments; and he gave us the parting advice of a father, now that he had to leave us, and we were to be separated from each other, and scattered about in the world. He took me by the hand, and talked with me earnestly and affectionately, and called to my mind my mother, and used her name to enforce his dying exhorta- 230 TALES OF A TRAVELLER tions; for I rather think he considered me the mast erring and heedless of his flock. He held my hand in his, long after he had done speaking, and kept his eye fixed on me - tenderly and almost pi teonsly: his lips moved as if he were silently praying for me ; and he died away, still holding me by the hand. There was not a dry eye in the church when the funeral service was read from the pulpit from which he had so often preached. When the body was Qommitted to the earth, our little band gathered round it, and watched the coffin as it was lowered into the grave. The parishioners looked at us with sympathy ; for we were mourners not merely in dress but in heart. We lingered about the grave, and clung to one another for a time, weeping and speechless, and then parted, like a band of brothers part- ing from the paternal earth, never to assemble there again. How had the gentle spirit of that good man sweetened our natures, and linked our young hearts together by the kindest ties ! I have always had a throb of pleasure at meeting with an old schoolmate, even though one of my truant associates; but whenever, in the course of my life, I have encountered one of that little flock with which I was folded on the banks of the Avon, it has been with a gush of affection, and a glow of virtue, that for the moment have made me a better man. I was now sent to Oxford, and was wonderfully impressed on first entering it as a student. Learning here puts on all its majesty. It is lodged in palaces; it is sanctified by the sacred ceremonies of religion ; it has a pomp and circumstance which powerfully affect the imagination. Such, at least, it had in my eyes, thought- less as I was. My previous studies with the worthy pas- tor had prepared me to regard it with deference and awe. THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 231 He had been educated here, and always spoke of the Uni- versity with filial fondness and classic yeneration. When I beheld the clustering spires and pinnacles of this most august of cities rising from the plain, I hailed them in my enthusiasm as the points of a diadem, which the nation had placed upon the brows of science. For a time old Oxford was full of enjoyment for me. There was a charm al5out its monastic buildings; its great Gothic quadrangles; its solemn halls, and shadowy cloisterSo I delighted, in the evenings, to get in places surrounded by the colleges, where all modern buildings were screened from the sight; and to see the Professors and students sweeping along in the dusk in their anti- quated caps and gowns. I seemed 'for a time to be trans- ported among the people and edifices of the old times. I was a frequent attendant, also, of the evening service in the New College Hall; to hear the fine organ, and the choir swelling an anthem in that solemn building, where painting, music, and architecture are in such admirable unison. A favorite haunt, too, was the beautiful walk bordered by lofty elms along the river, behind the gray walls of Magdalen College, which goes by the name of Addison's Walk, from being his favorite resort when an Oxford stu- dent. 1 became also a lounger in the Bodleian library, and a great dipper into books, though I cannot say that I studied them; in fact, being no longer under direction oi" control, I was gradually relapsing into mere indulgence of the fancy. Still this would have been pleasant and harmless enough, and I might have awakened from mere literary dreaming to something better. The chances were in m}' fsvor, for the riotous times of the University were past. The days of hard drinking were at an end. . f he '232 TALES OF A TRAVELLER 'old feuds of ''Town and Gown," ^ like the civil wars of the White and Red Rose, had died away; and student and citizen slept in peace and whole skins, without risk of being summoned in the night to bloody brawl. It had •become the fashion to study at the University, and the -odds were always in favor Of my following the fashion. Unlrackily, however, I fell in company with a special knot of the Fancy but a jargon by which fools and knaves com- mune and understand each other, and enjoy a kind of superiority over the uninitiated? What is a boxing-match but an arena, where the noble and the illustrious are jostled into familiarity with the infamous and the vulgar? What, in fact, is the Fancy itself, but a chain of easy communication, extending from the peer down to the pickpocket, through the medium of which a man of rank may find he has shaken hands, at three removes, with the murderer on the gibbet? — "Enough!" ejaculated I, thoroughly convinced through the force of my philosophy, and the pain of my bruises, — "I'll have nothing more to do with the Fancy." So when I had recovered from my victory, I turned my attention to softer themes, and became a devoted admirer of the ladies. Had I had more industry and ambition in my nature, I might have worked my way to the very height of fashion, as I saw many laborious gentlemen doing around me. But it is a toilsome, an anxious, and an unhappy life ; there are few things so sleepless and mis- erable as your cultivators of fashionable smiles. I was quite content with that kind of society which forms the frontiers of fashion, and may be easily taken possession of. I found it a light, easy, productive soil. I had but to go about and sow visiting-cards, and I reaped a whole harvest of invitations. Indeed, my figure and address were by no means against me. It was whispered, too, among the young ladies, that I was prodigiously clever, and wrote poetry ; and the old ladies had ascertained that I was a young gentleman of good family, handsome fortune, and "great expectations." I now was carried away by the hurry of gay life, so intoxicating to a young man, and which a man of poetical THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 243 temperament enjoys so highly on his first tasting of it; that rapid variety of sensations; that whirl of brilliant objects; that succession of pungent pleasures! I had no time for thought. I only felt. I never attempted to write poetry ; my poetry seemed all to go off by transpira- tion. I lived poetry; it was all a poetical dream to me. A mere sensualist knows nothing of the delights of a splendid metropolis. He lives in a round of animal grati- fications and heartless habits. But to a young man of poetical feelings, it is an ideal world, a scene of enchant- ment and delusion ; his imagination is in perpetual excite- ment, and gives a spiritual zest to every pleasure. A season of town life, however, somewhat sobered me of my intoxication; or rather I was rendered more serious by one of my old complaints — I fell in love. It was with a very pretty, though a very haughty fair one, who had come to London under the care of an old maiden aunt to enjoy the pleasures of a winter in town, and to get married. There was not a doubt of her commanding a choice of lovers; for she had long been the belle of a little cathedral city, and one of the poets of the place had absolutely celebrated her beauty in a copy of Latin verses. The most extravagant anticipations were formed by her friends of the sensation she would produce. It was feared by some that she might be precipitate in her choice, and take up with some inferior title. The aunt was determined nothing should gain her under a lord. Alas! with all her charms, the young lady lacked the one thing needful — she had no money. So she waited in vain for duke, marquis, or earl, to throw himself at her feet. As the season waned, so did the lady's expectations; when, just towards the close, I made my advances. I was most favorably received by both the young lady 244 TALES OF A TRAVELLER and lier aunt. It is true, I liad no title ; but then such great expectations. A marked preference was immediately shown me over two rivals, the younger son of a needy baronet;, and a captain of dragoons on half-pay. I did not absolutely take the field in form, for I was determined not to be precipitate; but I drove my equipage frequently through the street in which she lived, and was always sure to^ see her at the window, generally with a book in her hand. I resumed my knack at rhyming, and sent her a long copy of verses ; anonymously, to b^ sure, but she knew my handwriting. Both aunt and niece, however, displayed the most delightful ignorance on the subject. The young lady showed them to me; wondered who they could be written by ; and declared there was nothing in this world she loved so much as poetry; while the maiden aunt would put her pinching spectacles on her nose, and read them, with blunders in sense and sound, excruciating to an author's ears; protesting there was nothing equal to themin the whole Elegant Extracts.^ The fashionable season closed without my adventuring to make a declaration, though I certainly had encouragement. I was not perfectly sure that I had effected a lodgment in the young lady's heart; ai^d, to tell the truth, the aunt overdid her part, and was a little too extravagant in her liking of me. I knew that maiden aunts were not to be captivated by the mere personal merits of their nieces' admirers; and I wanted to ascertain how much of all this favor I owed to driving an equipage, and having great expectations. I had received many hints how charming their native place was during the summer months; what pleasant 1 The Elegant Extracts, or Useful and Entertaming Pieces of Poetry , by Vicjesimus Knox (1752-1821.) THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 24:5 society they had; and what beautiful drives about the neighborhood. ' They had not, therefore, returned home long, before I made my appearance in dashing style, driv- ing down the principal street. The very next morning I was seen at prayers, seated in the same pew with the reigning belle. Questions were whispered about the aisles, after service, "Who is he?" and "What is he?" And the replies were as usual, "A young gentleman of good family and fortune, and great expectations." I was much struck with the peculiarities of this reverend little place. A cathedral, with its dependencies and regu- lations, presents a picture of other times, and of a different order of things. It is a rich relic of a more poetical age. There still linger about it the silence and solemnity of the cloister. In the present instance especially, where the cathedral was large, and the town small, its influence was the mbre apparent. The solemn pomp of the service, per- formed twice a day, with the grand intonations of the organ, and the voices of the choir swelling through the magnificent pile, diffused, as it were, a perpetual Sabbath over the place. This routine of solemn ceremony con- tinually going on, independent, as it were, of the world ; this daily offering of melody and praise, ascending like incense from the altar, had a powerful effect upon my imagination. The aunt introduced me to her coterie, formed of families connected with the cathedral, and others of mod- erate fortune, but high respectability, who had nestled themselves under the wings of the cathedral to enjoy good society at moderate expense. It was a highly aristo- cratic little circle; scrupulous in its intercourse with others, and jealously cautious about admitting anything common or unclean. 246 TALES OF A TRAVELLER It seemed as if the courtesies of the old school had taken refuge here. There were continual interchanges of ciyili- ties, and of small presents of fruits and delicacies, and of complimentary crow-quill billets ; for in a quiet, well-bred community like this, living entirely at ease, little duties, and little amusements, and little civilities, filled up the day. I have seen, in the midst of a warm day, a cor- pulent, powdered footman, issuing from the iron gateway of a stately mansion, and traversing the little place with an air of mighty import, bearing a small tart on a large silver salver. Their evening amusements were sober and primitive. They assembled at a moderate hour; the young ladies played music, and the old ladies, whist; and at an early hour they dispersed. There was no parade on these social occasions. Two or three old sedan chairs were in constant activity, though the greater part made their exit in clogs and pattens, with a footman or waiting-maid carrying a lantern in advance ; and long before midnight the clank of pattens and gleam of lanterns about the quiet little place told that the evening party had dissolved. Still I did not feel myself altogether so much at my ease as I had anticipated considering the smallness of the place. I found it very different from other country places, and that it was not so easy to make a dash there. Sinner that I was! the very dignity and decorum of the little community was rebuking to me. I feared my past idle- ness and folly would rise in judgment against me. I stood in awe of the dignitaries of the cathedral, whom I saw mingling familiarly in society. I became nervous on this point. The creak of a prebendary's shoes, sounding from one end of a quiet street to another, was appalling to me; and the sight of a shovel hat was sufficient at any THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 247 time to check me in the midst of my boldest poetical soarings. And then the good aunt could not be quiet, but would cry me up for a genius, and extol my poetry to every one. So long as she confined this to the ladies it did well enough, because they were able to feel and appreciate poetry of the new romantic schooL Nothing would con- tent the good lady, however, but she must read my verses to a prebendary, who had long been the undoubted critic of the place. He was a thin, delicate old gentleman, of mild, polished manners, steeped to the lips in classic lore, and not easily put in a heat by any hot-blooded poetry of the day. He listened to my most fervid thoughts and fervid words without a glow; shook his head with a smile, and condemned them as not being according to Horace, as not being legitimate poetry. Several old ladies, who had heretofore been my admir- ers, shook their heads at hearing this: they could not think of praising any poetry that was not according to Horace ;^and as to anything illegitimate, it was not to be countenanced in good society. Thanks to my stars, how- ever, I ha'd youth and novelty on my side: so the young ladies persisted in admiring my poetry in despite of Hor- ace and illegitimacy. I consoled myself with the good opinion of the young ladies, whom I had always found to be the best judges of poetry. As to these old scholars, said I, they are apt to be chilled by being steeped in the cold fountains of the classics. Still I felt that I was losing ground, and that it was necessary to bring matters to a point. Just at this time there was a public ball, attended by the best society of the place, and by the gentry of the neighborhood: I took great pains with my toilet on the occasion, and I 5348 TALES OF A TRAVELLER had never looked better. I had determined that night to make my grand assault on the heart of the young lady, to battle it with all my forces, and the next morning to demand a surrender in due form, I entered the ball-room amidst a buzz and flutter, which generally took place among the young ladies on my appearance, I was in fine spirits ; for, to tell the truth, I had exhilarated myself by a cheerful glass of wine on the occasion. I talked, and rattled, and said a. thousand silly things, slap-dash, with all the confidence of a man sure of his audi tors, ^ — and everything had its effect. In the midst of my triumph I observed a little knot gathering together in the upper part of the room. By degrees it increased^ A tittering broke out here and there, and glances were cast round at me, and then there would be fresh tittering. Some of the young ladies would hurry away to distant parts of the room, and whisper to their friends. Wherever they went, there was still this tittering and glancing at me. 1 did not know what to make of all this. I looked at myself from head to foot, and peeped at my back in a glass, to see if anything was odd about my person ; any awkward exposure, any whim- sical tag hanging out — no — everything was right — I was a perfect picture. I determined that it must be some choice saying of mine that was bandied about in this knot of merry beauties, and I determined to enjoy one of my good things in the rebound. I stepped gently, therefore, up the room, smiling at every one as 1 passed, who, I must say, all smiled and tittered in return. I approached the group, smirking and perking my chin, like a man who is full of pleasant feeling, and sure of being well rece ived. The cluster of little belles opened as I advanced. Heavens and earth ! whom should I perceive in the THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 249 midst of them but my early and tormenting flame, the everlasting Sacharissa! She was grown, it is trae, into the full beauty of womanhood; but showed, by the pro- voking merriment of her countenance, that she perfectly recollected me, and the ridiculous flagellations of which she had twice been the cause. I saw at once the exterminating cloud of ridicule burst- ing over me. My crest felL The flame of love went suddenly out, or was extinguished by overwhelming shame. How I got down the room I know not; I fancied every one tittering at me-. Just as I reached the door, I caught a glance of my mistress and her aunt listening to the whispers of Sacharissa, the old lady raising her hands and eyes, and the face of the young one lighted up, as I imagined, with scorn ineffable. I paused to see no more, but made two steps from the top of the stairs to the bot- tom. The next morning, before sunrise, I beat a retreat, and did not feel the blushes cool from my tingling cheeks, until I had lost sight of the old towers of the cathedral. I now returned to town thoughtful and crestfallen. My money was nearly spent, for I had lived freely and without calculation. The dream of love was over, and the reign of pleasure at ^n end. T determined to retrench while I had yet a trifle left; so selling my equipage and horses for half their value, I quietly put the money in my pocket, and turned pedestrian. I had not a doubt that, with my great expectations, I could at any time raise funds, either on usury or by borrowing; but I was prin- cipled against both, and resolved by strict economy to make my slender purse ,hold out until my uncle should give up the ghost, or rather the estate. I stayed at home therefore and read, and would have written, but I had already suffered too much from my poetical productions. 250 TALES OF A TRAVELLER which had generally involved me in some ridiculous scrape. I gradually acquired a rusty look, and had a straitened money-borrowing air, upon which the world began to shy me. I have never felt disposed to quarrel with the world for its conduct; it has always used me well. When I have been flush and gay, and disposed for society, it has caressed me; and when I have been pinched and reduced, and wished to be alone, why, it ha3 left me- alone; and what more could a man desire? Take my word for it, this world is a more obliging world than people generally represent it. Well, sir, in the midst of my retrenchment, my retire- ment and my studiousness, I received news that my uncle was dangerously ill. I hastened on the wings of an heir's affections to receive his dying breath and his last testa- ment. I found him attended by his faithful valet, old Iron John; by the woman who occasionally worked about the house, and by the foxy-headed boy, young Orson, whom I had occasionally hunted about the park. Iron John gasped a kind of asthmatical salutation as I entered the room, and received me with something almost like a smile of welcome. The woman sat blubbering at the foot of the bed ; and the foxy-headed Orson, who had now grown up to be a lubberly lout, stood gazing in stupid vacancy at a distance. My uncle lay stretched upon his back. The chamber was without fire, or any of the comforts of a sick-room. The cobwebs flaunted from the ceiling. The tester was covered with dust, and the curtains were tattered. From underneath the bed peeped out one end of his strong box. Against the wainscot were suspended rusty blunderbusses, horse-pistols, and a cut-and-thrust sword, with which he had fortified his room to defend his life and treasure. THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 251 He had employed no physician during his illness; and from the scanty relics lying on the table, seemed almost to have denied himself the assistance of a cook. When I entered the room, he was lying motionless ; his eyes fixed and his mouth open : at the first look I thought him a corpse. The noise of my entrance made him turn his head. At the sight of me a ghastly smile came over his face, and his glazing eye gleamed with satisfaction. It was the only smile he had ever given me, and it went to my heart. "Poor old man!'- thought I, **why should you force me to leave you thus desolate, when I see that my presence has the power to cheer you?" **Nephew," said he, after several efforts, and in a low gasping voice, — *'I am glad you are come. I shall now die with satisfaction. Look,'* said he, raising his with- ered hand, and pointing, — **look in that box on the table: you will find that I have not forgotten you." I pressed his hand to my heart, and the tears stood in my eyes. 1 sat down by his bedside, and watched him, but he never spoke again. My presence, however, gave him evident satisfaction ; for every now and then, as he looked to me, a vague smile would come over his visage, and he would feebly point to the sealed box on the table. As the day wore away, his life appeared to wear away with it. Towards sunset his head sank on the bed, and lay motionless, his eyes grew glazed, his mouth remained open, and thus he gradually died. I could not but feel shocked at this absolute extinction of my kindred. I dropped a tear of real sorrow over this o^range old man, who had thus reserved the smile of kind- ness to his death-bed, — like an evening sun after a gloomy day, just shining out to set in darkness. Leaving the corpse in charge of the domestics, I retired for the night. 252 TALES OF A TRAVELLER It was a rough night. The winds seemed as if singing my uncle's requiem about the mansion, and the blood- hounds howled without, as if they knew of the death of their old master. Iron John almost grudged me the tallow candle to burn in my apartment, and light up its dreariness, so accustomed had he been to starveling economy. I could not sleep. The recollection of my uncle's dying-scene, and the dreary sounds about the house, affected my mind. These, however, were suc- ceeded by plans for the future, and I lay awake the greater part of the night, indulging the poetical anticipation how soon 1 should make these old walls ring with cheerful life, and restore the hospitality of my mother's ancestors. My uncle's funeral was decent, but private. I knew that nobody respected his memory, and I was determined none should be summoned to sneer over his funeral, and make merry at his grave. He was buried in the church of the neighboring village, though it was not the burying- place of his race; but he had expressly enjoined that he should not be buried with his family ; he had quarrelled with most of them when living, and he carried his resent- ments even into the grave. I defrayed the expenses of his funeral out of my own purse, that I might have done with the undertakers at once, and clear the ill-omened birds from the premises. I invited the parson of the parish, and the lawyer from the village, to attend at the house the next morning, and hear the reading of the will. I treated them to an excellent breakfast, a profusion that had not been seen at the house for many a year. As soon as the breakfast things were removed, I summoned Iron John, the woman, and the boy, for I was particular in having every one present and proceeded regularly. The box was placed on the THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS 253 table — all was silence — I broke the seal — raised the lid, and beheld — not the will — but my accursed poem of Doubt- ing Castle and Giant Despair! Could any mortal have conceived that this old withered man, so taciturn, and apparently so lost to feeling, could have treasured up for years the thoughtless pleasantry of a boy, to punish him with such cruel ingenuity? I now could account for his dying smile, the only one he had ever given me. He had been a grave man all his life, it was strange that he should die in the enjoyment of a joke, and it was hard that that joke should be at my expense. The lawyer and the parson seemed at a loss to compre- hend the matter. "Here must be some mistake," said the lawyer; * 'there is no will here." '*0h!" said Iron John, creaking forth his rusty jaws, *^if it is a will you are looking for, I believe I can find one." He retired with the same singular smile with which he had greeted me on my arrival, and which I now appre- hended boded me no good. In a little while he returned with a will perfect at all points, properly signed and sealed, and witnessed and worded with horrible correct- ness; in which the deceased left large legacies to Iron John and his daughter, and the residue of his fortune to the foxy-headed boy, who, to my utter astonishment, was his son by this very woman ; he having married her pri- vately, and, as I verily believe, for no other purpose than to have an heir, and so balk my father and his issue of the inheritance. There was one little proviso, in which he mentioned, that, having discovered his nephew to have a pretty turn for poetry, he presumed he had no occasion for wealth ; he recommended him, however, to the patronage of his heir, and requested that he might have a garret, rent-free, in Doubting Castle. 254 TALES OF A TRAVELLER GRAVE REFLECTIONS OF A DISAPPOINTED MAN Mr. Buckthorne had paused at the death of his uncle, and the downfall of his great expectations, which formed, as he said, an epoch in his history ; and it was not until some little time afterwards, and in a very sober mood, that he resumed his party-colored narrative. After leaving the remains of my defunct uncle, said he, when the gate closed between me and what was once to have been mine, I felt thrust out naked into the world, and completely abandoned to fortune. What was to become of me? I had been brought up to nothing but expectations, and they had all been disappointed. I had no relations to look to for counsel or assistance. The world seemed all to have died away from me. Wave after wave of relationship had ebbed off, and I was left a mere hulk upon the strand. I am not apt to be greatly cast down, but at this time I felt sadly disheartened. I could not realize my situation, nor form a conjecture how I was to get forward. I was now to endeavor to make money. The idea was new and strange to me. It was like being asked to discover the philosopher's stone. I had never thought about money otherwise than to put my hand into my pocket and find it; or if there were none there, to wait until a new supply came from home. I had consid- ered life as a. mere space of time to be filled up with enjoy- ments; but to have it portioned out into long hours and days of toil, merely that I might gain bread to give me strength to toil on — to labor but for the purpose of per- oetnating a life of labor, was new and appalling to me. This may appear a very simple matter to some ; but it will REFLECTIONS OF A DISAPPOINTED MAN 255 be understood by every unlucky wight in my predicament, who has had the misfortune of being born to great expec- tations. I passed several days in rambling about the scenes of my boyhood; partly because I absolutely did not know what to do with myself, and partly because I did not know that I should ever see them again. I clung to them as one clings to a wreck, though he knows he must eventually cast himself loose and swim for his life. I sat down on a little hill within sight of my paternal home, but I did not venture to approach it, for I felt compunction at the thoughtlessness with which I had dissipated my patri- mony ; yet was I to blame when I had the rich possessions of my curmudgeon of an uncle in expectation? The new possessor of the place was making great altera- tions. The house was almost rebuilt. The trees which stood about it were cut down; my mother's flower-garden was thrown into a lawn, — all was undergoing a change. I turned my back upon it with a sigh, and rambled to another part of the country. How thoughtful a little adversity makes one! As I came within sight of the schoolhouse where I had so often been flogged in the cause of wisdom, you would hardly have recognized the truant boy, who, but a few years since, had eloped so heedlessly from its walls. I leaned over the paling of the play-ground, and watched the scholars at their games, and looked to see if there might not be some urchin among them like I was once, full of gay dreams about life and the world. The play -ground seemed smaller than when I used to sport about it. The house and park, too, ^f the neighboring squire, the father of the cruel Sacharissa, had shrunk in size and diminished in magnificence. Thr distant hills no longer appeared so 256 TALES OF A TRAVELLER ' far off, and, alas^. no longer awakened ideas of a fairy land beyond. As I was rambling pensively through a neighboring meadow, in which I had many a time gathered primroses, I met the very pedagogue who had been the tyrant and dread of my boyhood. I had sometimes vowed to myself, when suffering- under his rod, that I would have my revenge if ever I met him when I had grown to be a man. The time had come ; but I had no disposition to keep my vow. The few years which had matured me into a vigor- ous man had shrunk him into decrepitude. He appeared to have had a paralytic stroke. I looked at him, and wondered that this poor helpless mortal could have been an object of terror to me; that I should have watched with anxiety the glance of that failing eye, or dreaded the power of that trembling hand. He tottered feebly along the path, and had some difficulty in getting over a stile. I ran and assisted him. He looked at me with surprise, but did not recognize me, and made a low bow of humility and thanks. I had no disposition to make myself known, for I felt that I had nothing to boast of. The pains he had taken, and the pains he had inflicted, had been equally useless. His repeated predictions were fully verified, and I felt that little Jack Buckthorne, the idle boy, had grown to be a very good-for-nothing man. This is all very comfortless detail ; but as I have told you of my follies, it is meet that I show you how for once 1 1 was schooled for them. The most thoughtless of mor- ' tals will some time or other have his day of gloom, when ihe will be compelled to reflect. I felt on this occasion as if I had a kind of penance to perform, and I made a pilgrimage in expiation of my past levity. Having passed a night at Leamington, I set off REFLECTIONS OF A DISAPPOINTED MAN 257 by a private path, which leads up a hill through a grove and across quiet fields, till I came to the small village, or rather hamlet, of Lenington. I sought the village church. It is an old low edifice of gray stone, on the brow of a. small hill, looking over fertile fields, towards where the proud towers of Warwick castle lift themselves against the distant horizon. A part of the churchyard is shaded by large trees. Under one of them my mother lay buried. You have no doubt thought me a light, heartless being. I thought myself so ; but there are moments of adversity which let us into some feelings of our nature to which we might otherwise remain perpetual strangers. I sought my mother's grave; the weeds were already matted over it, and the tombstone was half hid among nettles. I cleared them away, and they stung my hands ; but I was heedless of the pain, for my heart ached too severely. I sat down on the grave, and read over and over again the epitaph on the stone. It was simple, — but it was true. I had written it. myself. I had tried to write a poetical epitaph, but in vain; my feelings refused to utter themselves in rhyme. My heart had gradually been filling daring my lonely wanderings; it w^as now charged to the brim, and over- flowed. I sank upon the grave, and buried my face in the tall grass, and wept like a child. Yes, I wept in man- hood upon the grave, as I had in infancy upon the bosom of my mother. Alas! how little do we appreciate a mother's tenderness while living ! how heedless are we in youth of all her anxieties and kindness! But -w^hen she is dead and gone ; when the cares and coldness of the world come withering to our hearts; when we find how hard it is to meet with true sympathy; how few love us- '^58 TALES OF A TRAVELLER for ourselves; bow few will befriend us in our misfor- tunes; tbenit is tbat we tbitik of tbe motber we have lost. It IS true I bad always loved ,my motber, even in my most heedless days ; but I felt bow inconsiderate and ineffectual had been my love. My heart melted as I retraced tbe days of infancy, when I was led by a mother's hand, and rocked to sleep in a mother's arms, and was without care or sorrow. *'0 my mother!" exclaimed I, burying my face again in tbe grass of the grave; "oh that I were once more by your side; sleeping never to wake again on the cares and troubles of this world." I am not naturally of a morbid temperament, and tbe violence of my emotion gradually exhausted itself. It was a hearty, honest, natural discharge of grief which had been slowly accumulating, and gave me wonderful relief .~ I rose from the grave as if I had been offering up a sacri- fice, and I felt as if that sacrifice bad been accepted. I sat down again on the grass, and plucked, one by one, the weeds from her grave: tbe tears trickled more slowly down my cheeks, and ceased to be bitter. It was a comfort to think that she had died before sorrow and poverty came upon her child and all his great expectations were blasted. I leaned my cheek upon my hand, and looked upon the* landscape. Its quiet beauty soothed me. The whistle of a peasant from an adjoining field came cheerily to my ear. I seemed to respire hope and comfort with the free air that whispered through the leaves, and played lightly with my hair, and dried the tears upon my cheek. A lark, rising from the field before me, and leaving as it were a stream of song behind him as he rose, lifted my fancy with him. He hovered in the air just above the place where the towers of Warwick castle marked the REFLECTIONS OF A DISAPPOINTED MAN 259 horizon, and seemed as if fluttering with delight at his own melody. ** Surely," thought I, •*if there was such a thing as transmigration of souls, this might be taken for. some poet let loose from earth, but still revelling in song, and carolling about fair fields and lordly towers." At this moment the long-forgotten feeling of poetry rose within me. A thought sprang at once into my mind. — "I will become an author!" said I. "I hate hitherto indulged in poetry as a pleasure, and it has brought me nothing but pain; let me try what it will do when I cultivate it with devotion as a pursuit.