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"QUIPS AND CRANKS, AND WANTON WII.KS, 
 NODS AND BECKS, AND WREATHED SMILES,* 1 
 
OUfPS and CRANKS 
 
 BY 
 
 J 
 
 HOMAS HOOD. 
 
 r 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Soutlebgc, ISantc, nnft lioutlriigc, Jfamnjjbmt Street, 
 
 NEW YORK: 56, WALKER STREET. 
 
 MDCCCLXL 
 


 TO THE 
 
 LADY MOLESWORTH, 
 
 of pencarrow. 
 
 My dear Lady Molesworth, 
 
 I have ventured to inscribe this book 
 to you rather in the hope that your good-nature 
 would invest it with a value in your eyes, than 
 in the belief that it is at all worthy of such a 
 dedication. 
 
 To myself it is a great satisfaction thus to 
 render, in return for the friendship and the many 
 kindnesses you have extended to me, the best 
 proof of my gratitude that it lies in my power 
 to give. 
 
 u 
 
VI 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 Such as the book is, whatever its merits or 
 demerits, I feel certain that it will have a 
 welcome at your hands. 
 
 I have the honor to be 
 Your Ladyship's very grateful Servant, 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 
PKEFACE. 
 
 my aim is in the following pages it is not very diffi- 
 cult to state. To kill a passing moment, and that 
 not perhaps without profit to the reader, is the 
 purpose for which I put forth my literary canoe 
 on the waters of public opinion. 
 
 Little excuse can be needed for such an under- 
 taking in these days of much reading. And if it be 
 urged that the collection is of too slight materials 
 to be worthy of publication, I would respectfully 
 
Vlll PKEFACE. 
 
 suggest that as we have "Half Hours with the Best 
 Authors," there is no reason why we should not have 
 Five Minutes with less exalted writers. 
 
 Such five minutes occur in the lives of us all. 
 Five minutes, when we would fain escape from the 
 pressure of business or trouble. Five minutes, when 
 we are desirous of not feeling how " the world is too 
 much with us " — or against us. Five minutes, that we 
 despairingly devote to the mysteries of Bradshaw or 
 the supplement of the Times in order to interpose a 
 barrier of type between our minds and meditation. 
 
 For such twelfths of an hour, or what you will, 
 this little volume may serve to divert, if not the 
 reader, at least his mind, and so prevent his 
 plodding round and round for ever in the same dull 
 circle of thought like a horse in a mill — or that 
 melancholy dog — the dog that runs after his own 
 tail. 
 
 It is an old saying that men often entertain angels 
 unawares. I trust it may be my good luck to enter- 
 tain my readers, and unawares instruct them too. 
 For I take it no author does — or should — write, 
 without a hope of doing this, even though he have 
 not sufficient self-confidence to enunciate such an 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 intention deliberately. If I am so fortunate I 
 shall indeed be proud and gratified. 
 
 I am encouraged to publish this volume, moreover, 
 by the kind welcome accorded some years since to 
 "Pen and Pencil Pictures," to which the present 
 collection is somewhat similar. 
 
 A few of the papers have already appeared in the 
 pages of Household Words, and Chambers' Journal, 
 and elsewhere. I take this opportunity of thanking 
 the respective Editors for their kind permission to 
 republish. 
 
 The remainder make their bow for the first time. 
 
 For the caprioles and curvets of my pencil I have 
 thus much excuse to plead. The drawings were 
 many of them made to give the hand a little variety 
 from the monotony of scriptorial up and down strokes. 
 Unlike the illustrations of my friend Sanderson, for 
 whose assistance I am most grateful, they cannot be 
 considered as artistic works. 
 
 To be a draughtsman indeed I dare not pretend. 
 But even if I could, I doubt if finished pictures by 
 one of my name would be so welcome to the public 
 as those peculiar combinations of Hood and Wood 
 that made the old Comic Annuals favourites. 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 Such as they are, however, I modestly offer my 
 blocks to my readers. I have affixed them some- 
 what at random to the prose and verse articles, in 
 tolerable profusion, in the belief that a book, like a 
 boy, is often the more lively for a few cuts. 
 
 HIS BROW WAS BENT— HIS EYE WAS GLAZED- 
 HE RAISED HIS ARM, AND FIERCELY RAISED—" 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MY SONG 1 
 
 A poet's bequeathing 41 
 
 UNDER THE CHESTNUT BOUGHS 42 
 
 A HANDFUL FROM HORACE 43 
 
 HOW MR. KEITT OP SOUTH CAROLINA STUBBED HIS TOE . 48 
 
 THE DEAL SHUTTER 55 
 
 THE PRATER OP THE WORKERS 76 
 
 THE GRAVE IN THE WEST 78 
 
 THE PRODIGAL 79 
 
 ELEGIACS 82 
 
 THE WIND'S ERRAND 84 
 
 A volunteer'd REVIEW IN 1858 86 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE SWALLOWS 97 
 
 BY THE RIVER-SIDE 99 
 
 A KING WITHOUT A CROWN 101 
 
 A LETTER FROM PRUSSIA 101 
 
 AMY MORTON 104 
 
 A LAY SERMON 106 
 
 -ENONE'S VIGIL 118 
 
 DRINKING SONG 119 
 
 CYPRESS AND LAUREL 121 
 
 MEMORY 125 
 
 ON THE WATER IN SPRING 127 
 
 "THE MAKER AND MODEL OF HARMONIOUS VERSE." . . 128 
 
 A BRASENOSE BALLAD 169 
 
 SAUCY ADELE 176 
 
 THE POACHER 178 
 
 THE HOLY GRAIL 181 
 
Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PEACE AND LOVE 181 
 
 DEATH AND THE LITTLE CHILD 186 
 
 AN IDLE TALE 193 
 
 IN AN ALBUM 194 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER • 196 
 
 A FABLE 197 
 
 A TALE OP THE HORSE-SHOE PALL ........ 202 
 
 MORN AND NIGHT 224 
 
 RECOVERY 225 
 
 THE SARACEN LADY 226 
 
 A SONG TO THE RIPPLES 227 
 
 A QUESTION 228 
 
 MY DOMESTIC'S MEDICINE 230 
 
 FREENDS 241 
 
 grains op gold 246 
 
 all in the downs 250 
 
 love and pity 252 
 
 the governess 254 
 
 the fair maids op cornwall 256 
 
 the secret of the stream 286 
 
 to * * * 287 
 
 prieraphaelite rhymes to a picture op my native 
 
 SEAPORT 289 
 
 SO FAR AWAY 292 
 
 AUTUMN 293 
 
 THE OLD YEAR'S RECORD 294 
 
 READING ALOUD 296 
 
 THE BRACELET 306 
 
 IN THE TRENCHES 307 
 
 THE TWO TWILIGHTS 309 
 
 AN UNTOLD STORY 311 
 
 A GATHERED BUD 312 
 
 "CHILDISH LITERATURE". 313 
 
 THE BIRDIE . 325 
 
 THE LAST OF THEM ALL 326 
 
 TO MY DOG 327 
 
CONTENTS. Xlll 
 
 PAGE 
 
 song . 329 
 
 her foot-step . . . . 330 
 
 THE TIDE-LINE 331 
 
 DYING LOVE 338 
 
 OXFORD BY NIGHT 338 
 
 DEATH AND SPRING 340 
 
 LIFE 340 
 
 THE SHELL 342 
 
 PROFESSOR STEINHERZ 343 
 
 LONG AGO 364 
 
 SONNET 365 
 
 beyond the sea 366 
 
 the days of powder 366 
 
 a very remarkable dream 368 
 
 little kindnesses 386 
 
 a parting song 387 
 
 a constant mind 388 
 
 l'envoi 389 
 
ompH km CHAHKS. 
 
 MY SONG. 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 "Alas! 
 Now the most blessed memory of mine age. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 HEY learn 
 in suffering 
 what they 
 teach in 
 song," was 
 not meant, 
 I take it, to 
 apply only 
 to those 
 whose an- 
 guish has 
 wrung from 
 them a me- 
 lancholy 
 
 melodious utterance, which the ancients may have 
 called Nsenia. I do not know that I have any right to 
 
2 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 bring forward this statement, being only a poor 
 organist in a country church, but perhaps I may be 
 allowed to explain what I mean. 
 
 From my earliest youth I have been devoted to 
 music : it has been my mistress : she, who in my 
 dreams visited me, and in my waking hours strength- 
 ened and comforted me : as far as I know, she is 
 better than any human mistress, for she has never 
 given me a cause of grief or jealousy, as a woman 
 might have done. Yet in this latter case, you must 
 know, I do not speak from my own experience, but 
 only because I have been the receptacle of the love- 
 sorrows of many men — younger men than myself by 
 many years — who have confided the stories of their 
 attachments to me, for a reason I am almost ashamed 
 to write, but which I must write, because I am 
 determined to speak the whole truth, now, at last, 
 when, after so long a time, I take up the pen. 
 
 Well, then, because they have a sort of love and 
 confidence in the old quiet organist of St. Etheldred's, 
 who has neither chick nor child to steal secrets 
 from him. Who has, mayhap, (God knows) a warm 
 heart that feels for other hearts, which are not con- 
 tent with a selfish warmth (if you will so call that 
 which has a nook for every sorrowing soul, and is 
 not so wrapt up in its own well-doing, as to grudge 
 shelter to another), but will spend their brightest 
 gleams in scintillating, like fireflies, around eyes, 
 women's eyes — brighter to mortal ken than their 
 own steadfast fires — to immortal vision, possibly, how 
 
MY SONG. 3 
 
 much less purely brilliant ! However, the boys here, 
 in this town of Lancarret, have a habit of coming to 
 me and telling their love-tales. But all this has no 
 more, that I can see, to do with my Song, than the 
 unmearftng preludes of many composers have with 
 the words they desire to give musical utterance to. 
 What I intended to say is, that Music ever has been 
 my faithful and kind mistress, and I have never had 
 experience of any other. 
 
 I am only, as I said before, the organist of a 
 country church — only a man wholly devoted to his 
 art— looking upon it, it may be foolishly, as that by 
 which this great harmonious universe of ours is 
 directed and governed, but still, looking at it in that 
 way, finding it not altogether to disprove his theory. 
 I may tell you how hereafter ; at present, I am only 
 speaking of myself. 
 
 The composer, before he adapts his poet's words to 
 music, gives you a few introductory bars, from which 
 I — and I say "I" humbly, as prefacing merely an 
 opinion of little worth— always endeavour, and if I 
 fail, believe that I ought to perceive the impression 
 which the poem conveys to the composer's mind. 
 It is for this reason that I am saying, and shall say, 
 so much about myself, in order that you may see 
 what solemn chords my subject awakes in me, and 
 may judge of it accordingly. 
 
 I believe as a writer, author, essayist (I am so 
 ignorant that I do not know the right term), I am 
 acting totally in opposition to all rule and precedent, 
 b2 
 
4 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 in talking so much of myself, and divulging what is 
 called the plot. 
 
 I am not so ignorant as not to see that people may 
 ask, how it is that I use Latin or Greek words in 
 the beginning of my Song, and so I shall* at once 
 account for it, by the foolish love of music that I have. 
 Will any one believe that, when I was thirty, I began 
 to study the classics, for the sake of the treatises on 
 music they afforded ? To be sure I had spare time 
 that might otherwise have been irksome — and as my 
 father was a clergyman — only a poor curate, howbeit 
 — he had given me a grounding in the dead languages 
 when I was a boy. Latin I merely read as a stepping- 
 stone to Greek. It was made a stepping-stone to 
 everything in my younger days. (I am seventy-two 
 now, so I may speak of thirty as my younger days.) 
 Well, I learnt Greek, in order to read the treatise of 
 the great philosopher Udamus, irepi tt;? /juovcrucr}? 
 Te^v?7?. Besides this treatise, which I found of little 
 use, I read much of Plato, who had a great, glorious, 
 golden ideal of 'kpfiovia, which I reverence, and shall 
 make use of some part of it in this — one of the sad- 
 dest songs this present age has known. 
 
 Being only an organist in a country church, I 
 believe I am, perhaps, over-bold in my last assertion ; 
 but I have read Milton, Shakespeare, and other great 
 writers of ancient time, and some among modern men 
 of letters, but I do not think that they have written a 
 more sorrowful song than this of mine ; mark me, I 
 say one more sorrowful, for I have not pride enough 
 
MY SONG. 5 
 
 to place my facts, even, in rivalry with their godlike 
 fictions ; but only say that, did they know this Song 
 of mine, they could not do more than give it miracu- 
 lous and wonder-stirring accompaniment of artistic 
 treatment, which I cannot do. And I am quite aware 
 too, that much very much, depends upon this adapta- 
 tion — this musical translation of feeling or fact. I 
 am quite well aware, that in this I may fail signally ; 
 that is, as far as black and white go ; but I know my 
 theme is perfect, and to that I trust. 
 
 There are people who aver that Handel and Mozart, 
 after conceiving a piece of music, would have been 
 able with dots and lines, with the assistance of feeble 
 words, such as ajfetuoso, or pianissimo, to convey in 
 black and white, all those glorious melodies that 
 were surging in their souls — could give their mantle 
 of inspired song — a sheet -of white paper, forsooth, 
 smeared with the imprint of a bleared copper-plate, — 
 alike to the school-girl, who has music driven into 
 her at two guineas a quarter (I have taught at less), 
 and the eager soul that drinks in music from pure 
 founts of inspiration with awe and reverence. Now, 
 I, always with a due sense of my un worthiness, being 
 what I am, feel that this cannot be true ; that the 
 great music which the mighty composers conceived, 
 is not to be conveyed by the mechanical means of 
 rests, minims, pedals, and such directions as con 
 expressione — can only be approached and rightly 
 construed by the heart, which sees beyond the scroll 
 of paper into the emotions that gave rise to, and the 
 
G QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 feelings that find utterance in the melody. And this 
 I will hold by to the death, because if it be otherwise, 
 you reduce music, my adored, my immortal mistress, 
 to a mere automaton, a mechanism, a science, and not 
 a soul-inspiring art, and would have me believe that 
 with a pattern before you, you can weave music as a 
 poor, ignorant, factory- operative weaves a carpet or a 
 curtain, 
 
 I was saying before this came into my mind, that 
 a great writer, knowing the story of this Song, might, 
 with his higher knowledge of the instruments and 
 appliances of his art, give it to you more artistically 
 and eloquently, yet lie could scarce do it as the subject 
 requires. As for me, I can only give it to you as I 
 felt it, and only by means of pen and ink, and words 
 — mere words, here, before your eyes, cold and lifeless ; 
 but you must awaken your soul, reader, — 
 
 " Make thine heart ready with thine eyes." 
 
 and then shall be revealed to you what this scroll 
 cannot show, the infinite pathos, the sublime, sad 
 melodiousness and rhythm of this my mournful Song. 
 
MY SONG. 
 
 THE FIRST VERSE. 
 
 " It has caught a touch of sadness, 
 
 Yet it is not sad ; 
 A dim sweet twilight voice it is, 
 Where To-day's accustomed blue 
 Is overgrayed with memories, 
 With starry feelings quivered through ! " 
 
 Lowell. 
 
 I think it was about twenty years ago that my sister 
 died, and bequeathed her child to my care. Her 
 husband had left her for another world, long before ; 
 and she had lived amid great struggles and priva- 
 tions, unknown to me, because " she would not 
 become a burden to her brother," she said. When 
 dying, she sent for me, and I went to her. I need 
 not tell you how it pained me to think of her unkind 
 concealment of her distress from me, for I think we 
 have a claim upon those near and dear to us to be 
 allowed to share their sorrows, and struggle by their 
 side. I know it gives an indescribable sort of happi- 
 ness to do so. What her struggles had been, I even 
 then did not know, but afterwards, when Phyllis had 
 lived with me some years, I began in some dim wise 
 to see what those sorrows must have been, that had 
 tuned the chords of that child's heart, which un- 
 wittingly awoke at times to such inexpressibly sad 
 JEolian murmurings. When I received her as a gift 
 
8 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 at her mother's death-bed, she was barely nine years 
 old ; yet, she was subdued, and silent, and most 
 unlike a child. 
 
 The day after my sister died, I returned to Lancarret, 
 bringing her body with me, and I buried her on the 
 south side of the church ; so close to it, that when 
 I played my favourite anthem on Easter Day, the 
 flowers that Phyllis had planted on the grave, almost 
 trembled at the gush of triumphant music that gave 
 wings to the words — 
 
 H He has arisen — arisen from the dead ! 
 Captivity is captive led ! 
 Where — oh Death ! — where is thy sting ? 
 Grave !— where is thy triumphing 1 " 
 
 I cannot tell why my sister called her child Phyllis ; 
 it is not a name that is common, is not even par- 
 ticularly pleasing. All she said to me was, " Phyllis 
 is the name we have given her ;" and so Phyllis was 
 what I called the child. Child ? ah me ! how many 
 years ago ! Not a child now ; and yet I cannot tell, 
 for in some of the old masters' paintings angels are 
 represented as children, ever beholding the face of our 
 Father in heaven. I cannot tell ! 
 
 It was my custom to go every evening and spend 
 an hour or so of the twilight with the grand old 
 organ in the church : calling from it memories of 
 solemn hours of praise or prayer recorded by the 
 great masters of my art — or feebly, blindly, reaching 
 toward their majestic thoughts with my poor volun- 
 taries — or, it may be, sometimes, when by the slowly 
 
MY SONG. 9 
 
 brightening stars I beheld mourners among the graves 
 in God's Acre, sinking the tones of the instrument to 
 low notes of sorrow and pity — thinking that, if my 
 divine mistress' voice could bring tears to some of 
 those eyes, she would give them a relief they had 
 not known for long. 
 
 At these times Phyllis accompanied me ; and often 
 in the dusk — when the pathos of such melody as 
 that of the Lord's despairing cry in the oratorio of 
 The Cross, wailing out. in anguish, made the darkness 
 tremulous with awe — I used to feel a little timid 
 hand rest upon my shoulder, and sometimes a low 
 sob would tell me that my child's heart was like 
 mine, that we both loved music with that reverential 
 love, which resembles only the memory of a mother, 
 gone from earth to heaven : far removed above our 
 humanity and its weaknesses ! 
 
 Well, so she grew by my side, from the quiet meek 
 girl, to the woman : sharing all my little plea- 
 sures, and not shrinking from my cares. She moved 
 about with a grace and sweetness that I can compare 
 to nothing but music, and that was why I called 
 her " Ditty." It seems an unmeaning name perhaps ; 
 but it grew out of the one her mother had given her 
 as a baby — " Dot," — which fitted her tiny frail figure, 
 even when I first knew her. But she was such music 
 in my home, that it grew to be " Ditty." I daresay 
 it does not sound well to other ears ; but to mine ! — 
 Oh, what would I not give if I dare utter it — dare 
 whisper it only to myself. I feel as if it were almost 
 
10 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 a sacrilege to write it. Ah, my child, my child ! your 
 name has never left my heart, or passed my lips, since 
 you were taken from me : since the last note of my 
 song died into silence — was borne away to join a 
 divine harmony, that never wearies or ceases. 
 
 I may be told perchance, that in speaking in this 
 way, and babbling so, I am destroying the effect of 
 my story ; but I tell you I am writing from my 
 heart, and cannot think of cold rules and formalities, 
 when I speak of my darling, my child; and the 
 heart, that is attuned to mine and sounds in unison, 
 will have seen from my prelude prophetically, and 
 knows this history ere it is written. 
 
 She was very pretty : I cannot describe her : I 
 should but fall into old commonplace phrases. Only 
 ask of any of those in this town here, and they will 
 remember her, and tell you how lovely, and how 
 loveable she was ; this last quality, I take it, is a 
 great component part of beauty, and I will tell you 
 why I think so. The poor fellow, who used to blow 
 the organ-bellows here, was an idiot ; he could not 
 speak more than about twenty words, scarcely suffi- 
 cient indeed to express his wants, and they were not 
 many. He lived here with me in this old house, 
 and would go to market, and on errands for me, and 
 was the only servant I had, except poor old Anne, 
 who had been Phyllis's nurse, and was another 
 legacy left me by my sister. 
 
 Well, this poor idiot adored Ditty. He would face 
 any danger, undergo any labour at one word from 
 
MY SONG. 11 
 
 her, and understood far better what was said by her, 
 than by any one else. 
 
 It was wonderful to see his love and devotion ! 
 
 Once as I was looking from rny window, I saw 
 Ditty come out of a house a little way down the 
 street, where she had been visiting a sick child. It 
 was getting near my tea-time, so she came away 
 hurriedly, and, running down the steps (the side 
 walk below my house, on the other side, is ten feet 
 above the road), she trod upon a large dog that was 
 lying asleep a,t the bottom. 
 
 My heart stood still, and I could not speak for 
 terror, as I saw the great brute spring up, bristling 
 his back, snarling, and showing a row of long white 
 fangs. He made a rush at Ditty, who, pale as a 
 lily-leaf and as tremulous, had sprung back to the 
 top step, and feeling she could go no further, had 
 turned and faced the animal. All this passed as 
 quickly as light, but not less quickly did poor Joe 
 fly across from our door, and in an instant I saw the 
 timid idiot, who usually skulked through the streets, 
 trembling at every child, and every half-starved cur 
 he met, throw himself upon the dog with such 
 frenzied strength and fury, that the surprised animal, 
 instead of attacking him in turn, only exerted its 
 power to make its escape. This Joe suffered it to 
 do as soon as he saw his mistress in safety, and 
 then came slouching over to the house in the same 
 listless way as ever. 
 
 Now on the other hand there was a young man (of 
 
12 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 whom you will hear more in the course of my song) 
 who was the handsomest man I ever saw. He was 
 not unkind to Joe ; he gave him money often ; yet 
 still the idiot, with some peculiar instinctive per- 
 ception, hated and feared him intensely ! I can't tell 
 whether philosophy or physiology can account for 
 this antipathy, but I think that Joe's mind, or soul — 
 I know not what — was impressed by the shadow of 
 an evil, which that young man was to bring upon 
 all the household Joe loved, and more especially 
 upon her for whom he had so intense and marvellous 
 an affection. 
 
 This young man, Guy L (I will not mention 
 
 his surname, for he is, I believe, still alive), was, when 
 first our acquaintance began, living with the Vicar 
 here, who superintended his studies with a view to 
 preparing him for the Civil Service in India, in which 
 he had been promised an appointment. 
 
 He was a fine, tall, hearty lad — selfish, I thought — 
 but all boys are selfish and vain for a time, and I 
 think it a good probationary trial they have to pass 
 in being so. 
 
 The Vicar had a bronze of Antinous which he 
 had brought from Italy, and I was much struck with 
 the likeness it bore to Guy. His hair fell on each 
 side of his forehead in thick, strong, wavy curls, 
 and would have fallen on his shoulders if he had 
 suffered it to grow : his eyes were full and black ; his 
 colour rich in a well-rounded cheek, and his lips were 
 classically carved but rather full ; indeed, the lower 
 
MY SONG. 13 
 
 part of his face was like that of Alexander on some 
 Macedonian coins that I have seen. That which, I 
 daresay, helped these resemblances to the classic heads, 
 was the calm cold expression of his face. Yon read mind 
 and intellect in his eye ; yon saw the innate strength 
 and power of his nature, but they seemed marble, 
 motionless, lifeless, not to be waked. Yon saw too 
 the depths of passion and fire in him, bnt they were 
 slumbering, like a waveless, inscrutable ocean asleep. 
 
 You looked upon him as you do at a strong fortress 
 standing by the sea ; you perceive the gaping cannon 
 peeping from its embrasures, or looking over its battle- 
 ments ; you are aware that half of its interior is a mag- 
 azine of powder and deadly shells, and you know that 
 that calm glassy sea is the same which engulphs whole 
 navies, and bursts asunder the bars the land raises 
 against its approach. But you feel secure ; you do 
 not expect the silence to be broken, which envelops 
 fortress and sea alike with a mighty calm, as the 
 moon floods them with liquid silver. So you knew 
 all the latent fire and fury, the ungovernable passions 
 and desires that were concealed beneath that calm 
 face of Guy's, but yet you never dreamt of seeing 
 them called into action — of beholding the fortress 
 clothed in all-devouring flame, and spreading death 
 around — the sea seething, lashing, and writhing, as if 
 it would swallow up the earth, and mingle with the 
 sky! 
 
 Only since the time of which I speak, have I begun 
 to know that all that passion, that grasping, thirsting, 
 
14 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 selfish strength, if quiescent apparently, was yet not 
 slumbering, and was not the less dreadful, baleful, 
 and destructive, because, instead of bursting out, and 
 raging madly and ungovernably, it was a slow con- 
 suming flame, burning its way like a fever steadily, 
 and devouring all things alike, on the altar raised to 
 self ; careless of the bleeding hearts, of the miserable 
 victims it destroyed, if only the fragrance of these 
 sacrifices was pleasing to the nostrils of the hideous 
 idol of this fearful worship. 
 
 Among his other refined tastes, Guy had a great 
 liking for music, and to all instruments preferred 
 the organ — and I think very rightly. There is such 
 power, such scope in an organ, as is not found else- 
 where subservient to one musician; and there is a 
 holiness and sanctity, as it were, in it, that leads me 
 to believe that it was not mere chance which made 
 it the vehicle of sacred melody, but that it was ap- 
 pointed divinely as the highest and best medium 
 between this world and the harmony of heaven, that 
 could be obtained by man. 
 
 Guy's love for music brought him often to my 
 house — in fact, he became pupil of mine, and a beloved 
 pupil too ; for I saw (or thought I saw) that his better 
 self refreshed and cheered him with the soft, tremu- 
 lous strains of the organ, when the evil spirit troubled 
 him, as David did of old for Saul. 
 
 Before long, my evening reveries in the organ-loft 
 were never without two sharers : as Ditty and I crossed 
 the churchyard, we used to see Guy throw down his 
 
MY SONG. 15 
 
 books (his study looked out on the church), and he 
 was sure to join us by the time I had unlocked the 
 door of the tower, of which the key always hung in 
 my bedroom. 
 
 We used to speak very little together, for Guy 
 quite understood that it was a privilege to be allowed 
 to accompany us, and as he saw that Ditty and I 
 seldom spoke, he thought it right to follow our 
 example. Once or twice, when I looked round as it 
 was growing dusk, I saw his eyes fixed upon Ditty, 
 who was looking out of the window at her mother's 
 grave. There was, I fancied, a strange sort of fasci- 
 nation in that fixed look ; but Ditty did not see him, 
 and I, knowing how lovely she was, did not wonder 
 at his admiring her. If she turned towards him, his 
 looks fell; yet, though their eyes did not meet, it 
 seemed as if Phyllis instinctively felt that long, 
 steady gaze, for I saw her often raise her hand to her 
 head, Or" move uneasily, as if under some strange 
 inexplicable influence. Perhaps I ought to have 
 given more attention to this, but I was so carried 
 away upon the wings of my beloved melodies, that I 
 hardly thought of it — it may be, I was not loth to 
 see that the boy I loved admired my child, and did 
 not care to prevent him from trying to win her heart. 
 
 One thing I learnt at this time, namely, that when 
 Phyllis went out, Guy would join her, but she never 
 accepted his invitations to stroll out into the country, 
 although she was very fond of the green lanes, and I 
 could seldom take her to wander, in their shade. 
 
16 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 But by degrees the two came to a better under- 
 standing ; a friendship grew up imperceptibly. Guy 
 used to bring flowers, and show Ditty how to arrange 
 them, and sometimes he would copy some happy 
 combinations of the bright blossoms for her work- 
 patterns ; in short, he exerted, quietly and unosten- 
 tatiously, all those thousand little pleasing arts and 
 attentions, which seem to spring up spontaneously in 
 a man, when the strings of the heart vibrate at the 
 first touch of Love. 
 
 And so, at last, Ditty's manner changed — at first 
 she had seemed to fear him — to have a sort of in- 
 voluntary shudder when he came, as an iEolian harp 
 trembles prophetically before the storm awakes. But 
 now her eyes met his frankly, and her little hand 
 came out and laid itself confidingly in his, when he 
 came, and when he went ; I cannot say that, finally, 
 it did not linger somewhat in his grasp. 
 
 Time passed on, and of an evening, in the old 
 organ-loft, less often did Phyllis' eyes stray out 
 of the window to watch the waving flowers on her 
 mother's grave. And now the timid hand did not 
 seek me in the dark, or rest upon my shoulder, 
 when the organ lamented almost articulately, in 
 unison with the cry, " Why hast thou forsaken me?" 
 I think that the little hand had found another resting 
 place — a hand that pressed it cheeringly, and caress- 
 ingly, and held it closely, that it might not tremble ! 
 
 And thus, at last, it fell out that, although Ditty 
 had declined a walk in the lanes when they were 
 
MY SONG. 17 
 
 green, and rich with violet-odours, and white with 
 flowering May, she did not refuse to stroll along them 
 when the green was changed to gold, to russet; when 
 the sere foliage was flittering slowly down, and there 
 hung in the air " the moist rich smell of the rotting 
 leaves;" nay, not even when the hedges began to be 
 white with snow. 
 