** The resolution thus suddenly aroused within me heaved a load from off my heart. I felt a confidence in it from the very place where it was formed. It seemed as though my mother's spirit whispered it to me from the grave. ''I will henceforth," said I, "endeavor to be all that she 'fondly imagined me. I will endeavor to act as if she were witness of my actions; I will endeavor to acquit myself in such a manner that, when I revisit her grave, there may at least be no compunctious bitterness with my tears." I bowed down and kissed the turf in solemn attestation' of my vow. I plucked some primroses that were growing there, and laid them next my heart. I left the church- yard with my spirit once more lifted up, and set out a third time for London in the character of an author. Here my companion made a pause and I waited in anx- ious suspense, hoping to have a whole volume of literary life unfolded to me. He seemed, however, to have sunk into a fit of pensive musing, and when, after some time, I gently roused him by a question or two as to his literary career. **No," said ne, smiling: *'over that part of my story I wish to leave a cloud. Let the mysteries of the craft rest 260 TALES OF A TRAVELLER sacred for me. Let those who have never ventured into the republic of letters still look upon it as a fairy land. Let them suppose the author the very being they picture him from his works — I am not the man to mar their illusion. I am not the man to hint, while one is admiring the silken web of Persia, that it has been spun from the entrails of a miserable worm. " **Well," said I, "if you will tell me nothing of your literary history, let me know at least if you have had any further intelligence from Doubting Castle." "Willingly," replied he, "though I have but little to communicate." THE BOOBY SQUIRE A long time elapsed, said Buckthorne, without my receiving any accounts of my cousin and his estate. Indeed, I felt so much soreness on the subject, that I wished, if possible, to shut it from my thoughts. At length chance took me to that part of the country, and I could not refrain from making some inquiries. I learnt that my cousin had grown up ignorant, self- willed, and clownish. His ignorance and clownishness had prevented his mingling with the neighboring gentry: in spite of his great fortune, he had been unsuccessful in an attempt to gain the hand of the daughter of the par- son, and had at length shrunk into the limits of such a society as a -mere man of wealth can gather in a country neighborhood. He kept horses and hounds, and a roaring table, at which were collected the, loose livers of the country round, THE BOOBY SQUIRE 261 and fche shabby gentlemen of a village in the vicinity. When he could get no other company, he would smoke and drink with his own servants, who in turn fleeced and despised him. Still, with all his apparent prodigality^ he had a leaven of the old man in him, which showed that he was his true born son. He lived far within his income, was vulgar in his expenses, and penurious in many points, wherein a gentleman would be extravagant. His house-servants were obliged occasionally to work on his estate, and ps^rt of the pleasure-grounds were ploughed up and devoted to husbandry. His table, though plentiful, was coarse; his liquors were strong and bad ; and more ale and whiskey were expended in his establishment than generous wine. He was loud and arrogant at his own table, and exacted a rich man's homage from his vulgar apd obsequious guests. As to Iron John, his old grandfather, he had grown impatient of the tight hand his own grandson kept over him, and quarrelled with him soon after he came to the estate. The old man had retired to the neighboring vil- lage, where he lived on the legacy of his late master, in a small cottage, and was as seldom seen put of it as a rat out of his hole in daylight. The cub, like Caliban,^ seemed to have an instinctive attachment to his mother. She resided with him, but, from long habit, she acted more as a servant than as a mistress of the mansion; for she toiled in all the domestic drudgery, and was oftener in the kitchen than the parlor. Such was the information which I collected of my rival cousin, who had so unexpectedly elbowed me put of my expectations. I now felt an irresistible hankering to pay a visit to this 1 Prospero's monster-servant in The Tempest. 362 TALES OF A TRAVELLER scene of my boyhood, and to get a peep at the odd kind of life that was passing within the mansion of my mater- nal ancestors. I determined to d,o so in disguise. My booby cousin had never seen enough of me to be^ very familiar with my countenance, and a few years make a great difference between youth and manhood. I under- stood he was a breeder of cattle, and proud of his stock ; I dressed myself therefore as a substantial farmer, and with the assistance of a red scratch that came low down on my forehead, made a complete change in my physiognomy. It was past three o'clock when I arrived at the gate of the park, and was admitted by an old woman who was washing in a dilapidated building, which had once been a porter's lodge. I advanced up the remains of a noble avenue, many of the trees of which had been cut down and sold for timber. The grounds were in scarcely better keeping than during my uncle's lifetime. The grass was overgrown with weeds, and the trees wanted pruning and clearing of dead branches. Cattle were grazing about the lawns, and ducks and geese swimming in the fish-ponds. The road to the house bore very few traces of carriage- wheels, as my cousin received few visitors but such as came on foot or horseback, and never used a carriage himself. Once, indeed, as I was told, he had the old family carriage drawn out from among the dust and cobwebs of the coach-house, and furbished up, and driven, with his mother, to the village church, to take formal possession of the family pew ; but there was such hooting and laughing after them, as they passed through the vil- lage, and such giggling and bantering about the church- door, that the pageant had never made a reappearance. As I approached the house, a legion of whelps sallied out, barking at me, accompanied by the low howling, \ THE BOOBY SQUIRE ^ 263 rather than barking, of two old worn-out blood-hounds, which I recognized for the ancient lifeguards of my uncle. The house had still a neglected random appearance, though much altered for the better since my last visit. Several of the windows were broken and patched up with boards, and others had been bricked up to save taxes.^ I observed smoke, however, rising from the chimneys, a phenomenon rarely witnessed in the ancient establish- ment. On passing that part of the house where the din- ing-room was situated, I heard the souud of boisterous merriment, where three or four voices were talking at once, and oaths knd laughter were horribly mingled. The uproar of the dogs had brought a servant to the door, a tall, hard-fisted country clown, with a livery coat put over the under garments of a ploughman. I requested to see the master of the house, but was told that he was at dinner with some "gemmen" of the neighborhood. I 'made known my business, and sent in to know if I might talk with the master about his cattle, for I felt a great desire to have a peep at him. in his orgies. ' Word was returned that he was engaged with company, and could not attend to business, but that if I would step in and take a drink of something I was heartily welcome. 1 accordingly entered the hall, where whips and hats of all kinds and shapes were lying on an oaken table; two or three clownish ser\^ants were lounging 'about; everything had a look of confusion and carelessness. The apartments through which I passed had the same air of departed gentility and sluttish housekeeping. The once rich curtains were faded and dusty; the furniture greased and tarnished. On entering the dining-room, I found a number of odd, vulgar-looking, rustic gentlemen,. - Windows beyond a certain niimber were formerly taxed in England. 264 TALES OF A TRAVELLER seated round a table, on which were bottles, decanters, tankards, pipes, and tobacco. Several dogs were lying about the room, or sitting and watching their masters, and one was gnawing a bone under a side-table. The master of the feast sat at the head of the board. He was greatly altered. He had grown thickset and rather gummy, with a fiery foxy head of hair. There was a sin- gular mixture of foolishness, arrogance, and conceit in his countenance. He was dressed in a vulgarly fine style, with leather breeches, a red waistcoat, and green coat, ^nd was evidently, like his guests, a little fiushed with drinking. The whole company stared at me with a whim- sical muzzy look, like men whose senses were a little obfuscated by beer rather than wine. My cousin, (God forgive me! the appellation sticks in my throat), my cousin invited me with awkward civility, or, as he intended it, condescension, to sit to the table and drink. We talked, as usual, about the weather, the crops, politics, and hard times. My cousin was a loud politician, and evidently accustomed to talk without con- tradiction at his own table. He was amazingly loyal,^ and talked of standing by the throne to the last guinea, *'as every gentleman of fortune should do." The village exciseman, who was half asleep, could just ejaculate *'very true" to everything he said. The conversation turned upon cattle; he boasted of his breed, his mode of ■crossing it, and of the general management of his estate. This unluckily drew out a history of the place and of the family. He spoke of my late uncle with the greatest irreverence, which I could easily forgive. He mentioned my name, and my blood began to boil. He described my frequent visits to my uncle, when I was a lad, and 1 found the varlet, even at that time, imp as he was, had THE BOOBY SQUIRE 265 known that he was to inherit the estate. He described the scene of my uncle's death, and the opening of the will, with a degree of coarse humor that I had- not expected from him ; and, vexed as I was, I could not help joining in the laugh, for I have always relished a joke, even though made at my own expense. He went on to speak of my various pursuits, my strolling freak; and that somewhat nettled me; at length he talked of my parents. He ridiculed my father ; I stomached even that, though with great difficulty. He mentioned my mother with a sneer, and in an instant he lay sprawling at my feet. Here a tumult succeeded : the table was nearly over- turned; bottles, glasses, and tankards rolled crashing and clattering about the floor. The company seized hold of both of us, to keep us from doing any further mischief. I struggled to get loose, for I was boiling with fury. My cousin defied me to strip and fight him on the lawn. I agreed, for I felt the strength of a giant in me, and I longed to pommel him soundly. Away then we were borne. A ring was formed. I had a second assigned me in true boxing style. My cousin, as he advanced to fight, said something about his gener- osity in showing me such fair play, when I made such an unprovoked attack upon him at his own table. *'Stop there," cried I, in a rage. **Unprovoked? know that I am John Buckthorne, and you have insulted the memory of my mother." The lout was suddenly struck by what I said ; he drew back, and thought for a moment. "Nay, damn it," said he, "that's too much — that's clean another thing — IVe a mother myself — and no one shall speak ill of her, bad as she is." »66 TALES OF A TRAVELLER He paused again: nature seemed to have a rough strug- gle in his rude bosom. **Damn it, cousin," cried he, **I'm sorry for what I said. Thou'st served me right in knocking me down, and I like thee the better for it. Here's my hand: come and live with me, and damn me but the best room in the house, and the best horse in the stable, shall be at thy service. " I declare to you I was strongly moved at this instance of nature breaking her way through such a lump of flesh. I forgave the fellow in a moment his two heinous crimes, of having been born in wedlock, and inheriting my estate. I shook the hand he offered me, to convince him that I bore him no ill-will ; and then making my way through the gaping crowd of toad-eaters, bade adieu to my uncle's domains forever. — This is the last I have seen or heard of my cousin, or of the domestic concerns of Doubting Castle. THE STROLLING MANAGER As I was walking one morning with Buckthorne near one of the principal theatres, he directed my attention to a group of those equivocal beings that may often be seen hovering about the stage-doors of theatres. They were marvellously ill-favored in their attire, their coats but- toned up to their chins ; yet they wore their hats smartly on one side, and had a certain knowing, dirty-gentleman- like air, which is common to the subalterns of the drama. Buckthorne knew them well by early experience. *' These," said he, *'are the ghosts of departed kings and heroes ; fellows who sway sceptres and truncheons ; com- THE STROLLING MANAGER 267 mand kingdoms and armies; and after giving away realms and treasures over night, have scare a shilling to pay for a breakfast in the morning. Yet they have the true vagabond abhorrence of all useful and industrious employ- ment ; and they have their pleasures too ; one of which is to lounge in this way in the sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals, and make hackneyed theatrical jokes on all passers-by. Nothing is more traditional and legitimate than the stage. Old scenery,, old clothes, old sentiments, old ranting, and old jokes, are handed down from generation to generation ; and will probably continue to be so until time shall be no more. Every hanger-on of a theatre becomes a wag by inheritance, and flourishes about at tap-rooms and sixpenny clubs with the property jokes of the green-room." - While ainusing ourselves with reconnoitring this group, we noticed one in particular who appeared to be the oracle. He was a weather-beaten veteran, a little bronzed by time and beer, who had no doubt grown gray in the parts of robbers, cardinals, Roman senators, and walking noblemen. ** There is something in the set of that hat, and the turn of that physiognomy, extremely familiar to me," said Buckthorne. He looked a little closer, — "I cannot be mistaken, that must be my old brother of the trunch- eon, Flimsey, the tragic hero of the Strolling Company. ' ' It was he in fact. The poor fellow showed evident signs that times went hard with him, he was so finely and shabbily dressed. His coat was somewhat threadbare, and of the Lord Townly cut ; single breasted, and scarcely capable of meeting in front of his body, which, from long intimacy, had acquired the symmetry and robustness of a beer- barrel. He wore a pair of dingy -white stockinet pantaloons which had much ado to reach his waistcoat, a 268 TALES OF A TRAyELLEk great quantity of dirty cravat; and a pair of old russefc- colored tragedy boots. When his companions had dispersed, Buckthorne drew him aside, and made himself known to him. The tragic veteran could scarcely recognize him, or believe that he was really his quondam associate, * 'little Gentleman Jack." Buckthorne invited him to a neighboring coffee-house to talk over old times; and in the course of a little while we were put in possession of his history in brief. He had continued to act the heroes in the strolling company for some time after Buckthorne had left it, or rather had been driven from it so abruptly. At length the manager died, and the troop was thrown into con- fusion. Every one aspired to the crown, every one was for taking the lead; and the manager's widow, although a tragedy queen, and a brimstone to boot, pronounced it utterly impossible for a woman to keep any control over such a set of tempestuous rascallions, **Upon this hint, I spoke," ^ said Flimsey. I stepped forward, and offered my services in the most effectual way. They were accepted. In a week's time I married the widow, and succeeded to the throne. "The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage table,"* as Hamlet says. But the ghost of my predeces- sor never haunted me ; and I inherited crowns, sceptres, bowls, daggers, and all the stage trappings and trumpery, not omitting the widow, without the least' molestation. I now led a flourishing life of it ; for our company was pretty strong and attractive, and as my wife and I took the heavy parts of tragedy, it was a great saving to the treasury. We carried off the palm from all the rival i Othello, I. iii. 166. ' Hamlet, I. ii. 180. THE STROLLING MANAGER 269 shows at country fairs ; and I assure you we have even drawn full houses, and been applauded by the critics at Bartlemy Fair^ itself, though we had Astley's troop, ^ the Irish giant, and "the death of Nelson" in wax work, to contend against. I soon began to experience, however, the cares of com- mand. I discovered that there were cabals breaking out in the company, headed by the clown, who you may recollect was a terribly pecyish, fractious fellow, and always in ill-humor. I had a great mind to turn him off at once, but I could not do without him, for there was not a droller scoundrel on the stage. His very shape was comic, for he had but to turn his back upon the audience, and all the ladies were ready to die with laughing. He felt his importance, and took advantage of it. He would keep the audience in a continual roar, and then come behind the scenes, and fret and fume, and play the very devil. I excused a great deal in him, however, knowing that comic actors are a little prone to this infirmity of temper. I had another trouble of a nearer and dearer nature to struggle with, which was the affection of my wife. As ill luck would have it, she took it into her head to be very fond of me, and became intolerably jealous. I could not keep a pretty girl in the company, and hardly dared embrace an ugly one, even when my part required it. I have known her reduce a fine lady to tatters, '*to very rags,"^ as Hamlet says, in an instant, and destroy one of the very best dresses in the wardrobe, merely because 1 Bartholomew Fair was formerly one of the chief aunnal fairs Sa England ; it was held at Smithfield in London. 2 Astley's troop of trained horses. sjra?r,let,Ill. ii. 11. 270 TALES OF A TRAVELLER she saw me kiss her at the side scenes; though I give you my honor it was done merely by way of rehearsal. This was doubly annoying, because I have a natural liking to pretty faces, and wish to have them about me; and because they are indispensable to the success of a com- pany at a fair, where one has to vie with so many rival theatres. But when once a jealous wife gets a freak in her head, there's no use in talking of interest or anything else. Egad, sir, I have more than once trembled when, during a fit of her tantrums, she was plajing high tragedy, and flourishing her tin dagger on the stage, lest she should give way to her humor, and stab some fancied rival in good earnest. I went on better, however, than could be expected, con- sidering the weakness of my flesh, and the violence of my rib. I had not a much worse time of it than old Jupiter, whose spouse was continually ferreting out some new intrigue, and making the heavens almost too hot to hold bim. At length, as luck would have it, we were performing at }^ country fair, when I understood the theatre of a neigh- boring town to be vacant. I had always been desirous to be enrolled in a settled company, and the height of my desire was to get on a par with a brother-in-law, who was manager of a regular theatre, and who had looked down upon me. Here was an opportunity not to be neglected. T concluded an agreement with the proprietors, and in a ^ few days opened the theatre with great eclat. Behold me now at the summit of my ambition, "the high top-gallant of my joy,"^ as Eomeo says. No longer a chieftahi of a wandering tribe, but a monarch of a legitimate throne, and entitled to call even the great 1 Romeo and Juliet, II. iv. 202. THE STROLLING MANAGER 271 potentates of Oovent Garden and Drury Lane cousins. Yoii, no doubt, think my happiness complete. Alas, sir! I was^one of the most uncomfortable dogs living. No one knows, who has not tried, the miseries of a manager; but above all of a country manager. No one can conceive the contentions and quarrels within dqors, the oppressions and vexations from without. I was pestered with the bloods and loungers of a country town, who infested my green-room, and played the mischief among my actresses. . But there was no shaking them off. It would have been ruin to affront them; for though troublesome friends, they would have been dangerous enemies. Then there was the village critics and village amateurs, who were continually tormenting me with advice, and getting into a passion if I would not take it; especially the village doctor and the village attorney, who had both been to London occasionally, and knew what acting should be. I had also to manage as arrant a crew of scapegraces as ' ever were collected together within the walls of a theatre. I had been obliged to combine my original troop with some of the former troop of the theatre, who were favor- ites of the public. Here was a mixture that produced per- petual fermento They were all the time either fighting or frolicking with each other, and I scarely know which mood was least troublesome. If they quarrelled, every- thing went wrong, and if they were friands, they were continually playing off some prank upon each other, or upon me; for I had unhappily acquired among them the character of an easy, good-natured fellow, — the worst character that a manager can possess. Their waggery at times drove me almost crazy; for there is nothing so vexatious as the hackneyed tricks and hoaxes and pleasantries of a veteran band of theatrical 272 TALES OF A TRAVELLER vagabonds. I relished them well enough, it is true, while I was merely one of the company, but as a manager I found them detestable. They were incessantly bring- ing some disgrace upon the theatre by their tavern frolics and their pranks about the country town. All my lec- tures about the importance of keeping up the dignity of the profession and the respectability of the company were in vain. The villains could ^lot sympathize with the delicate feelings of a man in station. They even trifled with the seriousness of stage business. I have had the whole piece interrupted, and a crowded audience of at least twenty-five pounds kept waiting, because the actors had hid away the breeches of Eosalind ; ^ and have known Hamlet to stalk solemnly on to deliver his soliloquy, with a dish-clout pinned to his skirts. Such are the baleful consequences of a manager's getting a character for good- nature. I was intolerably annoyed, too, by the great actors who came down starring, as it is called, from London. Of all baneful influences, keep me from that of a London star. A first-rate actress going the rounds of the country theatres is as bad as a blazing comet whisking t^bout the heavens, and shaking fire and plagues and discords from its tail. The moment one of these *' heavenly bodies" appeared in my horizon, I was sure to be in hot water. My theatre was overrun by provincial dandies, copper- washed counter- feits of Bond Street loungers, who are always proud to be in the train of an actress from town, and anxious to be thought on exceeding good terms with her. It was really a relief to me when some random young nobleman would come in pursuit of the bait, and awe all this small _«.. .. . I... ■ — — , » See As You Like It THE STROLLING MANAGER 273 fry at a distance. I hare always felt myself more at ease with a nobleman than with the dandy of a country town. And then the injuries I suffered in my personal dignity and my managerial authority from the visits of these great London actors! 'Sblood, sir, I was no longer master of myself on my throne. I was hectored and lectured in my own green-room, and made an absolute nincompoop on my own stage. There is no tyrant so absolute and capri- cious as a London star at a country theatre. I dreaded the sight of all of them, and yet if I did not engage them, I was sure of having the public clamorous against me. They drew full houses, and appeared to be making my fortune; but they swallowed up all the profits by their insatiable demands. They were absolute tapeworms to my litMe theatre; the more it took in the poorer it grew. They were sure to leave me with an exhausted public, empty benches and a score or two of affronts to settle among the townsfolk, in consequence of misunderstand- ings about the taking of places. But the worst thing I had to undergo in my managerial career was patronage. Oh sir! of all things deliver me from the patronage of the great people of a country town. It was my ruin. You must know that this town, though small, was filled with feuds, and parties, and great folks; being a busy little trading and manufacturing town. The mischief was that their greatness was of a kind not to be settled by reference to the court calendar, or college of heraldry ; ^ it was therefore the most quarrelsome kind of greatness in existence. You smile, sir, but let me tell you there are no feuds more furious than the frontier ^ The College of Heraldry has for its chief function the granting of coats of arms to those who should receive them, and the preservation of geneal- ogies. 274 TALES OF A TRAVELLER feuds which take place in these '^'debatable lands" of gentility^ The most violent dispute that I ever knew in high life was one which occurred at a country town, on a question of precedence between the ladies of a manufac- turer of pins and a manufacturer of needles « At the town where I was situated there were perpetual altercations of the kind. The head manufacturer's lady, for instance, was at daggers-drawings with the head shop- keepei-'s, and both were too rich and had too many friends to be treated lightly. The doctor's and lawyer's ladies held their heads still higher ; but they in turn were kept in check by the wife of a country banker, who kept her own carriage ; while a masculine widow of cracked charac- ter and second -handed fashion, who lived in a large house and claimed to be in some way related to nobility, looked down upon them all. To be sure, her manners were not over-elegant, nor her fortune over-large; but then, sir, her blood — oh, her blood carried it all hollow; there was no withstanding a woman with such blood in her veins. After all, her claims to high connection were ques- tioned, and she had frequent battles for precedence at balls and assemblies with some of the sturdy dames of the neighborhood, who stood upon their wealth and their- virtue; but then she had two dashing daughters, who dressed as fine as dragoons, and had as high blood as their mother, and seconded her in everything; so they carried their point with high heads, and everybody hated, abused, and stood in awe of the Fantadlins. Such was the state of the fashionable, world in this self- important little town. Unluckily*, I was not as well acquainted with its politics as I should have been. I had found myself a stranger and in great perplexities during THE STROLLING MANAGER 275 my first season! T determined, therefore, to put myself under the patronage of some powerful name, and thus to take the field with the prejudices of the..puhlic in m'y favor. I cast around my thoughts for that purpose, and in an evil hour they fell upon Mrs. Fantadlin. NTo one seemed to me to have a more ahsolute sway in the world of fashion. I had always noticed that her party slammed the box-door the loudest at the theatre ; and had the most beaux attending on them, and talked and laughed loudest during the performance; and then the Miss Fantadlins wore always more feathers and flowers than any other ladies; and used quizzing-glasses incessantly. The first evening of my theatre's re-opening, therefore, was announced in staring capitals on the play-bills, as under the patronage of "The Honorable Mrs. Fantadlin." Sir, the whole community flew to arms! the banker's wife felt her dignity grievously insulted at not having the preference; her husband being high bailiff and the richest man in the place. She immediately issued invitations for a large party, for the night of the performance, and asked many a lady to it whom she never had noticed before. Presume to patronize' the theatre! insufferable! And then for me to dare to term her *'The Honorable!" What claim had she to the title forsooth? The fashiona- ble world had long groaned under the tyranny of the Fantadlins, and were glad to make a common cause against this new instance of assumption. Those, too,' who had never before been noticed by the banker's lady were ready to enlist in any quarrel for the honor of her acquain- tance. All minor feuds were forgotten. The doctor's lady and the lawyer's lady met together, and the manufac- turer's lady and the shopkeeper's lady kissed each other; and all, headed by the banker's lady, voted the theatre a 276 TALES OF A TRAVELLER hore^ and determined to encourage nothing but the Indian Jugglers and Mr. Walker's Eidouranion.^ ' Alas for poor Pillgarlick! I knew little the mischief that was brewing against me. My box-book remained blank; the evening arrived; but no audience. The music struck up to a tolerable pit and gallery, but no fashion- ables! I peeped anxiously from behind the curtain, but the time passed away; the play was retarded, until pit and gallery became furious; and I had to raise the curtain, and play my greatest part in tragedy to "a beggarly account of empty boxes. " It is true the Fantadlins came late as was their custom, and entered like a tempest, with a flutter of feathers and red shawls ; but they were evidently disconcerted at find- ing they had no one to admire and envy them, and were enraged at this glaring defection of their fashionable fol- lowers. All the beau-monde were engaged at the banker's lady's rout. They remained for some time in solitary and uncomfortable state; and though they had the theatre almost to themselves, yet, for the first time, they talked in whispers. They left the house at the end of the first piece, and I never saw them afterwards. Such was the rock on which I split. I never got over the patronage of the Fantadlin family. My house was deserted ; my actors grew discontented because they were ill paid; my door became a hammering place for every bailiff in the country; and my wife became more and more shrewish and tormenting the more I wanted comfort. I tried for a time the usual consolation of a harassed and henpecked man ; I took to the bottle, and tried to tipple away my cares, but in vain. I don't mean to decry the bottle ; it is no doubt an excellent remedy in many » A macMne for representing the motions of the planets. THE STROLLING MANAGER 277 cases, but it did not answer in mine. It cracked my voice, coppered my nose, but neither hnj^roved my wife nor my affairs. My establishment became a scene of con- fusion and peculation. I was considered a ruined man, and of course fair game for every one to pluck at, as every one plunders a sinking ship. Day after day some of the troop deserted, and, like deserting soldiers, carried off their arms and accoutrements with them. In this manner my wardrobe took legs and walked away, my finery strolled all over the country, my swords and daggers glittered in every barn, until, at last, my tailor made "one fell swoop," ^ and carried off three dress-coats, half a dozen doublets, and nineteen pair of flesh-colored panta- loons. This was the "be all and the end all' '^ of my fortune. I no longer hesitated what to do. Egad, thought I, since stealing is the order of the day, I'll steal too; so I secretly gathered together the jewels of my wardrobe, packed up a hero's dress in a handkerchief, slung it on the end of a tragedy sword, and quietly stole off at dead of night, "the bell then beating one,"^ leav- ing my queen and kingdom to the mercy of my rebellious subjects, and my merciless foes the bumbailiffs. Such, sir, was the "end of all my greatness."* I was heartily cured of all passion for governing, and returned once more into the ranks. I had for some time the usual run of an actor's life. I played in various country theatres, at fairs, and in barns ; sometimes hard pushed, sometimes flush, until, on one occasion, I came within an ace of making my fortune, and becoming one of the won- ders of the age. 1 Macbeth, IV. iii. 220. ~~ — — — 2 Macbeth, I. vii. 5. 3 Hamlet, I. i. 39. 4 Henry VIII.. HI. iL 351. 