 From this time Poor Joe, the idiot organ-blower, 
 began to show a settled melancholy, sometimes ex- 
 hibiting traces of ungovernable rage. His avoidance 
 of Guy was not noticed by anyone save myself, but 
 it was not the less marked. He would creep in by 
 the belfry of an evening, and stay concealed behind 
 the organ, till we left the church, and I once caught 
 his eyes in the dark, peering round the screen, fixed, 
 with a look of hatred and dislike, upon Guy, who 
 was thinking of nothing but Ditty ; they had a fire 
 in them, a gleam, a spark, such as I never saw else- 
 where, except in the eyes of animals. Often too, 
 when I turned in crossing the churchyard on our way 
 home, I saw by the light of the moon, or when the 
 stars were many and bright, the face of Joe gazing 
 down on us from the belfry window, looking weird 
 and ghastly and wretched, in the cold white light. 
 
 Ditty was much altered now ; she had lost some — 
 yet not all, for it was almost a part of her nature — 
 of that silent, subdued sadness, that I have described 
 as surrounding her childhood. And so now, towards 
 the end of the first verse, my song rises to a more 
 cheerful tone, and its notes are bolder and louder, 
 
 c 
 
18 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 but still, through all, there runs the old air, hidden 
 perchance for a time, by gayer variations, but -not 
 lost ; as we hear the moan of the sea at night, dis- 
 tinctly above merry laugh and jest, as it rolls its 
 dim sad music through the open windows into bril- 
 liant saloons filled with happy, careless rejoicers. 
 
 " No more, ah nevermore ! 
 Such language holds the solemn sea 
 To the sands upon the shore." 
 
 Meanwhile Guy came more and more often to see 
 me, and would on some evenings come from the 
 organ-loft home with us, and sit by the fire till 
 midnight, talking. On such occasions Ditty and I 
 used to listen to him with great pleasure and interest, 
 for he was well-informed, and told us much about 
 many things — about India, his destination ; his future 
 duties, — and something of himself. 
 
 He was an orphan: his uncle was his trustee. His 
 father had died very rich, but had extended his son's 
 minority until he was six-and-twenty. He had three 
 years to pass before he could claim his property, and 
 he had accepted the Indian appointment as a pursuit, 
 an employment, which would keep his mind from 
 stagnating. He was to leave for Calcutta before the 
 spring. 
 
 The evening after he told us this, we went as usual 
 to the church. It so happened, that I stayed musing 
 over the keys, for a longer time than was my wont. 
 At last, after many other airs, I began that beautiful 
 one, arranged to Ruth's words to her mother-in-law. 
 
MY SONG. 19 
 
 As I came to the words, "Thy people shall be my 
 people/' I heard a little short sob. I turned in 
 wonder, for it was a sound I had not heard for a long- 
 time—not since Ditty's autumn walks. 
 
 There sat Guy, looking flushed, and happy, and so 
 proud : and poor little Ditty was encircled with one 
 of his arms, and had hidden her face on his shoulder. 
 
 * Mine ? — oh, yes — mine ? " exclaimed Guy enquir- 
 ingly, looking at me, and speaking with a strange, 
 unnaturally-check'd voice, as if he could hardly 
 refrain from crying out aloud. 
 
 I grasped his hand in silence, and we went out, 
 Ditty clinging to me, as if she feared I should be hurt 
 that she could love anyone but me. 
 
 It might have been the echo of Ditty's sobbing, 
 but I fancied, as we left the church, I heard a low 
 cry — a faint moan come from behind the organ. 
 
 That night we sat long over the fire : the lamp was 
 not lit, but by the dim, flickering flame of the logs, I 
 saw Guy's arm steal round my child's waist again, 
 and in the dusk, I almost fancied that her head was 
 leaning on his shoulder. So sitting, we talked of 
 what should be done. Then Guy told us that three 
 years must elapse before he could make Ditty his 
 wife ; for one of the clauses of his father's will 
 debarred him from his property, if he married during 
 his minority, without the consent of his guardian. 
 
 "My father," said Guy, "married unhappily: he 
 married at four-and-twenty, against the wishes of all 
 who knew and loved him. My mother was a danseuse 
 c2 
 
20 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 — of French or Italian extraction, I believe. Of 
 course, when my father married her, he withdrew her 
 from the stage ; but the quietness of a private life in 
 the country, was irksome to one so accustomed to 
 excitement. Disagreements arose : they finally went 
 to reside at Kensington, and there my — my father's 
 wife met with a Polish count, with whom she had 
 been acquainted during her public career. Well, it 
 is a sad story, an old story ! In a word, when I was 
 but three years old, I had no mother: that was a 
 name unrecognised in the house. And so you see 
 my father inserted those clauses in his will. 
 
 " My uncle and I do not agree. I daresay there is 
 blame on both sides, but I think — sincerely believe, 
 that our first difference arose from his anger at the 
 disappointment of his favourite scheme, which was a 
 marriage between myself and his daughter; but I 
 did not like her, nay, did my best to avoid her, 
 although he threw her in my way at every oppor- 
 tunity. She is beautiful, they say — not unamiable, 
 certainly. I don't know how it happened that, boy 
 as I was, I did not fall in love with her. Perhaps 
 the Fates reserved my heart whole, that it might be 
 an offering not altogether unworthy of my Phyllis' 
 acceptance ! " 
 
 The end of our evening's chat was, that the lovers 
 must wait patiently until the three years were over, 
 and that Guy was to resign his Indian appointment. 
 
 A week, it may be, passed quickly by in happiness. 
 Guy and Ditty were seldom separated. But at length 
 
MY SONG. 21 
 
 came a cloud ! Guy's uncle had speculated in mines 
 and railways, not only with his own property, but 
 with the whole of Guy's also — whether with honest 
 intentions or not, is uncertain. 
 
 At all events, one or two serious failures, following 
 close one upon the other, alarmed him, and fearing 
 for the safety of the rest of his own money, and 
 thinking that his misappropriation of Guy's would 
 come to light, he sold up everything he had, realised 
 an enormous sum, and was miles away on his road to 
 Australia, before Guy heard of his losses. 
 
 This calamity had a terrible effect upon us all. It 
 broke up our plans for the future, and increased the 
 time that must elapse before the marriage, nay, ren- 
 dered it very uncertain as to how many long years 
 must pass, before there was a chance of the union. 
 
 Upon none of us, however, had this disaster a 
 greater effect, than upon Guy. I am not speaking of 
 his feeling hurt at his uncle's wickedness, or the loss 
 of his property, but I am speaking of an effect upon 
 his character. 
 
 He stayed another month in Lancarret, and by the 
 end of that time I distinctly saw the change, and 
 trembled ! Accustomed to have every comfort, and 
 to deny himself nothing, he could not bear the 
 slightest privation. He grew peevish and morose — 
 not with Ditty though, and only very, very seldom 
 with me. 
 
 This was the first time I noticed how utterly selfish 
 he was. That Ditty was to suffer all the uncertainty 
 
22 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 of a procrastinated engagement, seemed to affect him 
 less, than that he was obliged to deprive himself of 
 his horses, his wines, his dress, and such selfish 
 animal pleasures and luxuries. 
 
 Of course, now, the Indian appointment was the 
 only chance left him of marrying in any reasonable 
 time ; so it was resolved he should go to Calcutta 
 without delay, and that, in three or four years or so 
 (unless he was lucky enough to get on in the interim 
 by other unforeseen aid), when his salary was 
 increased to a sum which would warrant his marry- 
 ing, he was to return to England on leave, and make 
 Ditty his wife. 
 
 Poor Ditty ! The loss of wealth was little to her : 
 if enough had been left to enable them to live ever 
 so humbly, she would not have murmured ; but she 
 knew that now Guy must leave her; must journey 
 so far over the sea, and, amid all the evils of the 
 tropics, and the dangers of a scarcely subdued pro- 
 vince, strive on alone, for years, before he could 
 make her his : this was more than she could bear. 
 She began to droop again. And so the original 
 melancholy of my song returns once more, to grow 
 ever more and more intensely sad, until its close. 
 
 Then came the departure. Guy left for South- 
 ampton ; we could not accompany him, for Ditty was 
 very ill. I only went to London with him for a day, 
 to help him to get his outfit, for which I lent him 
 what little money I had saved. 
 
MY SONG. 23 
 
 The letter lie wrote to Ditty the day before his 
 vessel sailed, found her still very ill, and was opened 
 by weak, trembling fingers, that, as she held it up to 
 the light to read it better, were so thin and wasted, 
 that I could hardly bear to see how transparent and 
 bloodless they looked, against the flame of the candle. 
 
 Thus, then, concludes the first verse of the song 
 with a low, tremulous wail, dirge-like, prophetic, 
 ever-deepening, to die at length into silence and 
 gloom. 
 
24 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 THE SYMPHONY. 
 
 " God, strengthen thou my faith that I may see 
 That 'tis thine angel, who, with loving haste, 
 Unto the service of the inner shrine, 
 Doth waken thy beloved with a kiss." 
 
 Lowell. 
 
 I FIND that being unused to composing — being indeed 
 utterly ignorant of the artistic rules — I have not 
 explained what I started by saying about those 
 words : " they learn in suffering what they teach in 
 song." I will try to make my meaning clear; but 
 I daresay you may have judged from the first verse 
 of my song, what it was my wish to prove — that 
 sorrow attunes all human hearts (joy does the same), 
 but that the heart does not always find utterance 
 for its song in the rhythmical — that, in a word, the 
 song, by which it teaches, is not necessarily the 
 actual poet's flying words, or the composer's plaintive 
 notes, but may find expression in life and actions. 
 
 Thus my Ditty, having, in that early childhood of 
 which I know so little, undergone many privations 
 and more griefs (seeing the struggles and sorrows of 
 the mother she loved so dearly), learnt that patience, 
 that affection, that tenderness, that subduedly-cheer- 
 ful spirit which formed her song — her life ! 
 
 Wretched I might be ; sometimes almost despair- 
 
MY SONG. 25 
 
 ing, but when Phyllis was by me, she taught me " in 
 song" — in her gentleness — her long-suffering — her 
 love and trust — 
 
 " how sublime a thing it is 
 
 To suffer and be strong." 
 
 With such sweet music, my heart could not jar — 
 could not break forth inharmoniously, amid those 
 low sweet tones. And that is what I mean, by saying 
 that, "they learn in suffering, what they teach in 
 song," applies as much to every man and woman, 
 as to the poet ; who, after all, is but, says the Greek 
 scholar, the doer, the maker, which may mean the 
 framer of a life, as much as of a poem. 
 
 My life, too, is of this description now ; it is a 
 dirge ; so sad, so melancholy, that between myself 
 and the world, it is like a mourning veil, — looking 
 through which I see a gloom upon all things ; while 
 I in turn, to all eyes that view me, am shaded, 
 darkened, concealed ; and, apart from the rest of the 
 world, chaunt my last song before I die, like the 
 cycnus of the Greeks. 
 
 Chaucer says that this 
 
 " Swan, ayenst his death that singeth," 
 
 is bewailing his departure from the reedy lake that 
 he has loved so long ; but Plato tells us it is not so, 
 and argues well that nature's music is not sad. But 
 man, toiling amid the thorns and thistles to earn his 
 bread with the sweat of his brow, makes the merry 
 wild creatures sharers of his woes. 
 
26 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 I am sure that this is true ; I feel that as we are 
 in sorrow or happiness, we construe the music of the 
 universe. I do not think two people would give 
 exactly the same meaning to Mendelssohn's Lieder 
 ohne Worte. Have you not noticed when travelling 
 by a coach, that, as the colour of your thoughts 
 happens to suggest, the rattling and jingling resolve 
 themselves into either a lamentation, or a lively 
 dance-tune % Why, take that melancholy last waltz of 
 Weber's, and you would find that Terpsichore would 
 dance a deux-temps to it, while it would bring a 
 flood of tears to the eyes of Thalia ; — and these two 
 are sisters ! 
 
 Thus, then, now after my great sorrow, all sights 
 and sounds awake in me some thrill of sadness, 
 awake some sleeping lament, and bring the tears to 
 my eyes. If the sun shines, it has shone as brightly 
 on Ditty ere this ; if the wind whisper, it has waved 
 her hair long ago ! Oh, sorrow ! queen of the world, 
 that art able to turn the earth, which He made and 
 "saw that it was good," into one vast instrument, 
 whose every note is part of the dirge for my child — 
 oh, my child ! my child ! 
 
 It is strange, ah, how strange ! that poor humanity 
 should thus attune all things to its own key-note. 
 
 Sights and sounds that I once thought cheerful are 
 now most melancholy in my ears, and to my eyes. 
 But so has it ever been since the world knew sorrow. 
 The forsaken lover, wandering by night in dismal 
 gloomy groves, that suited well his sombre thoughts, 
 
 
MY SONG. 27 
 
 was the first who called the nightingale the bird of 
 melancholy (ah, I remember a time when I thought 
 it as merry as the lark). The suicide, forgotten of 
 man and forgetting his God, as he hastened to the 
 river's brink, first discovered wailing voices in its 
 waves, and cries and moanings in the gale. 
 
 "We set our own words to nature's music, giving to 
 unmeaning sounds, words that belong to our own 
 woes ; and so when a little brown bird cheers its 
 brooding mate with song, we interpret it to be a 
 gushing of melodious tears from a broken heart. 
 
28 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 A FUGUE. 
 
 Sometimes however, when I feel saddest, this same 
 thought of which I have just spoken, appears to me 
 in a different light, and it seems as if wind, and 
 water, and merry bird, were all alike too gay ; that 
 nature cannot lend a single tone of sadness to blend 
 with my lament. 
 
 Oh, silver river, 
 
 That flowest on for ever, 
 
 Nor break'st the mirror'd heaven of thy breast ! 
 
 I cannot borrow 
 
 One note of sorrow 
 
 From thy low music, murmuring of rest ! 
 
 Oh, gentle breezes, 
 
 Whose whisper never ceases 
 
 To waft the praises of the perfumed flowers ! 
 
 I cannot borrow 
 
 One note of sorrow 
 
 From your soft voices in the summer-bowers. 
 
 And thou, who chantest, 
 
 Amid the groves thou hauntest, 
 
 Sweet Philomel — mis-named Disconsolate ! 
 
 I cannot borrow 
 
 One note of sorrow 
 
 From thy fond serenade unto thy mate. 
 
 Oh, heart that failest 
 
 Through grief, and ever wailest 
 
 Thy bleeding wounds in mournful monotone ! 
 
 Thou canst not borrow 
 
 One note of sorrow 
 
 From any, save thine own sad self alone ! 
 
MY SONG. 29 
 
 THE LAST VERSE. 
 
 " Singing — in her song she died ! " 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Springs passed by, and summers grew, and waned 
 to dreary autumns, and on to drearier winters, and 
 yet no news from India ! Paler and paler grew 
 Phyllis, day by day, paler and ever paler ! Night 
 after night in the dusky church, we spent hours 
 together, with Music, my beloved mistress, — and with 
 us she mourned, with us she lifted up her voice, and 
 cried aloud. The tattered flags, that hung from the 
 chancel walls, trembled at the agony of those dim 
 strains, that wailed and moaned so wildly ! 
 
 Poor, poor Ditty ! Her light footstep became so 
 light, you could scarce hear it, though you listened 
 for it, as I did, oh, how often ! I used to wait for it 
 of a morning, and yet my ears, intent as they were, 
 did not catch the sound of her tread. She seemed 
 to glide, and, oh, so frail, so ghost-like did she look, 
 I almost feared that she would fade away. 
 
 Old, cold, relentless time still stole onward, and 
 still no news ! 
 
 Once or twice the Yicar heard of Guy ; but the 
 Vicar did not know of Ditty's engagement, and so 
 said little to us, — indeed it was little that he knew, 
 
30 QUIPS AND CBANKS. 
 
 for he only heard indirectly of him through 
 friends. "He was doing well," the worthy old 
 clergyman told us, " but," he added, " I think grati- 
 tude might prompt him to write to his old tutor." 
 How little did the Vicar think, that Guy's neglect of 
 him was nothing, compared with his neglect of that 
 true, trusting, loving heart, which lived only for him, 
 which, failing, and growing feebler daily, still only 
 beat at the thought of him. For all this time, my 
 Ditty hoped that he would return ; still looked for- 
 ward to his coming ; believed he was only silent in 
 order to surprise her by his swift and unexpected 
 success, and intended to fetch her very soon. 
 
 All this she believed, and did not believe. I 
 mean she did not really believe it, but persuaded 
 herself to entertain these ideas. I cannot tell : I 
 could not altogether understand her. At all events 
 she did not wholly despair ; and yet she hardly 
 hoped ! Despair came afterwards ; a new note was 
 struck then, and one there was no mistaking ! 
 
 I can hardly tell whether I was grieved, or glad, at 
 what happened about this time — the last illness of 
 poor Joe. I think it was as well for him, poor 
 fellow, to close an existence only half-lighted by 
 reason, darkened by sorrow, poverty, and persecution, 
 to begin a life in a better world, where are no clouds, 
 either of sky, or mind ! 
 
 To Ditty this illness of Joe's was of great benefit ; 
 it roused her from the settled melancholy, which was 
 closing around her, and employing her with the 
 
MY SONG. 31 
 
 sorrows of another, made her half forget her 
 own ! 
 
 Poor Joe had latterly become very weak, and had 
 seldom been able to attend me to the church, but I 
 still continued his pay as organ-blower ; and his 
 brother, who was an ingenious fellow, with a turn for 
 mechanics, contrived some very excellent machinery, 
 which could be connected at pleasure, by a crank, to 
 the works of the clock, and would blow the bellows 
 by that means very evenly and well. I fear it rather 
 injured the correctness of the clock, but, as its regu- 
 larity was not very great at the best of times, the 
 Vicar did not complain. 
 
 But to return to poor Joe. At length he became 
 seriously ill, and confined to his bed. One morning 
 Ditty told me the Doctor believed he could not live 
 through the day. I went to see him. He was worn 
 to a skeleton. 
 
 The surgeon, who was present, explained to me 
 -what his treatment had been ; but allowed that the 
 phenomena of the case were peculiar, and that he 
 hardly knew what course to pursue. " You know," 
 he said at last, " I daresay, that a new Physician has 
 come into the town. A very clever man I hear. He 
 was with the army in Egypt. Perhaps you are not 
 aware, that the men, while there, suffered much from 
 the heat of the climate, which brought on a peculiar 
 mania or phrenzy, terminating always in an exhaus- 
 tion, almost comatose, similar to what my patient 
 here labours under. Now, do you mind sending for 
 
32 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 the new Doctor ? I think he might be acquainted 
 with the symptoms, and possibly do something for 
 the poor fellow." 
 
 I sent off at once, of course ; thanking the surgeon 
 for the suggestion. He said he hoped his advice 
 might be of use, and added, as he rose to go, " Send 
 for me when he comes, or if Joe gets worse. I don't 
 think that it is much use though ; I don't think he 
 can live out the day." 
 
 Joe was awake by this time, but we spoke without 
 reserve before him always, imagining that he could 
 not understand us. At these words of the surgeon, 
 however, he sat up in the bed, and to our surprise 
 asked in an anxious voice : — 
 
 "When must I die, sir? Oh, tell me, tell me, 
 please !" 
 
 We were speechless with astonishment ! I looked 
 at his face, — it was altered utterly ! The suspicious, 
 restless, movement of his eyes had disappeared with 
 the dullness, which used to shade them ; the droop- 
 ing of his lower jaw was gone: his mouth was closed 
 firmly, and altogether he looked as intelligent as any 
 one I ever saw ; although he had that happy, 
 innocent, yet astonished, look we see in a child, 
 when it wakes suddenly out of a strange dream. 
 
 "Die!" he murmured, "Why I seem only just to 
 be alive ; it is hard, oh, very hard to die now, just 
 when I am alive ! I know I've been very strange 
 and odd — mad isn't it ; I think that is what the boys 
 used to call me, — 'Mad Joe; I'm not mad now 
 
MY SONG. 66 
 
 though, really! Am I?" He lay back in the bed, 
 looking at the ceiling thoughtfully. The surgeon 
 shook his head ; for he saw this was the beginning 
 of the end ; so, whispering to me that he was going 
 for the new Doctor, he went out. 
 
 Ditty bent over Joe, and arranged the pillows 
 under his head. He looked at her earnestly for a 
 long time ; took her by the hand timidly, and 
 thanked her for all her gentleness and kindness. 
 
 At last, in a faint, eager voice, he said — 
 
 "Will you be angry with me for asking you to 
 promise me a greater kindness than all the rest? 
 Please forgive me for asking it! Will you promise?" 
 
 He saw assent in Ditty's face, for she could not 
 speak. 
 
 "No, don't promise, though!" he continued, "but, 
 if you do not think I am asking for too much — 
 when — when I am dead — and I know I am dying — 
 shall die soon, but I'm not afraid; when I am dead, 
 just put your lips to my forehead, please, — once, only 
 once — before they bury me — only once!" • 
 
 In an instant Ditty bent over him, with tears in 
 her eyes, and kissed him on the lips — a pure, pitying 
 kiss. Such an one as a mother gives her child before 
 it falls asleep — and thus poor Joe fell asleep for 
 ever on Earth, but in Heaven awoke to join in the 
 ceaseless Music of Praise, with lips sanctified, it 
 may be, by that last kiss of pity and mercy. 
 
 Before long, the surgeon returned with the new 
 doctor, who was much interested in Joe's history, 
 
 D 
 
34? QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 and staying with us, sat down for some time, and 
 listened to my account of the poor fellow. 
 
 When he had heard me to the end, he said, " It 
 may be some comfort to yon, perhaps, to know that 
 it is my opinion that no one could have saved him ! 
 From your description of him, I should think that 
 some great emotion or passion had awakened the 
 sleeping reason within him, and that this, striving 
 to assert its powers, and assume its reign, had been 
 too powerful .for the body — the blade was too keen 
 for the sheath — it is not an unusual thing, I fancy ; 
 and so nothing could have saved him. 
 
 "Mental ailments, Shakespeare tells us, are not 
 to be minister'd to by man's art, and I really half 
 think he is right. Moreover, they often superinduce 
 physical diseases which are apparently as incurable 
 as the malady which caused them." 
 
 His words struck me very forcibly; I wondered 
 and pondered. All Joe's actions came before me. 
 Did the poor creature love Ditty? It might be so, 
 certainly > no one could help loving her. And this 
 intense love, awakening reason, it had overwrought 
 the poor frail house it dwelt in. All this seem'd to 
 be, as it were, revealed to me in those few words of 
 the Doctor's. He continued: 
 
 " In the case of people of weak intellect too, it is 
 so difficult to get them to explain their symptoms 
 properly ; and what is more they stray and wander 
 about everywhere, and so often contract contagious 
 or infectious diseases, which they carry home with 
 
MY SONG. 35 
 
 them, and communicate to persons, who have no 
 suspicion of the places they have been haunting, and 
 only discover it too late ! 
 
 " When I was in India I met with a very distressing 
 case of this description. Just before I returned to 
 England, a Coolie, whose reason .was much obscured, 
 had caught one of the most malignant of Indian 
 fevers, during his wanderings in an unhealthy 
 suburb. He was taken ill and died ; but not before 
 he had given the fever to all in the house. His 
 master was a friend of mine in the Civil Service at 
 Ballyghur. He called me in, but I could do very 
 little. The sickness carried off all the four children, 
 
 and poor Guy L and his wife were scarcely 
 
 recovered when I left the East." 
 
 At the mention of that name, poor Ditty became 
 in an instant (for I instinctively looked at her 
 directly it was spoken) as pale as death ! She did 
 not faint — she did not scream ; she half rose from 
 her chair, and pressed her hand tightly over her 
 heart. 
 
 Her breath ceased for a moment, and then broke 
 out in a short sob, half a sigh, half a cry ! 
 
 "What is the matter?" exclaimed the Doctor. 
 " It is very foolish of me to alarm you in this way ; 
 indeed I did not think your nerves were so delicate. 
 Eeally — I assure you there is no fear : I am sure the 
 patient you have so kindly nursed was not suffering 
 from anything contagious. If you feel at all unwell, 
 we will soon set that to rights : depend upon it 
 D 2 
 
36 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 it's only from weariness, and over-excitement. Pray 
 set your mind quite at rest." 
 
 She never answered a word. She seemed to glide 
 out of the room. As for me, for some minutes I 
 could neither speak nor move. At length I recovered 
 myself. I don't quite know what I said to the 
 Doctor, but I think I told him he had mentioned the 
 name of a dear friend of ours, " who was dead — was 
 gone — was not the one he spoke of, but another ; the 
 resemblance of the names had been too much for my 
 niece ; would he excuse my going to her." At all 
 events he went ; and I stole up to Ditty's door — not 
 a sound ; I knocked, but she only answered by a 
 sob. At length she begged of me not to think of 
 her — to leave her ; she would be down soon. So I 
 had respect for her grief, and went down stairs. Her 
 room was over the sitting room, and she never 
 moved : once or twice I was so frightened, that I 
 went up to her door, and then I heard a low murmur, 
 that I could hardly call a moan, yet I felt it was one ; 
 it was a new note in my Song, Despair! It was 
 breaking in upon it now, for the first time telling of 
 its close ! 
 
 Little sleep was there in our house that night ! 
 
 The next morning Ditty came down. She came 
 to me, and kissed me, and, laying her head upon my 
 shoulder, whispered, " Not a word, dear uncle, not a 
 word ; it is all buried. Do not speak to me of what 
 is passed. Forget it !" 
 
 From that day we never spoke of it. She moved 
 
MY SONG. 37 
 
 about the house the same as ever. But my Song was 
 changed. A new chord was struck in it, that rose, 
 strong, and incessant, over all the rest ; and the 
 music that once fillefl my house was changed to a 
 dirge, that spoke only of despair, and unutterable woe ! 
 
 When I had recovered from the shock sufficiently 
 to be able to think and reason with myself, I went 
 to the doctor, and learnt from him all the particulars 
 of Guy's life. 
 
 He had married a rich widow the year after he 
 got out to India. "Everybody said he married her 
 for her money, " the doctor told me, " and he was 
 afraid there might be some truth in it, for she had 
 little other recommendation. She was a fierce, jealous, 
 proud, vulgar woman; and" — although the money 
 made Guy happy enough, by enabling him to satisfy 
 all his selfish desires, and to surround himself with 
 every luxury and indulgence — " his domestic life 
 was one perpetual round of brawls, of reproaches 
 and recriminations, which wealth could hardly find 
 a balm for." I learnt also that the fever, which I 
 have mentioned, had left him blind and a cripple ! 
 " Are the wicked never punished in this world ?" will 
 you ever say after hearing this? If the rain falls on 
 the just and the unjust, there are also judgments 
 which fall upon sinners only : and there is a hereafter 
 awaiting the righteous, who are not cast down utterly* 
 although the children of wickedness seem, for a time, 
 to overcome and oppress them. 
 
 Such were the thoughts which entered my mind 
 
38 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 as I sat musing over the fire, when I returned from 
 the Doctor's. 
 
 It was night and Ditty was not at home, but I was 
 not alarmed as I thought she might have taken the 
 opportunity of my absence to visit her mother's 
 grave, as she had often done of late. 
 
 Suddenly I heard the sound of the organ in the 
 church. I immediately guessed she was there. 
 How strange at that time of night ! I listened. She 
 was playing " Euth ; " she was thinking of the time 
 when Guy had declared his love for her. 
 
 I stood rooted to the spot for some minutes, she 
 played so plaintively — so supernaturally ! I could 
 hardly believe that any human being could so touch 
 the keys, and bring forth such weird, such ghost-like 
 sounds. 
 
 I went down the stairs and stepped into the 
 churchyard intending to bring her home, for it was a 
 bitter cold night. 
 
 As I opened the church door, the music ceased 
 suddenly ; and then the organ broke forth into a 
 strange, unearthly wail, that seemed almost like a 
 human voice ! 
 
 With this wild cry ringing in my ears, I rushed to 
 the organ ; and there lay my poor child, my Song, 
 my only music— dead! 
 
 Her face had fallen forward upon the keys, and, 
 above her, the organ still, amid the gathering darkness, 
 moaned and lamented in that long solemn sighing ! 
 
 Poor child, poor child! The broken heart had 
 
MY SONG. 39 
 
 ceased its painful throbbing at last, the aching head 
 was at rest, the weary spirit fled! 
 
 So I took up my dead, that had raised its own 
 dirge, and bore it into the house. How I did it I 
 cannot tell, for I did it mechanically, and, as soon as 
 I had laid my Ditty on her bed, I fell to the ground 
 myself — stricken down by that great burden of grief 
 — senseless, speechless, lifeless ; as motionless and 
 still as my own darling, silent as my Song, which had 
 died into stillness for ever and ever. 
 
 THE FINAL BAES. 
 
 " Faith, which is but Hope grown wise, and Love 
 
 And Patience, which at length shall overcome." 
 
 Lowell. 
 
 So is my child gone before ! So has my Song died 
 away upon earth to become perfected in Heaven — 
 for there, I know, it arises purified from sorrow, 
 doubt, and pain — a part of the eternal melody of the 
 great creation — without a jarring chord, a doubtful 
 note, an erring sound. 
 