278 TALES OF A TRAVELLER I was playing the part of Eicliard the Third in a coun- try barn, and in my best style ; for, to tell the truth, I was a little in liquor, and the critics of the company always observed that I played with most effect when I had a glass too much. There was a thunder of applause when J came to that part where Richard cries for ''a horse! a horse!" ^ My cracked voice had always a wonderful effect here; it was like two voices run into one; you I would have thought two men had been calling for a horse, or that Richard had called for two horses. And when I flung the taunt at Richmond, '' Richard is Jioarse with calling thee to arms," I thought the barn would have come down about my ears with the raptures of the audience. The very next morning a person waited upon me at my lodgings. I saw at once he was a gentleman by his dress for he had a large brooch in his bosom, thick rings on his fingers, and used a quizzing-glass. And a gentleman he proved to be ; for I soon ascertained that he was a kept author, or kind of literary tailor to one of the great Lon- don theatres; one who worked under the manager's direc- tions, and cut up and cut down plays, and patched and pieced, and new faced, and turned them inside out; in short, he was one of the readiest and greatest writers of the day. He was now on a foraging excursion in quest of some- thing that might be got up for a prodigy. The theatre, it seems, was in desperate condition — nothing but a mira- cle could save it. He had seen me act Richard the night before, and had pitched upon me for that miracle, I had a remarkable bluster in my style and swagger in my gait. I certainly differed from all other heroes of the barn: so the thought struck the agent to bring me out as a theat- » Richard II L, V. iv. 7. THE STROl^LING MANAGER 279 rical wonder, as the restorer of natural and legitimate acting, as the only one who could understand and act Shakspeare rightly. When he opened his plan I shrunk from it with becom- ing modesty, for well as I thought of myself, I doubted my competeucy to such an undertaking. I hinted at my imperfect knowledge of Shakspeare* having played his characters only after mutilated copies, interlarded with a great deal of my own talk by way of helping memory or heightening the effect. "So much the better!" cried the gentleman with rings on his fingers; *'so much the better! New readings, sir! — new readings! Don't 'study a line — let us have Shak- speare after your own fashion. ' ' "But then my voice was cracked; it could not fill a London theatre. " **So much the better! so much the better! The public is tired of intonation — the ore rotundo ^ has had its day. No, sir, your cracked voice is the very thing; — spit and splutter, and snap and snarl, and 'play the very dog' about the stage, and you'll be the making of us." *'But then," — I could not help blushing to the end of my very nose as I said it, but I was determined to be candid, — "but then," added I, "there is one awkward circumstance : I have an unlucky habit — my misfortunes, and the exposures to which one is subjected in country barns, have obliged me now and then to — to — take a drop of something comfortable — and so — and so" "What! you drink?" cried the agent, eagerly. I bowed my head in blushing acknowledgment. "So much the better! so much the better! The irregu- larities of genius ! A sober fellow is commonplace. The 1 Full, round voice. ^80 TALES OF A TRAVELLER public like an actor that drinks. Give me your hand, sii Yoa're the very man to make a dash with." I still hung back with lingering diffidence, declaring myself unworthy of such praise. " 'Sblood, man," cried he, **no praise at all. Yoti don't imagine / think you a wonder; I only want the public to think so. Nothing is so easy as to gull the public, if you only set up a prodigy » Common talent any- body can measure by common rule; but a prodigy sets all rule and measurement at defiance." These words opened my eyes in an instant : we now came to a proper understanding, less flattering, it is true, to my vanity, but much more satisfactory to my judgment. It was agreed that I should make my appearance before a London audience, as a dramatic sun just bursting from behind the clouds : one that was to banish all the lesser lights and false fires of the stage. Every precaution was to be taken to possess the public mind at every avenue. The pit was to be packed with sturdy clappers; the news- papers secured by vehement puffers; every theatrical resort to be haunted by hireling talkers. In a word, every engine of theatrical humbug was to be put in action. Wherever I differed from former actors, it was to be main- tained that I was right and they were wrong. If I ranted, it was to be pure passion ; if I were vulgar, it was to be pronounced a familiar touch of nature; if I made any queer blunder, it was to be a new reading. If my voice cracked, or I got out in my part, I was only to bounce, ^nd grin, and snarl at the audience, and make any horri- ble ' grimace that came into my head, and my admirers were to call it "a great point," and to fall back and shout and yell with rapture. "In short," said the gentleman with the quizzing- i THE STROLLING MANAGER 281 glass, "strike out boldly and bravely: no matter how or what you do, so that it be but odd and strange. If you do but escape pelting the firsb night, your fortune and the fortune of the theatre is made." I set off for London, therefore, in company with the kept author, fall of new plans and new hopes. I was to be the restorer of Shakspeare and Nature, and the legiti- mate drama; my very swagger was to be heroic, and my cracked voice the standard of elocution. Alas, sir, my usual luck attended me : before I arrived at the metrop- olis a rival wonder had appeared; a woman who could dance the slack rope, and run up a cord from the stage to the gallery with fireworks all round her. She was seized on by the manager with avidity. She was the saving of the great national theatre for the season. Nothing was talked ! of but Madame Saqui's fireworks and flesh-colored panta- loons ; and Nature, Shakspeare, the legitimate drama, and poor Pillgarlick, were completely left in the lurch. When Madame Saqui's performance grew stale, other wonders succeeded: horses, and harlequinades, and mum- mery of all kinds; until another dramatic prodigy was brought forward to play the very game for which I had been intended. I called upon the kept author for an explanation, but he was deeply engaged in writing a melo- drama or a pantomime, and was extremely testy on being interrupted in his studies. However, as the theatre was in some measure pledged to provide for me, the manager acted, according to the usual phrase, "like a man of honor," and I received an appointment in the corps. It had been a turn of a die whether I should be Alexander the Great or Alexander the coppersmith ^ — the latter car- ried it. I could not be put at the head of the drama, so 1 2 Timothy, IV. 14. 282 TALES OF A TRAVELLER I was put at the tail of it. In other words, I was enrolled among the number of what are called useful men; those who enact soldiers, senators, and Banquo's shadowy line. I was perfectly satisfied with my lot ; for I have always been a bit of a philosopher. If my situation was not splendid, it at least was secure; and in fact I have seen half a dozen prodigies appear, dazzle, burst like bubbles, and pass away, and yet here I am, snug, unenvied, and unmolested, at the foot of the profession. You may smile; but let me tell you, we "useful men" are the only comfortable actors on the stage. We are safe from hisses, and below the hope of applause. We fear not the success of rivals, nor dread the critic's pen. So long as we get the words of our parts, and they are not often many, it is all we care for. We have our own mer- riment, our own friends and our own admirers, — ^for every actor has his friends and admirers, from the highest to the lowest. The first-rate actor dines with the noble amateur, and entertains a fashionable table with scraps and songs and theatrical slip-slop. The second-rate actors have their second-rate friends and admirers, with whom they likewise spout tragedy and talk slip-slop; — and so down even to us ; who have oilr friends and admirers among spruce clerks and aspiring apprentices, — who treat us to a dinner now and then, and enjoy at tenth hand the same scraps and songs and slip-slop that have been served up by our more fortunate brethren at the tables of the great. I now, for the first time in my theatrical life, exper- ience what true pleasure is. I have known enough of notoriety to pity the poor devils who ^re called favorites of the public. I would rather be a kitten in the arms of a spoiled child, to be one moment patted an4 pampered and the next moment thumped over the head with the THE STROLLING MANAGER 283 gpoon. I smile to see our leading actors fretting them- selves with envy and jealousy about a trumpery renown, questionable in its quality, and uncertain in its duration. I laugh, too, though of course in my sleeve, at the bustle and importance, and trouble and perplexities of our man- ager — who is harassing himself to death in the hopeless effort to please everybody. I have found among my fellow-subalterns two or three quondam managers, who like myself have wielded the sceptres of country theatres, and we have many a sly joke together at the expense of the manager and the public. Sometimes, too, we meet, like deposed and exiled kings, talk over the events of our respective reigns, moralize over a tankard of ale, and laugh at the humbug of the great and little world ; which, I take it, is the essence of practical philosophy. Thus end the anecdotes of Buckthorne and his friends. It grieves me much that I could not procure from him further particulars of his history, and especially of that part of it which passed in town. He had evidently seen much of literary life ; and as lie had never risen to emi- nence in letters, and yet was free from the gall of disap- pointment, I had hoped to gain some candid intelligence concerning his contemporaries. The testimony of such an honest chronicler would have been particularly valuable at the present time; when, owing to the extreme fecun- dity of the press, and the thousand anecdotes, criticisms, and biographical sketches that are daily poured forth concerning public characters, it is extremely difficult to get at any truth concerning them. ^ He was always, however, excessively reserved and fas- tidious on this point, at which I very much wonder^ed^ 284 TALES OF A TRAVELLER authors in general appearing to think each other fair game, and being ready to serve each other up for the amusement of the public. A few mornings after hearing the history of the ex-mauager, I was surprised by a visit from Bucjkthorne before I was put of bed. He was dressed for travelling. **Give me joy! give me joy!" said he, rubbing his hands with the utmost glee, '*my great expectations are real- ized!" I gazed at him with a look of wonder and inquiry. "My booby cousin is dead!" cried he; *'may he rest in peace ! he nearly broke his neck in a fall from his horse in a fox-chase. By good luck, he lived long enoug^h to make his will. He has made me his heir, partly out of an odd feeling of retributive justice, and partly because, as he says, none of his own family nor friends know ho)v to enjoy such an estate. I'm off to the country to take pos- session. I've done with authorship. That for the critics !" said he, snapping his finger. **Come down to Doubting Castle, when I get settled, and, egad, I'll give you a rouse. "^ So saying, he shook me heartily by the hand, and bounded off in high spirits. A long time elapsed before I heard from him again. Indeed, it was but lately that I received a letter, written in the happiest of moods. He was getting the estate in fine order ; everything went to his wishes ; and what was more, he was married to Sacharissa, who it seems had always entertained an ardent though secret attachment for him, which he fortunately discovered just after coming to his estate. *'I find," said he, "you are a little given to the sin of » The word is related to Dutch roes ' 'drunkenness"; secondarily it means full fflflrSS." "Int.ftm-np.rn.t.ft mirtVl " Tt. -mAO-nc Vit^vo oimnlTr "o rrr\r\,^ f-irvia »» •a lull glass THE STROLLING MANAGER 28.^ luthorship, which I renounce: if the anecdotes I have pven you of my story are of any interest, you may make ise of them; but come down to Doubting Castle, and ^ee low we live, and I'll give you my whole London life ov^t* L social glass; and a rattling history it shall be about iuthors and reviewers." If ever I visit Doubting Castle and get the history he promises, the public shall be sure to hear of it. PART THIRD THE ITALIAN BAJSTDITTI 287 A few words of direction may be of help in the pronunciation of the Italian words and phrases in the stories of this group. The vowels should be pronounced approximately as follows: a like a in father. £ has two pronunciations, open e like e in met^ close e like a in late; the latter is of the more frequent occurrence. i like ee in seen. o also has two '^alues, open o, like the o of pot, and close o like the o of hone. u like the u of rude. j is counted a vowel in Italian, being pronounced like the y of year. The chief differences between the pronunciation of the con- sonants in English and Italian are: c before e or i is pronounced like cli in chess; before the other vowels it is pronounced like h. CO before e or i is pronounced like the ch of a word like achieve {at-chieve), both consonants being pronounced, the first as t, the second as ch. g before e or * is pronounced like the j of just; before the other vowels it is pronounced like the g of gate. SG before e or i is pronounced like sh of shake; before the other vowels it is pronounced like sc of scarlet. ZZ is pronounced like t + ts, both letters being pronounced, e. g. mezza'ro, met-tsa'ro gn is pronounced as though it were written ny, e. xg. Cant' pagna. Cam-pan' y a. gl is pronounced as though it were written ly, e. g., BrogliOt Brol'yo. - 288 THE INN AT TEEEACmA* t/Tai^k'! crack f crack! crack! ©rack! "Here comes the estafette^ tmm Naples,"^ said mine host of the inn at Terracina; "briag out the relay," The estafette came gallopmg up the road according to custom, brandishing over kis head a short-handled whip, yith a long, knotted lask, every smack of which made a report dike a pistol. He was a tight, square-set young fellow, in the usual uniform: a- smart blue coat, orna- mented with facings and gold lace, but so short behind as to reach scarcely below his waistband, and cocked up not unlike the tail of a wren ; a cocked hat edged with gold lace; a pair of stiff riding-boots; but, instead of the usual leathern breeches, he had a fragment of a pair of drawers, that scarcely furnished an apology for modesty to hide behind. The estafette galloped up to the door, and Jumped from his horse. \ '*A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and a pair of breeches," said he, *'and quickly, per Vamor di Dio, I am behind my time, and must be off!" **San Gennaro!" replied the host; '*why, where has thou left thy garment?" "Among the robbers between this and Fondi." "What, rob an estafette! I never heard of such folly. What could they hope to get from thee?" 1 A sea-coast town in Western Italy, about half way between Naples and Rome. The various places mentioned in the stories of this group are to be found on any good map of Italy; the reader will be interested in observing Irvine's exactness in references to localities. Only those places of more than local import will be explained in the noteg. ' A rapid courier. 389 *290 TALES OF A TRAVELLER ** My leather breeclies!" replied the estafette. **They were bran new, and shone like gold, and hit the fancy of the captain." **Well, these fellows grow worse and worse. To meddle with an estafette ! and that merely for the sake of a pair of leather breeches!" The robbing of the government messenger seemed to strike the host with more astonishment than any other enormity that had taken place on the road ; and, indeed, it was the first time so wanton an outrage had been com- mitted; the robbers generally taking care not to meddle with anything belonging to government. The estafette was by this time equipped, for he had not lost an instant in making his preparations while talking. The relay was ready ; the rosolio tossed off ; he grasped the reins and the stirrup. "Were there many robbers in the band!" said a hand- some, dark young man, stepping forward from the door of the inn. '*As formidable a band as ever I saw," said the estafette, springing into the saddle. "Are they cruel to travellers?" said a beautiful young Venetian lady, who had been hanging on the gentleman's arm. "Cruel, signora!" echoed the estafette, giving a glance at the lady as he put spurs to his horse. "Corpo di Bacco! They stiletto all the men; and, as to the women" Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack! — The last words were drowned in the smacking of the whip, and away galloped the estafette along the road to the Pontine marshes. "Holy Virgin!" ejaculated the fair Venetian, "what will become of us!" THE INN AT TERRACINA 291 The inn of which we are speaking stands just outside of the walls of JTerracina, under a vast precipitous height of rocks, crowned with the ruins of the castle of Theo- doric the Goth/ The situation of Terracina is remark- able. It is a little, ancient, lazy Italian town, on the frontiers of the Roman territory. There seems to be an idle pause in everything about the place. The Mediter- ranean spreads before it — that sea without flux or reflux. The port is without a sail, excepting that once in a while a solitary felucca may be seen disgorging its holy cargo of baecala, or codfish, the meagre provision for the quaresima, or Lent. The inhabitants are apparently a listless, heed- less race, as people of soft sunny climates are apt to be; but under this passive, indolent exterior are said to lurk dangerous qualities. They are supposed by many to be lit- tle better than the banditti of the neighboring mountains, and indeed to hold a secret correspondence with them. The solitary watch-towers, erected here and there along the coast, speak of pirates and corsairs that hover.,about these shores; while the low huts, as stations for soldiers, which dot the distant road, as it winds up through an olive grove, intimate that in the ascent there is danger for the traveller, and facility for the bandit. Indeed, it is between this town and Fondi that the road to Naples is most infested by banditti. It has several windings and solitary places, where the robbers are enabled to see the traveller from a distance, from the brows of hills or impending precipices, and to lie in wait for him at lonely and difficult passes. The Italian robbers are a desperate class of men, that have almost formed themselves into an order of society. iTheodoric (455?-526), King of the Ostrogoths, i.e., East Goths, est^'o lished a Gothic kingdom in Italy. 292 TALES OF A TRAVELLER They wear a kind of uniform, or rather costume, which openly designates their profession. This is probably done to diminish its skulking, lawless character, and to give it something of a military air in the eyes of the common people; or, perhaps, to catch by outward show and finery the fancies of the young men of the villages, and thus to gain recruits. Their dresses are often very rich and pic- turesque. They wear jackets and breeches of bright col- ors, sometimes gayly embroidered; their breasts are covered with medals and relics ; their hats are broad- brimmed, with conical crowns, decorated with feathers, of variously-colored ribands; their hair is sometimes gath- ered in silk nets; they wear a kind of sandal of cloth or leather, bound round the legs with thongs, and extremely flexible, to enable them to scramble with ease and celerity among the mountain precipices; a broad belt of cloth, or a sash of silk net is stuck full of pistols and stilettos ; a carbine is slung at the back; while about them is gen- erally thrown, in a negligent manner, a great dingy mantle, which serves as a protection in storms, or a bed in their bivouacs among the mountains. They range over a great extent of wild country, along the chain of Apennines, bordering on different states; they know all the difficult passes, the short cuts for retreat, and the impracticable forests of the mountain summits, where no force dare follow them. They are secure of the good-will of the inhabitants of those regions, a poor and semi-barbarous race, whom they never disturb and often enrich. Indeed, they are considered as a sort of illegitimate heroes among the mountain villages, and in certain frontier towns where they dispose of their plun- der. Thus countenanced, and sheltered, and secure in the fastnesses of their mountains, the robbers have set THE INN AT TERRACINA 2&8 the weak police of the Italian states at defiance. It is in vain that their names and descriptions are posted on the doors of country churches, and rewards offered for them alive or dead ; the villagers are either too much awed by the terrible instances of vengeance inflicted by the brigands, or have too good an understanding with them to be their betrayers. It is true they are now and then hunted and shot down like beasts of prey by the gens- d'armes^'^ their heads put in iron cages, and stuck upon posts by the roadside, or their limbs hung up to blacken in the trees near the places where they have committed their atrocities ; but these ghastly spectacles only serve ta make some dreary pass of the road still more dreary, and to dismay the traveller, without deterring the bandit. At the time that the estafette made his sudden appear- ance almost en cuerjpo^ as has been mentioned, the auda- city of the robbers had risen to an unparalleled height. They had laid villas under contribution; they had sent messages into country towns, to tradesmen and rich burghers, demanding supplies of money, of clothing, or even of luxuries, with menaces of vengeance in case of refusal. They had their spies and emissaries in every town, village, and inn, along the principal roads, to give them notice of the niovements and quality of travellers. They had plundered carriages, carried people of rank and fortune into the mountains, and obliged them to write for heavy ransoms, and had committed outrages on females who had fallen into their hands. Such was briefly the state of the robbers, or rather such was the account of the rumors prevalent concerning them, when the scene took place at the inn of Terracina. The dark handsome young 1 Police. 2 Half -dressed. 294 TALES OF A TRAVELLER man and the Venetian lady, incidentally mentioned, had arrived early that afternoon in a private carriage drawn by mules, and attended by a single servant. They had been recently married, were spending the honey-moon in travel- ling through these delicious countries, and were on their way to visifc a rich aunt of the bride at Naples. The lady was young, and tender, and timid. The stories she had heard along the road had filled her with appre- hension, not more for herself than for her husband; for though she had been married almost a month, she still loved him almost to idolatry. When she reached Ter- racina, the rumors of the road had increased to an alarm- ing magnitude f and the sight of two robbers' skulls, grinning in iron cages, on each side of the old gateway of the town, brought her to a pause. Her husband had tried in vain to reassure her; they had lingered all the afternoon at the inn, until it was too late to think of starting that evening, and the parting words of the estaf ette completed her affright. "Let us return to Eome," said she, putting her arm within her husband's, and drawing towards him as if for protection. *'Let us return to Rome, and give up this visit to Naples." "And give up the visit to your aunt, too?" said the hus- band. ^ "Nay — what is my aunt in comparison with your safety?" said she, looking up tenderly in his face. There was something in her tone and manner that showed she really was thinking more of her husband '^ safety at the moment than of her own; and being so recently married, and a match of pure affection, too, it is very possible that she was ; at least her husband thought so. Indeed, any one who has heard the sweet musical THE INN AT TERRACINA 295 tone of a Venetian voice, and the melting tenderness of a Venetian phrase, and felt the soft witchery of a Venetian eye, would not wonder at the husband's believing what- ever they professed. He clasped the white hand that had been laid within his, put his arm round her slender waist, and drawing her fondly to his bosom, *'This night, at least," said he, "we will pass at Terracina." Crack ! crack ! crack ! crack ! crack ! Another appari- tion of the road attracted the attention of mine host and his guests. From the direction of the Pontine marshes, a carriage, drawn by half a dozen horses, came driving at a furious rate ; the postilions smacking their whips like mad, as is the case when conscious of the greatness or of the munificence of their fare. It was a landaulet with a servant mounted on the dickey. The compact, highly fin- ished, yet proudly simple construction of the carriage; the quantity of neat, well-arranged trunks and conven- iences; the loads of box-coats on the dickey; the fresh, burly, bluff-looking face of the master at the window; and the ruddy, round-headed servant, in close-cropped hair, short coat, drab breeches, and long gaiters, all pro- claimed at once that this was the equipage of an English- man. "Horses to Foudi," said the Englishman, as the land- lord came bowing to the carriage-door. "Would not his Excellenza alight, and take som& refreshments?" "No — he did not mean to eat until he got to Fondi." "But the horses will be some time in getting ready." '*Ah! that's always the way; nothing but delay in this cursed country!" "If his Excellenza would only walk into the house" — "No, no, no! — I tell you no! — I want nothing but 296 TALES OF A TRAVELLER horses, and as quick as possible. John, see that the horses are got ready, and don't let us be kept here an hour or two. Tell him if we're delayed over the time, I'll lodge a complaint with the postmaster." John touched his hat, and set off to obey his master's orders with the taciturn obedience of an English servant. In' the meantime the Englishman got out of the car- riage, and walked up and down before the inn, with his hands in his pockets, taking no notice of the crowd of idlers who were gazing at him and his equipage. He was tall, stout, and well made; dressed with neatness and precision; wore a travelling cap of the color of ginger- bread; and had rather an unhappy expression about the corners of his mouth : partly from not having yet made his dinner, and partly from not having been able to get on at a greater rate than seven miles an hour. Not that he had any other cause for haste than an Englishman's usual hurry to get to the end of a journey; or, to use the regular phrase, "to get on." Perhaps, too, he was a little sore from having been fleeced at every stage. After some time the servant returned from the stable with a look of some perplexity. **Are the horses ready, John?" *'No, sir — I never saw such a place. There's no get- ting anything done. I think your honor had better step into the house and get something to eat ; it will be a long while before we get to Fundy. " *'D — n the house — it's a mere trick — I'll not eat any- thing, just to spite them," said the Englishman, still more crusty at the prospect of being so long without his dinner. "They say your honor's very wrong," said John, "to set off at this late hour. The road's full of highwaymen." THE INN AT TERRACINA 297 *'Mere tales to get custom." *'The estafe^tte which passed us was stopped by a whole gang," said John, increasing his emphasis with each additional piece of information. "I don't believe a word of it." "They robbed him of his breeches," said John, giving at the same time a hitch to his own waistband. ** All humbug!" Here the dark handsome young man stepped forward, and addressing the Englishman very politely, in broken English, invited him to partake of a repast he was about to make. *' Thank "ee," said the Englishman, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets, and casting a slight side-glance of suspicion at the young man, as if he thought, from his civility, he must have a design upon his purse. '*We shall be most happy, if you will do us the favor," said the lady, in her soft Venetian dialect. There was a sweetness in her accents that was most persuasive. The Englishman cast a look upon her countenance; her beauty was still more eloquent. His features instantly relaxed. He made a polite bow. *'With great pleasure, Signora," said he. In short, the eagerness to ''get on" was suddenly slack- ened ; the determination to famish himself as far as Fondi, by way of punishing the landlord, was abandoned ; John chose an apartment in the inn for his master's reception; and preparations were made to remain there until morn- ing. The carriage was unpacked of such of its contents as i were indispensable for the night. There was the usual parade of trunks and writing-desks, and portfolios and dressing -boxes, and those other oppressive conveniences 398 TALES OF A TRAVELLER which burden a comfortable man. The observant loiter- ers about the inn-door, wrapped up in grekt dirt-colored cloaks, with only a hawk's-eye uncovered, made many remarks to each other on this quantity of luggage that seemed enough for an army. The domestics of the inn talked with wonder of the splendid dressing-case, with its gold and silver furniture, that was spread out on the toilet table, and the bag of gold that chinked as it was taken out of the trunk. The strange Milor'^s ^ wealth, and the treasures he carried about him, were the talk, that evening, over all Terracina. The Englishman took some time to make his ablutions and arrange his dress for table; and, after considerable labor and effort in putting himself at his ease, made his appearance, with stiff white cravat, his clothes free from the least speck of dust, and adjusted with precision. He , made a civil bow on entering in the unprofessing English way, which the fair Venetian, accustomed to the compli- mentary salutations of the Continent, considered extremely cold. The supper, as it was termed by the Italian, or dinner, as the Englishman called it, was now served : heaven and earth, and the waters under the earth, had been moved to furnish it ; for there were birds of the air, and beasts of the field, and fish of the sea. The Englishman's servant, too, had turned the kitchen topsy-turvy in his zeal to cook his master a beefsteak; and made his appearance, ^ loaded with ketchup, and soy, and Cayenne pepper, and Harvey sauce, and a bottle of port wine, from that ware- house, the carriage, in which his master seemed desirous of carrying England about the world with him. Indeed the repast was one of those Italian farragoes which require 1 " Milor " is tlie foreigner's pronunciation of the English " My lord." THE INN AT TERRACINA 399 a little qualifying. The tureen of soup was a black sea, with livers, and limbs, and fragments of all kinds of birds, and beasts floating like wrecks about it. A meagre- winged animal, which my host called a delicate chicken, had evidently died of a consumption. The macaroni was smoked. The beefsteak was tough buffalo's flesh. There was what appeared to be a dish of stewed eels, of which the Englishman ate with great relish; but had nearly refimded them when told that they were vipers, caught among the rocks of Terracina, and esteemed a great delicacy. Nothing, however, conquers a traveller's spleen sooner than eating, whatever may be the cookery ; and nothing brings him into good-humor with his company sooner than eating together; the Englishman, therefore, had not half finished his repast and his bottle, before he began to think the Venetian a very tolerable fellow for a foreigner, and his wife almost handsome enough to be an Englishwoman. In the course of the repast, the usual topics of travellers were discussed, and among others the reports of robbers, which harassed the mind of the fair Venetian. The land- lord and waiter dipped into the conversation with that familiarity permitted on the Continent, and served up so many bloody tales as they served up the dishes, that they almost frightened away the poor lady's appetite. The Englishman, who had a nation^ antipathy to everything technically called "humbug," listened to them all with a certain screw of the mouth, expressive of incredulity. There was the well-known story of the school of Terra- cina, captured by the robbers; and one of the scholars cruelly massacred, in order to bring the parents to terms for the ransom of the rest. And another, of a gentleman 01 Rome, who received his son's ear in a letter, with 300 TALES OF A TRAVELLER A information, that his son would be remitted to him in this way, by instalments, nntil he paid the required ransom. The fair Venetian shuddered as she heard these tales, and the landlord, like a true narrator of the terrible, doubled the dose when he saw how it operated. He was just proceeding to relate the misfortunes of a great Eng- lish lord and his family, when the Englishman, tired of his volubility, interrupted him, and pronounced these accounts to be mere travellers' tales, or the exaggerations of ignorant peasants, and designing innkeepers. The landlord was indignant at the doubt levelled at his stories, and the innuendo levelled at his cloth; he cited, in cor- roboration, half a dozen tales still more terrible. **I don't believe a word of them," said the Englishman^ *'But the robbers have been tried and executed!" **Allafarce!" **But their heads are stuck up along the road!" **01d skulls accumulated during a century." The landlord muttered to himself as he went out at the door, **San Gennaro! quanto sono singolari questi Inglesi!"^ A fresh hubbub outside of the inn announced the arrival of more travellers; and, from the variety of voices, or rather of clamors, the clattering of hoofs, the rattling of J"^?" wheels, and the general uproar both within and without, the arrival seemed to be numerous. It was, in fact, the procaccio and its convoy : a kind ol caravan which sets out on certain days for the transporta-l '^^" tion of merchandise, with an escort of soldiery to protect it from the robbers. Travellers avail themselves of its protection, and a long file of carriages generally accom pany it. flSlO liftri k i[ ploii "Pi, "Ti "Ad "]Iil "Loi "Ak "Sicii l^opliii. He If: How odd these Englisli are ! THE INN AT TERRACINa 301 A considerable time elapsed before either landlord or /■alter returned; being hurried hither and thither by that empest of noise and bustle, which takes place in an talian inn on the arrival of any considerable accession of ustom. When mine host reappeared, there was a smile ff triumph on his countenance. I ''Perhaps," said he, as he cleared the table, "perhaps he signer has not heard of what has happened?" I "What?" said the Englishman, dryly. ! "Why, the procaccio has brought accounts of fresb xploits of the robbers." I "Pish!" "There's more news of the English Milor and his fam y," said the host, exultingly. i "An English lord? What English lord?" ' "Milor Popkin." I "Lord Popkins? I never heard of such a title!" j "0! sicuro a great nobleman, who passed through here i^ely with mi ladi and her daughters. A magnifico, one f the grand counsellors of London, an almanno!" "Almanno — almanno? — tut — he means alderman." "Sicuro — Aldermanno Popkin, and the Principessa *opkin, and the Signorine Popkin!" said mine host, riumphantly. He now put himself into an attitude, and would have lunched into a full detail, had he not been thwarted by yhe Englishman, who seemed determined neither to credit or indulge him in his stories, but dryly motioned for him 9 clear away the table. An Italian tongue, however, is not easily checked; that ■ f mine host continued to wag with increasing volubility, s he conveyed the relics of the repast out of the room ; nd the last that could be distinguished of his voice, as it 302 TALES OF A TRAVELLER died away along the corridor, was the iteration of the favorite word, Popkin — Popkin — Popkin— pop — pop- pop. The arrival of the procaccio had, indeed, filled the house with stories, as it had with guests. The Englishman and his companions walked after supper up and down the large hall, or common room of the inn, which ran through the centre of the building. It was spacious and somewhat dirty, with tables placed in various parts, at which groups of travellers were seated; while others strolled about, waiting, in famished impatience, for their evening's meal. It was a heterogeneous assemblage of people of all ranks and countries, who had arrived in all kinds of vehicles. Though distinct knots of travellers, yet the travelling together, under one common escort, had jumbled them into a certain degree of companionship on the road; besides, on the Continent travellers are always familiar, and nothing is more motley than the groups which gather casually together in sociable conversation in the public rooms of inns. The formidable number, and formidable guard of the procaccio had prevented any molestation from banditti; but every party of travellers had its tale of wonder, and one carriage vied with another in its budget of assertions and surmises. Fierce, whiskered faces had been seen peering over the rocks; carbines and stilettos gleaming from among the bushes; suspicious-looking fellows, with flapped hats, and scowling eyes, had occasionally recon- noitred a strasfsflins: carriage, but had disappeared on see- ing tne guara. The fair Venetian listened to all these stories with that avidity with which we always pamper any feeling of alarm; THE INN AT TERRACINA 303 even the Englishman hegan to feel interested in the com- mon topic, desirous of getting more correct information than mere flying reports. Conquering, therefore, that shyness which is prone to keep an Englishman solitary in crowds, he approached one of the talking groups, the oracle of which was a tall, thin Italian, with long aquiline nose, a high forehead, and lively prominent eye, beaming from under a green velvet travelling- cap, with gold tassel. He was of Rome, a surgeon by profession, a poet by choice, and something of an improvisatore. In the present instance, however, he was talking in plain prose, but holding forth with the fluency of one who talks well, and likes to exert his ^alent. A question or two from the Englishman drew copious replies; for an Englishman sociable among strangers is regarded as a phenomenon on the Continent, and always treated with attention for the rarity's sake. The improvisatore gave muclf the same account of the banditti that I have already furnished. "But why does not the police exert itself, and root them out?" deriianded the Englishman. '* Because the police is too weak, and the banditti are too strong, " replied the other. "To root them out would be a more difficult task than you imagine. They are con- nected and almost identified with the mountain peasantry and the people of the villages. The numerous bands have an understanding with each otlier, and with the country round. A gendarme cannot stir without their being aware of it. They have their scouts everywhere, who lurk about towns, villages, and inns, minp"le in fivp-r-vr crowd, and pervade every place of resort. I should not be surprised if some one should be supervising us at this moment. ' ' 304 TALES OF A TRAVELLER The fair Venetian looked round fearfully, and turned pale. Here the improvisatore was interrupted by a lively Neapolitan lawyer. ^ **By the way," said he, *'I recollect a little adventure of a learned doctor, a friend of mine, which happened in ' this very neighborhood; not far from the ruins of Theo- doric's Castle, which are on the top of those great rocky heights above the town." A wish was, of course, expressed to hear the adventure ot the doctor, by all excepting the improvisatore, who, being fond of talking and of hearing himself talk, and accustomed, moreover, to harangue without interruption, looked rather annoyed at being checked when in full career. The Neapolitan, however, took no notice of his chagrin, but related the following anecdote. ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY My, friend, the Doctor, was a thorough antiquary; a little rusty, musty, old fellow, always groping among ruins. He relished a building as you Englishmen relish a cheese, — the more mouldy and crumbling it was, the more it suited his taste. A shell of an old nameless temple, or the cracked walls of a. broken-down amphitheatre, would throw him into raptures; and he took more delight in these crusts aud cheese-parings of antiquity than in the best-conditioned modern palaces. He was a curious collector of coins also, and had just gained an accession of wealth that almost turned his brain. He had picked up, for instance, several Roman Oonsulars, half a Roman As, two Funics,^ which had 1 The Consular, the As and the Punic are all early Roman coins. AEtVENTURE OF THE LXTTi^E ANTIQUARY 3UD doubtless belonged to the soldiers of Hannibal, having been found on the very spot where they had encamped among the Apennines. He had, moreover, one Samnite,' struck after the Social War, and a Philistis,^ a queen that never existed; but above all, he valued himself upon a coin, indescribable to any but the initiated in these mat ters, bearing a cross on one side, and a pegasus on the other, and which, by some antiquarian logic, the little man adduced as an historical document, illustrating the progress of Christianity. All these precious coins he carried about with him in a leathern purse, buried deep in a pocket of his little black breeches. The last maggot he had taken into his brain was to hunt after the ancient cities of the Pelasgi,^ which are said to exist to this day among the mountains of the Abruzzi ; but about which a singular degree of obscurity prevails.* ♦Among the many fond speculations of antiquaries is that of the existence of traces of the ancient Pelasgian cities in the Apennines; and many a wistful eye. is cast by the traveller, versed in antiquarian lore, at the richly wooded mountains of the Abruzzi, as a forbidden fairy land of research. These spots, so beautiful, yet so inaccessible, from the rudeness of their inhabitants and the hordes of banditti which infest them, are a region of fable to the learned. Sometimes a wealthy virtuoso, whose purse and whose consequence could command a military escort, has penetrated to some individual point among the mountains; and sometimes a wandering artist or student, under protection of poverty or insignificance, has brought away some 1 A Samnite is a coin of Samnium, a neighboring country and enemy of Rome. Tlie Social War, in the first century B.C., in which Samnium was opposed to Rome, was waged by the various subject states for the purpose of obtaining from Rorae the rights and privileges of Rome citizenship. ■■2 A queen of Syracuse known only from the coins bearing her name and a single inscription. 3 A race of pre-historic times, supposed to have been spread over Greece and the neighboring islands. As the race left no written records behind it, very little is known concerning its history. 306 TALES OF A TRAVELLER He had made many discoveries concerning them, and had recorded a great many valuable notes and memorandums on the subject, in a voluminous book, which he always carried about with him ; either for the purpose of frequent reference, or through fear lest the precious document should fall into the hands of brother antiquaries. He had, therefore, a large pocket in the skirt of his coat, where he bore about this inestimable tome, banging against his rear as he walked. Thus heavily laden with the spoils of antiquity, the good vague account, only calculated to give a keener edge to curiosity and conjecture. By those who maintain the existence of the Pelasgian cities, it is affirmed that the formation of the different kingdoms in the Peloponnesus gradually caused the expulsion thence of the Pelasgi ; but that their great migration may be dated from the finishing the wall around Acropolis, and that at this period they came to Italy. To these, in the spirit of theory, they would ascribe the introduction of the elegant arts into the country. It is evident, however, that, as barbarians flying before the first dawn of civilization, they could bring little with them superior to the inventions of the aborigines, and nothing that would have survived to the antiquarian through such a lapse of ages. It would appear more probable, that these cities, improperly termed Pelasgian, were coeval with many that have been dis- covered. The romantic /Aricia, built by Hippolytus before the siege of Troy, and the poetic Tiber, Osculate and Prseneste, built by Telegonus after the dispersion of the Greeks ; — these, lying contiguous to inhabited and cultivated spots, have been discovered. There are others, too, on the ruins of which the later and more civilized Grecian colonists have engrafted them- selves, and which have become known by their merits or their medals. But that there are many still undiscovered, imbedded in the Abruzzi, it is the delight of the antiquarians to fancy. Strange that such a virgin soil for research, such an unknown realm of knowledge, should at this day remain in the very centre of hackneyed Italy!— [Author's Note.] ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY 307 little man, during a sojourn at Terracina, mounted one day the rocky cliffs which overhang the town, to visit the ' castle of Theodoric. He was groping about the ruins towards the hour of sunset, buried in his reflections, his wits no doubt wool-gathering among the Goths and Eomans, when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, and beheld five or six young fellows, of rough, saucy demeanor, clad in a singular manner, half peasant, half huntsman, with carbines in their hands. Their whole appearance and carriage left him no doubt into what company he had fallen. The Doctor was a feeble little man, poor in look, and poor in purse. He had but little gold or silver to be robbed of; but then he had his curious ancient coin in his breeches-pocket. He had, moreover, certain other valu- ables, such as an old silver watch, thick as a turnip, with figures on it large enough for a clock ; and a set of seals at the end of a steel chain, dangling half-way down to his knees. All these were of precious esteem, being family relics. He had also a seal ring, a veritable antique intaglio, that covered half his knuckles. It was a Venus, which the old man almost worshipped with the zeal of a voluptuary. But what he most valued was his inestimable collection of hints relative to the Pelasgian cities, which he would gladly have given all the money in his pocket to have had safe at the bottom of his trunk in Terracina. However, he plucked up a stout heart, at least as stout a heart as he could, seeing that he was but a puny little man at the best of times. So he wished the hunters a ''buon giorno."^^ They returned his salutation, giving the old gentleman a sociable slap on the back that made his heart leap into his throat. » Good-day. 308 TALES OF A TRAVELLER They fell into conversation, and walked for some time together among the heights, the Doctor wishing them all the while at the bottom of the crater of Vesuvius. At length they came to a small osteria ^ on the mountain, where they proposed to enter and have a cup of wine together; the Doctor consented, though he would as soon have been invited to drink hemlock. One of the gang remained sentinel at the door; the others swaggered into the house, stood their guns in the corner of the room, and each drawing a pistol or stiletto out of his belt, laid it upon the table. They now drew benches round the board, called lustily for wine, and, hailing the Doctor as though he had been a boon compan- ion of long standing, insisted upon his sitting down and making merry. The worthy man complied with forced grimace, but with fear and trembling; sitting uneasily on the edge of his chair; eyeing ruefully the black-muzzled pistols, and cold, naked stilettos; and supping down heartburn with every drop of liquor. His new comrades, however, pushed the bottle bravely, and plied him vigorously. They sang, they laughed ; told excellent stories of their robberies and combats, mingled with many ruffian jokes; and the little Doctor was fain to laugh at all their cut-throat pleas- antries, though his heart was dying away at the very bot- tom of his bosom. By their own account, they were young men from the villages, who had recently taken up this line of life out of the wild caprice of youth. They talked of their mur- derous exploits as a sportsman talks of his amusements : to shoot down a traveller seemed of little more consequence to them than to shoot a hare. They spoke with rapture 1 Inn. ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY / 309 of the glorious roving life they led, free as birds; here to-day, gone to-morrow; raiiging the forests, climbing the rocks, scouring the valleys; the world their own wherever they could lay hold of it; full purses — merry companions — pretty women. The little antiquary got fuddled with their talk and their wine, for they did not spare bumpers. He half forgot his fears, his seal ring, and his fainily watch ; even the treatise on the Pelasgian cities, which was warming under him, for a time faded from his mem- ory in the glowing picture that they drew. He declares that he no longer wonders at the prevalence of this rob- ber mania among the mountains; for he felt at the time, that, had he been a young man, and a strong man, and had there been no danger of the galleys in the back- ground, he should have been half tempted himself to turn bandit. At length the hour of separating arrived. The Doctor was suddenly called to himself and his fears by seeing the robbers resume their weapons. He now quaked for his valuables, and, above all, for his antiquarian treatise. He endeavored, however, to look cool and unconcerned; and drew from out his deep pocket a long, lank, leathern purse, far gone in consumption, at the bottom of which a few coin chinked with the trembling of his hand. The chief of the party observed his movement, and lay- ing his hand upon the antiquary's shoulder, *'Harkee! Signer Dottore!" said he, *'we have drunk together as friends and comrades; let us part as such. We under- stand you. We know who and what you are, for we know who everybody is that sleeps at Terracina, or that puts foot upon the road. You are a rich man, but you carry all your wealth in your head: we cannot get at it, and we should not know what to do with it if we could. I see 310 TALES OF A TRAVELLER you are uneasy about your ring; but don't worry yourself, it is not worth taking; you think it an antique, but it's a counterfeit — a mere sham." Here the ire of the antiquary arose : the Doctor forgot himself in his zeal for the character of his ring. Heaven and earth! His Venus a ^ham. Had they pronounced the wife of his bosom ''no better than she should be," he could not have been more indignant. He fired up in vin- dication of his intaglio. "Nay, nay," continued the robber, *'we have no time to dispute about it; value it as you please. Come, you're a brave little old signor — one more cup of wine, and we'll pay the reckoning. No compliments — you shall not pay a grain — you are our guest — I insist upon it. So — now make the best of your way back to Terracina ; it's growing late. Buon viaggio! And harkee! take care how you wander among these mountains, — ^you may not always fall into such good company. " They shouldered their guns ; sprang gayly up the rocks ; and the little Doctor hobbled back to Terracina, rejoicing that the robbers had left his watch, his coins, and his treatise, unmolested; but still indignant that they should have pronounced his Venus an impostor. The improvisatore had shown many symptoms of impa- tience during this recital. He saw his theme in danger of being taken out of his hands, which to an able talker is always a grievance, but to an improvisatore is an absolute calamity: and then for it to be taken away by a Neapoli- tan was still more vexatious ; the inhabitants of the differ- ent Italian states having an implacable jealousy of each other in all things^ great and small. He took advantage of the first pause of the Neapolitan to catch hold again of the thread of the conversation. ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY 311 **As I observed before," said he, *'the prowlings of the banditti are so extensive ; they are so much in league with one another, and so interwoven with various ranks of society" "For that matter," said the Neapolitan, "I have heard that your government ^ has had some understanding with those gentry; or, at least, has winked at their misdeeds." *'My government?" said the Roman, impatiently. "Ay, they say that Cardinal Gonsalvi"^ — "Hush!" said the Roman, holding up his finger, and rolling his large eyes about the room. "Nay, I only repeat what I heard commonly rumored in Rome," rephed the Neapolitan, sturdily. "It was openly said, that the Cardinal had been up to the moun- tains, and had an interview with some of the chiefs. And I have been told, moreover, that, while honest people have been kicking their heels in the Cardinal's ante-cham- ber, waiting by the hour for admittance, one of those stiletto-looking fellows has elbowed his way through the crowd, and entered without ceremony into the Cardinal's presence." "I know," observed the improvisatore, "that there have been such reports, and it is not impossible that gov- ernment may have made use of these men at particular periods: such as at the time of your late abortive revolu- tion, when your carbonari were so busy with their machi- nations all over the country. The information which such men could collect, who were familiar, not merely with the recesses and secret places of the mountains, but also with the dark and dangerous recesses of society; who knew every suspicious character, and all his movements and all iThe unification of the various states of Italy did not take place until 1871. a Secretary of State to Pius VIL 312 TALES OF A TRAVELLER his lurkings ; in a word, who knew all that was plotting in a world of mischief; — ^^he utility of such men as instru- ments in the harxds of government was too obvious to be overlooked ; and Cardinal Gonsalvi, as a politic statesman, may, perhaps, have made use of them. Besides, he knew that, with all their atrocities, the robbers were always respectful towards the Church, and devout in their reli- gion." "Keligion! religion!" echoed the Englishman. "Yes, religion," repeated the Roman. "They have each their patron saint. They will cross themselves and say their prayers, whenever, in their mountain haunts, they hear the matin or the Ave-Maria bells sounding from the valleys; and will often descend from their retreats, and run imminent risks to visit some favorite shrine. I recollect an instance in point. **I was one evening in the village of Frascati, which stands on the beautiful brow of a hill rising fronj the Cam- pagna, just below the Abruzzi Mountains. The people, ' as is usual in fine evenings in our Italian towns and vil- lages, were recreating themselves in the open air, and chatting in groups in the public square. While I was con- versing with a knot of friends, I noticed a tall fellow, wrapped in a great mantle, passing across the square, but skulking along in the dusk, as if anxious to avoid observa- tioui The people drew back as he passed. It was whis- pered to me that he was a notorious bandit. " t "But why was he not immediately seized?" said the Englishman. "Because it was nobody's business; because nobody wished to incur the vengeance of his comrades ; because there were not sufficient gendarmes near to insure security against the number of desperadoes he might have at hard; ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY 313 because the gendarmes might not have received particular instructions with respect to him, and might not feel dis- posed to engage in a hazardous conflict without compul- sion. In short, I might give you a thousand reasons rising out of the state of our government and manners, not one of which after all might appear satisfactory." ^ The Englishman shrugged his shoulders with an air of contempt. *'I have been told," added the Eoman, rather quickly, "that even in your metropolis of London, notorious thieves, well known to the police as such, walk the streets at noonday in search of their prey, and are not molested .unless caught in the very act of robbery." The Englishman gave another shrug but whh a different expression. "Well, sir, I fixed my eye on this daring wolf, thus prowling through the fold, and saw him enter a church. I was curious to witness his devotion. You know our spacious magnificent churches. The one in which he entered was vast, and shrouded in tlie dusk of evening. At the extremity of the long aisles a couple of tapers feebly glimmered on the grand altar. In one of the side chapels was a votive candle placed before the image of a saint. Before this image the robber had prostrated him- self. His mantle partly falling off from his shoulders as he knelt, revealed a form of Herculean strength; a sti- letto and pistol glittered in his belt; and the light falling on his countenance, showed features not unhandsome, but strongly and fiercely characterized. As he prayed, he became vehemently agitated; his lips quivered ; sighs and murmurs, almost groans, burst from him; he beat his breast with violence ; then clasped his hands and wrung them convulsively, as he extended them towards the image. 314 ' TALES OF A TRAVELLER Never had I seen such a terrific picture of remorse. I felt fearful of being discovered watching him, and withdrew. Shortly afterwards I saw him issue from the church wrapped in his mantle. He recrossed the square, and no doubt returned to the mountains with a disburdened con- science, ready to incur a fresh arrear of crime. " Here the Neapolitan was about to get hold of the con- versation, and had just precluded with the ominous remark, *'That puts me in mind of a circumstance," when the improvisatore, too adroit to suffer himself to be again super- seded, went on, pretending not to hear the interruption. "Among the many circumstances connected with the banditti, which serve to render the traveller uneasy and insecure, is the understanding which they sometimes have with inn-keepers. Many an isolated inn among the lonely parts of the Roman territories, and especially about the mountains, is of a dangerous and perfidious character. They are places where the banditti gather information, and where the unwary traveller, remote from hearing or assistance, is betrayed to the midnight dagger. The rob- beries committed at such inns are often accompanied by the most atrocious murders ; for it is only by the complete extermination of their victims that the assassins can escape detection. I recollect an adventure," added he, "which occurred at one of these solitary mountain inns, which, as you all seem in a mood for robber anecdotes, may not be uninteresting." Having secured the attention and awakened the curiosity of the by-stand ers, he paused for a moment, rolled up his large eyes as improvisatori are apt to do when they would recollect an impromptu, and then related with great dra- matic effect the following story, which had, doubtless, been well prepared and digested beforehand. THE BELATED TRAVELLERS 315 THE BELATED TRAVELLERS Ifc was late one evening that a carriage, drawn by mules, slowly toiled its way up one of the passes of the Apennines. It was through one of the wildest defiles, where a hamlet I occurred only at distant intervals, perched on the summit I of some rocky height, or the white towers of a convent ; peeped out from among the thick mountain foliage. The carriage was of ancient and ponderous construction. Its faded embellishments spoke of former splendor, but its ' crazy springs and axle-trees creaked out the tale of present decline. Within was seated a tall, thin old gentleman, in a kind of military travelling-dress, and a foraging-cap trimmed with fur, though the gray locks which stole from under it hinted that his fighting days were over. . Beside him was a pale, beautiful girl of eighteen, dressed in som'e- thing of a northern or Polish costume. One servant was seated in front, a rusty, crusty looking fellow, with a scar across his face, an orange-tawny schnurlart or pair of moustaches, bristling from under his nose, and altogether the air of an old soldier. ^ It was, in fact, the equipage of a Polish nobleman ; a wreck of one of those princely families once of almost oriental magnificence, but broken down and impoyerished by the disasters of Poland. The Count, like many other generous spirits, had been found guilty of the crime of patriotism, and was, in a manner, an exile from his coun- try. He had resided for some time in the first cities of Italy, for the education of his daughter, in whom all his cares and pleasures were now centred. He had taken her into society, where her beauty and her accomplishments gained her many admirers; and had she not been the daughter of a poor broken-down Polish nobleman, it is 316 TALES OF A TRAVELLER more than probable many would have contended for h^ hand. Suddenly, however, her health became delicate and drooping; her gayety fled with the roses of her cheek, and she sank into silence and debility. The old Count saw the change with the solicitude of a parent. **We must try a change of air and scene," said he; and in a few days the old family carriage was rumbling among the Apennines. Their only attendant was the veteran Caspar, who had been born in the family, and grown rusty in its service. He had followed his master in all his fortunes; had fought by his side; had stood over him when fallen in battle; and had received, in his defence, the sabre-cut which added such grimness to his countenance. He was now his valet, •his steward, his butler, his factotum. The only being that rivalled his master in his affections was his youthful mistress. She had grown up under his eye, he had led her by the hand when she was a child, and he now looked upon her with the fondness of a parent. Nay, he even took the freedom of a parent in giving his blnnt opinion on all matters which he thought were for her good; and felt a parent's vanity at seeing her gazed at and admired. The evening was thickening; they had been for some time passing through narrow gorges of the mountains, along the edges of a tumbling stream. The scenery was lonely and savage. The rocks often beetled over the road, with flocks of white goats browsing on their brinks, and gazing down upon the travellers. They had between two or three leagues yet to go before they could reach any village; yet the muleteer, Pietro, a tippling oM fellow, who had refreshed himself at the last halting-place with a more than ordinary quantity of wine, sat singing and talk- ing alternately to his mules, and suffering them to lag on THE BELATED TRAVELLERS 317 at a snail's pace, in spite of the frequent entreaties of the Count and maledictions of Caspar. The clouds began to roll in heavy masses along the mountains, shrouding their summits from view. The air was damp and chilly. The Count's solicitude on his daughter's account overcame his usual patience. He leaned from the carriage, and called to old Pietro in an angry tone. "Forward!" said he. "It will be midnight before we arrive at our inn." "Yonder it is, Signor," said the muleteer. "Where?" demanded the Count. "Yonder," said Pietro, pointing to a desolate pile about ;a quarter of a league distant. "That the place? — why, it looks more like a ruin than an inn. I thought we were to put up for the night at a comfortable village." Here Pietro uttered a string of piteous exclamations and ejaculations, such as are ever on the tip of the tongue of a delinquent muleteer. "Such roads! and such mountains! and then his poor animals were way-worn, and leg-weary; they would fall lame; they would never be able to reach the village. And then what could his Excellenza wish for better than the inn; a perfect castello — a palazzo — and such people! — and such a larder! — and such beds! — His Excellenza might fare as sumptuously, and sleep as soundly there as a prince!" The Count was easily persuaded, for he was anxious to get his daughter out of the night air; so in a little while the old carriage rattled and jingled into the great gateway of the inn. The building did certainly in some measure answer to the muleteer's description. It was large enough for either 318 TALES OF A TRAVELLER castle or palace ; bnilt in a strong, but simple and almost rude style ; with a great quantity of waste room. It had in fact been, in former times, a hunting-seat of one of the Italian princes. There was space enough within its walls and outbuildings to have accommodated a little army. A scanty household seemed now to people this dreary man- sion. The faces that presented themselves on the arrival of the travellers were begrimed with dirt, and scowling in their expression. They all knew old Pietro, however, and gave him a welcome as he entered, singing and talking, and almost whooping, into the gateway. The hostess of the inn waited, herself, on the Count and his daughter, to show them the apartments. They were conducted through a long gloomy corridor, and then | through a suite of chambers opening into each other, with lofty ceilings, and great beams extending across them. Everything, however, had a wretched, squalid look. The walls were damp and bare, excepting that here and there hung some great' painting, large enough for a chapel, and blackened out of all distinction. They chose two bedrooms, one within another; the inner one for the daughter. The bedsteads were massive and misshapen; but on examining the beds so vaunted by old Pietro, they found them stuffed with fibres of hemp knotted in great lumps. The Connt shrugged his shoul- ders, but there was no choice left. \i The chilliness of the apartments crept to their bones ;^ and they were glad to return to a common chamber or kind of hall, where was a fire burning in a huge cavern, miscalled a chimney. A quantity of green wood. Just thrown on, puffed out volumes of smoke. The room cor- cesponded to the rest of the mansion. The floor was paved and dirty. A great oaken table stood in the centre, THE BELATED TRAVELLERS 319 immoYable from its size and weight. The only thing that contradicted this prevalent air of indigence was the dress of the hostess. She was a slattern of course; yet her garments, though dirty and negligent, were of costly materials. She wore several rings of great value on her fingers, and jewels in her ears, and round her neck was a string of large pearls, to which was attached a sparkling crucifix. She had the remains of beauty, yet there was something in the expression of her countenance that inspired the young lady with singular aversion. She was oflBcious and oBsequious in her attentions, and both the Count and his daughter felt relieved, when she consigned them to the care of a dark, sullen-looking servant-maid, and went off to superintend the supper. Caspar was indignant at the muleteer for having, either through negligence or design, subjected his master and mistress to such quarters ; and vowed by his moustaches to have revenge on the old varlet the moment they were safe out from among the mountains. He kept np a con- tinual quarrel with the sulky servant-maid, which only served to increase the sinister expression with which she regarded the travellers, from under her strong dark eye- brows. As to the Count, he was a good-humored passive trav- eller. Perhaps real misfortunes had subdued his spirit, and rendered him tolerant of many of those petty evils which make prosperous men miserable. He drew a large broken arm-chair to the fireside for his daughter, and another for himself, and seizing an enormous pair of tongs, endeavored to rearrange the wood so as to produce a blaze. His efforts, however, were only repaid by thicker puffs of smoke, which almost overcame the good gentle- man's patience. He would draw back, cast a look upon 320 TALES OF A TRAVELLER his delicate daughter, then upon the cheerless, squalid apartment, and, shrugging his shoulders, would give a fresh stir to the fire. Of all the miseries of a comfortless inn, however, there is none greater than sulky attendance; the good Count for some time bore the smoke in silence, rather than address himself to the scowling servant-maid. At length he was compelled to beg for drier firewood. The woman retired muttering. On reentering the room hastily, with an armful of fagots, her foot slipped ; she fell, and striking her head against the corner of a chair, cut her temple severely. The blow stunned her for a time, and the wound bled profusely. When she recovered, she found the Count's daughter administering to her wound, and binding it up with her own handkerchief. It was such an attention as any woman of ordinary feeling would have yielded; but per- haps there was something in the appearance of the lovely being who bent over her, or in the tones of her voice, that touched the heart of the woman, unused to be adminis- tered to by such hands. Certain it is, she was strongly affected. She caught the delicate hand of the Polonaise, and pressed it fervently to her lips. "May San Francesco^ watch over you, Signora!'* exclaimed she. A new arrival broke the stillness of the inn. It was a Spanish princess with a numerous retinue. The court- yard was in an uproar; the house in a bustle. The land- lady hurried to attend such distinguished guests ; and the poor Count and his daughter, and their supper, were for a moment forgotten. The veteran Caspar muttered Polish maledictions enough to agonize an Italian ear; but it was impossible to convince the hostess of the superiority ' Saint Francis. THE BELATED TRAVELLERS 321 of his old master and young mistress to the whole nobility of Spain. The noise of the arrival had attracted the daughter ta the window just as the new-comers had alighted, A young cavalier sprang out of the carriage and handed out the Princess. The latter was a little shrivelled old lady, with a face of parchment and sparkling black eye; she- - was richly and gayly dressed, and walked with the assist- ance of a golden-headed cane as high as herself. The young man was tall and elegantly formed. The Count's daughter shrank back at the sight of him, though the deep frame of the window screened her from observation. She gave a heavy sigh as she closed the casement. What .that sigh meant I cannot say. Perhaps it was at the contrast between the splendid equipage of the Princess, and the crazy rheumatic-looking old vehicle of her father, which stood hard by. Whatever might be the reason, the young lady closed the casement with a sigh. She returned to her chair, — a slight shivering passed over her delicate frame: she leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair, rested her pale cheek in the palm of her hand, and looked mournfully into the fire. The Count thought she appeared paler than usual. *'Does anything ail thee, my child?" said he. "Nothing, dear father!" replied she, laying her hiand within his, and looking up smiling in his face; but as she said so, a treacherous tear rose suddenly to her eye, and she turned away her head. '*The air of the window has chilled thee," said the Count fondly, **but a good night's rest will make all well again." The supper-table was at length' laid, and the supper about to be served, when the hostess appeared, with her 322 TALES OF A TRAVELLER usual obsequiousness, apologizing for showing in the new- comers ; but the night air was cold, and there was no other chamber in the inn with a fire in it. She had scarcely made the apology when the Princess entered, leaning on the arm of the elegant young man. The Count immediately recognized her for a lady whom he had met frequently in society, both at Rome and Naples ; and at whose conversaziones, in fact, he had been constantly invited. The cavalier, too, was her nephew and heir who had been greatly admired in the gay circles both for his merits and prospects, and who had once been on a visit at the same time with his daughter and himself at the villa of a nobleman near Naples. Report had recently affianced him to a rich Spanish heiress. The meeting was agreeable to both the Count and the Princess. The former was a gentleman of the old school, courteous in the extreme; the Princess had been a belle in her youth, and a woman of fashion all her life, and liked to be attended to. The young man approached the daughter, and began something of a complimentary observation ; but his man- ner was embarrassed, and his compliment ended in an indistinct murmur; while the daughter bowed without looking up, moved her lips without articulating a word, and sank again into her chair, where she sat gazing into the fire, with a thousand varying expressions passing over her countenance. This singular greeting of the young people was not per- ceived by the old ones, who were occupied at the time with their own courteous salutations. It was arranged that they should sup together; and as the Princess travelled with her own cook, a very tolerable supper soon smoked upon the board. This, too, was assisted by choice wines. THE BELATED TRAVELLERS 323 and liquors, and delicate confitures brought from one of her carriages; for she was a veteran epicure, and curious in her relish for the good things of this world. She was, in fact, a vivacious little old lady, who mingled the woman of dissipation with the devotee. She was actually on her way to Loretto ^ to expiate a long life of gallan- tries and peccadilloes by st, rich offering at the holy shrine. She was, to be sure, rather a luxurious penitent, and a contrast to the primitive pilgrims, with scrip and staff, and cockle-shell ; ^ but then it would be unreasonable to expect such self-denial from people of fashion ; and there was not a doubt of the ample efficacy of the rich cruci fixes, and golden vessels, and jewelled ornaments, which she was bearing to the treasury of the blessed Virgin. The Princess and the Count chatted much during sup- per about the scenes and » society in which they had mingled, and did not notice that they had all the con- versation to themselves : the young people were silent and constrained. The daughter ate nothing in spite of the politeness of the Princess, who continually pressed her to taste of one or other of the delicacies. The Count shook his head. "She is not well this evening," said he. "I thought she would have fainted just now as she was looking out of the window at your carriage on its arrival." A crimson glow flushed to the very temples of the daughter; but she leaned over her plate, and her tresses cast a shade over her countenance. When supper was over, they drew their chairs about the great fireplace. The flame and smoke had subsided, 1 The shrine of the Virgin at Loretto is stiU a popular place of pilgrim- age. The house of the Virgin, Santa Casa,- (cf. p. 367) is reputed to have been miraculously conveyed from Palestine to this place in Italy. 