 And now is my life also a song ; it may be a sad 
 one — a dirge for my child, but not the less a song, 
 and at least without the solemn note of despair — 
 and angel wings shall, some day, bear it upward to 
 join the harmony of that better world, whence, I 
 
40 
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 think, some notes of my Ditty's divine lays descend 
 to me to sanctify this life of mine, which is my song. 
 
 And thus, in much suffering, with much sorrow 
 through many long years, have I learnt that lesson, 
 which I would humbly teach in my song : 
 
 And that lesson is Faith, Love, Charity ; and that 
 crown of all virtues, that key-note of all holy strains, 
 all acceptable hymns — Patience ! 
 
 A QUICK MOVEMENT IN C. 
 
41 
 
 A POETS BEQUEATHING. 
 
 He left not to his children wealth untold, 
 
 No lofty title, and no lordly fee, 
 
 No wide estate of cornland, wood, and wold, 
 
 No prosperous argosy upon the sea, 
 
 No weighty treasure of ancestral gold, — 
 
 Nothing that Moth and Eust corrupt left he ! 
 
 The mantle of his inspiration fine, 
 
 As he ascended, did not fall on them ; 
 
 Yet, so in his reflected worth they shine, 
 
 It seems as they had touched the mantle's hem : 
 
 For he had won a people's reverence 
 
 That grows to love for those he loved : and when 
 
 In His appointed time God took him hence, 
 
 Their heritage was in the hearts of men. 
 
42 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 UNDEE THE CHESTNUT BOUGHS. 
 
 E hear the Cuckoo far away 
 Go wandering through the wood; 
 As we heard it many years ago, 
 When in this place we stood. 
 As then the daisies stud the grass, 
 
 The trees burst into bud ; 
 
 Green grow the arches overhead, 
 
 And green the mirror-flood — 
 
 Under the Chestnut Boughs ! 
 
 Oh, many, many years ago 
 
 We heard the Cuckoo's tones, 
 
 And saw the branches overhead 
 
 Waving their snowy cones. 
 
 Ah, many, many years ago, 
 
 Our daughter's tiny hand 
 
 Was clasped in ours, when here we stood 
 
 Where now alone we stand — 
 
 Under the Chestnut Boughs ! 
 
 The silver flecks your hair, my wife, 
 The wrinkles mark my brow : 
 
. UNDEK THE CHESTNUT BOUGHS. 43 
 
 But Time can touch our hearts no more 
 
 Than it can touch her now. 
 
 So many, many years ago, 
 
 And yet our Love's the same, 
 
 While Grief has blossomed into Hope, 
 
 And we can breathe her name — 
 
 Under the Chestnut Boughs ! 
 
 A HANDFUL FROM HORACE. 
 
 TO LYDIA. 
 (Lib. I. 0. 8.) 
 
 A MODERN VERSION ATTEMPTED IN THE ORIGINAL METRE. 
 
 Say, madam, I adjure you 
 
 By heaven above — why with your love Charlie to 
 
 ruin lure you ? 
 Why does he hate reviewing, 
 He, who before, best in the corps, stood so much dust 
 
 and stewing ? 
 Why does he too, refusing 
 Rides with a mate, never of late break his own 
 
 charger, using 
 A bit of the Chiffney pattern ? 
 
44 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 What's come to him that he won't swim ? Why does 
 
 he wear, the slattern, 
 Belts that so want pipe-elaying ? 
 What is he at? He was a bat, famous for cricket 
 
 playing. 
 Why ! he was such a driver, 
 If he at all swiped at a ball, it was a four or fiver ! 
 Why is he hid — as Thetis 
 Kept her young boy, in days of Troy, (so says the 
 
 ancient treatise,) 
 Making her son a daughter ; 
 Lest from her arms, 'mid war's alarms, he should be 
 
 snatched for slaughter ? 
 
 FANCY PORTRAIT. CURIUS DENTATUS. 
 
A HANDFUL FROM HORACE. 45 
 
 •* 
 
 TO NEOBULE. 
 (Lib. III. 0. 12.) 
 
 A MODERN VERSION ATTEMPTED IN THE ORIGINAL METRE. 
 
 Hapless lasses ! who in glasses may not drown the 
 
 pangs of passion, 
 Or disclose its bitter woes, it's — so they tell you — not 
 
 the fashion ; 
 And each petty breach of etiquette has savage tongues 
 
 to task it ! 
 But now, truly, Neobule, Love has pilfered your work- 
 basket, 
 And your netting; quite upsetting your once busy 
 
 disposition ! 
 That young Cornet (tho' you scorn it as a very weak 
 
 suspicion) 
 He's the fellow, with his yellow whiskers, and his 
 
 Queen's commission. 
 
 Well, he's rather, as a bather, thought a splendid 
 
 hand at diving ; 
 Nor forgotten be in Eotten Eow his horsemanship, 
 
 — his driving. 
 Then he's reckoned scarcely second to professionals 
 
 in sparring ; 
 And at running, he is cunning: good at all things, 
 
 nothing barring. 
 
46 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 I've heard talking that out stalking he's a crack shot 
 
 with* a rifle, 
 And in India (where he's been, dear) of wild-boar 
 
 he's speared a trifle. 
 
 THE BANDUSIAN SPRING. 
 (Lib. III. 0. 13.) 
 
 Clearer than crystal, Bandusian spring, 
 Worthy of goblets of flower-crowned wine ! 
 Hither to-morrow a kid will I bring, 
 Bring as a gift to these waters of thine. 
 
 Flower of the flock, the young wanton in vain 
 (With the horns on his brow just beginning to bud) 
 Plans the wars he shall wage, or the loves he shall 
 
 gain, 
 For to-morrow thy ripples shall blush with his blood. 
 
 The Dog-star, when fiercest it rages on high, 
 Cannot touch thy cool wave. To the plough-wearied ox 
 Deep draughts of delight the sweet waters supply, 
 And a stream cold as ice to the wandering flocks. 
 
 Thou shalt be first 'mid the springs of renown, 
 This oak will I sing that o'ershadows thy head, 
 From under whose roots thy bright waters flow down 
 With laughter and song o'er the rocks in their bed. 
 
A HANDFUL FEOM HORACE. 47 
 
 FAUNUS. 
 (Lib. III. 0. 18.) 
 
 Faunus, flying nymphs pursuing 
 
 In wild wooing, 
 
 Tread propitious o'er my ground 
 
 And the sunny slopes around, 
 
 And in going 
 
 Bless the growing 
 
 Steers from murrain's foul undoing. 
 
 So each year to thee a tender 
 
 Kid I'll render ; 
 
 And rich incense to the skies 
 
 From thine altar shall arise ; 
 
 Nor of Bacchus 
 
 Shall there lack us, 
 
 Venus' playmate and befriender ! 
 
 Eoams the flock, unwatched, at pleasure 
 
 When we measure 
 
 To December's nones the year, — 
 
 'Tis thy feast ! and far and near 
 
 'Neath cool shadows 
 
 In the meadows, 
 
 Man and beast share rest and leisure. 
 
48 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 Strays the wolf among the feeding 
 
 Flocks unheeding, 
 
 While the wood its leaves around 
 
 Strews for thee ; and on the ground, 
 
 Hateful soil, 
 
 Source of toil, 
 
 Happy clowns the dance are leading. 
 
 HOW ME. KEITT OF SOUTH CAKOLINA 
 STUBBED HIS TOE. 
 
 " But 'twas a glorious Victory ! " — Battle of Blenheim. 
 
 In Congress Hall, before them all, up Gin'ral Quit- 
 man gets : 
 
 For when his side says, " Let's explain ! " — says 
 Gin'ral Quitman — " Let's ! " 
 
 So first he spat, then up he gat, and coughed to clear 
 his throat, 
 
 Says he, " an explanation, gents of Congress Hall, I 
 vote ! " 
 
 Now, ill or well, it so befell that Grow had crossed 
 the Hall 
 
 To have a word with Hickman there, and he began 
 to call — 
 
HOW MR. KEITT STUBBED HIS TOE. 49 
 
 "Order I say, this here won't pay! Come, Gin'ral 
 
 you, it's plain 
 You've got no right to speak to-night, so jest sit 
 
 down again ! " 
 
 " Terrible,"— Well, I will not tell what wrathy Keitt 
 
 exclaimed, 
 " Oh chalk and nutmegs ; if I don't may I be tarnal 
 
 blamed ! 
 I say, hullo, you Mister Grow, what everlastin' call 
 Have you to talk, unless you walk to your side of 
 
 the Hall? 
 You've no right here, it's mortal clear, on this side 
 
 anyhow!" 
 
 " The Hall is free to you and me ! " says calmly 
 
 Mister Grow, 
 "And where I please I'll straighten knees, and rise 
 
 for an oration!" 
 With husky breath, between his teeth, says Mister 
 
 Keitt, "Tarnation!" 
 
 Then Indiana Harris rose, and came it pretty slick, 
 
 Just as a sickly kitten leans agen a hotted brick, 
 
 " With confidence," says he, " immense, I fearlessly 
 
 repose 
 On warmth and generosity, as tall as Mister Grow's : 
 And he's the gent as won't prevent an explanation fair, 
 Such as I calculate we'll get from Gin'ral Quitman 
 
 there!" 
 
 E 
 
50 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 Now when he heard that knowing card, and what he 
 
 sort o' said, 
 Grow, with a smile as smooth as ' ile/ says, " Gin'ral, 
 
 go ahead ! " 
 Then turning back, he made a track the other side 
 
 to reach, 
 But Keitt in wrath obstructs his path, with wild and 
 
 angry speech, 
 " Oh beef and greens ! " he cries, " what means that 
 
 answer as you made?" 
 Says Mister Grow, " I'd hev you know, I mean jest 
 
 what I said ! " 
 " I'll show you, — you " (and angry grew that Carolina 
 
 man) 
 " You nigger-pup, I'll show what's up, I'll give you 
 
 black — and tan ! " 
 " Think what you please," says Grow at ease, " but 
 
 don't the notion nourish, 
 That round my ears, slave-driver fierce his cowhide 
 
 e'er shall flourish !" 
 
 Oh! wild as snakes "when first they wakes," Keitt 
 
 clutches at the throat 
 Of Mister Grow, but misses, — so he only tears his 
 
 coat; 
 His foeman bold shakes off his hold, and frees his 
 
 velvet collar, 
 And Eeuben Davis runs between " for fear as worse 
 
 should foller ; " 
 But all in vain would he restrain the causer of the row, 
 
HOW MR. KEITT STUBBED HIS TOE. 51 
 
 (For Keitt, you see, well knew that he was twice as 
 big as Grow) — 
 
 He broke away, and on his prey he leapt, with fierce 
 intent, — 
 
 Then Grow let out his manly left, and down his foe- 
 man went ! 
 
 He rose again, but all in vain, his blows were weak 
 
 and wild; 
 And out into the open air they led that wayward 
 
 child: 
 They sponge his nose, they brush his clothes, they 
 
 dust his tro user-knees, 
 And to himself that warlike elf returned by slow 
 
 degrees. 
 His brain confused, his body bruised, cool'd not his 
 
 valor's glow, 
 He faintly sighed, "the dog had died, had I not 
 
 stubbed my toe!" 
 His friends around with pity found his mind in sue 
 
 confusion, 
 But winked, and gently grinned aside, and suffer' d 
 
 the delusion. 
 
 Meanwhile the din grew loud within the lofty Con- 
 gress Hall; 
 
 In furious fray, with loud hurray, had joined the 
 members all; 
 
 For Davis and the Southern band had seized on 
 Mister Grow, 
 
52 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 When, swift as flame, the North men came to free 
 him from the foe. 
 
 Then many a hand, with peaceful aim, was laid on 
 
 wrathy wrist, 
 But found, with dread, it only led to fiercely don bled 
 
 fist. 
 And many a legislator stern with awe expected 
 
 that, 
 Which he'd expectorated it, would smash his head 
 
 or hat, 
 For down came Croode from where he stood, and 
 
 raising in his hands 
 An earthenware spittoon in air, he join'd the op- 
 posing bands. 
 With fearful glance, each foe askance the dreadful 
 
 weapon viewed, 
 And, though the blows fell pretty thick, no blow was 
 
 aimed at Croode. 
 
 But he, uncertain upon whom his favour to bestow, 
 Around the ring kept hovering, and threatened still 
 
 the blow ; 
 Until at last the thing he placed (when silenced was 
 
 the din) 
 Upon the floor, where 'twas before, and calmly spat 
 
 therein. 
 
 Eanged on the side of South was spied old Caroline's 
 McQueen, 
 
HOW ME. KEITT STUBBED HIS TOE. 53 
 
 And there were Craige, and Barksdale bold, and 
 
 Keuben Davis seen; 
 While on the North, for manly worth, brave Potter 
 
 bore the bell, 
 And forward strain'd the Washburnes twain the 
 
 warlike ranks to swell. 
 On Barksdale's back, with mighty thwack, resounded 
 
 Potter's blow; 
 And Barksdale swore a horrid oath, and dropt his 
 
 hold of Grow: 
 With rage he burned, and round he turned, " Oh 
 
 snakes and bowie-knives ! " 
 He cried aloud, "You loafing crowd! I'll spile your 
 
 mortal lives ! " 
 That Eli Washburne struck the blow he thought, and 
 
 kind o' grinned, 
 Then cut three capers on the floor, and smote him 
 
 in the wind. 
 As bends au oak 'neath lightning's stroke, before the 
 
 tempest's brunt, 
 Elihu fairly doubled up, and gave a hollow grunt ! 
 But aid was near, for with a cheer, the other Wash- 
 burne came, 
 Cadwallader, the wondrous spry, the man of Cam- 
 brian name. 
 " Oh, tall destruction ! I'll avenge Elihu mighty smart ! " 
 He cried; and straight at Barksdale's pate he made 
 
 a sudden dart; 
 His aim was this, his foeman's head in chancer}' to 
 
 get— 
 
54 
 
 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 But Washburne hold, oh warrior bold, you haven't 
 done it yet! 
 
 He grasped his hair, "You coons beware! your 
 leader's race is o'er ! " 
 
 Then off he hauled — the wig ! and bald stood Barks- 
 dale on the floor. 
 
 The laugh that rose cooled down the foes, and expla- 
 nation came, 
 
 And none could say how rose the fray, but " 'twas a 
 tarnal shame ! " 
 
 Long may our heirs in future years this tale of 
 combat know; 
 
 How wrathy Keitt in Congress "n't," and how 
 
 he stubbed his toe. 
 
55 
 
 THE DEAL SHUTTER 
 
 EPEND upon it," said the Surgeon, " that 
 Waterloo Bridge mystery will be 
 cleared up, somehow or other, and 
 the perpetrator of the deed even- 
 tually detected." 
 
 "Well, Doctor, I don't think 
 murder often escapes detection, but, at the same time, 
 this is one of those cases," said the Major, knocking 
 the ashes out of his pipe, "in which we discover 
 no trace to guide us. In fact detection is almost 
 impossible — at all events improbable." 
 
 " Not at all ! " said the Surgeon, " although you 
 may be right, humanly speaking ; still Heaven does 
 not always require human aid, or use everyday means 
 in discovering crime. I can tell you a very curious 
 story of a murder, and the cause of its revelation, 
 which I met with in the Crimea." 
 
 " Stop till I've lit my pipe," said the Major. 
 " It is not an easy story to make tell-able," said 
 the Surgeon, half to himself, " especially as I have 
 no experience in that line. Perhaps," he continued, 
 looking at the Major to see if he was comfortably 
 settled, " perhaps the best way to begin will be to 
 
56 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 remind you that, some four or five years ago, there 
 appeared in the papers the account of a mysterious 
 case in Switzerland, near the Vale of Chamouni, 
 where a man was found dead a little way out of the 
 village, with his own discharged gun in his hand, and 
 yet the wound was of a description that could hardly 
 have been inflicted by his own hand. At first it was 
 universally thought an accident, but rumours of an 
 unfortunate love affair made suicide seem the more 
 probable solution; murder was not thought of, for 
 the people who lived nearest to the spot where the 
 body was found, deposed to hearing only one shot 
 fired, and moreover, the bullet when extracted, was 
 found to fit the bore of the gun exactly. 
 
 " But when a French surgeon, who was staying in 
 the village, examined the body, he pronounced it a 
 case of murder, giving the following reasons for his 
 opinion : 
 
 "First he showed that the bullet entered at the 
 abdomen, and proceeded in a straight line upward, 
 until it lodged in the heart. The deceased could 
 hardly have placed, or at all events fired, the gun in 
 a position to inflict such a wound ; besides, there was 
 a great improbability that he would choose it in 
 preference to pointing the muzzle straight at hi 
 heart or head. Secondly, the Frenchman pointed 
 out that the clothes were not scorched by the gun- 
 powder, as they would most certainly have been if 
 the gun had been discharged in close proximity, nor 
 would the bullet have been found in the body. 
 
THE DEAL SHUTTER. 57 
 
 "However, on the whole, there was as much evi- 
 dence in favour of the conclusion of murder as of 
 suicide, — and no more; so after enquiry had been 
 made, and the country searched, the mystery was 
 not a whit more cleared up than at first, when a 
 young girl, who was on the point of being married 
 to the foster-brother of the deceased, made a dis- 
 closure to the Frenchman and the magistrates, which 
 led them to believe that, however it was managed, 
 suicide was the real solution of the 'enigma. Her 
 confession amounted to an admission that she had 
 foolishly flirted with the deceased, and that, the day 
 before the body was discovered, he had met her, and 
 avowed his love for her, at the same time acknow- 
 ledging that he was betraying his foster-brother, and 
 forfeiting his honour, by giving way to the passion. 
 "What passed during the interview she would not say, 
 but stated that, when they parted, he had exclaimed — 
 1 Anna, you shall never see me again ! ' and had gone 
 away in a state of great excitement. 
 
 "After this confession, suicide was the universal 
 verdict, and curiosity died out. 
 
 " The girl's fiance, in a fit of unaccountable anger 
 and suspicion, broke off the match, and, having sold 
 his little property, left the country. People pitied 
 him very much, as the victim of misplaced love and 
 friendship, and it was whispered that the girl had 
 confessed to him more than she had to the magis- 
 trates ; and public feeling was so strong against her, 
 that she was glad to avail herself of the Frenchman's 
 
58 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 offer to obtain her a situation in one of the hospitals 
 in Paris. 
 
 "Well, the matter blew over, and nothing more 
 was thought about it. 
 
 " If a visitor to the valley enquired what was the 
 meaning of the cross among the clump of pines at 
 the foot of the mountain, he was told it was the 
 place where ' a young jager shot himself through the 
 heart for love of his friend's betrothed/ and so he 
 enquired no more about it, suicides being, to the 
 much-travelled, not a whit rarer than affection for 
 another man's betrothed is to those even who are 
 not much-travelled. 
 
 " Having told you thus much, which lets you into 
 the plot of my story in a clumsy and inartistic 
 manner," said the Surgeon, after a pull of beer, "I 
 don't quite know how to go on." 
 
 " Go ahead," said the Major, " we're none of us 
 Saturday Eeviewers or Quarterly Critics." 
 
 " Well then, I must go on to the time of the 
 Crimean War. I was left by the regiment at Bala- 
 klava, you remember," — 
 
 " All right," chimed in a young Ensign, " and a 
 very good thing too, or I should have missed a good 
 doctor to fight me through the fever I caught after 
 landing with my draft of men from the depot." 
 
 " You're right there," said the Major ; " if it hadn't 
 
 been for good doctoring, you would not have joined 
 
 ' the regiment in time for the storming of Sebastopol." 
 
 " Thank you, gentlemen both ! " said the Surgeon. 
 
THE DEAL SHUTTER 59 
 
 " But to proceed. While I was there, an old school- 
 fellow of mine, who was in the commissariat, asked 
 me to go and see one of his men — his own servant — 
 who was down with the fever " — 
 
 " I say," said the Ensign, " was that Parkinson, the 
 fellow with the big beard?" 
 
 " That's rather a vague definition of a man in the 
 Crimea/' 
 
 " Well, perhaps it is : beards were pretty common 
 there," said the Ensign, complacently stroking his 
 chin, whereon a close observer might perceive a 
 growth of silky hairs, neither very long nor very 
 frequent, — " I grew mine there ! But I mean a dark, 
 tall, and superlatively hairy man, a sort of he-Julia 
 Postrana." 
 
 " That's the man," said the Surgeon ; " he was at 
 Rugby with me, and then went to Cambridge, where 
 he ran over head and ears in debt ; took his name off, 
 and made tracks : got something in the Commissariat ; 
 and that's all I know about him !" 
 
 "Well, then I know a little more to my cost !" 
 sighed the small Ensign. " He came to my hut one 
 night, and we had an orgie over a hamper that my 
 affectionate parents had sent* me out, and he drank 
 half my small stock of wine." 
 
 "I daresay you helped him !" growled the Major, 
 from the midst of a tornado of tobacco smoke. 
 
 " Why, you see, we had no glasses," expostulated 
 the youngster, " so we had each a bottle to drink out 
 of, and he drank three to my one, and walked off 
 
60 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 quite straight and comfortable, while I found the hut 
 apparently suffering from an earthquake ; in fact, the 
 oscillation threw me over the hamper, and so the 
 rest of my cellar came to sorrow ; and I found next 
 morning, that my fond relatives had not thought of 
 putting in any soda-water!" 
 
 There was a general laugh against the little man, 
 and then the Surgeon took up his tale again. 
 
 "I found the fellow lying on a comfortable bed in 
 one of the houses, which seemed to have pretensions 
 to a higher style of civilisation than the general run 
 in Balaklava. He was a foreigner I could see ; a 
 Swiss he told me afterwards." 
 
 "I see it all !" exclaimed an impetuous Lieutenant, 
 who had been " messing " out ; " He's the fellow who 
 murdered the jager at Chamouni; delirium, death- 
 bed, confession, penitence, last struggle ; that sort of 
 thing, eh?" 
 
 " Well," said the Surgeon, a little nettled ; " If the 
 gentlemen are satisfied with that wind-up of the 
 narrative, I will stop ! " 
 
 " No, no, go on, old fellow ! " cried everybody. 
 
 "Very well, here goes. I found the poor fellow 
 was really very seriously ill. His symptoms were — " 
 
 " Oh, hang the symptoms, Doctor ! " cried the 
 Ensign impatiently ; "You need not tell us, we should 
 not understand them ; and you may as well skip the 
 medicines you exhibited, too ! " 
 
 "Patience, young ; un !" said the Surgeon — "if it had 
 not been for my knowledge of the symptoms, and the 
 
THE DEAL SHUTTEE.' 61 
 
 drugs I exhibited, in your case, you would not have 
 had an opportunity of exhibiting yourself in the 
 trenches ! " 
 
 " I don't know whether that was to be desired ! " 
 murmured the Ensign, who had seen some hard work 
 there. 
 
 " Moreover," continued Medicus, " if you had 
 waited a moment, you would have heard what I 
 meant to say, which was, that his symptoms were 
 alarming ; but I saw, with a true professional delight, 
 that the disease and I were to have a fair stand-up 
 fight, for the patient had a constitution like a camel, 
 and showed plucky too, so the fever and I were on 
 tolerably equal ground. 
 
 " Beginning with an interest in the disease, I 
 gradually grew to feel an interest in its owner. He 
 seemed a clever fellow, and must have had good 
 qualities too, for I found that an old comrade of his 
 liked him well enough to sit up all night with him, 
 and nurse him, and a better nurse I never saw." 
 
 " 'Gad !" said the Major, "I believe a man, especially 
 an old soldier, is as gentle a nurse as a woman any 
 day, — with all respect to the sex I say it." 
 
 "Nobody doubts the latter statement!" said some 
 one in the background ; and there was a laugh, for 
 the Major was always philandering after some damsel 
 or widow, wherever he might be quartered. 
 
 " The struggle," the Surgeon went on, " lasted for a 
 long time, but at length the patient took a turn for 
 the better, and began to improve so rapidly, that I 
 
62 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 "was calculating on his soon returning to his duties, 
 and was looking forward to taking up my abode in 
 the cottage when he left it. It was infinitely more 
 comfortable and convenient than my hut, and was 
 not much further from the hospital, so it would not 
 interfere with my duties. 
 
 " There were one or two pictures on the walls — one 
 a rude Eussian virgin and child, which now hangs in 
 my room. On the mantel-piece was a malachite 
 vase (which I brought home for my sister), and some 
 of those queer toys and carvings, that you depot men 
 must have seen made by the prisoners over here. 
 
 " There were three or four tidy chairs in the room, 
 and a respectable table ; only of deal, to be sure, but 
 nicely finished, and, what is more, all highly varnished. 
 There was only one window in the room, the shutter 
 of which was also of deal, varnished in the same 
 manner as the chairs and table. 
 
 (( Besides all these elegances, the sick man's friend 
 had routed out some pillows, and had made, with the 
 help of an old packing-case and a hamper, a very 
 desirable easy chair. This I purchased of him, not 
 exactly for a song, but for a bottle of brandy when I 
 dismissed him, which I did as soon as I found the 
 invalid progressing so rapidly. 
 
 " To my extreme astonishment, however, the morn- 
 ing after the he-nurse was gone, my patient had a 
 relapse. He was in a high state of fever again, and 
 this time the symptoms puzzled me. I could have 
 fancied he was suffering more from mental than 
 
THE DEAL SHUTTER. bd 
 
 bodily disturbance, and that you know makes the 
 disease very difficult to treat. However, towards 
 night he got better and calmer; but the next morning 
 he was worse than ever, and at last he grew positively 
 violent and delirious. During his delirium, he talked 
 of nothing but gaping bullet wounds, and drops of 
 blood, and that sort of thing. I took very little 
 notice of it at the time, for I fancied he had been 
 deeply impressed by some of the wounds he had seen 
 in Hospital, which, though not very horrifying to 
 old soldiers and surgeons, have, I know, a tremendous 
 effect upon persons unaccustomed to them." 
 
 " True for you ! " said the Ensign, with a ghost of a 
 shudder, " I shall never forget my first experience of 
 a battle field after the fight." 
 
 " Yes, you will ;" said the Major, who was an old 
 campaigner, and had seen long service in India under 
 Sale ; " yes, you will, and what's more, if you live as 
 long as I have, and go through as much fighting, 
 you'll forget what your first wound was like." 
 
 " I don't know that, sir," said the Ensign — adding 
 a little proudly, "I have been wounded, and the 
 remembrance is more peculiar than painful — so 
 different from my pre-conceived ideas, that it is 
 not likely to be soon effaced I 
 
 " It was in one of the attacks on the Eedan. As 
 I was charging up, I felt a sharp blow on my left 
 arm, as if some one had hit me pretty hard with the 
 knob of a ground ash. I looked down, and saw a 
 hole in my sleeve on one side, and a strip of cloth 
 
64 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 and a piece of flesh hanging down on the other. I 
 felt no pain — so little inconvenience indeed, that I 
 stuffed the flesh back into the wound, and went on 
 until I fainted, all of a sudden, from loss of blood ! " 
 
 " And a pretty bother you gave the surgeon, I'll 
 warrant," said Medicus, feeling for his brother prac- 
 titioner ; " why, pushing that flesh back into the 
 wound must have delayed the healing some con- 
 siderable time ! " 
 
 " That's true enough ; but go on," said the Ensign. 
 
 " Let's see, where was I \ Oh, about the wound ! 
 "Well, I took no notice of his raving, and at last, after 
 an infinite deal of dosing and doctoring, I got him 
 quiet and sensible again ; and then after binding me 
 to secrecy, he told me the following story." 
 
 " Which promise of secrecy you are about faith- 
 fully to keep !" broke in the Lieutenant. But the 
 Surgeon stopped him. 
 
 " If you'll have patience, you'll see by the end of 
 my tale that there's no necessity for secrecy. Death 
 cancels all debts ! " 
 
 " By Jove, I wish it did ; and that some tradesmen 
 I wot of were in Abraham's bosom !" parenthesized 
 the Ensign. 
 
 " But you fellows," objected the Surgeon, " spoil the 
 story by your remarks ; so if I'm interrupted again, 
 I put up the shutters. Once more, here goes. TV 
 tell the story in the man's own words. 
 
 " I don't suppose that in the village there was a 
 prettier girl than Anna ; or a man with more cattle, 
 
THE DEAL SHUTTER. 65 
 
 or altogether better to do, than I was ; so of course 
 when I asked Anna in marriage, her parents favoured 
 my wishes. 
 
 " Anna herself, had always shown a marked par- 
 tiality for me, and danced oftener, and would talk 
 longer, with me than with anyone else ; so the young 
 fellows of the village had no chance against me. I 
 don't think, now, that she really cared for me ; but 
 because I was the best man in the place, and all the 
 other girls set their caps at me, her pride and vanity 
 made her exert every art to captivate me. At any rate 
 she succeeded ! I loved her, proposed, was accepted, 
 and we were betrothed. Soon after the ceremony, 
 I sent for my foster-brother, who lived at a village 
 about forty miles away, to come and take up his 
 quarters with me till I married. He was to attend to 
 the farm, while I made preparations for the wedding. 
 These frequently took me from the valley for seve- 
 ral days, so I suppose he and Anna were thrown 
 together a great deal. He was a fine, tall, handsome 
 fellow, was Max. He was fond of chamois hunting, 
 and had been jager to a nobleman ; but he lived a 
 wild life, and hadn't a penny of his own, and so was 
 glad enough to come and live with me. I never 
 suspected, or dreamt of, his falling in love with Anna, 
 for I thought him the very soul of honour : and so 
 he was, poor fellow ! 
 
 " At last the neighbours — especially the girls, 
 curse them! — began to whisper, and drop hints 
 about Anna's flirting with Max. I laughed at them 
 
66 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 openly, but my nature was a jealous one, and inwardly 
 I fumed and raged. But one unhappy day at length 
 opened my eyes, and I saw only too much ! Anna 
 told me afterwards what passed between them. Max 
 was going out chamois hunting, as it seems he had 
 often done the latter part of the time, in order to 
 avoid meeting Anna; but misfortune threw her in 
 his way. He was seated at the foot of a tree, trim- 
 ming some bullets, when she passed along the road 
 not far from him. Leaving what he was about, he 
 sprang up, and went towards her. In a few hurried, 
 incoherent words, he declared his love to her, owning 
 and lamenting at the same time his dishonourable 
 conduct to me, but telling her that, for his peace 
 of mind, he felt he must confess all to her, and then 
 leave her for ever ! While talking, they had insensibly 
 walked nearly to her home, and so they took leave of 
 each other. I, unhappy wretch, witnessed this adieu, 
 although I was too far off to hear their words ! I 
 had been waiting at Anna's cottage for her return. 
 Imagine my rage when I saw him clasp her to his 
 heart and kiss her ; when I saw her throw her arms 
 round him, and weep ! But I saw no more — I rushed 
 out of the house by the back door, and fled ! 
 
 " I learnt from Anna afterwards, that as they were 
 about to part, he said, 'Ah dearest Anna, we shall 
 never meet again on earth. Let me once, and only 
 once, press my lips to yours : one kiss to bear away 
 to my grave !' She was quite unnerved and stupified 
 by all that had passed, and, in a fit of folly and pity, 
 
THE DEAL SHUTTER. 67 
 
 scarcely knowing what she did, she threw herself 
 upon his breast, and sobbing, asked him to forgive 
 her for having trifled with him. Women's hearts are 
 very soft, you know ; and though they love flirtation 
 and conquest, I think when they see that they have 
 really pained and broken a true, honest heart, they 
 are bitterly sorry for it— at least if they are worthy 
 of the name of woman. 
 
 "When I saw Anna rush into his arms, in an 
 agony of rage and shame, I fled. My evil fate con- 
 ducted me — for I ran on blindly, without any aim or 
 purpose — to the spot where my foster-brother had 
 been sitting when first he saw Anna. His gun was 
 resting against the tree ! In the first impulse of my 
 fury, I was about to blow my brains out — would to 
 heaven I had ; but a moment's reflection stopped 
 me ! What ! should I make away with myself, the 
 only obstacle ; and leave these two treacherous, un- 
 grateful creatures, to marry when they would ; to 
 triumph over me, and laugh at my folly ? The very 
 thought maddened me, and, as I stood there pictur- 
 ing it to myself, I gnashed my teeth, and foamed at 
 the mouth with impotent rage. 
 
 " While I was in this frenzy, I saw Max approach- 
 ing ; he was coming on slowly, with his eyes fixed on 
 the ground, and so he had not seen me. At the sight 
 of him I lost all command over myself. 'Traitor, 
 — wretch, — seducer ! ' I screamed, ' I will have your 
 blood !' 
 
 " At my voice he started, and looked up. ^must 
 f2 
 
68 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 have presented a fearful spectaele ; more like an en- 
 raged wild beast, than a human being, as I stood 
 there, pointing the gun at him. He sprang back, 
 and in so doing tripped over the root of a tree, and 
 fell. I was a capital marksman, and, on this occasion, 
 I think the devil directed my aim. I fired as he 
 fell ; the bullet entered the lower part of his body, and, 
 as I learnt afterwards, passed through to his heart. 
 
 " I rushed forward to him, for almost at the mo- 
 ment I fired I felt horrified at what I had done. 
 To my horror he rose from the ground, and came 
 towards me. His face was deathly white, and his 
 eyes fixed. He staggered a few steps, and then, 
 clutching at me to support himself, he caught hold of 
 the gun, on which my palsied hand retained no hold. 
 With a low groan he fell on his back, and, after a 
 convulsive shudder, died. 
 
 "I stood for a minute motionless, and speechless, 
 gazing at him. I had never seen a man die by 
 violence before, and now to see one, and that one my 
 foster-brother, perish by my hand, deprived me of 
 all power to move or think. 
 
 " He had on a white tunic, over which the blood 
 oozed out in fearful contrast ; it did not gush out in 
 a stream, but bubbled up, and slowly overflowed the 
 ghastly round bullet-hole ! Oh, it was an awful sight ! 
 It haunted me for days, for years, it haunts me now ! 
 and the poor wretch," said the Doctor, "sat up in the 
 bed, threw his hands wildly aloft, and shrieked, "It 
 haunts me now ! — I see it every night j that awful 
 
THE DEAL SHUTTEK. 69 
 
 bullet-mark, black and gaping, with the red blood 
 oozing out round it ! I tell you, Englishman, it 
 appears to me every night ! It is driving me mad, 
 mad, mad !" and he threw himself down, and buried 
 his face in the pillow. I raised him. He had 
 fainted. I must confess I felt uncomfortable to think 
 my patient had been guilty of murder, and had a 
 strong inclination to let him lie ; but the professional 
 soon gofr the better of me, and I set myself about 
 restoring him, which was no easy task. 
 
 "At length he came round, and \v T as more calm, 
 and I then prevailed upon him to give me a clear 
 and accurate description of the appearance, which 
 had so disturbed him. 
 
 " It seemed that, the first night after the watcher left 
 him, he awoke to see, painted, as it were, on the dark- 
 ness, the wound which he had inflicted on his victim. 
 
 "He described it as a dark mark — the bullet-hole — 
 surrounded by blood, as vivid and distinct as reality ; 
 and every night since, he said, it had grown out of 
 the darkness, gradually becoming more and more 
 distinct and vivid, and seeming to come closer and 
 closer, until his over-wrought senses gave way, and 
 he either fainted or became delirious. 
 
 " This accounted to me for the relapse, and also for 
 the symptoms of mental disturbance I had detected. 
 I tried to persuade him it was a dream, but that he 
 would not hear of. ' I know,' said he, 'that dreams 
 are very often like reality ; but, in order to test 
 whether I was awake or no, see what I did !' He 
 
70 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 drew his left hand from under the bed-clothes, and 
 unwound some rag from the thumb. It was nearly- 
 bitten through 1 'I did that/ he said, 'while my 
 eyes were fixed upon that awful wound. I was. not 
 asleep you think now V 
 
 " I confess I was at a loss. There was something 
 more, I thought, than the imagination of delirium in 
 it. ' Well ! ' I said, ' I will sit up with you to-night, 
 and see if we cannot solve this mystery !' 
 
 " ' It is no mystery,' said he, ' it is sent by Heaven 
 to punish me, to haunt, and torture me, and drive me 
 mad ! Oh, that I had destroyed myself as I first 
 intended ! I could almost wish I had delivered my- 
 self up to justice. Oh, I shall go mad ! I shall go 
 mad !' Another fit of fainting followed, from which 
 he awoke delirious and violent. I managed to 
 administer an opiate, and, before long, had the plea- 
 sure of seeing him go off into a calm sleep. 
 
 " I then visited the hospital, went to a friend's hut, 
 and had a pipe and some grog, and then blundered my 
 way (for by this time it was dark) back to the Swiss 
 Cottage, as I had intended to christen the house, as soon 
 as my patient vacated it, and it became my property. 
 
 " I found the invalid still asleep. I lit .the candle 
 which I had obtained from the hospital, and set it 
 up in the neck of a bottle. I then proceeded to 
 make things as comfortable as I could : I locked and 
 bolted the door, and placed a box against it. The 
 careful he-nurse had actually nailed strips of cloth 
 all round the door, and had stopped up every nook 
 
THE DEAL SHUTTER. 71 
 
 and cranny whence a draught could come. I then 
 looked to the shutter. There either never had been 
 glass in the window, or else, what was more likely, 
 some one had appropriated the sash to improve his 
 own hut, so I was not sorry to find that the shutter 
 had been fitted so closely and carefully as to exclude 
 every breath of air ; and I need not tell you the less you 
 get of Crimean, or indeed of any night air, the better. 
 
 " I next placed my revolver on the table near me, 
 and made myself comfortable in the 'easy packing 
 case.' I began to apply myself to a book, one of 
 those which people so kindly sent out by the box- 
 full from England. I shan't tell its title, because 
 my conduct was not complimentary to the author, 
 for I fell sound asleep over it." 
 
 " It mightn't have been ' Proverbial Philosophy ' 
 by any chance?" suggested the Lieutenant, who was 
 somewhat of a literary turn. 
 
 "Well, it might have been," said the Surgeon, 
 smiling, " but it wasn't. However, whatever it was, 
 after a few minutes my nose fell forward on it, 
 and I was buried in a very sound sleep — a not un- 
 usual occurrence with me after my hard work all day. 
 
 " I don't know how long I slept, but it must have 
 been some hours, for the candle had burnt down, 
 fallen into the bottle, and gone out, when I was 
 awakened by the voice of the Swiss. 
 
 " ' Oh Heaven ! ' he cried, ' Max, my brother — for- 
 give me — oh, forgive me ! do not torment me — haunt 
 me no longer! Oh Heaven! help! help!' 
 
72 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 "I was barely awake, and - my senses were not 
 thoroughly on the alert, so no wonder I felt a cold 
 shudder run through me, when I saw, exactly as he 
 had described it, the ring of blood, fresh and vivid, 
 and in the centre, the dark bullet-hole, painted 
 clearly upon the darkness. 
 
 " The shock however soon brought me to myself, 
 and I saw at a glance what it was," — 
 
 " Some fellow with a magic lantern, or some dodge 
 of that sort," said the Ensign, suggestively. 
 
 "Hold your tongue!" exclaimed everybody, in a 
 state of intense excitement. 
 
 " Pish ! " exclaimed the Surgeon, angrily, " a magic 
 lantern! I never heard of one in the Crimea, unless 
 Papa and Mamma put one into the hamper you told 
 us of just now, to amuse young Hopeful." 
 
 " Leave the young'un alone, Doctor, and tell us 
 what it was," said the Major. 
 
 " Well," said the Surgeon, " I've told you the 
 shutter was of varnished deal, and that it fitted 
 very close, so that not a ray of light could shine 
 through anywhere. It so happened, however, that 
 in one part of the board (which, I should tell you, 
 was not very thick) there was a knot, and, imme- 
 diately round it, the wood was of such a resinous 
 nature as to be translucent, and, in addition to the resin, 
 the varnish gave the transparency a bright red colour. 
 
 " As the poor wretch had described, this did grow 
 more and more vivid, of course, as the daylight out- 
 side grew stronger." 
 
THE DEAL SHUTTER. 73 
 
 "Humph!" said the Major, "how very strange! 
 I've never seen anything of the sort, but I can easily 
 imagine it." 
 
 " I can assure you, sir," said the Surgeon, " it had 
 a very peculiar appearance. The colour was very 
 bright ; hardly blood-colour, but still it had a weird 
 sort of supernatural light about it, that made it look 
 ghastly and fearful, and the hard, solid knot in the 
 middle had a great resemblance to a round bullet- 
 hole. Under the circumstances, I can quite under- 
 stand the guilty man's terror." 
 
 "What did you do?" enquired the Lieutenant. 
 
 " In half the time I have taken in telling you this, 
 I had thrown open the shutter and let in the light. 
 The Swiss had fainted again. I recovered him, and 
 explained the cause of the appearance to him, but 
 he would not believe it; I closed the shutter, but he 
 would not look; he declared it was very well to 
 explain and account for it so, but he knew it was a 
 supernatural and heaven-sent curse to haunt him, 
 and I tried in vain to persuade him otherwise." 
 
 " I'm not quite sure that he wasn't right, too ; " 
 said the Major. 
 
 " Well, there is not much more to tell," said the 
 Surgeon, with an assenting nod to the last speaker. 
 " When I returned in the evening, I found he had 
 been so violent and dangerous, that he had been 
 removed to the hospital, to be under safe keeping. I 
 was not anxious to see him again, and tried to banish 
 the memory of what he had told me from my mind. 
 
74 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 " I did not remove from my hut into the Swiss Cot- 
 tage, which fell into the hands of some officers in the 
 60th Eifles, who made a very tidy place of it. 
 
 "About eight or ten days after my patient's removal 
 to the Hospital, I was passing near the advanced 
 posts to see a young fellow who had gone out, against 
 my advice, to picket duty, and had been taken ill. 
 
 "Under a tree, a little way beyond the lines, I saw 
 a group of men gathered round some one on the 
 ground. Thinking it might be a case requiring pro- 
 fessional aid, I went up to them. One of the Kifles 
 came towards me, ' It's no use, sir, he's dead sure 
 enough,' said he, saluting. 
 
 '"What is the matter?' I enquired. 
 
 "'Well, you see, sir/ he answered, f as I was down 
 here on the look-out for some practice at the .Rus- 
 sians, I saw something dodging about up in that tree. 
 Well! I hollar'd out to him, and told him to come 
 down, or I'd shoot him. With that, he sings out in 
 some language I couldn't understand, so, thinking he 
 was a Eussian spy, I let fly at him, and down he 
 came ! However, it turns out he ain't a Eussian at 
 all, but a poor, crazy German, who had escaped out 
 of the hospital last night. I'm very sorry, but it 
 can't be help'd, sir, you see ! ' 
 
 "By this time I had reached the group, which 
 divided as I drew near, and there I saw my late 
 patient lying on his back, dead ! He had on an old 
 ragged flannel shirt, and a pair of white duck 
 trowsers. 
 
THE DEAL SHUTTEE. 75 
 
 " The ball had entered the lower part of his body, and 
 from its direction, must have passed in a straight line 
 to his heart ! " 
 
 "By Jove, that was strange ! " said the Major : — 
 " but I say, Doctor, I did not like to interrupt you 
 before, but how was it that that other fellow, when 
 he was shot in the heart, had life enough to get up 
 and walk towards the murderer ? " 
 
 " Why," said the Surgeon, " you see, if the bullet 
 passing through the viscera, in an oblique direction, 
 and piercing the diaphragm, were to lodge in the 
 fatty membrane of the pericardium, avoiding all vital 
 organs on its way — perhaps touching slightly the 
 edge of the liver, but missing the " 
 
 On hearing this however, we all took our candles 
 and made a simultaneous move bedwards, leaving 
 the Doctor to finish his lecture to himself. 
 
 AN ENCUMBERED ESTATE— A LIEN ON THE PROPERTY. 
 
76 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 THE PRAYER OF THE WORKERS. 
 
 He rested on the Seventh Day, 
 
 He saw His work was good ; 
 And from that hour the world began, 
 A home divinely made for Man, 
 
 Completed, land and flood. 
 
 Oh ! beauteous on the Seventh Day, 
 
 Rejoicing in their birth ; 
 The seas, the streams, the mountains high, 
 The birds, the flowers, the trees, the sky, — « 
 
 The happy primal Earth ! 
 
 The Angels on the Seventh Day 
 
 The world completed saw, 
 And downward from their thrones to gaza 
 They bent in solemn love and praise, 
 
 And viewed His work with awe ! 
 
 Not silent on the Seventh Day 
 
 Was either Heaven or Earth, 
 For, mingled with the Angels' lays, 
 Sweet Nature's music spoke of praise, 
 
 Of gratitude and mirth. 
 
 I 
 
 
THE PEAYER OF THE WORKERS. 77 
 
 Yet bigots on His Holy Day 
 
 Shut out our glimpse of Heaven : 
 " The law," they cry, " is not reversed, 
 Although our Sabbath be the first, 
 
 And not the last of Seven." 
 
 Oh ! will ye on His Holy Day, 
 
 Debar our cherish' d right 
 In Nature's beauties to rejoice, 
 To see her works, and hear the voice 
 
 Of music with delight ? 
 
 And will ye on His Holy Day, 
 
 Our longing souls confine ? 
 Will ye forbid our eyes to scan 
 The God-permitted works of Man — 
 
 Art's triumphs half divine ? 
 
 Hard toil is ours for six long days, 
 
 In noisome dens and holes ! 
 One day with Nature leave us yet, 
 With His great works — lest we forget 
 
 That we have human souls ! 
 
78 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 THE GEAYE IN THE WEST. 
 
 Western Wind, balmy and sweet ! 
 
 Stole you the breath of the blossoming limes 
 Under whose boughs we were wont to meet ; 
 
 Wont to meet in the olden times ? 
 
 Ear away, adown in the West, 
 
 Blossom the limes that I love so well, 
 
 Under whose boughs my life was blest 
 
 With a love far dearer than words may tell. 
 
 Western Wind, though so far away, 
 
 I trace in your sighing their odorous breath. 
 
 Surely you stole it, and brought it to say, 
 
 "Think of the boughs you have wander'd beneath. 
 
 The limes in that avenue, leafy and sweet, 
 Blossomed and faded one happy year, 
 
 While under their shadow our two hearts beat 
 With love unclouded by doubt or fear. 
 
 The limes in that avenue, shady and old, 
 Have blossomed and faded many a year, 
 
 Since one true heart grew for ever a-cold, 
 And the other for ever withered and sere ! 
 
THE GEAVE IN THE WEST. 79 
 
 Western Wind, let the lindens rest ! 
 
 Waft me no breath from the lime-tree bowers, 
 But the perfume of roses that grow in the West, 
 
 On a lowly grave that is covered with flowers. 
 
 THE PBODIGAL.* 
 
 Out along the highway dreary, 
 Dark and weary, 
 
 Through the rainpools in the road, 
 Ever onward still he strode. 
 
 And the sign-boards in the rain 
 Groaned and shrieked as one in pain, 
 Moaning o'er remembered sin. 
 
 And the roaring fires within 
 Through the windows gazed outside, 
 Tried to gaze — but vainly tried ; 
 For their gleaming could not light 
 Aught within that outer night ; 
 For their glaring could not pierce 
 Through the rainfall thick and fierce. 
 
 And the sign-boards shrieked and swang, 
 And " Come in, come in," they sang ! 
 
80 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 But along the highway dreary, 
 Dark and weary, 
 
 Through the rainfloods in the road, 
 Ever onward still he strode ! 
 
 And the poplars dark and tall 
 On the gusts uprise and fall, 
 Swaying, beckoning to the rack 
 Of the storm-clouds, leaden-black ; 
 While the wind comes down in flaws, 
 Wrestles with the roofs of thatch, 
 Striving wantonly to snatch 
 Wisps of reed and loosened straws. 
 
 And the rain in one dense stream 
 Hisses on the ground like steam : 
 While the thunder's distant growling 
 Mingles with the tempest's howling : 
 And the storm in dreadful gloom 
 Laps the world as in a tomb : 
 Saving where the lightning gashes 
 Through the night with livid flashes ; 
 Saving where the windows gleam 
 Through the rain's descending stream, 
 Where the fires with flickering blaze 
 Tempt the wanderer's aching gaze. 
 
 But along the highway dreary, 
 Dark and weary, 
 
THE PEODIGAL. 81 
 
 Through the rainfloods in the road, 
 Ever onward still he strode ! 
 
 Now he reaches home at last, 
 Up the path he hurries fast — 
 Up the well-known path, and straightway 
 Clamours loudly at the gateway ; 
 Then, worn out with journey weary 
 On the highroad dark and dreary, 
 Travel-stained, and weak, and sore, 
 Falls down lifeless at the door ! 
 
 But meanwhile the sudden din 
 
 Bouses those who sit within. 
 
 Then they fling the portal wide, 
 
 And the cheery light inside 
 
 Comes out boldly to the door, 
 
 Comes straight out, three yards or more, 
 
 Falls upon him where he lies, 
 
 Folds him round. With joyous cries 
 
 Spring the household forth to greet him, 
 
 All their hearts go out to meet him. 
 
 So they raise him from the ground, 
 
 This heart-cheering welcome giving — 
 
 " He was dead — and he is living, 
 
 He was lost — and he is found ! " 
 
 G 
 
82 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 ELEGIACS. 
 
 Farewell, Grey Tower, whose shadow falls 
 On those green mounds that lie below ! 
 My dearest Friend is sleeping now 
 Within your quiet churchyard walls. 
 
 A few short weeks, and he is gone ! 
 The gentle Heart, the generous Friend ; 
 Our fond communion at an end, 
 And all our kindly converse done ! 
 
 A vacant place that none can fill, 
 And lips a-cold that never spake 
 Except for love and kindness sake, 
 And a warm heart for ever still ! 
 
 A cloud hangs over all I see, 
 Sad thoughts with all my musings blend ; 
 The memories of my dear dead Friend 
 Lie cold between the world and me. 
 
 
ELEGIACS. 
 
 Yet He will give, Who takes away, 
 And when, in brighter, happier skies, 
 He wipes the tear-drops from all eyes, 
 My Friend and I shall meet that day. 
 
 And so I hold that with our pain, 
 A gleam of Heaven is still inwrought.- 
 God's greatest mercy is the thought, 
 " We do but part to meet again ! " 
 
 " Be still !" they say, " Is this the time, 
 When tears bedew his silent hearse, 
 To strive to speak your thoughts in verse, 
 And set your sorrows to a rhyme ?" 
 
 I give the little that I have ! — 
 Not mine to raise the storied stone : 
 These few poor verses of my own 
 I lay beside his quiet grave. 
 
 I860. 
 
 G2 
 
84 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 THE WIND'S EEBAND. 
 
 Into thy bosom, wandering wind, 
 I trust a tender kiss, 
 And the sweetest word 
 That e'er was heard, — 
 And all I ask is this : 
 
 That thou wilt leave this land behind, 
 
 And bear the charge aright, 
 
 Within thy breast 
 
 To the glowing East, 
 
 Oh whispering wind of night ! 
 
 O'er land and water, wandering wind, 
 
 Ely swiftly on thy way, 
 
 O'er moorland vast, 
 
 O'er bending mast, 
 
 O'er heath and salt-sea spray. 
 
 And eastward be thy course inclined, 
 
 To where may be espied 
 
 A busy town 
 
 By the waters brown 
 
 Of a rapid rushing tide. 
 
THE WINDS ERRAND. 
 
 There fold thy wings, thou wandering wind, 
 And my Beloved seek, 
 Then in her ear 
 Breathe " Lily dear!" 
 And kiss her on the cheek ! 
 
 Kiss her for me, thou wandering wind, 
 
 And breathe that word for me, 
 
 And to be near 
 
 My Lily dear 
 
 Will pay thee twice thy fee ! 
 
 85 
 
 FREE IMMIGRATION OF BLACKS. 
 
86 QUIP3 AND CEANKS. 
 
 A VOLUNTEER'D REVIEW IK 1858. 
 
 University Costumes. (J. Vincent, Oxford.) 
 
 An Immense Sacrifice. (Hoop & Squeletti, Regent 
 
 Street.) 
 The Sydenham Trowsers. (Samuel, Shorediteh.) 
 And other Modern Works. 
 
 We all know that Fletcher of Saltoun offered to let 
 any one make a nation's laws, if he might make its 
 songs ; but in these days an enterprising and laconic 
 outfitter might, with some semblance of reason, give 
 a man leave to be bard and legislator both, provided 
 he (the enterprising and laconic outfitter) might 
 make the nation's clothes ! 
 
 Punch has been at war with Noah's-ark coats and 
 pyramidal petticoats this long time, but who ever 
 thought that the works of tailor and milliner would 
 arrive at the dignity of a notice in " The Reviews V* 
 Or who, in his wildest dreams, imagined that national 
 calamities would be attributed to fashions, and a 
 monetary crisis to horse-hair and hoops ? 
 
 Yet it is so ; nor does the matter rest there. Not 
 only does the poet sing of " Ladies fair, with nothing 
 to wear" — not only does the caricaturist sharpen his 
 
A volunteer'd be view. 87 
 
 pencil against the steel-scaffoldings of beauty, and the 
 satirist and philosopher see in Chiswick fetes mere 
 Egyptian banquets got up "on an unprecedented scale," 
 with skeletons innumerable — not only does the judge 
 (See Insolvency Court Eecords) refuse "protection" to 
 the fair sex, when their milliners' bills have four figures 
 in the pounds' column — and the physician point out 
 the bodily ills arising from heavy metallic garments 
 and high-heeled boots — (the preacher we pass over, 
 because, since the days of the Queen of Sheba, he 
 has always been crying out about vanity) — and, 
 finally, not only does the political economist charge 
 the late American distress upon the American dress, 
 but — Alma Mater fulminates in her Convocation 
 House upon the same subject ! 
 
 This hubbub of voices declaiming against Le Follet 
 of Fashion, awakes an echo actually in the shady 
 groves of learning ! The classic cloistered shores of 
 Isis resound to the war-cries of Costume ! 
 
 And wherefore? Because the youngsters, sitting 
 at the feet of the vice-chancellor, do not wear their 
 academicals sufficiently often to please the picturesque 
 eye of the proctors ! 
 
 "An eager novice in his fluttering gown" is no 
 greater a variety, to be sure, than it was in Words- 
 worth's day ; but, alas ! when once the novitiate is 
 over, the youth doffs his gown together with his eager 
 freshmanship, and lounges listlessly through the old 
 city in the unlawful liberty of "Beaver." 
 
 A cry of " Gown ! " is raised in Academe : and the 
 
88 ' QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 Dons gulp down their last glass -of port — rare old 
 common-room port — and sally out to the fray as 
 eagerly as they did on the 5th of November in their 
 early college days ; for, my young friends, Crasher of 
 Christchurch, Miller of Merton, and Pewgil of Pem- 
 broke, who have, for freaks of last Fifth, suffered fines, 
 " gates " and other unpleasantness at the hands of 
 your tutors — be you sure that they were boys too 
 once, and enjoyed the fighting with as much zest as 
 you do, and bore their punishment with no better 
 grace ! 
 
 It may be the lingering sparks of this old fire that 
 now brings them all down to Convocation House at 
 the first cry of " Gown !" These dear aged war-horses, 
 turned out into paddocks of Fellowship and fine old 
 port, prick up their ears at the sound of the clarion, 
 and stamp and fret and rush into wordy warfare with 
 unabated courage and energy ! 
 
 As far as is revealed to eyes profane, the question 
 of dress at Oxford arose from the cause we have 
 stated — the proctor's complaint of the " disregard of 
 academical costume displayed by the junior members 
 of the university." Convocated wisdom discussed 
 the point, and some learned fellow (we speak re- 
 spectfully, meaning " Socius quidam ") suggested that 
 the dislike of the gown arose from its ugliness. 
 
 Now, sooth to speak, we think nothing could be 
 devised more uselessly ugly than the commoner's 
 gown. For the benefit of those who have never seen 
 it, we subjoin a receipt for its preparation : — 
 
A VOLUNTEER D REVIEW. 89 
 
 ; "Take of black stuff an oblong, at the upper 
 extremity of which cut two round armholes, suf- 
 ficiently close together to prevent the material from 
 falling in too many frivolous and unnecessary folds 
 between the wearer's shoulders. Slope the portion 
 above the armholes into a collar, about six inches 
 deep, which turn down. Next to those two points in 
 the two arm-hole-circumferences, which are nearest 
 to each other, attach (not too securely, for it is a part 
 of their ornamental character to come off) two strips 
 of the same material as the gown, about three inches 
 wide, and adorned at the top with a little simple 
 puffing. These trimmings are called streamers, and 
 should be of indifferent length — or, to speak precisely, 
 of different lengths. Give the whole a rag-out along 
 the bottom, and serve up on a trencher-cap." 
 
 Fond mothers of hopeful sons, when they sit 
 dreaming beside the domestic hearth, imagine their 
 offspring clothed in rustling robes with voluminous 
 folds ; but, ah, ladies ! how would you be grieved if 
 you beheld your children in the hideous apparel they 
 really wear ! 
 
 Besides the naturally unbecoming cut of the 
 commoner's gown, undergraduate fashion compels 
 her votaries to add to its unsightliness by subtracting 
 from its length — in a word, it is worn as short as 
 possible, and ragged in proportion. 
 
 We remember one aggravated instance of a cur- 
 tailed gown, which made its tall wearer bear so 
 striking a resemblance to a Cochin-China fowl, that 
 
90 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 it drew an observation to that effect from a bystander; 
 who found however to his cost that, if the resem- 
 blance was striking — so was the undergraduate ! 
 
 In our belief it is not the costume, unsightly as it 
 is, that induces the young men to rebel against the 
 powers that be ; for they, of their own free will, 
 apparel themselves in garments that are the reverse 
 of beautiful or becoming — to wit, white round-crowned 
 felt hats, that seem " moulded on a porringer ;" and 
 coats and trowsers of designs that must have emanated 
 from a Fuseli tailor after a supper of raw meat. 
 