2 The cockle-shell, which is connected with the legendary life of St. James, marked the pilgrim to the shrine of St. James at Campostella, in Srain. 324 TALES OF A TRAVELLER and a heap of glowing embers diffused a grateful warmth. A guitar, which had been brought from the Count's car- riage, leaned against the wall ; the Princess perceived it. — *'Can we not have a little music before parting for the night?" demanded she. The Count was proud of his daughter's accomplish- ment, and joined in the request. The young man made an effort of politeness, and taking up the guitar, pre- isente(i it, though in an embarrassed manner, to the fair musician. She v^ould have declined it, but was too much confused to do so ; indeed, she was so nervous and agi- tated, that she dared not trust her voice, to make an excuse. She touched the instrument with a faltering hand, and, after preluding a little, accompanied herself in several Polish airs. Her father's eyes glistened as he sat gazing on her. Even the crusty Caspar lingered in the room, partly through a fondness for the music of his native country, but chiefly through his pride in the musician. Indeed the melody of the voice, and the delicacy of the touch, were enough to have charmed more fastidious ears. The little Princess nodded her head and tapped her hand to the music, though exceedingly out of time; while the nephew sat buried in profound contem- plation of a black picture on the opposite wall. "And now," said the Count, patting her cheek fondly, **one more favor. Let the Princess hear that little Span- ish air you were so fond of. You can't think," added he, "what a proficiency she has made in your language ; though she has been a sad girl, and neglected it of late." The color flushed the pale cheek of the daughter. She hesitated, murmured something; but with sudden effort, collected herself, struck the guitar boldly, and began. It was a Spanish romance, with something of love and THE BELATED TRAVELLERS 325 melancholy in it. She gave the first stanza with great expression, for the tremulous, melting tones of her voice went to the heart; but her articulation failed, her lips quivered, the song died away, and she burst into tears. The Count folded her tenderly in his arms. *'Thou art not well, my child," said he, "and I am tasking thee cruelly. Retire to thy chamber, and God bless thee!" She bowed to the company without raising her eyes, and glided out of the room. The Count shook his head as the. door closed. "Some- thing is the matter with that child," said he, ** which I cannot divine. She has lost all health and spirits lately. She was always a tender flower, and I had much pains to rear her. Excuse a father's foolishness," continued he^ "but I have seen much trouble in my family; and this poor girl is all that is now left to me ; and she used to be so lively" "Maybe she's in love!" said the little Princess, with a shrewd nod of the head. "Impossible!" replied the good Count, artlessly. "She has never mentioned a word of such a thing to me. * * How little did the worthy gentleman dream of the thousand cares, and griefs, and mighty love concerns which agitate a virgin heart, and which a timid girl scarcely breathes unto herself. The nephew of the Princess rose abruptly and walked about the room. When she found herself alone in her chamber, the feelings of the young lady, so long restraified, broke forth with violence. She opened the casement that the cool an might blow upon her throbbing temples. Perhaps there was some little pride or pique mingled with her emotions i. 326 TALES OF A TRAVELLER though her gentle nature did not seem calculated to har- bor any such angry inmate. "He saw me weep!" said she, with a sudden mantling of the cheek, and a swelling of the throat, — "but no mat- ter! — no matter!" And so saying, she threw her white arms across the window-frame, buried her face in them, and abandoned herself to an agony of tears. She remained lost in a reverie, until the sound of her father's and Caspar's voices in the adjoining room gave token that th6 party had retired for the night. The lights gleaming from window to win- dow, showed that they were conducting the Princess to her apartments, which were in the opposite wing of the inn ; and she distinctly saw the figure of the nephew as he passed one of the casements. She heaved a deep hearfc-drawn sigh, and was about to close the lattice, when her attention was caught by words spoken below her window by two persons who had just turned an angle of the building. "But what will become of the poor young lady?" said A voice, which she recognized for that of the servant- woman. "Pooh! she must take her chance," was the reply irom old Pietro. "But cannot she be spared?" asked the other, entreat- ingly; "she's so kind-hearted!" "Cospetto!^ what has got into thee?" replied the other, petulantly: "would you mar the whole business for the sake of a silly girl?" By this time they had got so far from the window that the Polonaise could hear nothing further. There was something in this fragment of con- -versation calculated to alarm. Did it relate to herself? — » An English equivalent is "Zounds." THE BELATED TRAVELLERS 327 and if so, what was this impending danger from which it was entreated that she might be spared? She was sev- eral times on the point of tapping at her father's door, to tell him what she had heard, but she might have been* mistaken ; she might have heard indistinctly ; the conver- sation might have alluded to some one else ; at any rate, it was too indefinite to lead to any conclusion. While in this state of irresolution, she was startled by a low knock against the wainscot in a remote part of her gloomy chamber. On holding up the light, she beheld a small door there, which she had not before remarked. It was bolted on the inside. She advanced, and demanded wha knocked, and was answered in a voice of the female domes- tic. On opening the door, the woman stood before it pale and agitated. She entered softly, laying her finger on her lips as in sign of caution and secrecyo *'Fly !" said she: **leave this house instantly, or you are lost!" The young lady, trembling with alarm, demanded an explanation. **I have no time," replied the woman, **I dare not — I shall be missed if I linger here — but fly instantly, or you are lost. " "And leave my father?" **Whereishe?" "In the adjoining chamber." "Call him, then, but lose no time.*' The young lady knocked at her father's door. He was not yet retired to bed. She hurried into his room, and told him of the fearful warnings she had received. The Count returned with her into the chamber, followed by Caspar. His questions soon drew the truth out of the embarrassed answers of the woman. The inn was beset by 328 TALES OF A TRAVELLER robbers. They were to be introduced after midnight, when the attendants of the Princess and the rest of the travellers were sleeping, and would be an easy prey. "But we can barricade the inn, we can defend our- selves," said the Count, **What! when the people of the inn are in league with the banditti?" ** How then are we to escape? Can we not order out the carriage and depart?" *'San Francesco! for what? to give the 'alarm that the plot is discovered? That would make the robbers des- perate, and bring them on you at once. They have had notice of the rich booty in the inn, and will not easily let it escape them." "But how else are we to get off?" "There is a horse behind the inn," said the woman, "from which the man has just dismounted who has been to summon the aid of part of the band at a distance." * ' One horse ; and there are three of us ! " said the Count. "And the Spanish Princess!" cried the daughter, anx- iously. "How can she be extricated from the danger?" "Diavolo! what is she to me?" said the woman, in sud- den passion. "It is you I come to save, and you will betray me, and we shall all be lost! Hark!" continued she, "I am called^I shall be discovered — one word more. This door leads by a staircase to the courtyard. Under the shed, in the rear of the yard, is a small door leading out to the fields. You will find a horse there ; mount it ; make a circuit under the shadow of a ridge of rocks that you will see; proceed cautiously and quietly until you cross a brook, and find yourself on the road Just where there are three white crosses nailed against a tree; then put your horse to his speed, and make the best of your THE BELATED TRAVELLERS 329 way. to the village — but recollect, my life is in youT hands —say nothing of what you have heard or seen, whatever may happen at this inn." The woman hurried away. A short and agitated con- sultation took place between the Count, his daughter, and the veteran Caspar. The young lady seemed to have lost all apprehension for herself in her solicitude for the safety of the Princess. *'To fly in selfish silence, and leave her to be massacred!" — A shuddering seized her at the very thought. The gallantry of the Count, too, revolted at the idea. He could not consent to turn his back upon a party of helpless travellers, and leave them in ignorance of the danger which hung over them. "But what is to become of the young lady," said Cas- par, "if the alarm is given, and the inn thrown in a tumult? What may happen to her in a chance-medley affray?" Here the feelings of the father were aroused ; he looked upon his lovely, helpless child, and trembled at the chance of her falling into the hands of ruffianSo The daughter, however," thought nothing of herself. **The Princess! the Princess! — only let the Princess know her dangero" She was willing to share it with her. At length Caspar interfered with the zeal of a faithful old servant. No time was to be lost — the first thing was to get the young lady out of danger, "Mount the horse," said he to the Count, "take her behind you, and fly! Make for the village, rouse the inhabitants, and send assistance. Leave me here to give the alarm to the Prin- cess and her people^ I am an old soldier, and I think we shall be able to stand siege until you send' us aid." The daughter would again have insisted on staying with the Princess-" 330 TALES OF A TRAVELLER **Por whjat?" said old Caspar, bluntly. "You could do ho good — ^you would be in the way; — we should have to take care of you instead of ourselves." • There was no answering these objections; the Count seized his pistols, and taking his daughter under his arm, moved towards the staircase. The young lady paused, stepped back, and said, faltering with agitation — *' There is a young cavalier with the Princess — her nephew — ^per- haps he may" — **I understand you. Mademoiselle," replied old Caspar, with a significant nod; "not a haJr of, his head sh^U suffer harm if I can help it. ' ' The young lady blushed deeper than ever ; she had not anticipated being so thoroughly understood by the blunt old servant. "That is not what I mean," said she, hesitating. She would have added something, or made some explanation, but the moments were precious and her father hurried her away. They found their way through the courtyard to the small postern gate where the horse stood, fastened to a ring in the wall. The Count mounted, took his daughter behind him, and they proceeded as quietly as possible in the direction which the woman had pointed out. Many a fearful and anxious look did the daughter cast back upon the gloomy pile ; the lights which had feebly twinkled through the dusky casements were one by one disappear- ing, a sign that the inmates were gradually sinking to repose; and she trembled with impatience, lest succor should not arrive until that repose had been fatally inter- rupted. They passed silently and safely along the skirts of the rocks, prrtected from observation by their overhanging THE BELATED TRAVELLERS 331 shadows. They crossed the brook, and reached the place where three white crosses nailed against a tree told of some murder that had been committed there. Just as they had reached this ill-omened spot they beheld several men in the gloom coming down a craggy defile among the rocks. **Who goes there?" exclaimed a voice. The Count put spurs to his horse, but one of the men sprang forward and seized the bridle. The horse started back, and reared j and had not the young lady clung \o her father, she^ would have been thrown off. The Count leaned forward, put a pistol to the very head of the ruffian, and fired. The latter fell dead. The horse sprang forward. Two or three shots were fired which whistled by the fugitives, but only served to augment their speed. They reached the village in safety. The whole place was soon roused; but such was the awe In which the banditti were held, that the inhabitants shrunk at the idea of encountering them. A desperate band had for some time infested that pass through the mountains, and the inn had long been suspected of being one of those horrible places where the unsuspicious way-/ farer is entrapped and silently disposed of. The rich ornaments worn by the slattern hostess of the inn had excited hea^y suspicions. Several instances had occurred of small parties of travellers disappearing mysteriously on that road, who, it was supposed at first, had been carried off by the robbers for the purpose of ransom, but who had never been heard of more. Such were the tales buzzed in the ears of the Count by the villagers, as he endeavored to rouse them to the rescue of the Princess and her train from their perilous situation. The daughter seconded the exertions of her father with all the eloquence of prayers, 332 TALES OF A TRAVELLER and tears, and beauty. Every moment that elapsed increased her anxiety until it became agonizing. For- tunately there was a body of gendarmes resting at the vil- lage. A number of the young villagers volunteered to accompany them, and the little army was put in motion. The Count having deposited his daughter in a place of safety, was too much of the old soldier not to hasten to the scene of danger. It would be difficult to paint the anxious agitation of the young lady while awaiting the result. The party arrived at tlie inn just in time. The rob- bers, finding their plans discovered, and the travellers prepared for their reception, had become open and furious in their attack. The Princess's party had barricaded themselves in one suite of apartments, and repulsed the robbers from the doors and windows. Caspar had shown the generalship of a veteran, and the nephew of the Prin- cess the dashing valor of a young soldier. Their ammu- nition, however, was nearly exhausted, and they would have found it difficult to hold oat mucb longer, when a discharge from the musketry of the gendarmes gave them the joyful tidings of succor. A fierce fight ensued, for part of the robbers were sur- prised in the inn, and had to stand siege in their turn; while their comrades made desperate attempts to relieve them from under cover of the neighboring rocks and thickets. I cannot pretend to give a minute account of the fight, as I have heard it related in a variety of ways. Suffice it to say, the robbers were defeated ; several of them killed, and several taken prisoners; which last, together with the people of the inn, were either executed or sent to the galleys. THE BELATED TRAVELLERS 333 I picked up these particulars in tlie course of a journey which I made some time after the event had taken place. I passed "by the very inn. It was then dismantled, except- ing one wing, in which a body of gendarmes was stationed. They pointed out to me the shot-holes in the window- frames, the walls, and the panels of the. doors. There were a number of withered limbs dangling from thf branches of a neighboring tree, and blackening in the air, which I was told were the limbs of the robbers who had been slain, and the culprits who had been executed. The whole place had a dismal, wild, forlorn look. **Were any of the Princess's party killed?" inquired tht Englishman. *'As far as I can recollect, there were two or three.'* "Not the nephew, I trust?" said the fair Venetian. **0h no: he hastened with the Count to relieve th& anxiety of the daughter by the assurances of victory. The young lady had been sustained through the interval of suspense by the very intensity of her feelings. The moment she saw her father returning in safety, accom- panied by the nephew of the Princess, she uttered a cry of rapture, and fainted. Happily, however, she soon recovered, and what is more, was married shortly after- wards to the young cavalier; and the whole party accom- panied the old Princess in her pilgrimage to Loretto, where her votive offerings may still be seen in the treasury of the Santa Casa." It would be tedious to follow the devious course of the conversation as it wound through a maze of stories of the kind, until it was taken up by two other travellers who had come under the convoy of the procaccio : Mr. Hobbs and Mr, Dobbs, a linen-draper and a green-grocer, just 334 TALES OF A TRAVELLER returning from a hasty tour in Greece and the Holy Land They were full of the story of Alderman Popkins. They were astonished that the robbers should dare to molest a man of his importance on 'Change, he being an eminent dry-salter of Throgmorton Street, and a magistrate to boot. In fact, the story of the Popkins family was but too true. It was attested by too many present to be for a moment doubted; and from the contradictory and con- cordant testimony of half a score, all eager to relate it, and all talking at the same time, the Englishman was enabled to gather the following particulars. ADVENTURE OF THE POPKINS FAMILY « It was but a few davs before, that the carriage of Alder- man Popkins had driven up to the inn of Terracina. Ttose who have seen an English family-carriage on the Continent must have remarked the sensation it produces. It is an epitome of England ; a little morsel of the old Island rolling about the world. Everything about it com- pact, snug, finished, and fitting. The wheels turning on patent axles without ratthng ; the body, hanging so well on its springs, yielding to every motion, yet protecting from every shock ; the ruddy faces gaping from the win- dows, — sometimes of a portly old citizen, sometimes of a voluminous dowager, and sometimes of a fine fresh hoyden just from boarding-school. And then the dickeys loaded with well-dressed servants, beef-fed and bluff; looking down from their heights with contempt on all the world around ; profoundly ignorant of the country and the peo- ple, and devoutly certain that everything not English must be wrong. ADVENTURE OF THE POPKINS P ^ MILY 335 Such was the carriage of Alderman Popkins as it made its appearance at Terracina. The courier who had pre- ceded it to order horses, and who was a Neapolitan, had given a magnificent account of the richness and greatness of his master; blundering with an Italian's splendor of imagination about the Alderman's titles and dignities. The host had added his usual share of exaggeration; so that by the time the Alderman drove up to the door, he was a Milor — Magnifico — Principe — the Lord knows what! The Alderman was advised to take an escort to Fondi and Itri, but he refused. It was as much as a man's life was worth, he said, to stop him on the king's highway: he would complain of it to the ambassador at Naples ; he would made a national affair of it. The Principessa Pop- kins,-a fresh, motherly dame, seemed perfectly secure in the protection of her husband, so omnipotent a man in the city. The Signorines Popkins, two fine bouncing girls, looked to their brother Tom, who had taken lessons in boxing; and as to the dandy himself, he swore no scaramouch of an Italian robber would dare meddle with an Englishman. The landlord shrugged his shoulders, and turned out the palms of his hands with a true Italian grimace, and the carriage of Milor Popkins rolled on. They passed through several very suspicious places without any molestation. The Misses Popkins, who were very romantic,* and had learnt to draw in water-colors, were enchanted with the savage scenery around ; it was so like what they had read in Mrs. Eadcliffe *s romances ; they should like, of all things, to make sketchesSo At length the carriage arrived at a place where the road wound up a long hill. Mrs. Popkins had sunk into a sleep; the young > Define the term as used here. Mrs. Radcliffe's Mystirlea of Udolpho appeared in 1794; her various other romances appeared iip to the time of her death in 1823. 336 TALES OF A TRAVELLER ladies were lost in the "Loves of the Angels";^ and the dandy was hectoring the postilions from the coach-box. The Alderman got out, as he said, to stretch his legs up the hill. It was a long, winding ascent, and obliged him every now and then to stop and blow and wipe his fore- head, with many a pish! and phew! being rather pursy and short of wind. As the carriage, however, was far behind him, and moved slowly under the weight of so many well-stuffed trunks, and well-stuffed travellers, he had plenty of time to walk at leisure. On a jutting point of a rock that overhung the road, nearly at the summit of the hill, just where the road began again to descend, he saw a solitary man seated, who appeared to be tending goats. Alderman Popkins was one of your shrewd travellers who always like to be pick- ing up small information along the road; so he thought he'd just scramble up to the honest man, and have a little talk with him by way of learning the news and getting a lesson in Italian. As he drew near to the peasant, he did not half like his looks. He was partly reclining on the rocks, wrapped in the usual long mantle, which, with his slouched hat, only left a part of a swarthy visage, with a keen black eye, a beetle brow, and a fierce moustache to be seen. He had whistled several times to his dog, which was roving about the side of the hill. As the Alderman approached, he arose and greeted him. When standing erect, he seemed almost gigantic, at least in the eyes of Alderman Popkins, who, however, being 'a short man, might be deceived. The latter would gladly now have been back in the car- riage, or even on 'Change in London; for he was by no 1 A sly hit at Irving's friend Thomas Moore, who was the author of this poem. The poem appeared just at the time Irving was writing the stories of the Tales of a Traveller. ADVENTURE OF THE POPKINS FAMILY 337 means well pleased with his company. However, he determined to put the best face on matters, and was beginning a conversation about the state of the weather, the baddishness of the crops, and the price of goats in that part of the country, when he heard a violent screaming. He ran to the edge of the rock, and looking over, beheld his carriage surrounded by robbers. One held down the fat footman, another had the dandy by his starched cra- vat, with a pistol to his head; one was rummaging a port- manteau, another rummaging the Principessa's pockets; while the two Misses Popkins were screaming from each window of the carriage, and their waiting-maid squalling from the dickey. Alderman Popkins felt all the ire of the parent and the magistrate roused within him. He grasped his cane, and was on the point of scrambling down the rocks either to assault the robbers or to read the riot act, when he was suddenly seized by the arm. It was by his friend the goatherd, whose cloak falling open, discovered a belt stuck full of pistols and stilettos. In short, he found himself in the clutches of the captain of the band, who had stationed himself on the rock to look out for travel- lers and to give notice to his men. A sad ransacking took place. Trunks were turned inside out, and all the finery.and frippery of the Popkins family scattered about the road. Such a chaos of Venice beads and Roman mosaics, and Paris bonnets of the young ladies, mingled with tlje Alderman's nightcaps and !ambs'-wool stockings and the dandy's hair-brushes, stays, and starched cravats. The gentlemen were eased of their purses and theii watches, the ladies of their Jewels; and the whole party were on the point of being carried up into the mountain, 338 TALES OF A TRAVELLER when fortunately the appearance of soldiers at a distance obliged the robbers to make off with the spoils they had secured, and leave the Popkins family to gather together the remnants of their effects, and make the best of their way to Fondi. When safe arrived, the Alderman made a terrible blus- tering at the inn ; threatened to complain to the ambassa- dor at Napl^, and was ready to shake his cane at the whole country. The dandy had many stories to tell of his scuffles with the brigands, who overpowered him merely by numbers. As to the Misses Popkins, they were quite delighted with the adventure, and were occupied the whole evening in writing it in their journals. They declared the captain of the band to be a most romantic- looking man, they dared to say some unfortunate lover or exiled nobleman ; and several of the band to be very hand- some young men — ' ' quite picturesque ! " ''In verity," said mine host of Terracina, ''they say the captain of the band is un galant uomo. ' ' "A gallant man!" said the Englishman, indignantly. " I 'd have your gallant man hanged like a dog ! ' ' "To dare to meddle mth Englishmen!" said Mr. Hobbs. ' ' And such a f aniily as the Popkinses ! ' ' said Mr. Dobbs. ' ' They ought to come upon the country for damages ! ' ' said Mr. Hobbs. ' ' Our ambassador should make a complaint to the gov- ernment of Naples, ' ' said Mr. Dobbs. ' ' They should be obliged to drive these rascals out of the country, ' ' said Hobbs. "And if they did not, we should declare war against them," said Dobbs. "Pish! — ^humbug!" muttered the Englishman to him- self, and walked away. ADVENTURE OF THE POPKINS FAMILY 339 The Englishman had been a little wearied by this story, and by the ultra zeal of his countrymen, and was glad when a summons to their supper relieved him from the crowd of travellers. He walked out with his Venetian friends and a young Frenchman of an interesting demeanor, who had become sociable with them in the course of the conversation. They directed {heir steps towards the sea, which was lit up by the rising moon. As they strolled along the beach they came to where a party of soldiers were stationed in a circle. They were guarding a number of galley slaves, who were permitted to refresh themselves in the evening breeze, and sport and roll upon the sand. The Frenchman paused, and pointed to the group of wretches at their sports. **It is difficult," said he, **to conceive a more frightful mass of crime than is here col- lected. Many of these have probably been robbers, such as you have heard described. Such is, too often, the career of crime in this country. The parricide, the frat- ricide, the infanticide, the miscreant of every kind, first flies from justice and turns mountain bandit; and then, when wearied of a life of danger, becomes traitor to his brother desperadoes; betrays them to punishment, and thus buys a commutation of his own sentence from death to the galleys; happy in the privilege of wallowing on the shore an hour a day, in this mere state of animal enjoy- ment. ' ' The fair Venetian shuddered as she cast a look at the horde of wretches at their evening amusement. *'They seemed," she said, "like so many serpents writhing together." And yet the idea that some of them had been robbers, those formidable beings that haunted her imag- ination, made her still cast another fearful glance, as we 340 TALES OF A TRAVELLER 4 contemplate some terrible beast of prey, with a degree of awe and horror, even though caged and chained. The conversation reverted to the tales of banditti which they had heard at the inn. The Englishman condemned some of them as fabrications, others as exaggerationSo As to the story of the improvisatore, he pronounced it a mere piece of romance, originating in the heated brain of the narrator. "And yet," said the Frenchman, "there is so much romance about the real life of those beings, and about the singular country they infest, that it is hard to tell what to reject on the ground of improbabilityo I have had an adventure happen to myself which gave me an opportunity of getting some insight into their manners and habits, which I found altogether out of the common run of exist- ence." There was an air of mingled frankness and modesty about the Frenchman which had gained the good will of the whole party, not even excepting the Englishman. They all eagerly inquired after the particulars of the circumstances he alluded to, and as they strolled slowly up and down the sea-shore, he related the following adven- ture. THE PAINTER'S ADVENTURE I am an historical painter by profession, and resided for some time in the family of a foreign Prince at his villa, about fifteen miles from Rome, among some of the most interesting scenery of Italy. It is situated on the heights of ancient Tusculum. In its neighborhood are the ruins of the villas of Cicero, Sylla, Lucullus, Rufinus, and other illustrious Romans, who sought refuge here occasionally THE PAINTER'S ADVENTURE 341 from their toils, in the bosom of a soft and luxurious repose. From the midst of delightful bowers, refreshed by the pure mountain breeze, the eye looks over a roman- tic landscape full of poetical and historical associations. The Albanian Mountains; Tivoli, once the favorite resi- dence of Horace and Maecenas; the vast, deserted, melan- choly Campagna, with the Tiber winding through it, and St. Peter's dome swelling in the midst, the monument, as it were, over the grave of ancient Rome. I assisted the Prince in researches which he was making among the classic ruins of his vicinity: his exertions were highly successful. Many wrecks of admirable statues and fragments of exquisite sculpture were dug up; monu- ments of the taste and magnificence that reigned in the ancient Tusculan abodes. He had studded his villa and its grounds with statues, relievos, vases, and sarcophagi, thus retrieved from the bosom of the earth. The mode of life pursued at the villa was delightfully serene, diversified by interesting occupations and elegant leisure. Every one passed the day according to his pleas- ure or pursuits; and we all assembled in a cheerful din- ner-party at sunset. It was on the fourth of November, a beautiful serene day, that we had assembled in the saloon ak the sound of the first dinner-bell. The family were surprised at the absence of the Prince's confessor. They waited for him in vain, and at length placed themselves at table. They at first attributed his absence to his having prolonged his customary walk ; and the early part of the dinner passed without any uneasiness. When the dessert was served, however, without his making his appearance, they began to feel anxious. They feared he might have been taken ill in some alley of the woods, or might have fallen into the 342 TALES OF A TRAVELLER hands of robbers. Not far from the villa, with the inter- val of a small valley, rose the mountains of the Abruzzi, the strong-hold of bandittic Indeed, the neighborhood had for some time past been infested by them ; and Bar- bone, a notorious bandit chief, had often been met prowling about the solitudes of Tusculum. The daring enterprises of these ruffians were well known: the objects of their cupidity or vengeance were insecure even in palaces. As yet they had respected the possessions of the Prince ; but the idea of such dangerous spirits hovering about the neighborhood was sufficient to occasion alarm. The fears of the company increased as evening closed in. The Prince ordered out forest guards and domestics with flambeaux to search for the confessoro They had not departed long when a slight noise was heard in the corri- dor of the ground-floor. The family were dining on the first floor, and the remaining domestics were occupied in attendance. There was no one on the ground-floor at this moment but the housekeeper, the laundress, and three field-laborers, who were resting themselves, and conversing with the women. I heard the noise from below, and presuming it to be occasioned by the return of the absentee, I left the table and hastened down-stairs, eager to gain intelligence that might relieve the anxiety of the Prince and Princess. I had scarcely reached the last step, when I beheld before me a man dressed as a bandit; a carbine in his hand, and a stiletto and pistols in his belt. His countenance had a mingled expression of ferocity and trepidation : he sprang upon me, and exclaimed exultingly, *'Ecco il principe!" I saw at once into what hands I had fallen, but endeav-. ored to summon up coolness and presence of mind. A glance towards the lower end of the corridor showed me THE PAINTER'S ADVENTURE 343 several rufiBans, clothed and armed in the same manner with the one who had seized me. They were guarding the two females and the field-lahorers. The robber, who held me firmly by the collar, demanded repeatedly whether or not I were the Prince: his object evidently was to carry off the Prince, and extort an immense ransom. He was enraged at receiving none but vague replies, for I felt the importance of misleading him. A sudden thought struck me how I might extricate myself from his clutches. I was unarmed, it is true, but I was vigorous. His companions were at a distance. By a sudden exertion I might wrest myself from him, and spring up the staircase, whither he would not dare to fol- low me singly. The idea was put into practice as soon as conceived. The ruffian's throat was bare ; with my right hand I seized him by it, with my left hand I grasped the arm which held the carbine. The suddenness of my attack took him completely unawares, and the strangling nature of my grasp paralyzed him. He choked and faltered. I felt his hand relaxing its hold, and was on the point of jerking myself away, and darting up the stair- case, before he could recover himself, when I was suddenly seized bv some one from behind. I had to let go my grasp. The bandit, once released, fell upon me with fury, and gave me several blows with the butt end of his carbine, one of which wounded me severely in the forehead and covered me with blood. He took advantage of my being stunned to rifle me of my watch, and whatever valuables I had about my person. When I recovered from the effect of the blow, I heard the voice of the chief of the banditti, who exclaimed — ** Quelle e il principe; siamo content e; andiamo!" (It is the Prince; enough; let us be off.) The band immS' 344 TALES OF A TRAVELLER diately closed around me and dragged me out of the paV ace, bearing o£E the three laborers likewise. I had no hat on, and the blood flowed from my wound ; I managed to stanch it, however, with my pocket-hand- kerchief, which I bound round my forehead. The captain of the band conducted me in triumph, supposing me to be the Prince. We had gone some distance before he learnt his mistake from one of the laborers. His rage was terrible. It was too late to return to the villa and endeavor to retrieve his error, for by this time the alarm must have been given, and every one in arms. He darted at me a ferocious look,^ — swore I had deceived him, and caused him to miss his fortune,— and told me to prepare for death. The rest of the robbers were equally furious, I saw their hands upon their poniards, and I knew that death was seldom an empty threat with these ruffianSc The laborers saw the peril into which their information had betrayed me, and eagerly assured the captain that I was a man for whom the Prince would pay a great ransom» This produced a pause. Por my part, I cannot say that I had been much dismayed by their menaces. I mean not to make any boast of courage ; but I have been so schooled to hardship during the late revolutions, and have beheld death around me in so many perilous and disastrous sceneSj that I have become in some measure callous to its terrors. The frequent hazard of life makes a man at length as reckless of it as a gambler of his money. To their threat of death, I replied, **that the sooner it was executed the better.'