 While we are on the subject of the undergraduate's 
 wwacademic costume, we may observe that some of 
 the college authorities interfere with the dress of 
 the young men somewhat unnecessarily, and to a 
 greater extent than we can think warranted even by 
 the absurd regulations of a worn-out and generally 
 disregarded statute-book. One friend of ours, who 
 indulged in a slightly hirsute-coat for morning chapels 
 and lectures, was severely handled by his tutor, who, 
 worthy man, acted very injudiciously — for what was 
 the result ? Why, as Blenkinsop of the " Unequal 
 Match " would say, " The young man only gave him- 
 self more Aairs, and become a great bear than hever ! " 
 
 In our opinion the tutors would be better employed 
 in attending to the minds and peculiar talents and 
 inclinations of their pupils, than in criticising the 
 cut of their coats. In a word, let them make men 
 and scholars of the boys ; and let the boys make 
 figures of themselves, if they choose ! 
 
A volunteee'd review. 91 
 
 This by way of interlude. Now to the consideration 
 of the original question, " Why will not the under- 
 graduates wear their gowns?" Not, we believe, on 
 account of its want of grace, do they reject that toga 
 prcetexta — "that apology for a gown," which the 
 statute ordains to be worn until the youth arrives 
 at the " toga virilis " — the " flowing honours " of a 
 bachelor's long sleeves ; not on account of its want 
 of grace do they dislike it, but for a reason, common 
 enough in this world — not very undiscoverable, O 
 House of Convocation ! They dislike it, and will 
 not wear it, simply and precisely because they ought 
 to wear it ! 
 
 The Irishman who told his pig that he intended to 
 drive it to Cork, when he really wished to drive it to 
 Kinsale, was a philosopher, with a profound know- 
 ledge of human, as well as hoggish nature ; and 
 his example should be emulated by those erudite 
 Melibcei and Mopsi, who drive their flocks and 
 herds along the banks of Isis, chanting to their un- 
 willing charge, " Ite capellse !" (Which, we observe 
 for the benefit of aspirants for Little-go, means "Kids, 
 proceed !" and not " Go to chapel," although that is a 
 frequent cry of the sage shepherds.) 
 
 If Convocation would only attach some penalty to 
 the wearing, and not the non-wearing of the gowns, 
 they would find the undergraduates sally out in them 
 en masse. No " Young Oxonian " in our day, would 
 have any desire to play at marbles in the streets, if 
 it were not that the statute book deprecates such an 
 
92 . QUIPS AND CRANKS. ' 
 
 amusement, and so renders the temptation almost 
 insurmountable ; and we are assured that the same 
 spirit which prompts the infringement of the one 
 law, would lead to the disregard of the other, pro- 
 posed by us — " de vestitu academico NON induendo." 
 
 We would wish here to be understood to speak 
 only of the commoner's gown— the scholar's is far 
 from unsightly, preferable perhaps to the bachelor's 
 — while the master's may be made of silk, and other- 
 wise rendered less of an eyesore. 
 
 Against the trencher cap, we have not a word to 
 say — nay, we would pay a passing tribute to its 
 comfort and elegance, and deplore its perishableness ! 
 
 " All that's bright must fade, 
 The brighter still the fleeter—" 
 
 And nothing was ever made, that sooner comes to 
 utter wreck than a college cap. Its corners speedily 
 wear away, and reveal the board within (for we abjure 
 " flexibles," and other modern innovations), and the 
 board itself warps, cracks, and falls out — and when 
 the cap becomes a mere bag, it is needless to say it 
 ceases to be elegant. 
 
 We remember a Christchurch man, who, of an 
 evening, was invariably met in the High by the 
 proctor, and, as invariably, without his academicals. 
 The dignitary at first gently remonstrated (proctors are, 
 to a proverb, easy with Christchurch men on this 
 point), but at length felt compelled to insist on a 
 conformation with the statute. The next evening, 
 
a volunteer'd eeview. 93 
 
 accordingly, our undergrad presented himself to the 
 astonished eyes of the proctor in such a cap as we 
 have described, — its board gone, and its corners hang- 
 ing inanely down round his head, — and in a gown 
 which consisted of about a quarter of a yard of stuff 
 between his shoulders, and the moiety of a streamer. 
 
 " Now, really, sir," exclaimed the proctor, " do you 
 call those things your academicals ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, they are mine" was the reply of the 
 undergraduate, as he daintily removed his cap with 
 his finger and thumb, and held it dangling by an 
 extreme corner, " they are mine, sir ; and," he added, 
 in a solemn and confidential whisper, " I hope — with 
 care — to make them last out the term ! " 
 
 If, then, men from choice will wear such things as 
 our friend, it is not the want of beauty in the regula- 
 tion attire that renders it unpopular ; and we firmly 
 believe we have arrived at the true cause of its 
 neglect. But, as Convocation elders are not likely 
 to take our advice as to the method of bringing about 
 its re-adoption, we sincerely hope they will not alter 
 the fashion. A fresh term is commencing, and we 
 hear a " horrid whisper " that the question is to be 
 mooted again — the first contest having terminated in 
 favour of the old institution. 
 
 i The gown, after all, is not like the military stock, 
 or the exploded shell jacket, a cause of pain or in- 
 convenience to the wearer (we doubt the applicability 
 of that title to the undergraduate), and, since the 
 proposed alteration has only a doubtful picturesque 
 
94 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 end in view, we can hardly be prepared to advo- 
 cate it. 
 
 If we are to add " picturesque reform " to the list 
 of forward movements, where will it stop ? We shall 
 have some serious artistic mind framing a law, " that 
 every individual in the Houses of Parliament, at 
 public dinners, and other large assemblies, shall be 
 (under the superintendence of Mr. Owen Jones) 
 carefully covered with a thin coat of paint ; the 
 colour (which shall be varied in each case) to be 
 chosen with a view to the most pleasing effects in 
 combination !" 
 
 But we need not tremble for the gown. "There 
 are," says Terence (and everybody else, for it's a hack 
 quotation), " as many minds as men ; " and some 
 minds are ponderous. Add to this the scientific fact 
 that a coal-scuttle full of lead weighs more than a 
 houseful of feathers, and our meaning will be plain. 
 
 The Convocation is made up of many ingredients. 
 First you see, " summa nantes in aqua colludere 
 plumas" — the feathers a-top — representing "Young 
 Oxford" lesjeunes gens — blown about by every wind, 
 and for ever " on the floor of the House," inflating 
 bubbles of as mere soapsuds as the South Sea one 
 itself. 
 
 From this class we descend through all the degrees 
 of advanced, moderate, stationary, and retrograde 
 men, until, "last scene of all in this eventful 
 history," we arrive at the lead. Here we find the 
 fixed pillars of the Convocation Houses, and we 
 
A volunteee'd eeview. 95 
 
 should like to see the Samson who is likely to shake 
 them ! 
 
 These fossil philosophers, deaf alike to argument 
 and reason — the petrified blossoms of an old system, 
 throw their inert ponderosity into the chosen balance, 
 and up goes the other scale, with its share of feathers, 
 and more solid ingredients. 
 
 We have mentioned the pig that was " driven " by 
 Paddy, and have just touched on the pig that is 
 " lead ;" but there is an obstinacy that no power or 
 persuasion can lead or drive ; and this has opportunely 
 aided, and will again, we trust, aid in protecting the 
 gown ! 
 
 Therefore, we pronounce the gown safe — because 
 the unanimous opinion of the fossil faction, whenever 
 Convocation is called upon to "reform its tailor's 
 bills," will always resemble the unyielding sentiments 
 of a lady of our acquaintance, as displayed in the 
 following anecdote : — 
 
 The committee of a turnpike trust was desirous of 
 turning a certain highway into a straighter course ; 
 and to do this, it was necessary to take in a portion 
 of the lady's land which adjoined the road. Accord- 
 ingly, an epistle was penned to her, offering, if the 
 committee might be allowed the requisite piece of 
 ground, to replace it by a larger portion on the other 
 side of the projected highway; the letter concluded 
 by pointing out how advantageous to both parties 
 such an improvement would be. 
 
 At the next meeting the lady's reply was read 
 
96 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 to the committee by the clerk, and with what 
 feelings received, our readers may imagine — it ran 
 as follows : — 
 
 " Mrs. presents her compliments to the 
 
 gentlemen of the Turnpike Trust, and begs to inform 
 them that she objects to all improvements ! "* 
 
 * This paper was written in 1858, when the Oxford Authorities, 
 as described, meditated a change in academical attire. The result 
 of the movement was what I anticipated. 
 
 THE ATTIC DIALECT. 
 
97 
 
 FAKEWELL TO THE SWALLOWS. 
 
 ^WALLOWS, sitting on the 
 eaves, 
 
 See ye not the gather'd sheaves 
 
 See ye not the falling leaves ? 
 
 Earewell ! 
 
 Is it not time to go 
 To that fair land ye know ? 
 The breezes as they swell, 
 Of coming winter tell, 
 And from the trees shake down 
 The brown 
 And withered leaves. Earewell ! 
 
 Swallows, it is time to fly ; 
 See ye not the alter'd sky ? 
 Know ye not that winter's nigh % 
 Earewell ! 
 
 Go ; fly in noisy bands 
 To those far-distant lands 
 Of gold, and pearl, and shell, 
 And gem (of which they tell 
 H 
 
98 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 In books of travel strange) ; 
 
 There range 
 
 In happiness. Farewell ! 
 
 Swallows, on your pinions glide 
 
 O'er the restless rolling tide 
 
 Of the ocean deep and wide ; 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 In groves far, far away, 
 
 In summer's sunny ray, 
 
 In warmer regions dwell ; 
 
 And then return to tell 
 
 Strange tales of foreign lands, 
 
 In bands 
 
 Perch'd on the eaves. Farewell ! 
 
 Swallows, I could almost pray 
 
 That I, like you, might fly away, 
 
 And to each coming evil say — 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Yet 'tis my fate to live 
 
 Here, and with cares to strive. 
 
 And I some day may tell 
 
 How they before me fell 
 
 Conquered. Then calmly die, 
 
 And cry 
 
 " Trials and toil— Farewell !" 
 
99 
 
 BY THE RIVER-SIDE. 
 
 Wheke the polluted river rolls sluggishly along, 
 
 Its waters dark, by ship and barque, in dense and 
 
 endless throng, 
 Where swing the cranes, where ring the chains, where 
 
 shriek the busy blocks, 
 Where human labour seethes and boils about the 
 
 busy docks, — 
 How live they there? On brutal fare, than brutes 
 
 yet faring worse ; 
 Worse housed — and fed on bitter bread, earned 'neath 
 
 the bitter curse, 
 Who, in the narrow lanes and courts, toil on from 
 
 morn till even, 
 With scarce a glimpse of the bright blue sky, — and 
 
 never a glimpse of Heaven ! 
 
 Oh, day and night the fearful sight ! to see in that 
 
 noisome place 
 The sin that flaunts in its tawdry rags, with its 
 
 wretched leering face ; 
 The scorn of life, and the brandish'd knife, and the 
 
 savage foul-tongued fray ; 
 The crime, the theft, — and the child bereft of its 
 
 childish mirth and play, 
 h2 
 
100 
 
 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 Sent to pick from the streets the garbage it eats, and 
 
 the garbage that it learns, — 
 The filthy jest, and the words unblest, that serve 
 
 unlawful turns : 
 The brutal curse, and the foulness worse, unholy and 
 
 awful both ; 
 If it learn God's name, oh, horror and shame ! it is 
 
 only as part of an oath ! 
 
 ^iii^ciswMP- 
 
 A PAIR OF PINCHERS. 
 
101 
 
 A KING WITHOUT A CROWN. 
 
 He carved his country's fortune with his sword, 
 
 He smote the tyrant, and the prisoner freed, 
 
 Gave back the kingdom to its proper lord, 
 
 And asked no guerdon for the generous deed ! 
 
 The people loved him — would have placed the crown 
 
 Upon his head, had he, like Caesar, pushed 
 
 The gewgaw from him, with a feeble frown 
 
 Faint on a brow that wild ambition flushed ! 
 
 He laid his glory by like idle weeds 
 
 Worn on high days. His sword, from point to hilt, 
 
 Hid by the garlands of victorious deeds, 
 
 He placed on Freedom's altar newly built. 
 
 But History writes upon the scroll of Fame 
 Among her greatest kings our Garibaldi's name. 
 
 A LETTEE FROM PEUSSIA. 
 
 My dearest Miss Sacharissa, 
 
 Since 
 At my not describing the " dear little Prince, 
 Some slight displeasure you seem to evince 
 
102 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 By calling my conduct shabby, 
 
 This excuse for my silence I beg to assign — 
 
 That His Highness, though born to be King on the 
 
 Ehine, 
 Appeared to these bachelor glances of mine 
 Just like any other " babby." 
 
 He kicks, and he crows, and he wears long clothes ; 
 Has two eyes, and two cheeks, and a mouth and a 
 
 nose, 
 But as yet very little expression, 
 For he does not " take notice ;" (familiar words ! 
 Belonging in common to nurses — and boards 
 Against trespass and other transgression.) 
 
 Then as to his teeth, to give of his sense 
 
 And proper feeling a proof immense, — 
 
 A proof that there's no rebutting ! 
 
 The teeth called " wise," (and I would that Man 
 
 Pursued with his friends the self-same plan), 
 
 Are the last he thinks of cutting ! 
 
 And then on his little regal crown 
 
 There begins to appear a clothing of down, — 
 
 Just enough in fact to warrant 
 
 The eloquent exclamation that burst 
 
 From the English lady, by whom he is nurst, 
 
 And who cried aloud on beholding him first — 
 
 " He's a little 7*eir apparent I " 
 
A LETTEE FKOM PRUSSIA. 103 
 
 On the skin of his deltoid are seen some scars, 
 
 Which, (tho' he's in arms,) were not got in the wars, 
 
 Or impressed for identification : 
 
 But regular vaccination wounds — 
 
 The marks, like the Druids' barrows and mounds, 
 
 Of a by-gone Jenneration. 
 
 At present there flaunts a cap of lace 
 
 On the brow, that the future's hand may grace 
 
 With a golden crown or a laureL 
 
 While the hand, that may some day grasp the helm 
 
 Of state, and the sceptre of all the realm, 
 
 Is now content with a coral. 
 
 Now I hope you will not find fault with this sketch, 
 (The very best I can manage to etch) 
 Of His Highness, that " dear little baby :" 
 And having obeyed your behest and decree, 
 I am proud, my dear Sacharissa, to be 
 Your friend, 
 
 Thomas Bachelor Gaibee. 
 
104 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 AMY MOKTOK 
 
 A SERENADE. 
 
 Lady, hearken ! 
 
 Do not darken 
 
 Yet your casement-lattice bright : 
 
 While you listen, 
 
 Let it glisten 
 
 With that single taper's light ! 
 
 On the curtain 
 
 Its uncertain 
 
 Flickering gleams your shadow throw ; 
 
 And your face's 
 
 Shadow'd graces 
 
 Fairer are than aught I know ! 
 
 Amy Morton ! 
 
 Let me shorten 
 
 Mght's long hours with loving lay 
 
 List your poet ! 
 
 Ere you know it 
 
 He will usher in the day ! 
 
 I will tell you 
 None excel you — 
 
AMY MOETON. 
 
 105 
 
 Nay ! you fairer are than all ! 
 
 Amy dearest ! 
 
 Sweet, thou hearest 
 
 Truth in this fond madrigal ! 
 
 Must I languish 
 
 In this anguish 
 
 All the weary summer through ? 
 
 Dearest Amy, 
 
 Either slay me, 
 
 Or else — bid me live for you ! 
 
 ACE, DEUCE, AND TRAY. 
 
106 
 
 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 A LAY SEKMON. 
 
 was sitting on 
 the extreme edge 
 of the chair, just 
 as I have drawn 
 him, when I first 
 came to recognise 
 him as the text of 
 the lay sermon I 
 had excogitated. 
 I had come to the shop for some note-paper, or 
 pens, or the last number of the Cornhill Magazine. 
 For the shop called itself a stationer's. I confess 
 myself utterly unable to assign a reason why the 
 term "stationery" should apply to an emporium so 
 discursive as to sell embroidery and Berlin wool, in 
 addition to literary matters, and even to touch upon 
 Horniman's tea, and Holloway's medicaments. 
 
 The shop door has a very demonstrative bell 
 attached to it ; and on the day in question, it seemed 
 more than usually overbearing and noisy. But it 
 never rang, though it might have given a little genteel 
 
A LAY SEEMON. 107 
 
 shudder, at the shrinking entrance of the poor Union 
 Boy, 
 
 When he came to the door he opened it very 
 gently and slowly with his right hand, having a 
 wicker market-basket suspended on his left arm. 
 When the door was opened he gave, in proper 
 humility, the precedence to his employer's errands, 
 and let the basket bring him in. 
 
 It so happened when he came in there were several 
 customers in the shop, and even my claims — the 
 claims of a literary man — were compelled to rest in 
 abeyance in a shop where Bulwer's novels and the 
 refinements of Mrs. Trollope were dropping to pieces 
 on the shelves, waiting for customers. Oh, if I, Auctor 
 Ego, was obliged to be patient in such illustrious 
 company, and waive my pressing scriptorial demands 
 in favour of Mrs. Jones, who required three ounces 
 of four-shilling Horniman, or Mrs. Smith, who 
 desired a little petticoat-edging, what wonder that 
 poor Nullius Filius should have to bow to Necessity — 
 Bow to Necessity ! Poor wretch, it was' impossible 
 for him to do it ! His head was so much too heavy 
 for his pitiable, long, thin neck, or Necessity had given 
 him such a permanent air of submission to it, that he 
 could not have bowed except by thrusting his head 
 into the pit of his stomach. When he wanted to 
 salute (and he did so on entering the shop) he took a 
 pull at his stubby, dry, hay-like hair, cropped close, 
 and brushed down just over his eyebrows. 
 
 After performing this salute he took off his grey 
 
108 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 Scotch cap ; and, placing that article on the seat of 
 the chair, as if he felt that (not being a part of him- 
 self, and belonging, so to speak, to the Union) it 
 deserved the post of honour, he placed himself, as I 
 have said, on the edge. 
 
 This grey Scotch cap I have mentioned was not, 
 please to understand, the flat rakish Glengarry with 
 its streaming ribbons, such as young swells indulge 
 beneath, but that shapeless bowl of pale grey, with 
 a gap behind, and a feeble pattern round the edge, 
 such as one never sees except in Unions and Lunatic 
 Asylums. 
 
 I think I once saw a London street-boy in one, but 
 I concluded at once that it was only for its harrowing 
 associations that that juvenile metropolitan fiend 
 selected it as a matter of choice. 
 
 This cap is a thing that leaves its mark upon the 
 poor creatures that wear it ; just as fetters leave 
 marks. They pull it down over their heads as far as 
 it will go ; either because they suffer from habitual 
 moral coldness, or to cover their intellectual naked- 
 ness and disease. The cap always drawn down to the 
 ears give to those organs an unearthly prominence, 
 that reminds you of the ears of those lower animals, 
 which contract a perpetual timidity from persecution. 
 
 This, added to a restless watchfulness, and some 
 other peculiarities, gave me a painful feeling, as if I 
 knew him to have been severed, almost at his birth, 
 from the humanity for which God intended him, and 
 exiled among the brutes. 
 
A LAY SERMON. 109 
 
 One other peculiarity was a habit I have observed 
 in the animals in the Eegent's Park Gardens. It 
 was somewhat akin to the ceaseless prowling to and 
 fro to be noted in the beasts under the terrace ; but 
 it was exactly the same as the ungainly motion of 
 the white bear in the den beside the terrace. It was 
 that uncouth, monotonous, and mechanical swaying 
 from one limb to the other, painful enough to see in 
 a caged dumb beast, but sad beyond words to observe 
 in an articulate being, for whom philosophers argue, 
 a cogito, ergo sum — I think, therefore I exist." 
 
 The poor boy was sitting, as I said, on the edge of 
 the chair, and his basket was on the floor by his side. 
 I could see, through the interstices of the wicker 
 work, smooth little blue paper cones, suggestive of 
 moist sugar, and noduled packets, hinting at raisins. 
 The dim glory of perhaps half-a-dozen St. Michael's 
 oranges overnooded the whole. I wondered whether 
 he knew what these meant at first, he seemed such an 
 outcast from his fellows. Then I felt he must know, 
 and I pitied the wretched little thing, laden with 
 simple childish luxuries, that he might not taste. 
 
 He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit of corduroy, of 
 that indescribable shade between white and clay- 
 colour. It was inferior material, and dirty, and 
 frayed. His wretched shirt-collar was crumpled and 
 creased up. as if at some remote period he had had 
 the audacity to stand upright like a human being. 
 His raw. red and purple hands were pushed out far 
 beyond the shelter of his sleeves, like anatomical 
 
110 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 Ishmaels. As for his feet, they were thrust into 
 thick-soled, hard-leathered shoes, that were corru- 
 gated, not to suit his convenience, but the tendencies 
 of the material, and bore written clearly on their 
 dead-black, wrinkled faces, the decree — " To be sup- 
 plied by contract, so many dozen children's shoes. 
 Tenders to be sent in at the Union by the — instant." 
 
 It was a bleak day with the sun shining as cold as 
 comfort. The children were very jolly in the streets ; 
 they had some of them cloaks or great-coats, most of 
 them woollen comforters, and all good healthy red 
 noses, touched, in some instances, with a faint ultra- 
 marine. 
 
 This poor boy had not enough red in him to do 
 more than to diffuse a pale inflammatory pink about 
 the region of his mouth ; especially on his feeble 
 upper lip. He sat on the chair-edge, his neck pro- 
 truded anxiously, and his head on one side, watching 
 the children at play. The pose reminded me of a 
 cage-bird watching the gambols of a flight of swallows, 
 at noisy liberty outside the window. There seemed to 
 be a stir — very slight and perhaps not so recognised 
 by him — a stir of sympathy with their nature; an 
 interest in their pursuits. But there was as well, 
 and painful to see, a sort of wonder mingled with 
 this sensation, and moreover a kind of terror, 
 trembling* and shrinking, as if he dreaded to pass 
 through the turbulent youngsters. Good Heaven ! 
 I thought, what despicable bullies and tyrants we are 
 as healthy children ! 
 
A LAY SERMON. Ill 
 
 This bird-like peering about was not only to be 
 observed in the watch he kept on the gambols outside. 
 His quick restless eyes wandered from one thing to 
 another, and took rapid notice of everything going 
 on within — but notice that sank no lower than the 
 crystalline lens, — that cast no image upon the brain. 
 
 The strongest peculiarity was, that the poor crea- 
 ture never turned its face full upon anything it looked 
 at. It peered at it from the corner of its eye, and 
 from under its brows, never lifting its head, except 
 very briefly, at nervous and long intervals. Indeed, 
 the only countenance could be said to present it to 
 the grown-up world was, the nape of its neck. 
 
 " Pronaque dum spectent animalia csetera terram 
 Os homini sublime dedit !" 
 
 If this be the definition of humanity, is this hu- 
 man ? Did Heaven ever bid this thing, — " Look the 
 sky straight in the face, and stand erect beneath the 
 stars?" 
 
 Then the words of a later poet than Ovid came 
 into my mind, and I asked — 
 
 " Had he a father, 
 Had he a mother, 
 Had he a sister, 
 Had he a brother ?" 
 
 Alas ! I knew the poor children in Unions are 
 too often — and certainly, in the one to which this 
 belonged, generally — the offspring of folly, or of sin ; 
 not the sin, do you think, only of the parents ? is it 
 
112 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 not also the sin of us, who do not teach these, and 
 raise, and aid them? But wheresoever the sin lies, 
 these poor things are the waifs and strays, flotsom, 
 jetsom, and lagend of the polluted sea, that men call 
 the World, and shrug their shoulders at, with the 
 easy philosophy of " what must be, must ! " 
 
 There, meanwhile, sat the poor boy, swaying to and 
 fro after the manner of brutes, as I have described, 
 and shaking with frequent shivering fits, that did 
 not seem to be so much the effect, as the habit of 
 being cold. 
 
 I turned from the wretched spectacle, and took 
 from the shelves of the National Society's Library, 
 (that Institution has a niche in the shop as well as 
 Holloway,) a prayer-book, into which I looked to 
 divert my thoughts. I opened on "And visit the sins 
 of the fathers upon the children." I closed the book. 
 Is it a hard saying ? Do people often have such an 
 illustration as this to the text ? 
 
 I put the volume back, and turned round again. 
 The evening was closing in quickly, but the children 
 were still at play outside. For lack of light to see 
 what was doing within, the child was watching them. 
 It seemed as if the spirit they threw into the game, 
 riveted his attention. He looked on intently, follow- 
 ing with his eyes, and with little bird-like jerks of 
 his attenuated neck, all their manoeuvres as they 
 coursed up and down. How different such play was 
 from what he joined in, I knew well. Had I not seen 
 the Union children going through a mockery of play 
 
A LAY SERMON. 113 
 
 on their own green, running and romping, but with, 
 the life only of mechanical wax figures of children, 
 in a ghastly mockery of childhood ? I had seen this, 
 and had turned away from the rails, — from the 
 imploring, longing, animal eyes of the little witlings 
 that crowded up against them with vacant faces, be- 
 seeching alms with uncouth noises. 
 
 The boy had now taken some halfpence from his 
 pocket, and was counting them over, automatically, 
 to settle for his purchase, which he might now shortly 
 make, since Mrs. Jones was gone with her herb, and 
 Mrs. Smith had, the gas being lit, nearly settled on 
 her edging. This act perhaps was the most melan- 
 choly thing to note. To see his utter want of true 
 acquaintance with halfpence, those most infantile of 
 all coins ! A child's financial ideas seldom range 
 higher than halfpence can represent. I know some 
 little friends of Frank Whitestock's, who could read 
 Karitongo and Wankyfungo without a stutter, but 
 who could not easily manage the distribution of a six- 
 pence. "Hap'ny — aha — orange, and hap'ny — aha — 
 apple, and hap'ny — aha — treacle, and'" — there an end ! 
 
 Give a child a shilling, and mere acquisitiveness 
 causes it to be grateful for a white, shining, pretty 
 piece of money : but give it a few halfpence, and its 
 face glows with genuine pleasure. Every copper — 
 dear old familiar friend — represents a doll, a leaden 
 soldier, a stick of toffy, or some other treasure of 
 childhood. 
 
 This poor boy fingered childhood's own peculiar 
 I 
 
114 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 coinage, as if they were sovereigns ; things, of which 
 he had never been possessed, and which he never 
 dreamed of possessing. 
 
 And now his purchases made, the parcel was added 
 to the sugar, the raisins, and the St. Michael's oranges ; 
 and the money deposited on the counter without any 
 of that childish, reluctant, longing fingering of the 
 dear unctuous medals, such as an urchin has a right 
 to take a furtive pleasure in. 
 
 He picked up his flabby head-gear, and put his 
 head into it. He was so kept down, — had such a 
 general spirit (?) of " down-ness " in him, that it was 
 more natural to lower his head into his cap, as he 
 held it in his hand, than to raise his hand to his 
 head with that covering. 
 
 I took a last survey of him. What age was he ? 
 From his height and build, eight ; from his face, fifty. 
 His face had not the experience (which is the wisdom) 
 or the cunning of fifty ; but it had the suffering, the 
 care, the resignation of fifty, — the aged look to be 
 seen in the face of an old ill-used horse, or a worn- 
 out dog, but not often, I trust, among human creatures. 
 He turned to leave the shop. His little cap, with 
 the gap behind, yawned over his attenuated neck. 
 
 A strange wolfish thought rose in me, that, if I 
 took that miserable isthmus between heart and brain 
 in my hand, and squeezed it for a minute or so, — why 
 then an end of the thing's troubles ! If all such 
 Union starvelings had had that one neck, I should 
 almost have been Nero enough to pinch it with a 
 
A LAY SEKMON. 115 
 
 compassionate finger and thumb, and send them out 
 of the world — whither ? No matter ! at least to 
 something better than bare walls and thin gruel, a 
 miserable, stinting, soul-stunting vegetation. 
 
 The wolf-thought slank away, and in its stead, a 
 mist, that it would not have taken much to condense 
 into tears, rose before my eyes. If to see this one 
 was sad, how sad to see the thousands of like outcast 
 things in this great prosperous country of ours ! 
 
 I saw the other day a notice of a Eevival, whither 
 sinners were invited to prove a lively repentance by 
 convulsions and howls. 
 
 I saw the other day a great speech by Bermynghame 
 Boisterous, Esq. M.P. about Political Eeform, Man- 
 hood Suffrage, the Eights of Labour, and other things 
 beginning with capital letters. 
 
 I think I saw, too, the other day, that the Eev. 
 Frantic Plodd, M.A., was going to deliver a sermon in 
 aid of the Society for " The Distribution of coals and 
 blankets in Central Africa," " The Diffusion of Kent's 
 Eefrigerators among the Greenlanders," or some other 
 equally meritorious Mission. 
 
 I think I have seen these. 
 
 I am sure I have seen a want of a system of 
 education, the result of sectarian desires to gild the 
 pill of knowledge, each sect with its own tinsel ; and 
 a want of an active every-day religion of working 
 propensities, and Christian catholicity. 
 
 Well, and what is the use of all this, you may ask? 
 Is there no good in a man s honestly telling what is 
 I 2 
 
116 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 in his heart, and describing truthfully (as I have, on 
 my conscience) what he has seen, and felt ? 
 
 Mind you, I believe Education to be fiercely needed, 
 I consider Missions to be necessary, and I admit Ke- 
 form to be desirable. I am sure if there be such a 
 thing as true Christianity extant, it wants a little 
 awakening. But, Eevived Christian, had you not 
 better employ your muscles in visiting the teeming- 
 allies of poverty, instead of rolling on the cocoa-nut 
 matting of your conventicle ? But, Eeformer and Edu- 
 cator (for it is no use being the former without being 
 the latter, I submit), do come down off the Platform 
 and out of the House, into the festering chaos of 
 unreformed ignorance ! But, Eeverends, come down 
 from the pulpit (and off the stage) a little oftener, and 
 a little oftener take for your text such a text as I 
 have taken for my lay sermon. If Charity, or Love, 
 which means the same I take it, is the greatest of 
 a certain Three you wot of, you cannot preach it 
 too frequently, and you would never find a better 
 text! 
 
 The boy was gone ; but I still saw him in my 
 mind's eye sitting, as I described before, on the ex- 
 treme edge of the chair, just as I have drawn him ; 
 just as he sat when 1 first recognised him as the key- 
 note of the sermon I excogitated. 
 
 I dare say you will not all be able to guess my lay 
 sermon from these rough short-hand notes. The 
 more's the pity ! I left the shop, and closed the door 
 
A LAY SERMON. 
 
 117 
 
 behind me, leaving the demonstrative bell as noisy 
 as bigotry. 
 Ah, well !— 
 
 " There's somewhat in this world amiss 
 Must be unriddled by and by ! " 
 
 A LAY IMPROPRIATOR. 
 
118 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 tENONE'S vigil. 
 
 Is my waiting all vain? 
 
 Comes he never again? 
 
 Must my tears, lonely tears, ever fall like the rain 
 
 In the long autumn days on the hills? 
 
 Is he gone to the waves 
 
 Of the river that laves 
 Death's strand, ever-mi 
 Lost to life, with its joys or its ills? 
 
 Death's strand, ever-mute, and unechoing caves, 
 
 Oh, I see that cold shore, 
 
 Evermore — evermore ; 
 
 That island where souls that were mighty in war, 
 
 An immortal existence have found. 
 
 They loom misty and dim, 
 
 Through the vapours that swim, 
 
 Slowly up from the waters so silent and grim, 
 
 Which circle them nine times around. 
 
 Yet the melody swells 
 
 From the silvery bells 
 
 In the beautiful meadow of asphodels, 
 
 And it floats o'er the wide sluggish stream. 
 
^enone's vigil. 119 
 
 And I know lie is there 
 
 In the meadow-lands fair ; 
 
 I can see the soft light on his beautiful hair, 
 
 Like the sunlight that glows in a dream. 
 
 But my visions are vain, 
 
 I awake to my pain, 
 
 And the tears, bitter tears, slowly fall like the rain, 
 
 In the dark misty days on the hills. 
 
 Come and steal my sad breath 
 In long sighs, Gentle Death, 
 ,For the sword of my spirit has fretted its sheath, 
 Oh, thou mighty Eemover of Ills ! 
 
 DEINKING SONG. 
 
 Fill the glass ! 
 
 The bottle pass, 
 
 And drain the wine down to the bottom. 
 
 Leave Life's affairs 
 
 And all their cares 
 
 To those who like 'em when they've got 'em ! 
 
 For me : — I own 
 That when alone 
 I find cares come still thick and thicker. 
 
120 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 But when I meet 
 
 With friends — 'tis sweet 
 
 To have some cares to drown in liquor. 
 
 For Life, like wine, 
 
 In close confine 
 
 Gathers a dingy crust, unsightly, 
 
 But when it passes 
 
 To many glasses, 
 
 It bubbles up and sparkles brightly. 
 
 Alack-aday ! 
 
 Bright things decay. 
 
 First fails the cask that quickest spirted. 
 
 Well — then we'll in 
 
 Upon the bin 
 
 To sleep — like wine-glasses inverted. 
 
 f S ■ / 
 
 THE BEST SPIRIT-MEDIUMS. 
 
121 
 
 CYPEESS AND LAUEEL. 
 
 (The Dying Painter speaks.) 
 
 lELP me back to the 
 couch : I am strangely 
 weary and weak. 
 How my knees trem- 
 ble and fail ! — Have 
 I stood at the easel 
 long? 
 Look at the beads of sweat on my brow, and the 
 
 flush on my cheek ! 
 Put me a shade on the lamp, it is burning over-strong. 
 Ah, that dear, cool hand, sweet Wife ! Like a costly 
 
 balm 
 I feel its touch so white, — 'tis in alabaster too ; 
 Here on my feverish brow lay its little rosy palm. 
 Oh, I am weary to the death, nor know what I say 
 or do. 
 
 This was the hand I took in mine one jubilant morn, 
 There in the old Cathedral I see through the moon- 
 lit pane ; 
 Here is the tiny ring that it ever since has worn. 
 
122 QUIPS AND GEANKS. 
 
 Stop — do not hurry me, sweet, let me pause and rest 
 
 again. 
 Ah, that little hand ! " I would lead it up to Fame ! 
 The world should own that my wife and model was 
 
 passing fair ! " 
 That was an idle dream ! Now, penniless, sickly, and 
 
 lame, 
 I must trust to its feeble help to guide me back to 
 
 my chair. 
 
 Nay, do not smile! Yet stay — smile on! 'tis thus I 
 
 would fain 
 Have painted my Virgin smiling down at the babe 
 
 on her knee, 
 With a joy in love that is sobered by dim fore- 
 knowledge of pain 
 That waits her beloved one. — Dearest, do you think 
 
 it will ever be 
 That the picture all completed and hung in the 
 
 Minster there, 
 Will catch the eye of the Duke ; will he pause, and 
 
 pursing his mouth, 
 Throw back his head for a while, and say with a 
 
 learned air 
 " Come, there is merit in that ; we have painters still 
 
 in the South? " 
 Trim up the lamp. Erewhile it was over-strong for 
 
 my eyes, 
 Now it seems very dim. You have turned it down 
 
 too low. 
 
 
CYPRESS AND LAUREL. 123 
 
 How has it grown so gloomy? Why, when did the 
 
 moon arise? — 
 Scarcely an hour ago, and it cannot be setting now. 
 Yet, though it grows so dark — is it not strange? — I 
 
 seem 
 Lying so still, to discover the secrets I vainly have 
 
 sought. 
 I am wringing their hearts out now. Or do I lie in 
 
 a dream, 
 And think that the victory's won — that the long, 
 
 long battle is fought. 
 Now, if I had my palette, I think I could mix the tint 
 I wished for Madonna's hair, and the purple glaze for 
 
 her veil; 
 Something the color you see in morning clouds, with 
 
 a hint 
 Of the undeiiying sunset, — glowing and rich, though 
 
 pale. 
 Yes, it grows on the gloom, the picture that many a 
 
 year, 
 Sleeping and waking, I've planned — the master-piece 
 
 of my life, 
 The Presentation of Christ in the Temple. It stands 
 
 so clear, 
 All the lines of the figures as sharp as if cut with a 
 
 knife; 
 And above all, the Mother, filled with that threefold 
 
 love 
 (Trebly a woman therefore), nursing her babe, the 
 
 Christ, 
 
124 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 Loved as a child upon earth, as her Saviour come 
 from above, 
 
 While she leans in confidence pure, upon her be- 
 trothed' s wrist. 
 
 If I could see the easel that's standing back in the 
 dark, 
 
 Then (comparing the picture there with the vision 
 here), 
 
 I might find out the faults of my feeble painting — 
 and mark 
 
 Where I should give the touches would make it 
 grow bold and clear. 
 
 Hush — for I see a figure ! How lean ! Of nothing but 
 bone. 
 
 What is the wreath in its hand with a silver high- 
 light on the leaves ? 
 
 See, it is passing before the picture ! 
 
 Am I alone? 
 
 Wife, are you here? come closer, the flickering light 
 deceives, 
 
 Ah ! How faint I have grown. My heart beats heavy 
 and slow. 
 
 Where is that solemn spectre? I feel it is here, close 
 
 by. 
 
 'Tis that, not you, dear wife, that is pressing the 
 
 wreath on my brow — 
 What is this odour from branches of laurel fresh - 
 gathered ? — 
 
 I die! 
 
125 
 
 MEMOBY. 
 
 Love's Priest is Memory. He sits beside 
 The god's warm altar and casts incense on 
 To feed the flame with recollections sweet. 
 Love's Priest is Memory. He sits between 
 Two lovers, folded in each other's arms, 
 With lips so closely meeting, every word 
 Is ended with a kiss. There Memory leans 
 Above them, and they look through vanished years 
 And whisper happy recollections. 
 
 " Sweet, 
 Do yon remember that first walk we took ? 
 Others were with us. On your arm I leant, 
 And oft I strove to free my hand — ah, love, 
 'Twas but to feel the soft entreating clasp 
 Of that dear hand that made it prisoner." 
 
 " Ah, yes, I do remember. 'Twas that night 
 That some mischance (not 1, of course, the cause) 
 Put out the tapers as you played the air 
 Which haunts me yet. Do you remember, love ?" 
 
 " Ah, yes, and then it was you kissed my hand, 
 And I half feared, half hoped, I know not which, 
 That your presumption would attain my lips." 
 
126 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 " Your lips ! — oh shall I e'er forget the day 
 When first I pressed them to my own, and drank, 
 Rather than heard, those words — 'I love — I love'?" 
 " I too remember that dear time, mine own ! " 
 
 Love, look with tenderness on these fond hearts, 
 
 Give them for ever Memory shared by each ! 
 
 Never apart, alone, and desolate, 
 
 May either whisper sadly " Woe is me ! 
 
 I do remember : — then I was beloved ! " 
 
 UN-NATURAL HISTORY — A MOONCALF. 
 
127 
 
 ON THE WATER IN SPRING. 
 
 The tender buds like emeralds 
 Are bursting on the bough, 
 And gleam reflected on the wave 
 That ripples neath the prow. 
 The trees, the sky, the fleecy clouds, 
 Are mirror'd in the lake, 
 Until our silver-dropping oars 
 The placid image break. 
 
 Yet looking back along the track 
 "Whereby our course has lain, 
 We see the pictured loveliness 
 Tremble to shape again. 
 
 So though the world at times disturbs 
 The current of my thought, 
 And your remembrance there obscures, 
 Kind Sister — it is nought ! 
 
 As does the lake, once more at rest, 
 Reflect the sky above, 
 So seeks my heart in calmer hours 
 The old familiar love. 
 
128 
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 THE MAKEE AND MODEL OF HAEMONIOUS 
 VEESE." 
 
 
 A BIOGRAPHICAL LECTURE.* 
 
 thousand six hundred and five. 
 
 IEST of all, allow 
 me to introduce 
 to you Edmund 
 Waller, of Bea- 
 consfield,"Bucks — 
 gentleman, M.P. 
 poet, courtier, wit, 
 orator, exile, lover, 
 sinner, penitent ! 
 In a word, a bro- 
 ther of ours ; 
 though rather an 
 elder one to be 
 sure, seeing he 
 was born in the 
 Year of Grace, one 
 I wish I could 
 
 * I am indebted for much of the information in this paper to an 
 article in Household Words from the brilliant pen of Mr. Charles 
 Kent. 
 
THE MAKER OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 129 
 
 describe this writer of the Seventeenth Century 
 with the delicate touch and faithful execution of 
 the chronicler of the writers of the Eighteenth 
 Century. It is this accuracy of delineation that 
 constitutes the true portrayer of the men of the past, 
 and it is the want of it that turns the would-be 
 essayist into a clumsy uninteresting caricaturist. 
 
 Nothing is easier than to draw a head with a 
 decided Eoman nose and a cocked hat, and proclaim 
 it to be " The Duke ; " (what a grandeur there is in 
 that definite article at times) — the bigger the nose, 
 and the more exaggerated the hat, the more silly 
 people will be led away into unmeaning delight. If 
 you go a step further and append the name they are 
 ravished. Thinking men must deplore such grotesque 
 folly. 
 
 When we were at school, don't you remember that 
 we used to draw the master with a wig, a cane, a 
 pimply nose, and a long-legged desk with a dunce's 
 cap on it ? That was a conventional essay on school- 
 masters, and if our particular dominie did not resemble 
 the picture, it was not the error of the artist, but the 
 crime of the pedagogue. He ought to have had those 
 attributes as a matter of duty. 
 
 We young scrawling reprobates at school were 
 only juvenile copyists of a certain class, who, having 
 conventional notions of Johnson, Goldsmith, and 
 Swift, will prose by the hour about Johnson being 
 a bear in a big wig with a big voice ; Goldsmith a 
 soft-hearted half-idiot, given to flute-playing, and 
 
 K 
 
130 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 Swift a man possessed of a devil and a deanery in 
 Ireland. 
 
 Is it hard to draw a bear in a bob-wig, a fool 
 tooting on a pipe, and a demon in cassock and bands ? 
 Yet these are the generality of the word-pictures 
 elaborated so often about them. Men will take their 
 subject and stick it up before you as stiff and lifeless 
 as a lay-figure. 
 
 Now a lay-figure is as un-human a thing as you 
 can clap eyes on — an exaggerated doll, such as the 
 Princess of Brobdignag nursed before Fortune sent 
 her little Lemuel Gulliver for a plaything. Lay its 
 sausage fingers on its bare poll, and turn its lack- 
 lustre eyes on the chandelier-hook, and straddle its legs. 
 That is Despair, for instance. But the true artist from 
 this poor monster creates a fair humanity, clothes it 
 with the attributes of man, and cunningly limns the 
 features. Then we see and admire the picture. 
 
 Alas ! there be some, who having adjusted their 
 lay-figures accurately, photograph them with the 
 utmost precision, and imagine they have achieved 
 a success. 
 
 The men of the past have left us only lay-figures 
 to depict them from, — have bequeathed to us a few 
 pictures, a few traditions, a snuff-box, some rings, 
 or a clouded cane, and their own writings. From 
 these, it is the manner of some to take pallid ghastly 
 photographs, and so their subjects become to us mere 
 things of padding and springs ; things of awkward 
 attitude and unintelligible meaning. 
 
THE MAKEE OF HAEMONIOUS VEESE. 131 
 
 It is reserved for the few to paint from these true 
 humanities, and not gaunt unrealities, Frankenstein 
 "botches of dead men's bones. 
 
 See how Thackeray paints from these relics, (and 
 at times Mr. Sala shows how he can wield the master 
 brush), he describes us the old writers, not as men of a 
 different race, a distinct class of beings from ourselves, 
 but as men, our brothers, with the same hearts as ours, 
 beating beneath long brocaded vests, the same brains 
 as ours, busy beneath Eamillies wigs, and the same 
 errands of grace, folly, error, love, mercy, wisdom, 
 making feet like ours hurry by in high-heeled shoon, 
 knees like ours hinge in velvet breeches, and shanks 
 like ours flash by in silken stockings. 
 
 Were men's hopes and intentions, faults and 
 favours, really different because they wore a pig-tail at 
 the back, instead of a watch and seals at the waistband, 
 think you ? Or did the Fops differ from the Swells 
 of to-day, because they carried a court-sword in place 
 of an attenuated umbrella, and a pouncet-box in lieu 
 of a cigar-case ? Were children more or less obedient 
 because they said " Sir," instead of " Governor ?" Be- 
 cause men wore wigs, patches, and powder was their 
 whole being artificial ? Was it a distinct race, that 
 crowded the Mall, or danced at Eanelagh? We 
 know that mankind was the same then as now, and 
 yet we seem to think so little of it that we need an 
 army of Laputa flappers to keep us in mind. As for 
 some writers, when they sit down to pen biographies 
 of great men, some one ought to be employed to 
 k2 
 
132 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 whisper at intervals "Philip, remember they were 
 mortal!" 
 
 But all this time my friend Edmund has been 
 waiting to make himself known to you. As, of 
 course, I should not introduce a person of no family, 
 and limited means, you will presume that he is of 
 good birth and property. And so he was. His 
 father died in our hero's infancy, and left him a for- 
 tune of £3,500 per annum. So much for wealth! 
 As regards descent, he was no less fortunate. 
 
 I need not trouble you with very many particu- 
 lars. Indeed, to trace our Waller's 
 
 " pedigree 
 To the very root of the family tree 
 Were a task as rash as ridiculous :" 
 
 and it will suffice to say that somewhere in that 
 genealogical arborescence, between Adam and Eve, 
 and Edmund, there occurs a certain Eichard Waller, 
 of Spendhurst, Sheriff of Kent. It was his fate to 
 live in the days of Harry Monmouth, and his good 
 fortune to be present at Agincourt. 
 
 As regards that battle, I have heard a gentleman, 
 not well-read in his black-letter chronicles, who 
 avowed his belief that it was never fought at all, but 
 that Shakespeare invented it for his Henry the Yth, 
 and the historians, out of respect to the Poet, ab- 
 stained from exploding the fallacy. 
 
 With this belief I cannot hold, but of one thing I 
 am certain, namely, that it happened exactly as the 
 Bard of Avon describes it. So that you remember 
 
THE MAKER OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 133 
 
 King Hal said, (and I am prepared to assert that 
 they are the exact words he made rise of,) in answer 
 to Westmoreland's wish for reinforcements, — 
 
 " If we are marked to die, we are enough 
 To do our country loss — but if to live, 
 The fewer men, the greater share of Honor !" 
 
 If those were not the precise words they ought to 
 have been, for he could not have said anything finer. 
 And then he added that when the victory was won 
 (of which, as an Englishman, of course he had no 
 doubt) the people would remember in all ages the 
 names of 
 
 " Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter, 
 Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster." 
 
 Now Harry the King omitted from that list the 
 name of Waller of Spendhurst, which should have 
 been therein enrolled, and I will tell you why. 
 
 The battle being fought on St. Crispin's day, and 
 he being the patron saint of cobblers, most appro- 
 priately the result was that the over-confident 
 Dauphin was sold, Hal's wounded pride was healed, 
 and to speak by the Ring, oceans of French claret 
 were tapped, without any removal of duty by the 
 then Chancellor of the Exchequer. To hunt the 
 metaphor to death, many illustrious prisoners were 
 on this occasion bound, and among them the Due 
 D' Orleans, the captive of no other than Eicharcl 
 Waller of Spendhurst, Sheriff of Kent, the paternal 
 ancestor of Edmund Waller, who thus, on his 
 
134 QUTPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 father's side, traced his line back to the heroes of the 
 chivalric ages. 
 
 On his mother's side he was not so much connected 
 with the Past as with the Future. The phrase may- 
 seem ambiguous, but you will allow it correct, when 
 I explain to you. 
 
 Waller of Spendhurst was part of an almost 
 obsolete feudal system, of a Chivalry that was well 
 nigh extinct. But Edmund Waller's mother was 
 Anne, the daughter of Griffith Hampden, of Hamp- 
 den, the aunt of England's great patriot. 
 
 Hampden, then, was first cousin to Cromwell, and 
 first cousin to Waller, so that the Protector and the 
 Poet were what the Americans would call "kinder 
 cousins," or, to reverse and alter a common quotation, 
 "A little less than kin, and more than kinder" cousins. 
 
 Am I wrong then in saying that our hero, on his 
 mother's side, was rather connected with the Future 
 than the Past ? 
 
 At the time of Edmund's birth, Hampden, if he 
 was resisting any shape of despotism, was doing so 
 by thrashing the bully of his school at Thame, and, 
 again to alter a quotation, 
 
 " With dauntless breast the little tyrant of his form 
 withstood ;" 
 
 While Cromwell, "guiltless of his country's blood" 
 though he might be, was yet be spattered with that 
 of his class-mates, for lie was a pugnacious urchin 
 in the lower school at Huntingdon. 
 
THE MAKER OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 135 
 
 To exhaust the verse of The Elegy, Milton was at 
 this period a decidedly "mute, inglorious" one, for the 
 simple, but sufficient, reason that he was neither 
 born, nor thought of. 
 
 I have dwelt at length on these two relationships, 
 these two descents if I may call them so, because 
 they prove an excuse for the vacillations, of which, 
 in after life, Waller was with a slight show of justice 
 accused. One or the other of these kinds of blood 
 was for ever getting the upper hand, and so, at one 
 time our Poet and M.P. would stand by Charles the 
 First, and at another, with a poetical licence, turn 
 round and side with the Parliament. In the first 
 instance he was influenced by the loyal ichor of 
 Eichard of Spendhurst, the vassal of Henry of Mon- 
 mouth, and in the last by a kindred sympathy with 
 the noble fluid that filled the veins of a Cromwell, 
 and swelled the great heart of a Hampden. 
 
 I cannot tell you anything of the life and politics 
 of his father ; his mother was a Eoyalist and lectured 
 her nephews often, but unavailingly, on the course 
 they pursued in after years. 
 
 In Anno Domini 1621, Hampden and Waller 
 were elected to Parliament, the latter for Amersham, 
 or Agmondesham, the former for a borough, "which," 
 says the late Lord Macaulay, " has in our time 
 obtained for itself a miserable celebrity," the borough 
 of Grampound. Hampden had been married about 
 two years before this, and threw aside fowling-piece, 
 hunting boots, and the pleasures of a country squire, 
 
136 QUIPS AND CBANKS. 
 
 for the serious duties of a legislator. He was seven 
 and twenty when he took his seat. 
 
 But what will you say when I tell you that Edmund 
 Waller, M.P. had only seen sixteen summers?* 
 Were young men so advanced in those days? tem- 
 pora, o mores, how they must have degenerated now ! 
 After all I fancy they have not, though. In our 
 times they know more about cricket and pitch in the 
 hole than politics. I don't suppose they were far 
 advanced beyond bat and ball and marbles then. 
 
 The fact is that the Universities admitted boys at 
 an age when public schools would take them now. 
 So it was that Waller had passed his collegiate career 
 at King's College, Cambridge, after having been 
 grounded at Eton, before he arrived at the mature 
 senatorial honours of sixteen. 
 
 The grounding at Eton could of course have been 
 little beyond A. B.C. As for his College days, one 
 does not wonder that the old statutes of the Uni- 
 versities bid the Heads of Houses to see their pupils 
 in bed by nine, to birch them if they are disobedient, 
 and to flog them if they play at ring-taw in the pub- 
 lic streets. 
 
 But the undergraduate now! — Quantum mutatus 
 ab illo ! I have seen him out of bed, and college too, 
 hours after nine : I never heard of his being birched ; 
 and as for ring-taw, if that were the game, and the 
 only one, the youngsters played in the streets, they 
 
 * At all events they were not more than eighteen. 
 
THE MAKEE OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 137 
 
 would not deserve to "be whipt half as much as they 
 do. 
 
 History does not reveal whether our young legis- 
 lator ever wished to slip out of St. Stephens, and 
 have a game at leap-frog. I daresay he did ; indeed, 
 I should not wonder if Lords Derby and Palmerston 
 sometimes wish themselves back in Eton playground, 
 having a turn at fly-the-garter. 
 
 Waller however, though as Clarendon says, "nursed 
 in Parliaments," was not yet allowed to run alone, 
 and was, according to some authorities, still under 
 the salutary rule, that " little children should be seen, 
 and not heard/' For Amersham, they say, claimed 
 in electing him a right of representation which it 
 had left dormant since the beginning of Edward the 
 Second's reign. In this case, Waller would sit sub 
 silentio ; that is he sat by courtesy, but could neither 
 speak nor vote, till the claim of his borough was 
 finally determined, which was not till some years 
 after. 
 
 This may be the reason why he is not mentioned 
 in the blue books, or in the Hansard of the period, as 
 proposing a measure for the abolition of charges at 
 pastry-cooks' shops, or for a grant of a liberal weekly 
 allowance to all gentlemen M.P.'s, under eighteen 
 years of age, or any such other measures as might 
 have been expected of his years. 
 
 But though a dummy in the House, our friend was 
 well received at Court. What a Court it was ! James 
 the First of England and Sixth of Scotland must 
 
138 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 have been the source of keen mirth and scorn to 
 young Waller, whose wit, humour, and satire were so 
 strong, and, at his age, so untempered by the love, the 
 charity, the pity, the self-abasement, which a few 
 years' experience brings us to blunt the edge of 
 sarcasm, and modify the cruel bitterness of contempt. 
 
 How Waller's thoughts in after-years must have 
 recurred to this poor royal dotard, playing his sad 
 foolish pranks between two bloody scaffolds ; the one. 
 whereon his mother perished ; the other whereon his 
 son, his pet, his Baby Charles, was doomed to die 
 afterwards. 
 
 It was to Baby Charles our Poet wrote his first 
 lines, and very notable lines they are ; on his Boyal 
 Highness' escape from a storm off the coast of Spain. 
 Smooth they are to a degree, and musical ; but full of 
 mythological pomposity, and betraying the youth of 
 their writer very clearly in a passage wherein the 
 tumultuous billows of an angry sea, are compared 
 to nothing more lofty than "a sort of lusty shepherds" 
 at foot-ball. 
 
 In the June of 1625, in which year Baby Charles 
 came to the throne, Waller sat again for Amersham. 
 But he was still a silent member. It was in 1628 that 
 our gentleman first eminently distinguished himself, 
 by marrying an heiress. Clarendon says of him, that he 
 was " little known till he had obtained a rich wife in 
 the city." But Clarendon had no reason to love 
 Waller ; but had two reasons for hating him ; the first 
 because Waller had injured him, and the second, 
 
THE MAKER OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 139 
 
 and I believe more powerful, because lie had injured 
 Waller. 
 
 Johnson comments on this ill-natured remark, by 
 reminding the reader that Edmund was only three 
 and twenty when he married, " an age before which 
 few men are conspicuous much to their advantage." 
 " He was known, however," continues the Doctor, "in 
 Parliament and at Court ; and if he spent part of his 
 time in privacy, it is not unreasonable to suppose 
 that he endeavoured the improvement of Ins mind, 
 as well as his fortune." 
 
 I am afraid it was the improvement of his fortune, 
 rather than of his mind that he meditated in his 
 marriage. The lady was a city heiress, most appro- 
 priately named Banks. I don't think he besieged 
 her with glowing verse ; if he did, we know nothing 
 of it : neither do we know anything of his domestic 
 life. His wife bore him two children, a son, who 
 died early, and a daughter, who passes out of our 
 history, to marry a Mr. Dormer of Oxfordshire. 
 
 I daresay Waller and his wife got on then, much 
 as any one and his wife get on now ; differing it 
 may be as to milliners' bills, or the latch-key (if there 
 were one in those days), and finding doubtless that 
 the romance of Love was somewhat destroyed after 
 wedlock by butchers' and bakers' bills, washings at 
 home, and cold joints on Saturday. 
 
 Mrs. Waller, No 1, died in 1630, leaving Edmund 
 a widower at five and twenty. Much too young to 
 
140 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 be a widower ! And so he thought, and therefore set 
 about searching for Mrs. W. No. 2. 
 
 The result is that in 1631 we find him laying aside 
 his weeds, and flinging himself a prostrate victim 
 before the fair feet of Lady Dorothea Sydney, a 
 descendant of the famous Sir Philip. 
 
 To look at the matter calmly, this was rather bold 
 of our young friend. 
 
 There's a lady, an Earl's daughter ; she is fair and she is noble, 
 And she treads the crimson carpet, and she breathes the per- 
 fumed air ; 
 And a kingly blood sends glances up her princely eye to trouble, 
 And the shadow of a monarch's crown is softened in her hair." , 
 
 The semblance of a coronet in Sacharissa's golden 
 curls ought to have awed Edmund from the pursuit. 
 But his former matrimonial success warranted his 
 boldness. When he wooed and won Miss Banks, the 
 Court had entered one, Mr. Crofts, for the rich prize, 
 and no doubt he argued that if he could carry off a 
 fortune despite the interest of a money-loving Court, 
 he might carry off a noble lady from that Court by in- 
 fluence of his money. And so he might a great many ; 
 but unfortunately he made choice of the wrong one. 
 Lady Dorothea was never " Miss Bight " to poor 
 Edmund ! " Miss Bight" nevertheless to two suc- 
 cessive successful gentlemen ; first to Henry, Lord 
 Spencer, afterwards Earl of Sunderland, and sub- 
 sequently to no more exalted a personage than plain 
 Mr. Smyth. This latter matrimonial condescension 
 
THE MAKER OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 141 
 
 was most probably owing to the troubled times of 
 trie rebellion. 
 
 Lady Dorothea however was never " Miss Eight" 
 to Edmund Waller ; to him only a distant and much 
 revered Divinity, on whom the poet by a strange 
 reciprocity conferred a share of an immortality which 
 he chiefly derived from her. For so it was that the 
 fame these two begot, out of wedlock, out-lived 
 all the children lawfully born of their respective 
 husbands and wives. 
 