^ This reply seemed to astonish the captain; and the prospect of ransom held out by the laborers had, no doubt, a still greater effect on him. He considered for a moment, assumed a calmer manner, and made a sign to his companions, who had remained waiting for my death- THE PAINTER S ADVENTURE 345 warrant, **rorward!'* said he; * 'we will see about this matter by and by!" We descended rapidly towards the road of La Molara, which leads to Rocca Priore. In the midst of this road is a solitary inn. The captain ordered the troop to halt at the distance of a pistol-shot from it, and enjoined pro- found silence. He approached the threshold alone, with noiseless steps. He examined the outside of the door very narrowly, and then returning precipitately, made a sign for the troop to continue its march in silence. It has since been ascertained, that this was one of those infamous inns which are the secret resorts of banditti. The innkeeper had an understanding with the captain, as he most probably had with the chiefs of the different bands. Wb n any of the patroles and gendarmes were quartered at his house, the brigands were warned of it by a preconcerted signal on the door; when there was no such signal, they might enter with safety, and be sure of welcome. After pursuing our road a little further, we struck off towards the woody mountains which envelop Rocca Priore Our march was long and painful ; with many circuits and windings; at length we clambered a steep ascent, covered with a thick forest ; and when we had reached the centre, I was told to seat myself on the ground. No sooner had I done so, than, at a sign from their chief, the robbers surrounded me, and spreading their great cloaks from one to the other, formed a kind of pavilion of man- tles, to which their bodies might be said to serve as col- umns. The captain then struck a light, and a flambeau was lit immediately. The mantles were extended to pre- vent the light of the flambeau from being seen through the forest. Anxious as was mv situation, I could not look 346 TALES OF A TRAVELLER round upon this screen of dusky drapery, relieved by the bright colors of the robbers' garments, the gleaming of their weapons, and the variety of strong marked counten- ances, lit up by the flambeau, without admiring the pic- turesque effect of the scene. It was quite theatrical. The captain now held an inkhorn, and giving me pen and paper, ordered me to write what he should dictate, I obeyed. It was a demand, couched in the style of rob- ber eloquence, **that the Prince should send three thou- sand dollars for my ransom ; or that my death should be the consequence of a refusal." I knew enough of the desperate character of these beings to feel assured this was not an idle menace. Their only mode of insuring attention to their demands is to make the infliction of the penalty inevitablCo I saw at once, however, that the demand was preposterous, and made in improper language. I told the captain so, and assured him that so extrava- gant a sum would never be granted. — **That I was neither a friend nor relative of the Prince, but a mere artist, employed to execute certain paintings. That I had noth- ing to offer as a ransom, but the price of my labors ; if this were not sufficient, my life was at their disposal ; it was a thing on which I set but little value." I was the more hardy in my reply, because I saw that coolness and hardihood had an effect upon the rob- bers. It is true, as I finished speaking, the captain laid his hand upon his stiletto ; but he restrained himself, and snatching the letter, folded it, and ordered me, in a per- emptory tone, to address it to the Prince. He then dis- patched one of the laborers with it to Tusculum, who promised to return with all possible speed. The robbers now prepared themselves for sleep, and 1 THE PAINTER'S ADVENTURE 347 was told that I might do the same. They spread theit great cloaks on the ground, and lay down around me. One was stationed at a little distance to keep watch, and was relieved every two hours. The strangeness and wild- ness of this mountain bivouac among lawless beings, whose hands seemed ever ready to grasp the stiletto, and with whom life was so trivial and insecure, was enough to ban- ish repose. The coldness of the earth, and of the dew, however, had a still greater effect than mental causes in disturbing my rest. The airs wafted to these mountains from the distant Mediterranean diffused a great chilliness as the night advanced. An expedient suggested itself. I called one of my fellow-prisoners, the laborers, and made him lie down beside me. Whenever one of my limbs became chilled, I approached it to the robust limb of my neighbor, and borrowed some of his warmth. In this way I was able to obtain a little sleep. Day at length dawned, and I w^s roused from my slum- ber by the voice of the chieftain. He desired me to rise and follow him. I obeyed. On considering his physiog- nomy attentively, it appeared a little softened. He even assisted me in scrambling up the steep forest, among rocks and brambles. Habit had made him a vigorous moun- taineer; but I found it excessively toilsome to climb these rugged heights. We arrived at length at the summit of the mountain. Here it was that I felt all the enthusiasm of my art sud- denly awakened; aud I forgot in an instant all my perils and fatigues at this magnificent view of the sunrise in the midst of the mountains of the Abruzzi. It was on these heights that Hannibal first pitched his camp, and pointed out Rome to his followers. The eye embraces a vast extent of country. The minor height of Tusculum, with 348 TALES OF A TRAVELLER its villas and its sacred ruins, lie below; the Sabine Hill and the Albanian Mountains stretch on either hand; and beyond Tu senium and Frascati spreads out the immense Campagna, with its lines of tombs, and here and there a broken aqueduct stretching across it, and the towers and domes of the eternal city in the midst. Fancy this scene lit up by the glories of a rising sun, and bursting upon my sight as I looked forth from among the majestic forests of the Abruzzi. Fancy, too, the sav- age foreground, made still more savage by groups of ban- ditti, armed and dressed in their wild picturesque manner, and you will not wonder that the enthusiasm of a painter for a moment overpowered all his other feelings. Th« banditti were astonished at my admiration of a scene which familiarity had made so common in their eyes. I took advantage of their halting at this spot, drew forth a quire of drawing-paper, and began to sketch the features of the landscape. The height on which I was seated was wild and solitary, separated from the ridge of Tusculum by a valley nearly three miles wide, though the distance appeared less from the purity of the atmosphere. This height was one of the favorite retreats of the ban- ditti, commanding a look-out over the country; while at th6 same time it was covered with forests, and distant from the populous haunts of men. While I was sketching, my attention was called off for a moment by the cries of birds, and the bleatings of sheep. I looked around, but could see nothing of the animals which uttered them. They were repeated, and appeared to come from the summits of the trees. On looking more narrowly, I perceived six of the robbers perched in the tops of oaks, which grew on the breezy crest of the moun- tain, and commanded an uninterrupted prospect„ They THE PAINTER'S ADVENTURE 341> were keeping a look-out like so many vultures ; castinjc. their eyes into the depths of the valley below us com- municating with each other by signs, or holding dis- course in sounds which might be mistaken by the wayfarer for the cries of hawks and crows, or the bleating of the mountain flocks. After they had reconnoitred the neigh- borhood, and finished their singular discourse, they descended from their airy perch, and returned to their prisoners. The captain posted three of them at three naked sides of the mountain, while he remained to guard us with what appeared his most trusty companion^ I had my book of sketches in my hand; he requested to see it, and after having run his eye over it, expressed him- self convinced of the truth of my assertion that I was a painter„ I thought I saw a gleam of good feeling dawn- ing in him, and determined to avail myself of it. I knew that the worst of men have their good points and their accessible sides, if one would but study them carefully. Indeed, there is a singular mixture in the character of the Italian robber. With reckless ferocity he often min- gles traits o| kindness and good-humor. He is not always radically bad; but driven to his course of life by some unpremeditated crime, the effect of those sudden bursts of passion to which the Italian temperament is prone. This has compelled him to take to the mountains, or, as it is technically termed among them, *'andare in cam- pagna." He has become a robber by profession; but, like a Soldier, when not in action he can lay aside his weapon and his fierceness, and become like other men. I took occasion, from the observations of the captain on my sketchings, to fall into conversation with him, and found him sociable and communicative. By degrees I oecame completely at my ease with him. I had fancied 350 TALES OF A TRAVELLER 1 perceived about him a degree of self-love, which. I deter- mined to make use of. I assumed an air of careless frank- ness, and told him, that, as an artist, I pretended to the power of judging of the physiognomy; that I thoaght I perceived something in his features and demeanor which announced him worthy of higher fortunes; that he was not formed to exercise the profession to which he had abandoned himself; that he had talents and qualities fitted for a nobler sphere of action ; that he had but to change his course of life, and, in a legitimate career, the same courage and endowments which now made him an object of terror, would assure him the applause and admiration of society. I had not mistaken my man; my discourse both touched and excited him. He seized my hand, pressed it, and replied with strong emotion, "You have guessed the truth; you have judged of me rightly.'* He remained for a moment silent ; then, with a kind of effort, he resumed, — "I will tell you some particulars of my life,* and you will perceive that it was the oppression of others, rather than my own crimes, which drove me to the mountains. I sought to serve my fellow-men, and they have perse- cuted me from among them." We seated ourselves on the grass, and the robber gave me the following anecdotes of his history. THE STOEY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN I am a native of the village of Prossedi. My father was easy enough in circumstances, and we lived peaceably »Is the transition skillfully made? Note that in this group, as In the first group or stories in the volume, there is a defixiite growth in seriousness *rom the lirst tale on. THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTa IN 351 and independently, cultivating our fields. All went ou well with us, until a new chief of the Sbirri ^ was sent to our village to take the command of the police. He was an arbitrary fellow, prying into everything, and practising all sorts of vexations and oppressions in the discharge of his office. 1 was at that time eighteen years of age, and had a natural love of justice and good neighborhood. 1 had also a little education, and knew something of his- tory, so as to be able to judge a little of men and their actions. All this inspired me with hatred for this paltry despot. My own family, also, became the object of his suspicion or dislike, and felt more than once the arbitrary abuse of his power. These things worked together in my mind, and I gasped after vengeance. My character was always ardent and energetic, and, acted upon by the love of justice, determined me, by one blow, to rid the country of the tyrant. Full of my project, I rose one morning before peep of day, and concealing a stiletto under my waistcoat,- — ^here you see it ! — (and he drew forth a long, keen poniard,) I lay in wait for him in the outskirts of the village. I knew all his haunts, and his habit of making his rounds and prowling about like a wolf in the gray of the morning. At length I met him, and attacked him with fury. He was armed, but I took him unawares, and was full of youth and vigor. I gave him repeated blows to make sure work, and laid him lifeless at my feet. When I was satisfied that I had done for him, I returned with all haste to the village, but had the ill luck to meet two of the Sbirri as I entered it. They accosted me, and asked if 1 had seen their chief. I assumed an air of tran- quillity, and told them I had not. They continued on I Constables. 355;! TALES OF A TRAVELLJbiK their way, and within a few hours brought, back the dead body to Prossedi. Their suspicions of me being already awakened, I was arrested and thrown into prison. Here I lay several weeks, when the Prince, who was Seigneur of Prossedi, directed judicial proceedings against me. 1 was brought to trial, and a witness was produced, who pretended to have seen me flying with precipitation not far from the bleeding body ; and so I was condemned to the galleys for thirty years. "Curse on such laws!" vociferated the bandit, foaming with rage: ** Curse on such a government! and ten thou- sand curses on the Prince who caused me to be adjudged so rigorously, while so many other Eoman Princes harbor and protect assassins a thousand times more culpable 1 What had I done but what was inspii'^d by a love of jus- tice and my country? Why was my act more culpable than that of Brutus, when he sacrificed Caesar to thy cause of liberty and justice?" There was something at once both lofty and ludicrous in the rhapsody of this robber chief, thus associating him- self with one of the great names of antiquity. It showed, however, that he had at least the merit of knowing the remarkable facts in the history of his country. Ho became more calm, and resumed his narrative. **I was conducted to Civita Vecchia in fetters. My heart was burning with rage. I had been married scarce six months to a woman whom I passionately loved, and who was pregnant. My family was in despair. For a long time I made unsuccessful efforts to break my chain. At length I found a morsel of iron, which I hid carefully, and endeavored, with a pointed flint, to fashion it into a kind of file. I occupied myself in this work during the night time, and when it was finished, I made out, after a THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN 353 long time, to sever one of the rings of my chain. My flight was successful. "I wandered for several weeks in the mountains which surround Prossedi, and found means to inform my wife of the place where I was concealed. She came often to see me. I had determined to put myself at the head of an armed band. She endeavored, for a long time, to dis- suade me, but finding my resolution fixed, she at length united in my project of vengeance, and brought me, her- self, my poniard. By her means I communicated with several brave fellows of the neighboring villages, whom I knew to be ready to take to the mountains, and only pant- ing for an opportunity to exercise their daring spirits. We soon formed a combination, procured arms, and we have had ample opportunities of revenging c^urselves for the \vrongs and injuries which most of us have suffered. Everything has succeeded with us until now; and had it not been for our blunder in mistaking you for the Prince, our fortunes would have been made." Here the robber concluded his story. He had talked himself into complete companionship, and assured me he no longer bore me any grudge for the error of which I had been the innocent cause. He even f)rofessed a kind- ness for me, and wished me to remain some time with them. He promised to give me a sight of certain grottos which they occupied beyond Velletri, and whither they resorted during the intervals of their expeditions. He assured me that they led a jovial life there; had" plenty of good cheer ; slept on beds of moss; and were waited upon by young and beautiful females, whom 1 might take for models. I confess I felt my curiosity roused by his descriptions of the grottos and their inhabitants : they realized those 354 TAi^ES OF A TRAVELLER scenes in robber story which I had always looked upon ae mere creations of the fancy. I should gladly have accep- ted his invitation, and paid a visit to these caverns, could J have felt more secure in my company. I began to find my situation less painful. I had evi- dently propitiated the good-will of the chieftain, and hoped that he might release me for a moderate ransom. A new alarm, however, awaited me. While the captain was looking out with impatience for the return of the messenger, who had been sent to the Prince, the sentinel posted on the side of the mountain facing the plain of La Molara came running towards us. "We are betrayed!" -exclaimed he. *'The polipe of Frascati are after us» A party of carabineers have just stopped at the inn below the mountain." Then, laying his hand on his stiletto, he swore, with a terrible oath, that if they made the least miovement towards the mountain, my life and the lives of my fellow-prisoners should answer for it. The chieftain resumed all his ferocity of demeanor, and approved of what his companion said; but when the latter had returned to his post, he turned to me with a softened air: "I must act as chief," said he, **and humor my dangerous subalterns. It is a law with us to kill our prisoners rather than suffer them to be rescued ; but do not be alarmed. In case we are surprised, keep by me; fly with us, and I will consider myself responsible for your life." There was nothing very consolatory in this arrangement, which would have placed me between two dangers. I scarcely knew, in case of flight, from which I should have the most to apprehend, the carbines of the pursuers, or the stilettos of the pursued. I remained silent, however, and endeavored to maintain a look of tranquillity. THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN 355 For an hour was I kept in this state of peril and anxiety. The robbers, crouching among their leafy coverts, kept an eagle watch upon the carabineers below, as they loitered about the inn; sometimes lolling about the portal; some- times disappearing for several minutes ; then sallying out, examining their weapons, pointing in different directions,, and apparently asking questions about the neighborhood. Not a movement, a gesture, was lost upon the keen eyes of the brigands. At length we were relieved from our apprehensions. The carabineers having finished their refreshment, seized their arms, continued along the valley towards the great road, and gradually left the mountain behind them. *'I felt almost certain," said the chief, **that they could not be sent after us. They know too well how prisoners have fared in our hands on similar occasions. Our laws in this respect are inflexible, and are necessary for our safety. If we once flinched from them, there would no longer be such a thing as a ransom to be procured." There were no signs yet of the messenger's return. I was preparing to resume my sketching, when the captain drew a quire of paper from his knapsack. "Come," said he, laughing, **you are a painter, — take my likeness. The leaves of your portfolio are small, — draw it on this." I gladly consented, for it was a study that seldom presents itself to a painter. I recollected that Salvator Eosa ^ in his youth had voluntarily sojourned for a time among the banditti of Calabria, and had filled his mind with the savage scenery and savage associates by which he was sur- rounded. I seized my pencil with enthusiasm at the , thought. I found the captain the most docile of subjects. 1 An early Italian painter. Note the comment on p. 101. 356 TALES OF A TRAVELLER and, after various shiftings of position, placed him in an attitude to my mind. Picture to yourself a stern muscular figure, in fanciful bandit costume; with pistols and poniard in belt; his brawny neck bare ; a handkerchief loosely thrown around it, and the two ends in front strung with rings of all kinds, the spoils of travellers; relics and medals hanging on his breast; his hat decorated with various colored rib- bons ; his vest and short breeches of bright colors, and finely embroidered , his legs in buskins or leggins. Fancy him on a mountain height, among wild rocks and rugged oaks, leaning on his carbine, as if meditating some exploit; while far below are beheld villages and villas, the scenes of his maraudings, with the wide Oampagna dimly extending in the distance.^ The robber was pleased with the sketch, and seemed to admire himself upon paper. I had scarcely finished, when the laborer arrived who had been sent for my ran- som. He had reached Tusculum two hours after mid- nighto He had brought me a letter from the Prince, who was in bed at the time of his arrival. As I had predicted, he treated the demand as extravagant, but offered five hundred dollars for my ransom. Having no money by him at the moment, he had sent a note for the amount, payable to whomsoever should conduct me safe and sound to Rome, I presented the note of hand to the chieftain ; he received it with a shrug. "Of what use are notes of hand to us?" said he. "Who can we send with you to Kome to receive it? We are all marked men ; known and described at every gate, and military post, and village church-door. No; we must have gold and silver; let the sum be paid in cash, and you shall be restored to liberty," The captain again placed a sheet of paper before me to THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN 357 communicate his determination to the Prince. When I had finished the letter, and took the sheet from the quire, I found on the opposite side of it the portrait which I had just been tracing, I was about to tear it off and give it to the chief. "Hold!" said he, "let it go to Rome; let them see what kind of a looking fellow I am. Perhaps the Prince and his friends may form as good an opinion of me from my face as you have done." This was. said sportively, yet it was evident there was vanity lurking at the bottom. Even this wary, distrustful chief of banditti forgot for a moment his usual foresight and precaution, in the common wish to be admired. He never reflected what use might be made of this portrait in his pursuit and conviction. The letter was folded and directed, and the messenger departed again for Tusculum. It was now eleven o'clock in the morning, and as yet we had eaten nothing. In spite of all my anxiety, I began to feel a craving appetite., I was glad therefore to hear the captain talk something about eating. He observed that for three days and nights they had been lurking about among rocks and woods, meditating their expedition to Tusculum, during which time all their provisions had been exhausted. He should now take measures to procure a supply. Leaving me, therefore, in charge of his comrade, in whom he appeared to have implicit confidence, he departed, assur- ing me that in less than two hours I should make a good dinner. Where it as to come from was an enigma to me, though it was evident these beings had their secret friends and agents throughout the country, Indee^i the inhabitants of these mountains, and of the valley.s' which they embosom, are a rude, half -civilized 358 TALES OF A TRAVELLER set. The towns and villages among the forests of the Abruzzi, shut up from the rest of the world, are almost like savage dens. It is wonderful that such rude abodes, so little known and visited, should be embosomed in the midst of one of the most travelled and civilized countries of Europe. Among these regions the robber prowls unmolested; not a mountaineer hesitates l:o give him secret harbor and assistance. The shepherds, however, who tend their flocks among the mountains, are the favorite emissaries of the robbers, when they would send messages dowii to the valleys either for ransom or supplies. The shepherds of the Abruzzi are as wild as the scenes they frequent. They are clad in a rude garb of black or brown sheepskin; they have high conical hats, and coarse sandals of cloth bound around their legs with thongs, similar to those worn by the robbers. They carry long staves, on which, as they lean, they form picturesque objects in the lonely landscape, and they are followed by their ever-constant companion, the dog. They are a cur- ious, questioning set, glad at any time to relieve the monotony of their solitude by the conversation of the passer-by ; and the dog will lend an attentive ear, and put on as sagacious and inquisitive a look as his master. But I am wandering from my story. I was now left alone with one of the robbers, the confidential companion of the chief. He was the youngest and most vigorous of the band ; and though his countenance had something of tt^t dissolute fierceness which seems natural to this desperate, lawless mode of life, yet there were traces of manly beauty about it. As an artist I could not but admire it, I had remarked in him an air of abstraction and reverie, and at times a movement of inward suffer- ing and impatience. He now sat on the ground, his THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN 359 elbows on his knees, his head resting between his clenched fists, and his eyes fixed on the earth with an expression of sadness and bitter rumination. I had grown familiar with him from repeated conversations, and had found him superior in mind to the rest of the band. I was anxious to seize any opportunity of sounding the feelings of these singular beings. 1 fancied I read in the countenance of this one traces of self-condemnation and remorse; and the ease with which I had drawn forth the confidence of the chieftain, encouraged me to hope the same with his follower. After a little preliminary conversation, I ventured to ask him if he did not feel regret at having abandoned his family, and taken to this dangerous profession. **I feel,'* replied he, *'but one regret, and that will end only with my life." As he said this, he pressed his clenched fists upon his bosom, drew his breath through his set teeth^ and added^ with a deep emotion, '*Ihave something within here that stifles me; it is like a burning iron consuming my very heart. I could teJl you a miserable story — but not now — another time.'' He relapsed into* his former position, and sat with his head between his hands, muttering to himself in broken ejaculations, and what appeared at times to be curses and maledictions. I saw he was not in a mood to be disturbed, so I left him to himself. In a little while the exhaustion of his feelings, and probably the fatigues he had under- gone in this expedition, began to produce drowsiness. He struggled with it for a time, but the warmth and stillness of mid-day made it irresistible, and he at length stretched himself upon the herbage and fell asleep. I now beheld a chance of escape within my reach. My 360 TALES OF A TRAVELLER gnard lay before me at my mercy. His vigorous limbs relaxed by sleep — his bosom open for the blow — his car- bine slipped from his nerveless grasp, and lying by his side — his stiletto half out of the pocket in which it was usually carriedo Two only of his comrades were in sight, and those at a considerable distance on the edge of the mountain, their backs turned to us, and their attention occupied in keeping a lookout upon the plain. Through a strip of intervening forest, and at the foot of a steep descent, I beheld the village of Rocca Priore. To have secured the carbine of the sleeping brigand; to have seized upon his poniard, and have plunged it in his heart, would have been the work of an instant. Should he die without noise, I might dart through the forest, and down, to Rocca Priore before my flight might be discovered. In case of alarm, I should still have a fair start of the robbers, and a chance of getting beyond the reach of their shot. Here then was an opportunity for both escape and. vengeance; perilous indeed, but powerfully tempting. Had my situation been more critical, I could not have resisted it, I reflected, however, for a moment. The attempt, if successful, would be followed by the sacrifice of my two fellow-prisoners, who were sleeping profoundly, and could not be awakened in time to escape. The laborer who had gone after the ransom might also fall a victim to the rage of the robbers, without the money which he brought being saved. Besides, the conduct of the chief towards me made me feel confident of speedy deliverance. These reflections overcame the first powerful impulse, and 1 calmed the turbulent agitation which it had awakened. I again took out my materials for drawing, and amused myself with sketching the magnificent prospect. It was THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN 36J now about noon, and everything had sunk into repose, like the sleeping bandit before me. The noontide stillness that reigned over these mountains, the vast landscape: below gleaming with distant towns, and dotted with vari- ous habitations and signs of life, yet all so silent, had a- powerful effect upon my mind. The intermediate valleys^ too, which lie among the mountains, have a peculiar air of solitude. Few sounds are heard at mid-day to break the quiet of the scene. Sometimes the whistle of a sol- itary muleteer, lagging with his lazy animal along the road which winds through the centre of the valley; sometimes the faint piping of the shepherd's reed from the side of the mountain, or sometimes the bell of an ass slowly pac- ing along, followed by a monk with bare feet, and bare> shining head, and carrying provisions to his convent. I had continued to sketch for some time among my sleeping companions, when at length I saw the captain of the band approaching, followed by a peasant leading a mule, on which was a well-filled sack. I at first appre- hended that this was some new prey fallen into the hands of the robber ; but the contented look of the peasant soon relieved me, and I was rejoiced to hear that it was our promised repast. The brigands now came running from the three sides of the mountain, having the quick scent of vultures. Every one busied himself in unloading the mule, and relieving the sack of its contents. The first thing that made its appearance was an enor- mous ham, of a color and plumpness that would have inspired the pencil of Teniers ; ^ it was followed by a large cheese, a bag of boiled chestnuts, a little barrel of wine, and a quantity of good household bread. Everything » Teniers was a Flemish painter (1610.1690);, famous for his pictures o» domestic and peasant life. 362 TALES OF A TRAVELLER was arranged on the grass with a degree of symmetry', and the captain, presenting me with his knife, requested me to help myself „ We all seated ourselves around the viands, and nothing was heard for a time but the sound of vigorous mastication, or the gurgling of the barrel of wine as it revolved briskly about the circle. , My long fasting, and mountain air and exercise, had given me a keen appe- tite ; and never did repast appear to me more excellent or picturesque. From time to time one of the band was dispatched to keep a lookout upon the plain. No enemy was at hand, and the dinner was undisturbed. The peasant received nearly three times the value of his provisions, and set off down the mountain highly satisfied with his bargain. 1 felt invigorated by the hearty meal I had made, and not- withstanding that the wound I had received the evening before was painful, yet I could not but feel extremely interested and gratified by the singular scenes continually presented to me. Everything was picturesque about these wild beings and their haunts. Their bivouacs; their groups on guard ; their indolent noontide repose on the mountain-brow, their rude repast on the herbage among rocks and trees; everything presented a study for a painter : but it was towards the approach of evening that I felt the highest enthusiasm awakened. The setting sun, declining beyond the vast Campagna, shed its rich yellow beams on the woody summit of the Abruzzi. Several mountains crowned with snow shone brilliantly in the distance, contrasting their brightness with others, which, thrown into shade, assumed deep tints of purple and violet. As the evening advanced, the land- scape darkened into a sterner character. The immense solitude around; the wild mountains broken into rocks THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN 363 and precipices, intermingled with vast oaks, corks, and chestnuts ; and the groups of banditti in the foreground, reminded me of the savage scenes of Salvator Rosa. To beguile the time, the captain proposed to his com- rades to spread before me their jewels and cameos, as I must doubtless be a judge of such articles, and able to form an estimate of their value. He set the example, the others followed it ; and in a few moments I saw the grass before me sparkling with jewels and gems that would have delighted the eyes of an antiquary or a fine lady. Among them were several precious jewels and antique intaglios and cameos of great value, the spoils, doubtless, of travellers of distinction. I found that they were in the habit of selling their booty in the frontier towns; but as these, in general, were thinly and poorly peopled, and little frequented by travellers, they could offer no market for such valuable articles of taste and luxury. I sug- gested to them the certainty of their readily obtaining great prices for these gems among the rich strangers with whom Eome was thronged. The impression made upon their greedy minds was immediately apparent. One of the band, a young man, and the least known, requested permission of the captain to depart the following day, in disguise, for Eome, for the purpose of traffic, promising, on the faith of a bandit (a sacred pledge among them), to return in two days to any place that he might appoint. The captain consented, and a curious scene took place; the robbers crowded round him eagerly, confiding to him such of their jewels as they wished to dispose of, and giving him instructions what to demand. There was much bargaining and exchanging and selling of trinkets among them; and I beheld my watch, which had a chain and valuable seals, purchased by 364 TALES OF A TRAVELLER the young robbbr-merchant of the ruffian who had plun. dered me, for sixty dollars. I now conceived a faint hope, that if it went to Rome, I might somehow or other regain possession of it.* In the meantime day declined, and no messenger returned from Tusculum. The idea of passing another night in the woods was extremely disheartening, for I began to be satisfied with what I had seen of jobber -life. The chieftain now ordered his men to follow him, that he might station them at their posts; adding, that, if the messenger did not return before night, they must shift their quarters to some other place. I was again left alone with the young bandit who had before guarded me ; he had the same gloomy air and haggard eye, with now and then a bitter sardonic smile. I deter- mined to probe this ulcerated heart, and reminded him of a kind promise he had given me to tell me the cause of his suffering. ^ It seemed to me as if these troubled spirits were glad of any opportunity to disburden themselves, and of having some fresh, undiseased mind, with which they could communicate. I had hardly made the request, when he seated himself by my side, and gave me his story in, as near as I can recollect, the following words. THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER , I was born in the little town of Frosinone, which lies at the skirts of the Abruzzi. My father had made a little * The hopes of the artist were not disappointed : the robber was stopped at one of the gates of Rome. Something in his looks or deportment had excited suspicion. He was searched, and the valuable trinkets found on him sufficiently evinced his character. On applying to the police, the artist's watch was returned to him. — [Author's Note.] , THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER 366 property in trade, and gave me some education, as he intended me for the Church ; but 1 had kept gay company too much to relish the cowl, so I grew up a loiterer about the place. I was a heedless fellow, a little quarrelsome on occasion, but good-humored in the main; so I made my way very well for a time, until I fell in love. There lived in our town a surveyor or land-bailiff of the Prince, who had a young daughter, a beautiful girl of ^ sixteen ; she was looked upon as something better than the com- mon run of our townsfolk, and was kept almost entirely at home. I saw her occasionally, and became madly in love with her — she looked so fresh aud tender, and so differ- ent from the sunburnt females to whom I had been accus- tomed. As my father kept me in money, I always dressed well, and took all opportunities of showing myself off to advantage in the eyes of the little beauty. I used to see her at church; and as I could play a little upon the guitar, I gave a tune sometimes under her window of an evening; and I tried to have interviews with her in her father's vineyard, not far from the town, where she some- times walked. She was evidently pleased with me, but she was young and shy; and her father kept a strict eye \apon her, and took alarm at my attentions, for he had a bad opinion of me, and looked for a better match for his daughter. 1 became furious at the difficulties thrown in my way, having been accuscomea aiways to easy success among the women, being considered one of the smartest young fellows of the place. Her father brought home a suitor for her, — a rich farmer from a neighboring town. The wedding-day was appointed, and preparations were making, I got sight of her at the window, and I thought she looked sadly at 366 TALES OF A TRAVELLER me. I determined the match should not take place, cost what it might. I met her intended bridegroom in the market-place, and could not restrain the expression of my rage. A few hot words passed between us, when I drew my stiletto and stabbed him to the heart. I fled to a neighboring church for refuge, and with a little money I obtained absolution, but I did not dare to venture from my asylum. At that time our captain was forming his troop. He had known me from boyhood; and hearing of my situa- tion, came to me in secret, and made such offers, that 1 agreed to enroll myself among his followers. Indeed, I had more than once thought of taking to this mode of life, having known several brave fellows of the mountains, who used to spend their money freely among us youngsters of the town. I accordingly left my asylum late one night, repaired to the appointed place of meeting, took the oaths prescribed, and became one of the troop. We were for some time in a distant part of the mountains, and our wild adventurous kind of life hit my fancy won- derfully, and diverted my thoughts. At length they returned with all their violence to the recollection of Rosetta; the solitude in which I often found myself gave me time to brood over her image; and, as I have kept watch at night over our sleeping camp m the mountains, my feelings have been aroused almost to a ferer. At length we shifted our ground, and determined to make a descent upon the road between Terracina and Naples. In the course of our expedition we passed a day or two in the woody mountains which rise above Frosinone. I cannot tell you how I felt when I looked down upon that place, and distinguished the residence of Rosetta. I determined to have an interview with her ; — but to what THE STORY 01' THE YOUNG ROBBEE 367 purpose? I could not expect that she would quit her home, and accompany me in my hazardous life among the mountains. She had been brought up too tenderly for that ; when I looked upon the women who were asso- ciated with some of our troop, I could not have borne the thoughts of her being their companion. All return to ^y former life was likewise hopeless, for a price was set upon my head. Still I determined to see her; the very hazard and fruitlessness of the thing made me furious to accomplish it. About three weeks since, I persuaded our captain to draw down to the vicinity of Frosinone, suggesting the chance of entrapping some of its principal inhabitants, and compelling them to a ransom. We were lying in ambush towards evening, not far from the vineyard of Kosetta's father. I stole quietly from my companions, and drew near to reconnoitre the place of her frequent walks. How my heart beat when among the vines I beheld the gleaming of a white dress! I knew it must be Rosetta's; it being rare for any female of that place to dress in white. I advanced secretly and without noise, until, putting aside the vines, I stood suddenly before her. She uttered a piercing shriek, but I seized her in my arms, put my hand upon her mouth, and conjured her to be silent. I poured out all the frenzy of my passion ; offered to renounce my mode of life; to put my fate in her hands; to fly where we might live in safety together. All that I could say or do would not pacify her. Instead of love, horror and affright seemed to have taken possession of her breast. She struggled partly from my grasp, and filled the air with her cries. In an instant the captain and the rest of my companions were around us. I would have given anything at that MS TALES OF A TRAVELLER moment had she been safe out of our hands and in hei lather's house. It was too late. The Captain pronounced her a prize, and ordered that she should be borne to the mountains. I represented to him that she was my prize ; that 1 had a previous claim to her ; and I mentioned mji former attachment. He sneered bitterly in reply ; observed "that brigands had no business with village intrigues, and that, according to the laws of the troop, all spoils of the kind were determined by lot. Love and jealousy were raging in my heart, but I had to choose between obedience and death. I surrendered her to the captain, and we made for the mountains. She was overcome by affright, and her steps were so feeble and faltering that it was necessary to support her. I could not endure the idea that my comrades should touch her, and assuming a forced tranquillity, begged she might be confided to me, as one to whom she was more accustomed. The captain regarded me, for a moment, with a searching look, but 1 bore it with- out flinching, and he consented. I took her in my arms, she was almost senseless. Her head rested on my shoulder; I felt her breath on my face, and it seemed to fan the flame which devoured me. Oh God ! to have this glowing treasure in my arms, and yet to think it was not mine ! We arrived at the foot of the mountain ; I ascended it with difficulty, particularly where the woods were thick, but I would not relinquish my delicious burden. I reflected with rage, however, that I must soon do so. The thoughts that so delicate a creature must be abandoned to my rude companions maddened me. I felt tempted, the stiletto in my hand, to cut my way through them all, and bear her off in triumph. I scarcely conceived the idea THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER ^9 before I saw its rashness ; but my brain was fevered with the thought that any but myself should enjoy her charms. I endeavored to outstrip my companions by the quickness of my movements, and to get a little distance ahead, in case any favorable opportunity of escape should present. Vain effort! The voice of the captain suddenly ordered a halt. I trembled, but had to obey. The poor girl partly opened a languid eye, but was without strength or motion. I laid her upon the grass. The captain darted on me a terrible look of suspicion, and ordered me to scour the woods with my companions in search of some shepherd, who might be sent to her father's to demand a ransom. I saw at once the peril.^ To resist with violence was certain death, but to leave her alone, in the power of the captain — I spoke out then with a fervor, inspired by my passion and by despair. I reminded the captain that 1 was the first to seize her ; that she was my prize ; and that my previous attachment to her ought to make her sacred among my companions. I insisted, therefore, that he should pledge me his word to respect her, otherwise I would refuse obedience to his orders. His only reply was to cock his carbine, and at the signal my comrades did the same. They laughed with cruelty at my impotent rage. What could I do? I felt the madness of resistance. I was menaced on all hands, and my companions obliged me to follow them. She remained alone with the chief — yes, alone — and almost lifeless ! — Here the robber paused in his recital, overpowered by his emotions. Great drops of sweat stood on his forehead; he panted rather than breathed; his brawny bosom rose and fell like the waves of the troubled sea. When he had become a little calm, he continued his recital. 370 TALES OF A TRAVELLER I was not long in finding a shepherd, said he.' I ran with the rapidity of a deer, eager, if possible, to get back before what I dreaded might take place. I had left ipy companions far behind, and I rejoined them before they had reached one half the distance I had mad^. I hurried them back to the place where we had left the captain. As we approached, I beheld him seated by the side of Rosetta. It was with extreme difficulty, and by guiding her hand, that she was made to trace a few characters, requesting her father to send three hundred dollars as her ransom. The letter was dispatched by the shepherd. When he was gone, the chief turned sternly to me. '*You have set an example," said he, "of mutiny and self-will, which, if indulged, would be ruin- ous to the troop. Had I treated you as our laws require, this bullet would have been driven through your brain. But you are an old friend. I have borne patiently with your fury and your folly. I have even protected you from a foolish passion that would have unmanned you. As to this girl, the laws of our association must have their course." Here the robber paused again, panting with fury, and it was some moments before he could resume his story. Hell, said he, was raging in my heart. I beheld the impossibility of avenging myself ; and I felt that, according to the articles in which we stood bound to one another, the captain was in the right. I rushed with frenzy from the place ; I threw myself upon the earth ; tore up the grass with my hands; and beat my head and gnashed my teeth in agony and rage. When at length I returned, I beheld the wretched victim, pale, dishevelled, her dress THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER 371 torn and disordered. An emotion of pity, for a moment, subdued my fiercer feelings, I bore her to the foot of a tree, and leaned her gently against it. I took my gourd, which was filled with wine, and applying it to her lips, endeavored to make her swallow a littlOo To what a con- dition was she reduced! she, whom I had once seen the pride of Frosinone, whom but a short time before I had beheld sporting in her father's vineyard, so fresh, and beautiful, and happy! Her teeth were clenched; her eyes fixed on the ground ; her form without motion, and in a state of absolute insensibility. I hung over her in an agony of recollection at all that she had been, and of anguish of what I now beheld her. I darted around a look of horror at my companions, who seemed like so many fiends exulting in the downfall of an angel; and I felt a horror at being myself their accomplice. The captain, always suspicious, saw, with -his usual pen- etration, what was passing within me, and ordered me to go upon the ridge of the woods, to keep a lookout over the neighborhood, and await the return of the shepherd. I obeyed, of course, stifling the fury that raged within me, though I felt, for the moment, that he was my most deadly foe. On my way, however, a ray of reflection came across my mind. I perceived that the captain was but following, with strictness, the terrible laws to which we had sworn fidelity; that the passion by which I had been blinded might, with justice, have been fatal to me, but for his for- bearance ; that he had penetrated my soul, and had taken precautions, by sending me out of the way, to prevent my committing any excess in my anger. From that instant I felt that I was capable of pardoning him. Occupied with these thoughts, I arrived at the foot of 372 1 aLES of a traveller the mountain. The country was solitary and secure, and in a short time I beheld the shepherd at a distance cross- ing the plain. I hastened to meet him , He had obtained nothing. He had found the father plunged in the deep- est distress. He had read the letter with violent emotion, and then, calming himself with a sudden exertion, he had replied coldly: "My daughter has been dishonored by those wretches ; let her be returned without ransom, — or let her die!" I shuddered at this reply. I knew that, according to the laws of our troop, her death was inevitable. Our oaths reiq aired it. I felt, nevertheless, that, not having been able to have her to myself, I could be her execu- • tioner I The robber again paused with agitation. I sat musing upon his last frightful word?, which proved to what excess the passions may be carried when escaped from all moral restraint. There was a horrible verity in this story that reminded me of some of the tragic fictions of Dante. "We now come to a fatal moment, resumed the bandit. After the report of the shepherd, I returned with him,- and the chieftain received from his lips the refusal of her father. At a signal which we all understood, we fol- lowed him to some distance from the victim. He there pronounced her sentence of death. Every one stood ready to execute his orders, but I interfered. I observed that there vas something due to pity as well as to justice; that I was as ready as any one to approve the implacable law, which was to serve as a warning to all those who hesitated to pay the ransoms demanded for our prisoners ; but that though the sacrifice was proper, it ought to be made with- out cruelty. 'The night is approaching,' continued I ; *she will soon be wrapped in sleep ; let her then be dispatched. THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER 373 All I now claim on the score of former kindness is, let me strike the blow, I will do it as surely, though more tenderly than another.' Several raised their voices against my proposition, but the captain imposed silence on them. He told me 1 might conduct her into a thicket at some distance, and he relied upon my promisCc I hastened to seize upon my prey. There was a forlorn kind of triumph at having at length become her exclusive possessor, I bore her off into the thickness of the forest. She remained in the same state of insensibility or stupor. I was thankful that she did not recollect me, for had she once murmured my name, I should have been overcome She slept at length in the arms of him who was to poniard her. Many were the conflicts I underwent before J could bring myself to strike the blow. But my heart had become sore by the recent conflicts it had undergone, and I dreaded lest, by procrastination, some other should become her executioner. When her repose had continued for some time, I separated myself gently from her, that I might not disturb her sleep, and seizing suddenly my poniard, plunged it into her bosom. A painful and con- centrated murmur, but without any convulsive movement, accompanied her last sigh. — So perished this unfortunate! He ceased to speak. I sat, horror-struck, covering my face with my hands, seeking, as it were, to hide from myself the frightful images he had presented to my mind. I was roused from this silence by the voice of the captain . *'You sleep," said he, *'and it is time to be off. Come, we must abandon this height, as night is setting in, and the messenger is not returned. I will post some one on the mountain edge to conduct him to the place where we shall pass the night." 374 TALES OF A TRAVELLER This was no agreeable news to me. I was sick at heart with the dismal story I had heard. I was harassed and fatigued, and the sight of the banditti began to grow insupportable to me. The captain assembled his comrades. We rapidly descended the forest, which We had mounted with so much difficulty in the morning, and soon arrived in what appeared to be a frequented road. The robbers proceeded with great caution, carrying their guns cocked, and look- ing on every side with wary and suspicious eyes. They were apprehensive of encountering the civic patrole. We left Eocca Priore behind us. There was a fountain near by, and as I was excessively thirsty, I begged permission to stop and drink. The captain himself went and brought me water in his hat. We pursued our route, when, at the extremity of an alley which crossed the road, I per- ceived a female on horseback, dressed in whitCc She was alone. I recollected the fate of the poor girl in the story, and trembled for her safety. One of the brigands saw her at the same instant, and .plunging into the bushes, he ran precipitately in the direction towards her. Stopping on the border of the alley, he put one knee to the ground, presented his car- bine ready to menace her, or to shoot her horse if she attempted to fly, and in this way awaited her approach. I kept my eyes fixed on her with jntense anxiety, I felt tempted to shout and warn her of her danger, though my own destruction would have been the consequence. It was awful to see this tiger crouching ready for a bound, and the poor innocent victim unconsciously near him. Nothing but a mere chance could save her. To my joy the chance turned in her favor. She seemed almost acci- dentally to take an opposite path, which led outside of THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER 375 the woods, where the robber dared not venture. To this casual deviation she owed her safety. I oould not imagine why the captain of the band had ventured to such a distance from the height on which he had placed the sentinel to watch the return of the mes- senger. He seemed himself anxious at the risk to which he exposed himself. His movements were rapid and uneasy ; I could scarce keep pace with him. At length, after three hours of what might be termed a forced march, we mounted the extremity of the same woods, the summit of which we had occupied during the day; and I learnt with satisfaction that we had reached our quarters for the night. **You must be fatigued," said the chieftain; "but it was necessary to survey the environs so as not to be surprised during the night. Had we met with the famous civic guard of Kocca Priore, you would have seen fine sport." Such was the indefatigable pre- caution and forethought of this robber chief, who really gave continual evidence of military talent. The night was magnificent. The moon, rising above the horizon in a cloudless sky, faintly lit up the grand features of the mountain, while lights twinkling here and there, like terrestrial stars in the wide dusky expanse of the landscape, betrayed the lonely cabins of the shepherds. Exhausted by fatigue, and by the many agitations I had experienced, I prepared to sleep, soothed by the hope of approaching deliverance. The captain ordered his com- panions to collect some dry moss; he arranged with his own hands a kind of mattress and pillow of it, and gave me his ample mantle as a covering. I could not but feel both surprised and gratified by such unexpected attentions on the part of this benevolent cutthroat ; for there is nothing more striking than to find the ordinary charities, 376 TALES OF A TRAVELLER which are matters of conrse in common life, flourishing by the side of such stern and sterile crime. It is like finding tender flowers and fresh herbage of the valley growing among the rocks and cinders of the volcano. Before I fell asleep I had some further discourse with the captain, who seemed to feel great confidence in me. He referred to our previous conversation of the morning ; told me he was weary of his hazardous profession ; that he had acquired sufficient property, and was anxious to return to the world, and lead a peaceful life in the bosom of his family. He wished to know whether it was not in my power to procure for him a passport to the United States of America. I applauded his good intentions, and promised to do everything in my power to promote its suc- cess. We then parted for the night. I stretched myself upon my couch of moss, which, after my fatigues, felt like a bed of down; and, sheltered by the robber-mantle from all humidity, I slept soundly, without waking, until the signal to arise. It was nearly six o'clock, and the day was just dawning. As the place where we had passed the night was too much exposed, we moved up into the thickness of the woods. A fire was kindled. While there was any flame, the man- tles were again extended round it; but when nothing remained but glowing cinders, they were lowered, and the robbers seated themselves in a circle. The scene before me reminded me of some of those described by Homer. There wanted only the victim on the coals, and the sacred knife to cut off the succulent parts, and distribute them around. My companions might have rivalled the grim warriors of Greece. In place of the noble repasts, however, of Achilles and Agamemnon,- I beheld displayed on the grass the remains of the ham THE STOEY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER 377 which had sustained so vigorous an attack on the preced' ing evening, accompanied by the relics of the bread, cheese, and wine. We had scarcely commenced our frugal breakfast, when I heard again an imitation of the bleating of sheep, similar to what I had heard the day before. The captain answered it in the same tone. Two men were soon after seen descending from the woody height, where we had passed the preceding evening. On nearer approach, they proved to be the sentinel and the messenger. The captain rose, and went to meet them. He made a signal for his comrades to join him. They had a short confer- ence, and then returning to me with great eagerness, **Your ransom is paid," said he, *'you are free!" Though I had anticipated deliverance, I cannot tell yott what a rush of delight these tidings gave me. I cared not to finish my repast, but prepared to depart. The captain took me by the hand, requested permission to write to me, and begged me not to forget the passport. I replied, that I hoped to be of effectual service to him, and that I relied on his honor to return the Prince's note for five hundred dollars, now that the cash was paid. He regarded me for a moment with surprise, then seeming to recollect himself, "^ ^u^s^o," said he, '^Eccolo — ■adior''^ He delivered me the note, pressed my hand once more, and we separated. The laborers were permitted to follow me, and we resumed with joy our road toward Tusculum, The Frenchman ceased to speak. The party continued, for a few moments, to pace the shore in silence. The story had made a deep impression, particularly on the Venetian lady. At that part which related to the young girl of Frosinone, she was violently affected. Sobs broke > It is .iust— there it is— adieu' 378 TALES OF A TRAVELLER from her ; she clung closer to her husband, and as she looked up to him as if for protection, the moonbeams shining on her beautifully fair countenance, showed it paler than usual, while tears glittered in her fine dark eyes. ^^ CorragiOy mia vital' ^^ said he, as he gently and fondly tapped the white hand that lay upon his arm. The party now returned to the inn, and separated for the night. The fair Venetian, though of the sweetest temperament, was half out of humor with the English- man, for a certain slowness of faith which he had evinced throughout the whole evening. She could not understand this dislike to *'humbug, " as he termed it, which held a kind of sway over him, and seemed to control his opinions and his very actions. "I'll warrant," said she to her husband, as they retired for the night, — **I'll warrant, with all his affected indiffer- ence, this Englishman's heart would quake at the very sight of a bandit." Her husband gently, and good-humoredly, checked her. **I have no patience with these^ Englishmen," said she, as she got into bed, — "they are so cold and insensible!" THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGLISHMAN In the morning all was bustle in the inn at Terracina. The procaccio had departed at daybreak on its route towards "Rome, but the Englishman was yet to start, and the departure of an English equipage is always enough to keep an inn in a bustle. On this occasion there was more than usual stir, for the Englishman, having much prop- erty about him, and having been convinced of the real » Courage, my life! THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGLISHMAN 379 danger of the road, had applied to the police, and obtained, by dint of liberal pay, an escort of eight dragoons and twelve foot-soldiers, as far as Fondi. Perhaps, too, there might have been a little ostentation at bottom, though, to say the truth, he had nothing of it in his manner. He moved about, taciturn and reserved as usual, among the gaping crowd; gave laconic orders to John, as he packed away the thousand and one indispen- sable conveniences of the night; double loaded his pistols with great sang f void ^ and deposited them in the pockets of the carriage ; taking no notice of a pair of keen eyes gazing on him from among the herd of loitering idlers. The fair Venetian now came up with a request, made in her dulcet tones, that he would permit their carriage to proceed under protection of his escort. The Englishman, who was busy loading another pair of pistols for his serv- ant, and held the ramrod between his teeth, nodded assent, as a matter of course, but without lifting up his eyes. The fair Venetian was a little piqued at what she supposed indifference; — *'0 Dio!" ejaculated she softly as she retired; *'Qnanto sono insensibili questi Inglesi."* At length, off they set in gallant style. The eight dragoons prancing in front, the twelve foot-soldiers march- ing in rear, and the carriage moving slowly in the centre, to enable the infantry to keep pace with them. They had proceeded but a few hundred yards, when it was discovered that some indispensable article had been left behind. In fact, the Englishman's purse was missing, and John was dispatched to the inn to search for it. This occasioned a little delay, and the carriage of the Venetians drove slowly on. John came back out of breath and out. of humor. The purse was not to be found. His master was » How cold-hearted these English are. B80 TALES OF A TRAVELLER irritated; he recollected the very place where it lay; he had not a doubt the Italian servant had pocketed it. John was again sent back. He returned once more with- out the purse, but with the landlord and the whole house- hold at his heels. A thousand ejaculations and protesta- tions, accompanied by all sorts of grimaces and contortions — "No purse had been seen — his excellenza must be mis- taken. '' **No — his excellenza was not mistaken — the purse lay on the marble table, under the mirror, a green purse, half full of gold and silver." Again a thousand grimaces and contortions, and vows by San Gennaro, that no purse of the kind had been seen. The Englishman became furious. **The waiter had pocketed it — the landlord was a knave — the inn a den of thieves — it was a vile country — he had been cheated and plundered from one end of it to the other— but he'd have satisfaction — he'd drive right off to the police." He was on the point of ordering the postilions to turn back, when, on rising, he displaced the cushion of the carriage, and the purse of money fell chinking to the floor. All the blood in his body seemed to rush into his facec —"Curse the purse," said he, as he snatched it up. He dashed a handful of money on the ground before the pale cringing waiter,— "There, be off!" cried he. "John, order the postilions to drive on. About half an hour had been exhausted in this alterca- tion. The Venetian carriage had loitered along; its pas- sengers looking out from time to time, and expecting the escort every moment to follow. They had gradually turned an angle of the road that shut them out of sight. The little army was again in motion, and made a very picturesque appearance as it wound along at the bottom THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGLISHMAN 381 of the rocks ; the morning sunshine beaming upon the weapons of the soldiery. The Englishman lolled back in his carriage, vexed with himself at what had passed, and consequently out of humor with all the world. As this, however, is no uncommon case with gentlemen who travel for their pleas- ure, it is hardly worthy of remark. They had wound up from the coast among the hills, and came to a part of the road that admitted of some prospect ahead. *'I see nothing of the lady's carriage, sir," said John, leaning down from the coach-box. **Pish!" said the Englishman, testily; "don^t plague me about th^ lady's carriage; must I be continually pes- tered with the concerns of strangers?" John said not another word, for he understood his master's mood. The road grew more wild and lonely ; they were slowly proceeding on a foot-pace up a hill ; the dragoons were some distance ahead, and had just reached the summit of the hill, when they uttered an exclamation, or rather shout, and galloped forward. The Englishman was roused from his sulky reverie. He stretched his head from the carriage, which had attained the brow of the hilL Before him extended a long hollow defile, commanded on one side by rugged precipitous heights, covered with bushes of scanty forest. At some distance he beheld the car- riage of the Venetians overturned. A numerous gang of desperadoes were rifling it; the young man and his servant were overpowered, and partly stripped; and the lady was in the hands of two of the ruffians. The Englishman seized his pistols, sprang from the carriage, and callea upon John to follow him. In the meantime, as the dragoons came forward, the robbers, who were busy with the carriage, quitted their 382 TALES OF A TRAVELLER spoil, formed themelves in the middle of the road, and taking a deliberate aim, fired. One of the dragoons fell, another was wounded, and the whole were for a moment checked and thrown into confusion. The robbers loaded again in an instant. The dragoons discharged their carV bines, but without apparent effect. They received another volley, which, though none fell, threw them again into confusion. The robbers were loading a second time when they saw the f6ot-soldiers at hand. ^''Scampa viaf'' ^ was the word: they abandoned their prey, and retreated up the rocks, the soldiers after them. They fought from cliff to cliff, and bush to bush, the robbers turning every now and then to fire upon their pursuers; the soldiers scrambling after them, and discharging their muskets whenever they could get a chance. Sometimes a soldier or a robber was shot down, and came tumbling among the cliffs. The dragoons kept "firing from below, whenever a robber came in sight. The Englishman had hastened to the scene of action, and the balls discharged at the dragoons had whistled past him as he advanced. One object, however, engrossed his attention. It was the beautiful Venetian lady in the hands of two of the robbers, who, during the confusion of the fight, carried her shrieking up the mountain. He saw her dress gleaming among the bushes, and he sprang up the rocks to intercept the robbers, as they bore off their prey. The rnggedness of the steep, and the entan- glements of the bushes, delayed and impeded him. He" lost sight of the lady, but was still guided by her cries, which grew fainter and fainter. They were off to the left, while the reports of muskets showed that the battle was raging to the right. At length he came upon what » Away at once I THE ADVENTtTRE OF THE ENGLISHMAN 383 appeared to be a rugged foot-path, faintly worn in a giil- ley of the rocks, and beheld the rufi&ans at some distance hurrying the lady up the defile. One of them hearing his approach, let go his prey, advanced towards him, and levelling the carbine which had been slung on his back, fired. The ball whizzed through the Englishman's hat, and carried with it some of his hair. He returned the fire vdth one of his pistols, and the robber fell. The other brigand now dropped the lady, and drawing a long pistol from his belt, fired on his adversary with deliberate aim. The ball passed between his left arm and his side, slightly wounding the arm. The Englishman advanced, and discharged his remaining pistol, which wounded the robber, but not severely. The brigand drew a stiletto and rushed upon his adver- sary, who eluded the blow, receiving merely a slight wound, and defended himself with his pistol, which had a spring bayonet. They closed with one another, and a desperate struggle ensued. The robber was a square built, thickset man, powerful, muscular, and active. The Englishman, though of larger frame and greater strength, was less active, and less accustomed to athletic exercises and feats of hardihood, but he showed himself practised and skilled in the art of defence. They were on a craggy height, and the Englishman perceived that his antagonist was striving to press him to the edge. A side-glance showed him also the robber whom he had first wounded, scrambling up to the assistance of his comrade, stiletto in hand. He had in fact attained the summit of the cliff, he was within a few steps, and the Englishman felt that his case was desperate, when he heard suddenly the report of a pistol, and the ruffian fell. The shot came from John, who had arrived just in time to save his master. 