 It is very amusing to look at the titles of some of 
 Waller's poems. Here are a few instances : — 
 
 " To a Lady who can do anything but sleep when she pleases." 
 " The apology of Sleep for not approaching a Lady who can do," &c. 
 
 Whether these two poems had the desired soporific 
 effect I cannot positively say, but it seems probable, 
 for soon we have : — 
 
 " To a Lady who can sleep when she pleases ; " 
 
 perhaps by reading the two preceding poems, which 
 certainly contain as much opiate for their size as any 
 I ever met with. 
 
 There are a host of such trifles as the following : — 
 
 " To a Lady on her passing through a crowd." 
 
 " On a brede of various colours, worked by four ladies." 
 
 " On the misreport of a Lady's being painted." 
 
 " On a tree cut in paper by a Lady." 
 
 And then comes one, " To a Lady who returned the 
 above copy of verses after they had been for many 
 years missing." 
 
142 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 The lost MS. was only a scrap of fourteen lines, 
 but for its restoration the lady is called in fourteen 
 more, a Venus, Virtue personified, the loveliest of 
 women, the most irresistible of her irresistible sex! 
 If the return of lost papers were so repaid now, 
 Bramah himself could devise no safety-lock for the 
 Poet Laureate's study. 
 
 I am afraid, in running over the index of Waller's 
 poems with me, a censorious world will be prone to 
 quarrel with him, when it finds therein numerous love- 
 songs to an Amoret, a Chloris, a Phillis, a Zelinda, 
 a Celia, a Flavia, and a Sylvia. 
 
 The fact is, our friend was a " pretty fellow," and 
 the idol of the ladies. Those dear creatures are not 
 stern judges — indeed, I fear it is a rule that such an 
 idol is not a hero with us men. Waller was not, for 
 instance. Yet I doubt whether the ladies are not 
 right after all, and incline to believe that a poor, 
 nice, amiable, unlucky, devil-may-care fellow with a 
 lot of faults is preferable to a straight-backed, stiff- 
 necked fellow, who is so "confoundedly virtuous," 
 that if he sin at all (and we are told on good autho- 
 rity that all men do) he sins surreptitiously, under 
 the rose, and adds the crime of hypocrisy to the 
 fault committed. 
 
 You will be for guessing from this that Waller 
 had his faults — and a fair proportion of them. Well, 
 I confess he had — and what is more, I don't like him 
 the less for it. Upon my word, I believe it is better 
 to be amiable than to be clever, and infinitely more 
 
THE MAKEE OF HARMONIOUS VEESE. 143 
 
 pleasant to be liked than to be admired. One warm 
 hearty shake of the hand is worth a hundred distant 
 awe-struck bowings and scrapings. 
 
 But as these errors and failings are in the lap 
 of the future just now, you will please to make them 
 no palliation for Sacharissa's savagery. She impaled 
 poor Edmund as remorselessly as boys do cock- 
 chaffers, and when he buzzed and droned over his 
 agonies, she smiled! 
 
 I address this portion of my paper to men ; for a 
 young and interesting lady, to whom I once read that 
 last sentence, said very innocently, "Well, why 
 shouldn't she?" so I suppose here I am become un- 
 intelligible to the sex. "No doubt Sacharissa en- 
 couraged the poor poet up to a certain point, and it 
 was not unpleasant to her to hear her own praises 
 sung so musically, and to have him twangling his 
 guitar under her bed-room window of cold nights. 
 
 There is a picture of Waller extant, copied from 
 one in the collection of Lord Chesterfield, which must 
 have been done about this time. It represents him 
 as a nice-looking fellow enough, with a touch of sly 
 humour in his face, but with no excess of energy nor 
 of firmness. No firmness, even in his moustache, an 
 appendage which be it ever so slight, generally gives, 
 an air of ferocity to a face, but which only adds in- 
 decision to his, for it is faint, feeble, and uncertain, 
 and resembles nothing in the world so much as a 
 strayed eyebrow. 
 
 Besides this effigy we have Aubrey's pen-and-ink 
 
144 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 sketch of him. " A fair, thin skin, his hair frizzed 
 and of a brownish colour, a full eye, and a com- 
 plexion somewhat of an olivaster." 
 
 I have now given you the likeness of Sacharissa's 
 Waller ;— but how shall I give you the likeness of 
 Waller's Sacharissa? For my own part, I confess I 
 have never seen her portrait. I can scarce believe she 
 has left one for posterity to criticise and carp at, — for 
 she was ever fortunate. Imagine a lady who had a 
 poet for a lover, yet not as a husband; who, though 
 twice married, has left no record of her age or the 
 date of her birth in any Penshurst Register, on any 
 monument, or in any family Bible ; and who, famed 
 in life for her loveliness, had left no counterfeit pre- 
 sentment behind her for the world to sneer at and 
 find fault with* 
 
 Beautiful she was, and young and charming, 
 doubtless! From what I can gather, a blonde; 
 golden-haired, rosy -cheeked, cherry -lipped, and 
 dreamy- eyed. 
 
 We must not quarrel about tastes, but I fancy 
 Sacharissa was, as Johnson interprets her name, a 
 sugary, spiritless mildness. At all events it is certain 
 the string of epithets I have threaded for her would 
 apply as aptly to a flaxen-curled, pink-painted, blue- 
 bead-eyed wax doll such as little girls delight in. 
 
 The first poem he penned to her was, I guess, one 
 which begins : — 
 
 * There is a portrait at Penshurst I believe, said to be hers ; there 
 are several engraved portraits of her. 
 
THE MAKER OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 145 
 
 " Treading the path that leads to noble ends, 
 A long farewell to love I gave, 
 Resolved my country and my friends 
 All that remained of me should have ! " 
 
 In this lie states his fixed resolve to become a hero, 
 a patriot, a poet, or some such other public bene- 
 factor, but admits that it has been overturned by a 
 " nymph, he dare not, need not name !" He, in fine, 
 modestly compares himself to an oak, not intended 
 for vulgar faggots but destined to build a mansion, 
 which, though safe from the fire on the humble 
 hearth, must, alas, bow before the scorching flame 
 of Heaven. 
 
 Our oak survived the scorching a long time, and 
 adorned Parliament for years after — but as for build- 
 ing the House, it had little to do with that. It is 
 amusing to see in the lines I have quoted the MasS 
 man of the advanced age of five and twenty devoting 
 the poor remnant of his life as he does. Young men 
 who begin as M.P.'s at sixteen are likely to get into 
 this frame of mind. Perhaps, considering his age, 
 you and I might have been tempted to bid more for 
 the remainder than it proved to be worth afterwards. 
 
 But in all his poems to Sacharissa while aspiring 
 he is despairing. He says he is like one who sees, 
 " inviting fruit on too sublime a tree," and declares — 
 
 " his hope shall ne'er rise higher 
 Than for a pardon that he dare admire." 
 
 But however sublime the tree he does not cry sour 
 grapes. She he has once elected his idol is faultless 
 
 L 
 
146 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 for ever; that is as long as she is young and fair. 
 Of course when she grows old and ugly it is differ- 
 ent. We shall hear what he thinks of her then, 
 by-and-by. But now she is one perfect chrysolite ! 
 The other ladies, whose names I have given before, 
 he treats after several fashions somewhat cavalierly. 
 And indeed, while he is telling Amoret he loves 
 her, he does not hesitate to confess that he adores 
 Sacharissa. 
 
 And so he, knowing what a profitless and vain 
 infatuation it is, still hovers, poor moth, singeing 
 his wings at her burning eyes. And to her he 
 sings that exquisite little poem — " Go, lovely Eose," 
 with which every one is acquainted. Kirke "White 
 admired it so much, that he added a new stanza 
 to it. Like all other additions of the sort it is, 
 although monstrously clever, quite out of place, for 
 it differs in moral and tone from Waller's lines. 
 
 While Waller was hymning the dilatory Eose, 
 who lingered 
 
 " To clothe herself with love, 
 Delaying as the tender ash delays 
 To clothe herself, when all the woods are green," 
 
 he is chaunting sweetly to the lilies and pinks as 
 well, that nodded in the Palace parterres. They 
 received his worship propitiously probably. Not 
 so Lady Dorothea, for at last he comes to compare 
 himself to a traveller struck down by a lion, and 
 obliged to lie as still as death, in order to escape 
 
THE MAKER OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 147 
 
 it. Perhaps the lioness felt this was prudent, for 
 she was about to take to herself a master and 
 keeper, Lord Spencer. In 1639 she marries him. 
 
 Then the pensive sighing Waller retires. " Courtly 
 Waller," as Addison calls him, could do nothing 
 gauche, so he backs out in a graceful manner 
 without any grumbling or stumbling. He closes 
 his pursuit with an ease and majesty as if he 
 were finishing a minuet ; with a respectful sadness, 
 too, that leaves an atmosphere of genteel misery 
 behind it, as an odorous pastille bequeathes us a 
 cloud of delicate fragrance. His farewell is worthy 
 of attention. 
 
 " It is not that I love you less 
 Than when before your feet I lay — 
 But to prevent the sad increase 
 Of passion — that I keep away. 
 
 In vain, alas, for every thing 
 Which I have known belong to you, 
 Your form does to my fancy bring, 
 And makes my old wounds bleed anew. 
 
 ***** 
 Yet vowed I have ! And never must 
 Your banished servant trouble you ; 
 For if I broke, you might mistrust 
 The vow I made to love you too ! " 
 
 " Courtly Waller ! " Addison's is the most appro- 
 priate epithet for him. Does he not die like a 
 refined Phoenix amid a gush of Sabaean spices? 
 
 He must never see her more (although not seeing 
 her will not cure him), because, having vowed he 
 would not, — if he ever did set eyes on her again, 
 
 L 2 
 
148 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 she might doubt that he loved her — which he cannot 
 vow more strongly than he has vowed never to 
 behold her face again! There is such 'a profundity 
 of polite polish and foolish love-logic in that ! 
 
 But in spite of vows and oaths, polish and love- 
 logic, the two do meet. But you will hear of that 
 anon. 
 
 The final record of this Sacharissa passion — the 
 last song of the swan, is "The Fable of Phoebus 
 and Daphne applied." 
 
 We don't read mythology much in these days — 
 even for the Marine Store purposes of a Civil Ser- 
 vice examination, but we all know that the God 
 of Poetry was enamoured of the daughter of Peneus 
 of Tempe, but that she, with a wisdom which rude 
 people say is uncommon in her sex, objected to so 
 ill-sorted an alliance. In fact, when the deity's 
 attentions became pressing, she fairly took to her 
 heels. Apollo pursued her, and had nearly caught 
 her, when she prayed to Diana for rescue, and was 
 changed into a laurel. On this myth Waller cleverly 
 grafts his love-story, by describing how Thyrsis, 
 "one of the inspired train," loved fair Sacharissa 
 but " in vain," pursuing her as Apollo did his love. 
 
 The concluding lines, smacking a little of the 
 same tricky "counterpoint," to be observed in the 
 poem I last quoted, are, howbeit, very neat. 
 
 " Yet what he sung in his harmonious strain, 
 Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain ; 
 All but the nymph, who should redress his wrong, 
 
THE MAKER OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 149 
 
 Applaud his passion, and approve his song. 
 
 Like Phcebus thus, acquiring unsought praise, 
 
 He catched at Love — and filled his arms with bays." 
 
 I almost fancy, when I think how little his poems 
 are read now, that his green bays ought to be spelt 
 with an "aiz e," like the perishable flannel we 
 make school-bags and hall-tablecloths of. 
 
 Poets of his own age were lavish in their praises. 
 Fenton calls him the " maker and model of harmo- 
 nious verse ; " and Addison declares that " Waller's 
 strains shall move our passions, and Sacharissa's 
 beauty kindle our love," as long as English lasts — 
 and English is not half worn out yet ! 
 
 Pope, too, speaks of 
 
 " The easy vigour of the line 
 
 Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join." 
 
 Even Johnson praises Waller ! 
 
 Waller, by the way, was a patient miracle at 
 
 polishing his verses. He spent a summer in glossing 
 
 up ten lines for the Duchess of York's Tasso ; though, 
 
 considering he professed himself indebted to Fairfax's 
 
 "Jerusalem Delivered," for his smooth versification, 
 
 it is possible the decade was a votive altar erected to 
 
 Gratitude and Tasso by the Bard of Beaconsfield. 
 
 Indeed he might have thought it a lasting monument, 
 
 for, says he : — 
 
 " Our lines reformed, and not composed in haste, 
 Polished like marble, shall like marble last ! " 
 
 The marble of his tomb in Beaconsfield church- 
 yard is not so worn out, decayed, and disregarded, as 
 
150 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 the cold chill marble of his lines. A wooden head- 
 board would have nearly outlived the immortality 
 which he believed, and his immediate successors 
 predicted, would surround his works. Oh, this poor 
 world of ours ! with a never-dying renown, which 
 scarce survives a century! "With its eternal loves, 
 its imperishable friendships, its everlasting honours, 
 which barely support existence for a few short 
 months, or days ! 
 
 The star of Love has a stormy setting for Waller, 
 but a darker tempest is collecting its lowering shadows 
 around the throne. Parliament is just beginning 
 that aggressive, unyielding opposition to the crown 
 which culminates eventually on the Whitehall 
 Scaffold. 
 
 In the days of Noah, we are told, they were 
 marrying and giving in marriage when the Flood 
 commenced. So were they doing in Charles's time, 
 when the Deluge of blood was at hand, that devas- 
 tated the fair land of England, from the field of 
 Broadoak in Cornwall to the Scottish border. And 
 in 1 640, Waller marries again ! 
 
 Soon reconciled, say some, to the loss of Sacharissa. 
 But, in my belief, to spite her — and a very natural 
 desire, too, on his part. Take my word for it, she 
 had a little of that dog-in-the-manger love for him, 
 that made it out of all count unpleasant to see one, 
 who had been worshipping at her feet so long, albeit 
 they spurned him, finding a new devotion at another 
 shrine, consoling himself with a fresh passion. My 
 
THE MAKEE OF HAEMONIOUS VEESE. 151 
 
 belief is confirmed by the fact that the second Mrs. 
 W. was a nonentity of French extraction, whose very 
 name is uncertain, and of whom dear old Johnson 
 antithetically observes, that Waller " doubtless praised 
 some whom he would have been afraid to marry, and 
 perhaps, married one, whom he would have been 
 ashamed to praise." 
 
 From the blandishments of this irresistible dame 
 our poet managed to tear himself, wondrous to tell, 
 within twelve months after his marriage, to take his 
 seat again for Amersham, as he did in the last 
 Parliament twelve years before. His cousins, Crom- 
 well and Hampden, represent respectively Cambridge 
 and Buckinghamshire this year. These two men 
 have seen much, done much, and suffered much, 
 during the time he has spent in the noble task of 
 twangling cat-gut in honour of Sacharissa. Are 
 we not told that only an Order in Council, preventing 
 all ships from sailing, kept them in England to 
 overthrow the promulgator of the decree himself ? 
 
 The session of which I am speaking, opened with 
 the lurid threatening of a thunderstorm. At its 
 close the tempest had burst over England. Early 
 in the contest Waller boldly opposed the exactions of 
 the king, and was indeed so estimated by the popular 
 party, as to be selected to conduct the impeachment 
 of Judge Crawley. But when, as time went on, the 
 Commons openly and consistently took up that 
 position of aggressive defence, to use an odd term, 
 which showed their intention to defy him a Voutrance, 
 
152 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 then, although Charles's conduct was insane and 
 tyrannical, and the counsels of Strafford perilous 
 and impolitic, Waller, with an inherent instinctive 
 loyalty, which we cannot but pityingly admire, if we 
 may not reasonably approve, brought all the influence 
 of his money, his position, and his eloquence, to prop 
 the tottering cause of Eoyalty, and repress the fierce 
 vigor of the Commons. 
 
 Waller's political career it has been the fashion to 
 call shameless tergiversation. I confess it seems to 
 me in keeping with his character, — an independence 
 debilitated by want of energy, and kept alive only by 
 those sudden bursts of headlong vehemence, which 
 are characteristic of this class of minds. 
 
 It must be remembered that at that time Parliament 
 did not boast of many independent M.P.s. Then 
 (has it ceased to be so now ?) the House was divided 
 into factions led on blindly by their chiefs. When 
 a member had once given in his adhesion to a party 
 he was supposed to be irrevocably wedded to it 
 beyond the power of a Bench of Sir Cresswell 
 Cresswells, for better, for worse, in office, or out of 
 office, through good report, and evil report. He was 
 bound to sacrifice his opinions to the dictates of his 
 general, and forswear his conscience, while he clung 
 to his faction with a persistent virtue, which, call it 
 honesty and earnestness if you will, I take to be 
 dangerously like factious obstinacy. 
 
 In 1641, when Waller discovered that the struggle 
 between King and Commons was a mortal one ; when 
 
THE MAKEE OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 153 
 
 he saw the former setting at nought the privileges 
 of the latter, while they in turn disregarded his 
 prerogatives ; in disgust and despair, the M.P. for 
 Agmondesham retired from Parliament, and refused 
 to sit again save with the King's permission. This 
 was speedily conveyed to him ; according to some, it 
 even took the form of an entreaty, and our orator 
 returned to the House, and " spoke on the Eoyal side 
 with great freedom and sharpness," says Johnson. 
 But he was powerless in the excited state of Parlia- 
 ment, and indeed was the stalking horse for his 
 opponents, who, when accused of allowing no 
 utterance of Eoyalist opinions, instanced Waller as 
 speaking " daily, with all impunity against the sense 
 and proceedings of the House." 
 
 In 1642, the King set up his standard at Notting- 
 ham, and Waller sent him 1,000 broad pieces. One 
 would think this was a sufficiently open avowal of 
 his opinions, even though he did, under the excusable 
 circumstances I have mentioned, continue to sit in 
 what the Doctor calls, " the rebellious conventicle." 
 
 All authorities are prone to abuse Waller, and not 
 for entirely undiscoverable reasons. In the first 
 place the man is down, which is an irresistible 
 provocative. Then some of them have a personal 
 grudge against him — Clarendon for one. But the 
 generality of these writers are holders of decided 
 opinions either for the Parliament or the Throne, and 
 whichever way they are biassed, poor Waller is in the 
 position of the proverbial wight between two stools. 
 
154 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 The royalists, who see in Cromwell and the Com- 
 monwealth only a gigantic wrong and fraud against 
 God and man, cannot understand — which is, being 
 interpreted, will not pardon — his submission to the 
 Protectorate, and his admiration of the Protector. 
 
 The Cromwellite chroniclers, on the other hand, are 
 equally unforgiving, for they cannot comprehend how 
 a mind that bowed to necessity in the Commonwealth 
 and recognised the greatness of Oliver, conld welcome 
 with instinctive loyalty, the restoration of a Royal 
 House and Conrt, in which its youth had been spent. 
 
 And a great number of writers having thus trodden 
 out a path, a herd of lesser men have hnddled un- 
 thinkingly into it, without giving themselves the 
 trouble to judge at all. Here is the danger derived 
 from a mechanical reading of histories. People 
 forget that a historian's facts, and not his opinions, 
 are the things to lay by in the mind, and the con- 
 sequence is that they swallow his one-sided con- 
 clusions open-mouthed, and believe them to be 
 veritable history. As an instance look at the folly, 
 as Carlyle has pointed out, of using such an ex- 
 pression as a "fanatical hypocrite." Yet that was 
 the cant word, which one of our 'standard histories 
 teaches our youth to designate Cromwell withal ! 
 
 For my own part, when I read history, I do most 
 religiously fan, sift, and otherwise winnow my read- 
 ings, and try to lay by nothing but the veritable 
 grain; and I wish others would do the same. 
 
 Alas ! for the ovine nature of mankind, if one 
 
THE MAKER OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 155 
 
 jumps over the gate, the others all come " tumbling 
 after." When Prejudice has cast the first stone. 
 Thoughtlessness and Folly are never backward to aid 
 in the execution. And thus was it that poor Waller 
 was driven from the gates, even, of the temple of our 
 hearts (in whose very midst the money-changers and 
 sellers of doves are allowed^to establish themselves), 
 and hunted out of the camp to perish by the hands 
 of his brethren. How many of us are duly qualified 
 to initiate the stoning ? 
 
 It was a piece of his usual ill-luck, that he should 
 be one of the Commissioners who tried to negociate 
 between the King and the Parliament in 1643, after 
 the battle of Edgehill. 
 
 At that time, Charles was at Oxford. The classic 
 shades were filled with scarlet doublets and nodding 
 plumes, in lieu of trencher caps and sombre flowing 
 gowns. Pair damsels sailed rustling along the college 
 corridors, and gay cavaliers lounged in the cloisters, 
 where once the pale scholar wandered, or the portly 
 Don promenaded. 
 
 Oxford was strangely alive : — 
 
 " Her groves were full of warlike stirs ; 
 The student's heart was with the merry spears, 
 Or keeping measure to the clanking spurs 
 Of Rupert's Cavaliers." 
 
 The interview was a fruitless one, and the ambas- 
 sadors went away empty. Yet even here Waller's 
 detractors find a fresh count for the indictment. 
 When Waller, who came into the Audience last, 
 
156 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 presented himself, Charles complimented him in a 
 speech which I may modernize and condense into, 
 " though last not least." And this, say some essayists, 
 induced the vain Waller to meditate a plot to restore 
 His Majesty to the throne. Was ever so preposter- 
 ously foolish a reason assigned for a man's turning 
 conspirator ? 
 
 Not long after this useless negociation, occurred 
 the skirmish of Chalgrove, the most fatal contest of 
 all that occurred between Eoyalists and Parliament- 
 arians. From that unhappy field, Hampden retired 
 mortally wounded ! With his death, the last bright 
 pure page of the history of the Eebellion closes. 
 Some of the ensuing ones may be inscribed with 
 great actions, but they are spotted with blood from 
 that Whitehall scaffold, that darkens the record of 
 the close of the struggle. 
 
 It is hardly fair to speak of this great patriot, and 
 remind you how noble men can be, just as I am 
 about to chronicle the worst and most indefensible of 
 my poor Waller's faults and follies. However, every 
 man cannot be a hero, and it was certainly not his 
 trade to be one. No man is a hero to his valet they 
 tell us, so let us consider ourselves the valets of 
 Edmund for the nonce, and imagine that we are 
 brushing the dust from the knees of his green velvet 
 breeches, and the elbows of his orange doublet, 
 striving with all our charitable might to efface the 
 traces of his painful and ignominious fall. 
 
 Waller engaged in a plot with some of his friends 
 
THE MAKER OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 157 
 
 and relatives. It was in truth rather of a political 
 than a sanguinary description, namely the weakening 
 of the power of Parliament, by popular demonstra- 
 tions, and by a refusal of supplies. 
 
 Unfortunately a conspiracy of a less mild character, 
 organized by Sir Mcholas Crispe was discovered at 
 the same time, and the two were confounded into 
 one wide spread and deeply planned conspiracy of a 
 most dangerous nature. Yet Hume (and I think 
 Lingard) speaks of it as a project only, if not a pure 
 piece of invention on the part of Parliament. 
 
 How the discovery was made is uncertain. Waller, 
 full of bitter Sacharissa memories declared that as a 
 woman had known of the plot it was sufficiently 
 plain that it must be discovered. It is a very curious 
 fact, by the way, that we are indebted to the fair sex 
 for most of the revelations of conspiracy, with which 
 we meet in history, from the time of Cataline until 
 the days of our Edmund ; and it is a fact for which 
 we should be profoundly grateful. Moreover as 
 nature does nothing in vain, we may at last discover 
 in this the use of the sex's failing for talking. 
 
 But however the plot was betrayed, its authors 
 were at once taken and tried. Two of them, Tomkyns 
 and Chaloner, were executed. For the third — Waller 
 — no sooner had the prison gates clanged to behind him 
 than he fell into a pitiable state of most abject terror. 
 His courage (what little he had of it) entirely forsook 
 him ; and, with copious tears of alarm and penitence, 
 he revealed everything that he knew ; perhaps even 
 
158 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 something more than that, involving guilty and 
 innocent alike in dire ruin, during the ungovernable 
 paroxysms of his fear and anguish. 
 
 He pleaded most eloquently, but in an ignoble 
 speech for his life, before the Council of War, by 
 which he was tried, Parliament having expelled him. 
 He pleaded, he prayed, he humbly petitioned . for 
 mercy and pardon ; but he was condemned ! Essex 
 reprieved him for a while, and finally, after paying a 
 fine of 10,000?., he was at the end of a twelvemonth 
 released from prison, and sent to spend in exile that 
 remnant of a life, which he had purchased at so dear 
 a price, at the cost of honour, of fame, of respect. 
 
 Yet who of us, sitting here as judges, can tell what 
 his own conduct would have been, if thus tested ? 
 We might behave no better than Waller, if we could 
 see only the hideous skeleton of a scaffold staring at 
 us through the bars. We might think cowardice the 
 wiser part of courage then, and face dishonour more 
 readily than death ! 
 
 Leading not such conspicuous lives as Waller, let 
 us be very grateful for an obscure existence, wherein 
 we may stumble, and fall, and get up again without 
 much notice from the world at large. 
 
 Down in the valley you may roll head over heels 
 in a copse, or plump up to your neck into the brook, 
 in pleasing privacy. But on the hill-top you stand 
 out clear against the cold grey sky, thrown up in a 
 strong relief, that betrays every faltering step, and 
 exaggerates every slip. 
 
THE MAKEE OF HAEMONIOUS VEESE. 159 
 
 We all have our slips and stumbles, — and our falls ! 
 Let us learn a little charity for those of our more 
 conspicuous neighbours. 
 
 " Ah," says the greatest living writer of the day, 
 "if we pity the good and weak man, who suffers 
 undeservedly, let us deal very gently with him, from 
 whom Misery extorts not only tears, but shame ! 
 * * * Cover the face of the good man who has 
 been vanquished ; cover his face and pass on !" 
 
 Let us, then, cover poor Waller's shame-stricken 
 face, and pass on. His year of imprisonment was 
 doubtless penance plentiful to the mind, and the 
 fine of 10,000Z. mulcted him sufficiently in pocket : 
 while exile brought its bitter herbs of melancholy 
 memories to crown the over-brimming cup of the 
 poor banished penitent, as he poured forth his pro- 
 pitiatory libation of burning, remorseful tears. 
 
 France was the land of our poor brother's banish- 
 ment. There he dwelt in much poverty, and with 
 straitened means, selling his wife's trinkets to pro- 
 cure the bare necessaries to support the life which 
 he had purchased at the price of the inestimable 
 jewel of Honour. 
 
 He wrote a few poems breathing the bitterness of 
 his soul against his judges. But they were far too 
 busy with more important matters to listen to his 
 complaints. For first their reverses in Cornwall, 
 then the battles of Newbury (in one of which 
 Sacharissa's husband, Lord Sunderland, was killed), 
 then the execution of Laud, the murder of Montrose, 
 
160 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 the victory of Naseby, the overthrow and surrender 
 of Charles, the imprisonment at Carisbrooke, and the 
 death of the King before the window of his own 
 banquet-room of Whitehall, followed one another 
 with all the fierce confused rapidity of the fearful 
 phantasmagoria of dreams. 
 
 But while these dire scenes were being enacted, 
 there came a letter, written in a female hand, to 
 request Waller to send all his poems to a certain 
 address in London. He did so ; and shortly after 
 appeared the first collected edition of his works ! 
 
 Mysterious lady ! who was she % I suspect it was 
 she, whilome Sacharissa, now widow of Lord Sunder- 
 land. None but she would have published all his 
 verses. Any other woman, Amoret, Flavia, or Chloris, 
 would have suppressed the Sacharissa lucubrations. 
 She would have considered it "her duty not to give to 
 the world those inferior verses about that Sacharissa; 
 they were not worthy of his great reputation ; for her 
 part, she never could discover what he saw to admire 
 in that very ordinary," etc. etc. I think any lady, 
 who will be candid, cannot but allow that I have 
 strong reasons to judge from this that the Lady 
 Dorothea was the unknown editress. 
 
 For eight years Waller resided in France, and then 
 at last, after having been reduced to selling his wife's 
 last brooches and rings, he obtained leave from 
 Cromwell to return to his native land. I do not 
 think he merits for this all the abuse that has been 
 lavished upon him. Poor fellow ! no doubt he longed 
 
THE MAKER OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 161 
 
 — lie craved — lie hungered for his own England, and 
 was ready to comply with any existing form of 
 government. He was getting tired of struggling, 
 no doubt, and had learnt the virtue of acquies- 
 cence, and the true and sad philosophy of " It can't 
 be helped ! " 
 
 The Protector received our poet warmly, and made 
 him an intimate friend. You see, everybody liked 
 him, and that is a fair recommendation ! 
 
 As a return for this kindness and consideration on 
 the part of the Protector, Waller wrote a panegyric 
 on him, the grandeur and beauty of which Cromwell 
 was not slow to perceive and appreciate. Indeed 
 this is the finest, and, perhaps, most sincere of all 
 Waller's effusions. 
 