384 TALES OF jx TRAVELLEjh The remaining roober, exhausted by loss of blood and the violence of the contest, showed signs of faltering. The Englishman pursued his advantage, pressed on him, and as his strength relaxed, dashed him headlong from the precipice. He looked after him, and saw him lying motionless among the rocks below. The Englishman now sought the fair Venetian. He found her senseless on the ground. With his servant's assistance he bore her down to the road, where her hus- band was raving like one distracted. He had sought her in vain, and had given her over for lost ; and when he beheld her thus brought back in safety, his joy was equally wild and ungovernable. He would have caught her insen- sible form to his bosom had not the Englishman restrained him. The latter, now really aroused, displayed a true tenderness and manly gallantry, which one would not have expected from his habitual phlegm. His kindness, how- ever, was practical, not wasted in words. He dispatched John to the carriage for restoratives of all kinds, and, totally thoughtless of himself, was anxious only about his lovely charge. The occasional discharge of firearms along the height, showed that the retreating fight was still kept up by the robbers. The lady gave signs of reviving animation. The Englishman, eager to get her from this* place of danger, conveyed her to his own carriage, and, committing her to the care of her husband, ordered the dragoons to escort them to Eondi. The Venetian would have insisted on the Englishman's getting into the car- • riage ; but the latter refused. He poured forth a. torrent of thanks and benedictions ; but the Englishman beckoned to the postilions to drive on. John now dressed his master^s wounds, which were found not to be serious, though he was faint with loss of THE AD VENTURE OF THE ENGLISHMAN 385 bloodo The Venetian carriage had been righted, and the baggage replaced; and, getting into it, they set out on their way towards Fondi, leaving the foot-soldiers still engaged in ferreting out the bandittis Before arriving at Fondi, the fair Venetian had com- pletely recovered from her swoon. She made the usual question,— ** Where was she?" **In the Englishman's carriage,'' *'How had she escaped from the robbers?" **The Englishman had rescued her," Her transports were unbounded; and mingled with them were enthusiastic ejaculations of gratitude to her deliverer. A thousand times did she reproach herself for having accused him of coldness and insensibility The moment she saw him, she rushed into his arms with the vivacity of her nation, and hung about his neck in a speechless transport of gratitude. Never was man more embarrassed by the embraces of a fine woman. **Tut! — tut!" said the Englishman. **You are wounded!" shrieked the fair Venetian as she saw blood upon his clothes. ** Pooh! nothing at all!" *'My deliverer! — my -angel!" she exclaimed, clasping him again round the neck, and sobbing on his bosom. *'Pish!" said the Englishman, with a good-humored tone, but looking somewhat foolish, *'this is all humbug." The fair Venetian, however, has never since accused th^ English of insensibility. PAET FOXJETB THE MONEY-DIGGEES FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER » "Now I remember those old women's words, ' Who in my youth would tell me winter's tales: And speak of sprites and ghosts that glide by nighl About the place where treasure hath been hid." Marlowe's Jew of Malta. » The fictitious Diedrich Knickerbocker was one of Irvlng's most tngen- lous Inventions. His first book, The Knickerbocker History of New York, purported to have been written by this mysterious antiquary: and oftei? ^ter Irving returned to this early device, always with happy results. Id the present volume, see the prefatory note to the story of Rip Van Winkle and the postscript to the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. The student is starongly recommended to read at least the opening chapters ft' the ,^n^ckerbotm^ BUtory. 387 HELL-GATE About six miles from the renowned city of the Manhat- toes,^ in that Sound or arm of the sea which passes between the mainland and Nassau, or Long Island, there is a narrow strait, where the current is violently com- pressed between shouldering promontories, and horribly perplexed by rocks and shoals. Being, at the best of times, a very violent, impetuous current, it takes these impedim;ents in mighty dudgeon; boiling in whirlpools; brawling and fretting in ripples; raging and roaring in rapids and breakers; and, in short, indulging in all kinds of wrong-headed paroxysms. -At such times, woe to any unlucky vessel that ventures within its clutches. This termagant humor, however, prevails only at certain times of tide. At low water, for instance, it is as pacific a stream as you would wish to see; but as the tide rises, it begins to fret; at half-tide it roars with might and main, like a bull bellowing for more drink; but when the tide is full, it relapses into quiet, and, for a time, sleeps as soundly as an alderman after dinner. In fact, it may be compared to a. quarrelsome toper, who is a peaceable fellow enough when he has no liquor at all, or when he has a skinfull; bat who, \7hen half- seas over, plays the very devil. This mighty, blustering, bullying, hard-drinking little strait was a place of great danger and perplexity to the » The Manhattoes, or Manhattans were the Indian tribes inhabiting Man- liattan Island, on which the Dutch built the town of New Amsterdpia. Irving seems to avoid the modem name, New York, as nnpoetical. 389 390 TALES OF A TRAVELLER 8 Dutch navigators of ancient days; hectoring their tub- built barks in a most unruly style; whirling them about in a manner to make any but a Dutchman giddy, and not unfrequently stranding them upon rocks and reefs, as it did the famous squadron of Oloffe the Dreamer,^ when seeking a place to found the city of the Manhattoes. "^hereupon, out of sheer splefen, they denominated it Helle-Gaty and solemnly gave it over to the devil. This appellation has since been aptly rendered into English by the name of Hell-gate,^ and into nonsense by the name of /T^^rZ-gate, according to certain foreign intruders, who neither understood Dutch nor English, — may St. Nicholas confound them! This sti:ait of Hell-gate was a place of great awe and perilous enterprise to me in my boyhood, having been much of a navigator on those small seas, and having more than once run the risk of shipwreck and drowning in the course of certain holiday voyages, to which, in common with other Dutch urchins, I was rather prone. Indeed, partly from the name, and partly from various strange circumstances connected with it, this place had far more terrors in the eyes of my truant companions and myself than had Scylla and Charybdis ^ for the navigators of yore. In the midst of this strait, and hard by a group of rocks called the Hen and Chickens, there lay the wreck of a vessel which had been entangled in the whirlpools and stranded during a storm. There was a wild story told to lis of this being the wreck of a pirate, and some tale-of 1 See the Knickerbocker History, Book II., Chap. iv. 2 Hell Gate is no longer six miles from the city; on a modern map It lies «ast of Ninetieth Street, in East River. The euphemistic etymology, Hurl- gate, is no longer heard. The most dangerous rocks of the place were blasted out some years ago. 3 A narrow place in the Straits of Messina. Charybdis is a whirlpool and Scylla a headland opposite. In avoiding one there was always risk of falling into danger of the other. See Vergil, Aeneid, Book III., 1. 420, ff. HELL-GATE 391 bloody murder which I cannot now recollect, but which made us regard it with great awe, and keep far from it in our cruisings. Indeed, the desolate look of the forlorn hulk, and the fearful place where it lay rotting, were enough to awaken strange notions. A row of timber- heads, hlackened by time, just peered above the surface at high water ; but at low tide a considerable part of the hull was bare, and its great ribs or timbers, partly stripped of their planks, and dripping with sea-weeds, looked like the huge skeleton of some sea-monster. There was also the stump of a mast, with a few ropes and blocks swinging about and whistling in the wind, while the sea-gull wheeled and screamed around the melancholy carcass. I have a faint recollection of some hobgoblin tale of sailors' ghosts being seen about this wreck at nigJit, with bare skulls, and blue flights in their sockets instead of eyes, but I have forgotten all the particulars. In fact, the whole of this neighborhood was like the straits of Pelorus ^ of yore, a region of fable and romance to me. From the strait to the Manhattoes, the borders of the Sound are greatly diversified, being broken and indented by rocky nooks overhung with trees, which give them a wild and romantic look. In the time of my bov- hood, they abounded with traditions about pirates, gnosts, smugglers, an.d buried money, which had a wonderful effect upon the young minds of my companions and myself. As I grew to more mature years, I made diligent research after the truth of these strange traditions ; for I have always been a curious investigator of the valuable but obscure branches of the history of my native province. » The northeastern promontory of Sicily. There is a dangerous passage between this island and the mainland of 'taly. 392 TALES OF A TRAVELLER I found infinite difficulty, however, in arriving at any precise information. In seeking to dig up one fact, it is incredible the number of fables that I unearthed. I will say nothing of the devil's stepping-stones, by which the arch-fiend made his retreat from Connecticut to Long Island, across the Sound; seeing the subject is likely to be learnedly treated by a worthy friend and contemporary historian whom I have furnished with particulars thereof.* Neither will I say anything of the black man in the three- cornered hat, seated in the stern of a jolly-boat, who used to be seen about Hell -gate in stormy weather, and who ivent by the name of the pirate's spuhe (i. e. pirate's ^host,) and whom, it is said, old Governor Stuyvesant once shot with a silver bullet ; ^ because I never could meet with any person of stanch credibility who professed to have seen this spectrum, unless it were the widow of Manus Oonklen, the blacksmith, of Frogsneck;^ but then, poor woman, she was a little purblind, and might have been mistaken; though they say she saw farther than other folks in the dark. All this, however, was but little satisfactory in regard to the tales of pirates and their buried money, about * For a very interesting and authentic account of the devil find his stepping-stones, see the valuable Memoir ^ read before the New York Historical Society, since the death of Mr. Knick- erbocker, by his friend, an eminent jurist of the place. — [Au- thor's Note.] 1 With a silver bullet because the traditional belief was that a ghost could not be Injured by a bullet made of any other metal. Peter Stuyve- sant was the last Dutch governor of New York. 8 "Frogsneck" is a corruption of Throgg's-n6ck, which in turn is an abbreviation of Throggmorton's-neck. The place is now called Throgg's- neck. It lies a few miles above Hell-gate and is a point of land projecting out into the Soimd. 3 The memoir is by Egbert Benson; it is to be found in the Collections of the New York Historical Society, Second Series, 1849, p. 121. The Stepping- stones were a series of rocks, bare at low tide, extending out into the Sound from the Long Island shore. KIDD THE PIRATE 393 which I was most curious ; aud the foirowing is all that I could, for a long time, collect, that had anything like an air of authenticity. KIDD THE PIRATE^ In old times, just after the territory of the New Netherlands had been wrested from the hands of their High Mightinesses, the Lords States-General of Holland, by King Charles the Second,^ and while it was as yet in an unquiet state, the province was a great resort of random adventurers, loose livers, and all that class of hap-hazard fellows who live by their wits, and dislike the old-fash- ioned restraint of law and gospel. Among these, the foremost were the buccaneers. These were rovers of the deep, who perhaps in time of war had been educated in those schools of piracy, the privateers; but having once tasted the sweets of plunder, had ever retained a hanker- ing after it. There is but a slight step from the pri- vateersman to the pirate; both fight for the love of plunder ; only that the latter is the bravest, as he dares both the enemy and the gallows. But in whatever school they had been taught^ the buccaneers that kept about the English colonies were daring fellows, and made sad work in times of peace a,mong the Spanish settlements and Spanish merchantmen. The easy access to the harbor of the Manhattoes, the number of hiding-places about its waters, and the laxity of its scarcely organized government, made it a great rendezvous 1 Williain Kidd, an American pirate, who was hanged in London in 170t. 2 Charles II. gave a grant of the territory of New Netherlands to his brother the Duke of York in 1664 ; in the same year the Dutch surrendered the colony to the Duke of York's forces. 394 TALES OF A TRAVELLER of the pirates; where they might dispose of their booty, and concert new depredations. As they brought home with them wealthy lading of all kinds, the luxuries of the tropics, and the sumptuous spoils of the Spanish prov- inces, and disposed of them with the proverbial careless- ness of freebooters, they were welcome visitors to the thrifty traders of the Manhattoes, Crews of these des- peradoes, therefore, the runagates of every country and every clime, might be seen swaggering in open day about the streets of the little burgh, elbowing its quiet myn- heers ; trafficking away their rich outlandish plunder at half or quarter price to the wary merchant; and then squandering their prize-money in taverns, drinking, gambling, singing, swearing, shouting, and astounding the neighborhood with midnight brawl and ruffian revelry. At length these excesses rose to such a height as to become a scandal to the provinces, and to call loudly for the interposition of governments Measures were accord- ingly taken to put a stop to the widely extended evil, and to ferret this vermin brood out of the colonieSo Among the agents employed to execute this purpose was the notorious Captain Kidd. He had long been an equivocal character ; one of those nondescript animals of the ocean that are neither fish, flesh, nor fowL He was somewhat of a trader, something more of a smuggler, with a considerable dash of the picaroon. He had traded for many years among the pirates, in a little rakish mosquito-built vessel, that could run into all kinds of waters. He knew all their haunts and lurking-places ; was always hooking about on mysterious voyages, and was as busy as a Mother Cary's chicken in a storm. This nondescript personage was pitched upon by govern- ment as the very man to hunt the pirates by sea, upon KIDD THE PIRATE 395 the good old maxim of *' setting a rogue to catch a rogue"; or as otters are sometimes used to catch their cousins-german, the fish. Kidd acoordingly sailed for New York, in 1695, in a gallant vessel called the Adventure Galley, well armed and duly commissioned. On arriving at his old haunts, however, he shipped his crew on* new terms; enlisted a number of his old comrades, lads of the knife and the pistol ; and then set sail for the East. Instead of cruising against pirates, he turned pirate himself; steered to the Madeiras, to Bonavista, and Madagascar, and cruised about the entrance of the Eed Sea. Here, among other maritime robheries, he captured a rich Quedah^ merchant- man, manned by Moors, though commanded by an Eng- lishman. Kidd would fain have passed this off for a worthy exploit, as being a kind of crusade against the infidels; but government had long since lost all relish for such Christian triumphs. After foaming the seas, trafiicking his prizes, and changing from ship to ship, Kidd had the hardihood to return to Boston, laden with booty, with a crew of swag- gering companions at his heels. Times, however, were changed. The buccaneers could no longer show a whisker in the colonies with impunity. The new Governor, Lord Bellamont,^ had signalized him- self by his zeal in extirpating these offenders ; and was doubly exasperated against Kidd, having been instrument tal in appointing him to the trust which he had betrayed. No sooner, therefore, did he show himself in Boston, than the alarm was given of his reappearance, and measures 1 Quedah is a peninsula in Siam, the extreme southem point of the main* land of Asia. ' Richard Coote, Earl of Bellamont, governor of New York and Mass** chusetts. 396 TALES OF A TRAVELLER were taken to arrest this cutpurse of tlie ocean. The dar ing character which Kidd had acquired, however, and the desperate fellows who followed like bulhdogs at his heels, caused a little delay in his arrestc He took advantage of this, it is said, to bury the greater part of his treasures, and then carried a high head about the streets of Boston He even attempted to defend himself when arrested, but was secured and thrown into prison, with his followers. Such was the formidable character of this pirate and his crew, that it was thought advisable to dispatch a frigate to bring them to England, Great exertions were made to screen him from justice, but in vain; he and his comrades were tried, condemned, and hanged at Execution Dock in London. Kidd died hard, for the rope with which he was first tied up broke with his weight, and he tumbled to the ground. He was tied up a second time, and more effectually; hence came,* doubtless, the story of Kidd's having a charmed life, and that he had to be twice hanged Such is the main outline of Kidd's history; but it has given birth to an innumerable progeny of traditions. The report of his having buried great treasures of gold and jewels before his arrest, set the brains of all the good people along the coast in a ferment. There were rumors on rumors of great sums of money found here and there, sometimes in one part of the country, sometimes in another; of coins with Moorish inscriptions, doubtless the spoils of his eastern prizes, but which the common people looked upon with superstitious awe, regarding the Moorish letters as diabolical or magical characters. Some reported the treasure to have been buried in soli= tary, unsettled places, about Plymouth and Cape Cod ; but by degrees various other parts, not only on the eastern coast, but along the shores of the Sound, and e^en of KIDD THE PIRATE 397 Manhattan and Long Island, were gilded by these rumors. In fact, the rigorous measures of Lord Bellamont spread sudden consternation among' the buccaneers in every part of the provinces : they secreted their money and Jewels in lonely out-of-the-way places, about the wild shores of the rivers and sea-coast, and dispersed themselves over the face of the country. The hand of justice prevented mauy of them from ever returning to regain their buried treas- ures, whigh remained, and remain probably to this day, objects of enterprise for the money-digger. This is the cause of those frequent reports of trees and rocks bearing mysterious marks, supposed to indicate the spots where treasures lay hidden; and many have been the ransackings after the pirate's booty. In all the stories which once abounded of these enterprises the devil played a conspicuous part. Either he was conciliated by cere- monies and invocations, or some solemn compact was made with him. Still he was ever prone to play the money- diggers some slippery trick. Some would dig so far as to come to an iron chest, when some baffling circumstance was sure to take place. Either the earth would fall in and fill up the pit, or some direful noise or apparition would frighten the party from the place: sometimes the devil himself would appear, and bear off the prize when within their very grasp; and if they revisited the place the next day, not a trace would be foiind of their labors of the preceding night. All these rumors, however, were extremely vague, and for a long time tantalized, without gratifying, my curios- ity. There is nothing in this world so hard to get at as truth, and there is nothing in this world but truth that I care for. I sought among all my favorite sources of authentic information, the oldest inhabitants, and partie- 398 TALES OF A TRAVELLER nlarly the old Dutch wives of the province ; but though 1 flatter myself that I am better versed than most men in the curious history of my native province, yet for a long time my inquiries were unattended with any substantial result. At length it happened that, one calm day in the latter part of summer, I was relaxing myself from the toils of severe study, by a day's amusement in fishing in those waters which had been the favorite resort of my boyhood, I was in company with several worthy burghers of my native city, among whom were more than one illustrious member of the corporation, whose names, did I dare to mention them, would do honor to my humble page. Our sport was indifferent. The fish did not bite freely, and we frequently changed our fishing-ground without better- ing our luck. We were at length anchored close under a ledge, of rocky coast, on the eastern side of the island of Manhatta. It was a still, warm day. The stream whirled and dimpled by us, without a wave or even a ripple; and everything was so calm and quiet, that it was almost star^-- ling when the kingfisher would pitch himself from the branch of some high tree, and after suspending himself for a moment in the air, to take his aim. would souse into the smooth water after his prey. While we were lolling in our boat, half drowsy with the warm stillness of the day, and the dulness of our sport, one of our party, a worthy alderman, was overtaken by a slumber, and, as he dozed, suffered the sinker of his drop-line to lie upon the bottom of the river. On waking, he found he had caught something of importance from the weight. On drawing it to the surface, we were much surprised to find it a long pistol of very curious and outlandish fashion, whieh. from its rusted condition, and its stock beirig worm eaten KIDD THE PIRATE 399 and covered with barnacles, appeared to have lain a long time under water. The unexpected appearance of this document of warfare occasioned much speculation among my pacific companions. One supposed it to have fallen there during the revolutionary war; another, from the peculiarity of its fashion, attributed it to the voyagers in the earliest days of the settlement ; perchance to the renowned Adriaen Block, ^ who explored the Sound, and discovered Block Island, since so noted for its cheese. But a third, after regarding it for some time, pronounced it to be of veritable Spanish workmanship. **I'll warrant," said he, *'if this pistol could talk, it would tell strange stories of hard fights among the Spanish Dons. I've no doubt but it is a relic of the buccaneers of old times, — who knows but it belonged to Kidd him- self?" ' - "Ah! that Kidd was a resolute fellow," cried an old iron-faced Cape-Cod whaler. — ** There's a fine old song about him, all to the tune of — My name is Captain Kidd, As I sailed, as I sailed :.— and then it tells about how he gained the devil's good firraces by burying the Bible : — I'd a Bible in my hand, As I sailed, as I sailed. And I sunk it in the sand, As I sailed. — **Odsfish, if 1 thought this pistol had belonged to Kidd, I should set great store by it, for curiosity's sake. By the way, I recollect a story about a fellow who once dug ^ " In 1611 the Intrepid Dutch navigator Adrian Block visited Manhattan Island, coasted the shores of Long Island Sound, discovering the Connecticut River and the Island still bearing his name." Todd, Story of New York, p. 10. 400 TALES OF A TRAVELLER up Kidd's buried money, which was written by a neighbor of mine, and which I learnt by heart. As the fish don't bite Just now, I'll tell it to you, by way of passing away the timec"— And so saying, he gave us the following narration. THE PEVIL AND TOM WALKER A few miles from Boston in Massachusetts, there is a deep inlet, winding several miles into the interior of the country from Charles Bay, and terminating in a thickly- wooded swamp or morass. On one side of this inlet is a beautiful dark grove ; on the opposite side the land rises abruptly from the water's edge into a high ridge, on which grow a few scattered oaks of great age and immense sizOr Under one of these gigantic trees, according to old stories, there was a great amount of treasure buried by Kidd the pirate. The inlet allowed a facility to bring the money in a boat secretly and at night to the very foot of the hill ; the elevation of the place permitted a good lookout to be kept that no one was at hand ; while the remarkable trees formed good landmarks by which the place might easily be found again. The old stories add, moreover, that the devil presided at the hiding of the money, and took it under his guardianship; but this, it is well known, he always does with buried treasure, partic- ularly when it has been ill-gotten. Be that as it may, Kidd never returned to recover his wealth ; being shortly after seized at Boston, sent out to England, and there hanged for a pirate. About the year 1727, just at the time that earthquakes were prevalent in New England, and shook many tall sin- THE DEVIL AND TOM W 4X.KER 401 ners down upon their knees, there lived near this place a meagre, miserly fellow, of the name of Tom Walker. He had a wife as miserly as himself : they were so miserly that they even conspired to cheat each other. Whatever the woman could lay hands on, she hid away ; a hen could not cackle but she was on the alert to secure the new-laid egg. Her husband was continually prying about to detect her secret hoards, and many and fierce were the conflicts that took place about what ought to have been common prop- erty. They lived in a forlorn-looking house that stood alone, and had an air of starvation. A few straggling savin4rees, emblems of sterility, grew near it ; no smoke ever curled from its chimney ; no traveller stopped at its door. ^ A miserable horse, whose ribs were as articulate as the bars of a gridiron, stalked about a field, where a thin carpet of moss, scarcely covering the ragged b^ds of pud- ding-stone, tantalized and balked his hunger; and some- times he would lean his head over the fence, look piteously at the passer-by, and seem to petition deliverance from this land of famine. The house and its inmates had altogether a bad name. Tom's wife was a tall termagant, fierce of temper, loud of tongue, and strong of arm. Her voice was often heard in wordy warfare with her husband ; and his face some- times showed signs that their conflicts were not confined to words. No one ventured, however, to interfere between them. The lonely wayfarer shrunk within him- self at the horrid clamor and clapper-clawing; eyed the den of discord askance; and hurried on his way, rejoicing, if a bachelor, in his celibacy. One day that Tom Walker had been to a distant part of the neighborhood, he took what he considered a short cut homeward, through the swamp. Like most short 402 TALES OF A TRAVELLER cuts, it was an ill-chosen route. The swamp was thickly grown with great gloomy pines and hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high, which made it dark at noonday, and a retreat for all the owls of the neighborhood. It ' was full of pits and quagmires, partly covered with weeds and mosses, where the green surface often betrayed the traveller into a gulf of black, smothering mud : there were also dark and stagnant pools, the abodes of the tadpole, the bull-frog, and the water-snake ; where the trunks of . pines and hemlocks lay half -drowned, half -rotting, looking like alligators sleeping in the mire. Tom had long been picking his way cautiously through this treacherous forest; stepping from tuft to tuft of rushes and roots, which afforded precarious footholds among deep sloughs; or pacing carefully, like a cat, along . the prostrate trunks of trees ; startled now and then by the sudden screaming of the bittern, or the quacking of a wild duck rising on the wing from some solitary pool. At length he arrived at a firm piece of ground, which ran out like a peninsula into the deep bosom of the swamp. It had been one of the strongholds of the Indians during their wars with the first colonists. Here they had thrown up a kind of fort, which they had looked upon as almost impregnable, and had used as a place of refuge for their squaws and children. Nothing remained of the old Indian fort but a few embankments, gradually sinking to the level of the surrounding earth, and already overgrown in part by oiaks and other forest trees, the foliage of which formed a contrast to the dark pines and hemlocks of the swamp. It was late in the dusk of evening when Tom Walker reached tha old fort, and he paused there awhile to rest himself. Any one but he would have felt unwilling to linger in this lonely, melancholy place, for the common THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER 403 people had a bad opinion of it, from the stories handed down from the time of the Indian wars; when it was asserted that the savages held incantations here, and made sacrifices to the evil spirit. ' Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled with any fears of the kind. He reposed himself for some time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boding cry of the tree-toad, and delving with his walking- staff into a mound of black mould at his feet. As he turned up the soil unconsciously, his staff struck against something hard. He raked it out of the vegetable mould, and lo! a cloven skull, with an Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before him. The rust on the weapon showed the time that had elapsed since this death- blow had been given. It was a dreary memento of the fierce struggle that had taken place in this last foothold of the Indian warriors. ** Humph l" said Tom Walker, as he gave it a kick to shake the dirt from it. **Let that skull alone!" said a gruff voice. Tom lifted up his eyes, and beheld a great black man seated directly opposite him, on the stump of a tree. He was exceed- ingly surprised, having neither heard nor seen any one approach ; and he was still more perplexed on observing, as well as the gathering gloom would permit, that the stranger was neither negro nor Indian. It is true he was dressed in a rude half Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash swathed round his body; but his face was neither black nor copper-color, but swarthy and dingy, and begrimed with soot, as if he had been accustomed to toil among fires and forges. He had a shock of coarse black hair, that stood out from his head in all directions, and Dore an axe on his shoulder. 404 TALES OF A TRAVELLER He scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of great red eyes. **What are you doing on my grounds?" said the black man, with a hoarse growling voice. '* Your grounds!" said Tom, with a sneer, ''no more your grounds than mine; they belong to Deacon Peabody." *' Deacon Peabody be d d," said the stranger, '*as 1 flatter myself he will be, if he does not look more to his own sins and less to tbose of his neighbors. Look yon- der, and see how Deacon Peabody is faring." Tom looked in the direction that the stranger pointed, and beheld one of the great trees, fair and flourishing without, but rotten at the core, and saw that it had been nearly hewn through, so that the first high wind was likely to blow it down. On the bark of the tree was scored the name of Deacon Peabody, an eminent man, who had waxed wealthy by driving shrewd bargains with the Indians. He now looked around, and found most of the tall trees marked with the name of some great man of the colony, and all more or less scored by the axe. The one on which he had been seated, and which had evidently just been hewn down, bore the name of Crowninshield; and he recollected a mighty rich man of that name, who made a vulgar display of wealth, which it was whispered he had acquired by buccaneering.* *'He's just ready for burning!" said the black man, with a growl of triumph. "You see 1 am likely to have a good stock of firewood for winter." "But what right have you," said Tom, "to cut down Deacon Peabody 's timber?" » The symbolism of this episode of the trees, and in fact much of this whole story, reminds one strongly of Hawthorne. Compare for example Hawthorne's story The Great Carbuncle in Twice Told Tales. Irvlng's story belongs to the general class of Faust-legends. THE DEVIL AND TOM WA] "The right of a prior claim," said woodland belonged to n?e long before one v.- faced race put foot upon the soil." "And pray, who are you, if I may be so bold?" sai, Tom. "Oh, I go by various names. I am the wild huntsman in some countries; the black miner in others. In this neighborhood lam known by the name of the black woods- man. I am he to whom the red men consecrated this spot, and in honor of whom they now and then roasted a white man, by way of sweet- smelling sacrifice. Since the red men have been exterminated by you white savages, I amuse myself by presiding at the persecutions of Quakers and Anabaptists^ I am the great patron and prompter of slave-dealers, and the grand-master of the Salem witches. " "The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake not," said Tom, sturdily, "you are he commonly called Old Scratch." "The same, at your service!" replied the black man, with a half civil nod. Such was the opening of this interview, according to the old story; though it has almost too familiar an air to be credited. One would think that to meet with such a singular personage, in this wild, lonely place, would have shaken any man's nerves; but TorA was a hard-minded fellow, not easily daunted, and he had lived so long with a termagant wife, that he did not even fear the deviL It is said that after this commencement they had a long and earnest conversation together, as Tom returned home- ward. The black man told him of great sums of money buried by Kidd the pirate, under the oak-trees on thp high ridge, not far from the morass. All these were under his command, and protected by his power, so that :ales of a traveller hem but such as propitiated his favor ...ju to place within Tom Walker's reach, ../nceived an especial kindness for him; but they f