 Two years after this Waller, with a sad heart, let 
 us believe, writes an elegy for his friend, for Oliver 
 has died, full of honours, and no successor is at hand 
 to fill his place. 
 
 Another two years, and we find Edmund laboriously 
 tuning the lyre with which he mourned Cromwell's 
 decease, to hail the Restoration of the Stuarts in the 
 person of Charles the Second. 
 
 There are other English bards (Dryden among 
 them) w T ho must share with Waller the charge of 
 singing the praises of Cromwell and Charles ttie 
 Second with equal gusto. But the poets were not 
 the only people who threw up their caps for the 
 Protector, and then bawled themselves hoarse with 
 " God save the King ! " at the Restoration. Success, 
 
 M 
 
162 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 I believe, is never without its panegyrists even among 
 men who have never written a line in their lives. 
 
 None of the poets, however, made much of their 
 Eestoration Odes. Waller's was so poor, that even 
 the vain Charles saw it, and complained that it 
 was inferior to the Ode to the Protector. "Sire," 
 said the ready Waller, "poets succeed better in 
 composing fiction than in adorning truth." 
 
 He was great at this quick repartee, and in profuse 
 
 compliments. He told Lady Newcastle, who had 
 
 written some balderdash about a stag, that he would 
 
 give all his poems to have written her verses. When 
 
 charged with the extravagance of this speech, he said, 
 
 " Surely it was impossible to give too much to save 
 
 a lady from the disgrace of such a vile composition ! " 
 
 In 1661, he again sits in Parliament, — for Hastings 
 
 now, — and is nearly made provost of Eton. But 
 
 Clarendon will not sign the appointment ; in return 
 
 for which our poet, in after years, lent his shoulder to 
 
 the wheel of Fortune that rolled poor Clarendon in 
 
 the mud. These two, you see, are not to be taken as 
 
 evidence against one another, for they hated each 
 
 other cordially with the politest malignity. 
 
 All through the Merry Monarch's debauched reign, 
 Waller made his home at Hall Barn, not far from 
 his old estate of Beaconsfield. But in spite of his 
 shattered fortunes, he did not give himself up entirely 
 to rural retirement. He was often at Court, and sat 
 at the groaning tables of that festive, boisterous 
 reign, the delight of all companies, the idol of 
 
THE MAKER OF HAEMONIOUS VERSE. 163 
 
 naughty Nell Gwynnes, and other such like painted 
 ladies of the Court, just as he was the idol of 
 Parliaments for his sprightly wit, his refinement, his 
 vivid eloquence. 
 
 In the wild orgies of those libertine days, though 
 present, he nevertheless did not join, for his dancing 
 days were numbered. He sat by, sipping his glass 
 of cold water (with perhaps a little lemon juice to 
 give it a flavour), and kept the whole table on a 
 roar, — a fellow of infinite jest and excellent fancy. 
 
 But he is getting very old now. His voice is a 
 little croaky, his hand shakes somewhat, and his 
 shrunk shanks have no fatted calves for the prodigal 
 sons of that profuse reign, for he will not see 
 seventy again. 'Yet Chipping Norton chooses him 
 as its representative in the Parliament of 1676. The 
 veteran senator still brightens the House with gleams 
 of his expiring eloquence, with flashes of a wit that 
 has well-nigh burnt down in the socket, 
 
 He will not see eighty again when he meets — 
 whom do you suppose ? Why, no other than Sacha- 
 rissa, now plain Mrs. Smyth ! In the year following 
 this interview she died. Let us hope that the aged 
 dame's dissolution was not accelerated by her quon- 
 dam lover's severity. 
 
 The meeting was on this wise. Fancy Mrs. Smyth 
 wrinkled, wizen'd, painted, and patched ! Was there 
 any tremor about her womanly heart, when she saw 
 Edmund — he, too, wrinkled, wizen'd, powdered, and 
 patched ? Any tremor ? — of course there was ! It 
 m2 
 
164 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 is said by wicked people that women are seldom 
 too old to love, and never too old to think them- 
 selves capable of inspiring that passion. Picture these 
 two dry old humanities, with such a gulf between 
 their past and their present ! 
 
 Listen to the silly old harridan ! How eaten out 
 with vanity she must have been, to dare to ask Wal- 
 ler the question she did ! — " When, Mr. Waller, will 
 you write verses again upon me as you used to do?" 
 
 What does she expect from the doubly despised 
 lover, the doubly rejected aspirant, wounded in vanity 
 and heart, but that caustic reply, scarce sweetened 
 by the bow of the aged beau in his rustling silks and 
 laces : — " When, Madam, you are as young and lovely 
 as you then were ! " 
 
 I am sure if anything rankled in that dear old 
 lady's soul when she drew her last breath, it was that 
 verbal slap-in-the-face of Waller's. She had been so 
 accustomed to think him her slave, so used to tramp- 
 ling on him, forgetful of his squandered love and 
 praise, that in the most natural manner she was 
 nfinitely astonished and horrified to find the worm 
 was ungrateful enough to turn. 
 
 By and by, in 1685, the naughty Nell Gwynnes 
 and painted ladies are all crying bitterly, with more 
 or less sincerity, and more or less selfishness, for the 
 Merry Monarch is asleep with his fathers, and James, 
 Duke of York, is to reign in his stead. 
 
 In this Monarch's first and only Parliament, the 
 aged Waller sat, for no less a place, in no less a 
 
THE MAKER OF HARMONIOUS VERSE. 165 
 
 shire, than the distinguished borough of Saltash, in 
 
 Cornwall. 
 
 But Parliament is soon to lose him now. A long 
 life, that has embraced the most stirring events in 
 English history, is drawing to its timely close. The 
 great reformer of English verse is to abdicate the 
 throne of Poetry. Who shall succeed him \ 
 
 A year after his death there will be born, in 
 wealthy Lombard Street, a little cripple, called Alex- 
 ander Pope. I think he is to succeed Waller. 
 
 About the time, too, when our Poet closes his eyes, 
 a studious classical scholar, and amiable youth, one 
 Joe Addison, has entered at Queen's College, Oxford. 
 A certain tender-hearted lad of twelve, y-clept Dick 
 Steele, is a high-spirited, much-liked, idle schoolboy 
 at Charterhouse. A young man, Matthew, son of a 
 joiner called Prior, is parodying old Dry den's "Hind 
 and Panther/* at St. John's College, Cambridge. A 
 cynical young Irishman, Jonathan Swift, is snarling 
 over a satire, called a " Tale of a Tub," at Trinity, 
 Dublin. And Daniel, the son of Foe, a butcher, in 
 Cripplegate. having been exiled for participation in 
 the Monmouth disturbances, is wandering in foreign 
 lands, whence he is to return as Daniel De Foe, with a 
 prefix to his name, and a store of knowledge, touch- 
 ing the manners and customs of strange countries, 
 that are to figure in the adventures of one Eobinson 
 Crusoe, with whom we are all so well acquainted 
 now. 
 
 The old Poet is dying just as a host of writers are 
 
166 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 beginning to shine. It was quite time for the aged 
 man to fall asleep, at eighty-two years of age, after 
 having lost a large fortune, and outliving three 
 kings, one rebellion all his friends, two wives, and a 
 lady-love ! 
 
 And now we will see how our poor old friend 
 leaves this world and us, turning his eyes to the 
 study of another. 
 
 Towards the end of his life he has taken to writing 
 religious poems, and gives his time to holy reflections. 
 
 If he has sinned ever so much, he is sad and sorry, 
 and repentance is never too late. 
 
 In 1687, in his eighty-third year, his final ill- 
 ness seizes him. He explains his symptoms to his 
 friend, the king's physician, who tells him his blood 
 is ceasing to flow. And then his mind flies to 
 Beaconsfield, and he goes there to die, as he says, 
 " like a stag in the place where he was roused." 
 
 " How did he die ? " That is a question we 
 Christians are very prone to ask about our brethren, 
 as Newgate-birds do about executed criminals. 
 
 Well ! he " began to fumble with the sheets, and 
 to play with flowers, and to smile upon his finger- 
 ends. And then they knew there was but one way, 
 for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a' babbled of 
 green fields !" I cannot better describe his departure 
 than in words in which a master spirit has chron- 
 icled the death of a greater sinner than our poor 
 Edmund, but one, for whom, fictitious character 
 though he be, I am always catching myself hoping — 
 
THE MAKEE OF HAEMOXIOUS VEESE. 167 
 
 and believing — there is some mercy reserved here- 
 after. 
 
 .So, calmly Waller expires ! Close his eyes — cover 
 the face of the poor man, who has been conquered, 
 but who is now a victor — cover his face and pass on; 
 while for his dirge can be nothing more fitting, or 
 touching, than his own latest poem, the last lines in 
 his volume of religious verse — the closing page of 
 his life and love, his woe and want, his sin, his sor- 
 row, his repentance. Eead the old man's farewell, 
 and ponder the moral of his story, with a tender, 
 charitable recollection of a weak mortal, who once 
 lived and breathed, struggled and fell, as we do. 
 Think of him with a tender, charitable recollection — 
 with that at least, if not with humble self-knowledge 
 (which is self-abasement) as being no worthier than 
 he. 
 
 LINES AT THE CLOSE OF WALLER'S 
 " DIVINE POEMS." 
 
 When we, for age, could neither read nor write, 
 The subject made us able to indite : 
 The soul with nobler resolution deckt, 
 (The body stooping) does herself erect : — 
 No mortal parts are requisite to raise 
 Her, who unbodied, can her Maker praise. 
 
 The seas are quiet, when the winds give o'er ; 
 
 So, calm are we, when passions are no more, 
 
 For then we know how vain it was to boast 
 
 Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost : 
 
 Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 
 
 Conceal that emptiness which Age descries : 
 
 The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, 
 
 Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. 
 
168 
 
 QUIPS AND CBANKS. 
 
 Stronger by weakness — wiser— men become 
 As they draw near to their eternal home : 
 Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 
 Who stand upon the threshold of the new. 
 
 RAREY-FACTION. 
 
 Jones has been shut up in the stable with his colt for two hours. On the 
 expiration of that period, the door is opened — and one of the animals is found 
 completely subdued. 
 
169 
 
 A BBASENOSE BALLAD. 
 
 "Ales Canoras." 
 
 H&r. 
 A pot of beer. 
 
 If the Newdigate subject I took for my theme, 
 I should feel it my duty to scribble a dream ; 
 
 For a wonderful vision, 
 
 Sublime or Elysian 
 (Or some epithet else which that poor composition 
 Finds it easy to link to the word apparition), 
 Is as surely the theme of the NTewcligate — nearly, 
 As the Poem is weakly, the prize itself yearly. 
 Not such is the subject I "hold in my hand" 
 (The phrase by M.P.'s used as I understand 
 jln a figurative sense, for the fact can be barely meant} 
 When a statement they make in the Houses of Parlia- 
 ment 
 [These brackets are getting too crowded I feel — 
 However, the saying of "wheel within wheel," 
 You perhaps are acquainted with, Eeader, well then 
 
 this is 
 But a parenthesis in a parenthesis]). 
 This long interruption appears to demand 
 That I should repeat " What I hold in my hand" 
 Is no jSTewdigate subject, but something far better, 
 
 In short, that diluter 
 
 Of clay called a pewter, 
 
 In which my sweet Muse 
 
 Can. whene'er she may choose, 
 
170 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 Most royally wet her 
 Old nose and so set her- 
 Self free from all fetter. 
 Though now that I think of it 
 The more I drink of it — 
 To speak it out plainly and flat — the more screwed I get, 
 The more I am likely to cut out the Newdigate. 
 
 For after much drinking the "vision gets 
 
 double" 
 As you'll easily prove if you just take the 
 trouble, 
 And by way of experiment 
 Give way to merriment 
 And get " drunk as a fish " — for a fish, we know, swills 
 Without ceasing, and takes in his liquor by gills — 
 " As drunk as a hound " — and this I'd define 
 As meaning the animal's given to lohine — 
 " As drunk as a Lord " — and how often 'tis stated 
 To a peerage how some one has got " elevated " — 
 "As drunk as a fiddler," who knows there's no 
 
 doing 
 A tune on the fiddle without lots of " screwing " — 
 Of these similes simply to be no long spinner, 
 As drunk as the toasts at a Freemasons' dinner. 
 Has the reader e'er been 
 To that classical scene 
 Alma Mater and her city 
 Old Oxford 'versity? 
 If he has, in that case he knows 
 The College of Brasenose 
 
A BKASENOSE BALLAD. 171 
 
 Which sometimes much better's 
 Described by these letters 
 One — two — three, 
 B. K C. 
 
 Well, whoever goes there on Shrove Tuesday crams full 
 Of a liquid delicious entitled " Lamb's wool." 
 
 How the " Quo derivatur " 
 
 Has posed Alma mater ! 
 
 Of this point I propose to become a debater, 
 
 And having brought forward the following solutions, 
 
 Will leave my good readers to draw their conclusions. 
 
 Some say it is Balaam's wool, who, as we hear 
 
 From the ancient historians, was offspring of Beor, 
 
 And we know that at least 
 
 He got thoroughly fleeced, 
 
 Abused by the king, and rebuked by his beast, 
 
 (In the last case some Jews say he got the best 
 
 of it 
 And the beast was an ass for " refusing the prophet "). 
 Some say 'twas a cup wherein noses were dipped 
 At the season when rams 
 And lambs 
 And their dams 
 
 By the rustics are clipped ; 
 
 But I think these are crams 
 For I never could find to the best of my knowledge 
 The slightest connexion 'twixt sheepfold and College. 
 
172 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 At the latter the flocks, as perchance you 
 
 have heard, 
 Are more fit to be plucked by their pastors, 
 than sheared. 
 So I fancy that theory's not worth a fig, 
 In fact it's sheer nonsense, like shaving a pig. 
 I have now but one theory more to suggest, 
 But it is, in my humble opinion, the best. 
 
 Concerning " lamb's wool," by some writers, of credit 
 
 For wisdom and wit, it has sometimes been said it 
 
 Derived from the following story its name. 
 
 But before I begin to relate you that same, 
 
 I'll pull Pegasus up — take a draught from the flagon, 
 
 Wipe my lips on my sleeve, and then urge the old nag on. 
 
 Well, in days long ago the great Jupiter Amnion, — 
 Or Stator or Victor or any such gammon — 
 Just a spondee to tack to the end of the dactyl 
 And make it for versification more tractile. 
 
 And epithets really 
 
 Are often used merely 
 To make up the line, though none notice the fact till 
 They've had to fret, fume, puzzle, fidget, and d — metres 
 In writing those horrible Latin hexameters. 
 
 Well, Jupiter founded a new constellation 
 In honour of one of the fairer creation, 
 Who — unlike uncle Ned of whom it was said 
 That no hair was observed on the top of his head, 
 
A BRASENOSE BALLAD. 173 
 
 (Which, they add, is the cause of his having " gone 
 
 dead")— 
 Had locks which, like Chubb' s, (if we may place 
 
 reliance 
 On Antiquity) set all the world at defiance. 
 Nay even the science, 
 Of the man of Macassar 
 Could never surpass her ; 
 Nor with balm of Columbia 
 Could any one come by a 
 Profusion of curls such as hers. Nor I ween 
 Could Emily Dean 
 Or Madame Coupelle 
 (And all others as well 
 
 Who advertise daily, " Bo you icant luxuriant 
 Hair, whiskers, etcetera f ") 
 Send in a letter a 
 Eeceipt that of ringlets would be so parturient. 
 
 Now this damsel, (and she was king Ptolemy's 
 
 daughter,) 
 Though she lived by the Nile, did not drink of its 
 
 water. 
 For that stream, though it renders all Egypt prolific, 
 Carries down in its course too much matter morbific 
 For mortals to think 
 Of its liquor to drink. 
 For what they did drink, vide old hieroglyphic. 
 
 Now one fact you will ever observe to occur amid 
 The facts that are painted on every pyramid : 
 
174 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 And what that hieroglyphic would plainly denote is 
 
 There were plenty of biers on the Lake Marceotis. 
 
 Now she had grown tired 
 
 Of plain beer, and inspired 
 
 By a violent fancy to find something newer, I 
 
 Think that she started a Spiced Liquor Brewery. 
 
 Well, Jupiter lighted in honour of that lass 
 A cluster of stars, the celestial Atlas 
 Will give you I'll wager 
 Hard by Ursa Major. 
 And the name of the sign is 
 The " coma " or " crinis " 
 
 " Berenices." — For all with no reason that / see 
 Will persist in pronouncing her name Berenice. 
 But just take my advice and pronounce it Beernice, 
 Which transposed in a trice 
 Has a meaning quite clear 
 Which is — simply — Nice Beer. 
 Why the whole thing's as plain as a box on the 
 ear ! 
 So I hope you'll agree 
 Instanter with me, 
 And believe this solution the right one to be — 
 Viz. when Death closed the eyes 
 Of Beernice : in the skies 
 A new constellation was seen to arise 
 
 Being " Beernice's hair " — by which any fool 
 Would understand " wool " — 
 (Especially, if he has heard, or has read, word 
 Of him I have mentioned before — " Uncle Edward.") 
 
A BRASENOSE BALLAD. 175 
 
 So the whole of the tale 
 
 Is a type of spiced ale, 
 And we possibly drink that sublimest elixir 
 In honour of her — its original mixer. 
 
 This is my explanation of that constellation, 
 
 And the mixture that meets with such warm approba- 
 tion. 
 
 So just give one, two, three, 
 
 For the old B. K C. 
 
 May its genial tankard 
 
 By rust ne'er be canker' d. — 
 
 No, long may the glittering flagon be full 
 
 Of the Brasenose Brewage of steaming lamb's wool, 
 
 While its men, one and all, wave their caps and cheer 
 thrice 
 
 For the lamb's wool — the lamb's wool that's made of 
 
 Beer nice 
 
 A DIVORCE ACT. CLAUSE NO. 10 
 
176 
 
 SAUCY ADELE. 
 
 Q>AUCY Adele 
 AJJ Has a jimp little waist 
 And a pair of blue eyes 
 that look kindly and 
 tender — 
 But you'll find all your 
 confidence mighty 
 misplaced 
 If you build up your 
 hopes on a basis so 
 slender, 
 For your sighing and pleading will nothing avail ; 
 Her heart's hard as adamant. — Saucy Adele ! 
 
 Saucy Adele, 
 
 In her bridesmaid-attire 
 
 She looked so bewitchingly lovely and killing, 
 
 Her mischievous eyes set my poor heart on fire, 
 
 And burnt a great hole there as big as a shilling. 
 
 Though I fancied my bosom was cased in strong mail! — 
 
 She'd convert a philosopher ; — Saucy Adele ! 
 
SAUCY ADELE. 177 
 
 Saucy Adele 
 
 Like a fairy can waltz ; 
 
 Her partner's the envy of every beholder ; 
 
 But her smile, and her eyes, and her lips are all false, 
 
 And false is the touch of her hand on your shoulder. 
 
 Yet the next time I dance with her ;— sure I'll go bail 
 
 I believe all she says to me. — Saucy Adele ! 
 
 Saucy Adele, 
 
 When she goes to the Meet, 
 
 She looks so bewitching each Mmrod's a lover, 
 
 And ready to fling himself down at her feet. 
 
 And then, when the hounds drive old Eeynard from 
 
 cover, 
 The sighing young farmers with envy grow pale 
 To see how she rides to them : — Saucy Adele ! 
 
 Saucy Adele ! 
 
 With a prudence intense 
 
 I shun all her witchery, smother emotion, 
 
 And fly from her charms o'er a distance immense — 
 
 Long miles of the land and long leagues of the ocean, 
 
 And then ! All my good resolutions they fail, 
 
 And I long to be back with her — Saucy Adele ! 
 
 N 
 
QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 THE POACHER. 
 
 He was lying among the faded fern, 
 And the rotting leaves, in the grassy ride ; 
 While the life-blood was ebbing slowly away 
 From the great red wound in his side. 
 
 He had left his wife and his children three 
 Crouching a-cold by the darkened hearth, 
 And they cried for food, so he sought the wood 
 To chase the wild things of the earth. 
 
 He knew full well how the woods were kept 
 For the Squire, who dwelt in the grey old Court, 
 But he thought that his children's lives were worth 
 As much as another's sport ! 
 
 With careful tread to the wood he sped, 
 And he laid the wire in the hedge with care, 
 Then he drove the field by the cover-side, 
 And a rabbit ran into the snare. 
 
 But the night was still, and the keeper heard 
 The short sharp scream of a creature noosed, 
 And he met with the poacher under the trees 
 Where the pheasants wont to roost. 
 
THE POACHER. 179 
 
 But few, I ween, were the words they spoke, 
 But they set their teeth, and they held their breath, 
 And they closed and wrestled among the trees — 
 A struggle of life or death ! 
 
 So they struggled long, and they struggled hard, 
 Till they came to an ant-hill's mossy mound, 
 And the keeper caught his foot, and he fell, 
 With a fair back-fall, to the ground. 
 
 Then the poacher broke from his prostrate foe, 
 And swiftly away through the woods he flew ; 
 But then came a shout — and a shot flashed out ! 
 And the aim was all too true ! 
 
 He hid himself down in an oozy ditch, 
 And he held his breath as the keeper passed : 
 But the keeper's search it was long and close, 
 Though he gave it up at last. 
 
 Then the poacher crawled from the oozy ditch 
 And staggered into the grassy ride : 
 But the life-blood had ebbed too surely away 
 From the great red wound in his side. 
 
 So he sank adown on the faded fern, 
 
 And the rotting leaves, by the side of the wood ; 
 
 And the spirit floated softly away 
 
 On the ghastly river of blood. 
 
 n2 
 
180 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 The blood crawled down through the rotting leaves, 
 Aye, down to the roots of the grass it ran ; 
 And only the moon and the midnight heard 
 The curse of the murdered man. 
 
 And the wild things fed round the poacher dead, 
 And frisked in the grass by the cover-side. 
 The timid hares through the fern-brake ran, 
 And the rabbits played in the ride. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The Squire's son rode through the faded fern, 
 And the rotting leaves, in the grassy ride : 
 And he saw the corpse in the morning light 
 With the great red wound in its side. 
 
 And he looked at the long lean limbs of the dead, 
 At his hollow cheeks and his sunken eyes ; 
 And he saw the prey in his hand, and knew 
 He had given his life for the prize. 
 
 " It was sadly needed, and dearly bought ! 
 Heaven pardon the hand that has done the deed ! " 
 And the cursed game-laws came into his mind, 
 And their riddle was hard to read. 
 
 " And I would," said he, as he turned him home, 
 " The wise would define on a better plan 
 Our right to these wild things of the wood, 
 And the right of the starving man ! " 
 
181 
 
 THE HOLY GEAIL. 
 
 Sir Sapphiraun rose up at dawn, 
 
 And forth from his castle-gate is gone. 
 
 He dight him as if for the battle field, 
 
 With sword and lance, and with helm and shield, 
 
 With aventail, and shirt of mail, 
 
 And rode in search of the Holy Grail. 
 
 Oh many a knight of King Arthur's train, 
 
 And many a baron bold, 
 
 O'er hill and plain, they sought in vain 
 
 For the sacred chalice of gold. 
 
 Oh vainly the baron and vainly the knight 
 
 Have wandered o'er hill and dale, 
 
 For never again to their eager sight 
 
 Was revealed the Holy Grail. 
 
 PEACE AND LOVE. 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 An autumn day, and a fishing village on the 
 South coast of our Western promontory ! If there 
 be anything to drown a man more thoroughly in day 
 dreams, the man who will name it to me may con- 
 sider his fortune made. 
 
182 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 Grand as the sea is everywhere, here is its most 
 sublime revelation. I use the word sublime ad- 
 visedly. A stormy sea and a dark tempestuous 
 night are great — but a blue sky and calm sea are 
 greater, for the eye runs over immense spaces and 
 into far deeps, and yet cannot grasp them. Darkness 
 and uproar are terrible and impressing, but im- 
 measurableness and latent strength are in their 
 incomprehensibility more comprehensible. 
 . Sweet and fair as is our English land, here in this 
 remotest county (and here only perhaps) are gathered 
 specimens of all its varied beauties within one small 
 space — the jewel-casket of the island. 
 
 And surely though, the Spring with its child-like 
 tenderness, and the passionate glow of June, like the 
 love which the young call the Summer of existence, 
 must yield to the Autumn's holy calm, and its 
 matronal loveliness — like that which you and I, old 
 friends (in whose dark hair I see the silver threads 
 already), find in our dear partners, and know to be 
 twin-growth, and matured fruit of that domestic 
 love, so sacred and peaceful, which blesses the 
 Autumn of our lives. 
 
 The air is perfectly calm. The breeze is so slight 
 that yonder vessel gliding over the smooth sea seems 
 moved by magic, or as if 
 
 " Under the keel nine fathoms deep 
 
 ***** 
 
 The spirit slid : and it was he 
 That made the ship to go." 
 
PEACE AND LOVE. 183 
 
 What spirit ? Perchance the spirit of Love — draw- 
 ing it in safety, across leagues of ocean, freighted 
 with what hopes and fears, and fond imaginings ! 
 
 The sea murmurs in its charmed sleep. The very 
 tide seems drowsy, and in its slow advance steals on 
 the shore by a ribbon's breadth at a time, and only 
 creates there a slender broidery of fairy pearls that 
 vanish with a crisp whisper almost as soon as created. 
 
 The bronzed and scarlet-hued oak-copses on the 
 shore, are hardly more still than the forests of sea- 
 growths (not weeds — I cannot call them so), that can 
 be seen so clearly through the pellucid water. 
 
 Oh that pellucid water ! Truly those grim, grey 
 old lapidaries, as they toiled in the dark laboratories, 
 amid smoky furnaces and glaring crucibles, were 
 haunted, like the Count Arnaldos, and like the old 
 helmsman, with visions of the sea ! How else came 
 they to give the title of aquamarine to that dreamy 
 crystal with the ghostly green tint in it ? 
 
 Down through the faint tinge of the water, you 
 can see far into the forests of tangle. The white 
 shells shine out through the soft, subdued deep, like 
 fairy lamps, and silvery fish dart, gleam, poise, and 
 vanish amoug the floating foliage. This ledge of 
 ocean-groves extends far out, strangely peopled, to 
 that little green island sleeping on the bosom of the 
 sea. Its prolonged inverted image stretches, waver- 
 ing, almost down to our feet, as if striving and 
 yearning to grasp the land. 
 
 Out at sea, a few fishing boats are vainly spread- 
 
184 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 ing their brown canvas in the sunlight, and the lazy 
 gulls are slowly napping their great grey wings. 
 Their reflection lies unbroken on the water — the 
 wave scarcely turns white under the bows of the 
 boats. There is hardly a line of effervescent foam to 
 the wave that curls over to break on the wet sand, 
 which for a moment mirrors its form so vividly. 
 
 Before all green lanes, and fields, and flowers, give 
 me a sandy stretch of shore, ribbed here and there 
 with rock, and the glorious sea beyond ! 
 
 Look at the miniature heavens in the tiny tide, 
 pools, peopled with fish that hang on quivering fins, 
 and with ghostlike, darting prawns, and sidelong 
 crabs like shying horses. Look at the plants of all 
 shapes and colours. Eed, green, purple, bronzed and 
 metallic — broad, branched, feathery, filiform. And 
 amid them grow those strange creations, the living 
 flowers, that bud and bloom with glowing painted 
 petals, like the flowers of the field, and yet know 
 hunger, and love, the passions and sufferings of the 
 animal. 
 
 How drowsy is everything ! 
 
 The little fleet of boats, lying at their moorings 
 opposite the village, are rocking with a slow, scarcely 
 perceptible rise and fall, like flowers on the breast of 
 a sleeping child. 
 
 The sea-birds slide over the water on expanded 
 wings as though floating on the air in dreams, like 
 the fabled albatross. 
 
 The sun is sinking to rest, gleaming dull, red, and 
 
PEACE AND LOVE. 185 
 
 round, through the tremulous haze hanging over the 
 surface of the sea, and dashing with purple and gold 
 the slow clouds of evening. 
 
 On shore the same solemn calm prevails. The 
 woods that seem here and there to have stolen the 
 tint of the still clouds, are silent as the sea. No song 
 of bird or token of life in them. But the low voices 
 of the leaves mingle with the whisper of the wave, 
 and all around you feel, rather than hear, the stir 
 which tells of the universal presence of insect 
 life in the quiet air. Yet this only makes the silence 
 more audible and intense. 
 
 Is not this Love and Peace? Do they not exist, 
 typified by this lavish loveliness? There must be 
 Love and Peace in that calm sky, with its cliffs of 
 purple-stained vapour. The woods whisper them. 
 They draw that vessel toward the land. They are mini- 
 atured in those still tide-pools and in the quiet sea. 
 
 Oh no ! Not in the sky, in the bosom of whose 
 bright clouds lurk the thunder and the blue levin. 
 Not in that wood where the wild creatures are, even 
 now, preying on each other — nor in those quiet pools 
 where war is waging so continuously. Not in that 
 great smooth ocean smiling above cruel rocks and 
 treacherous sands. Not in that white-winged bark, 
 freighted with human hearts full of sin and sorrow. 
 
 Alas, only attainable — though shed at times from 
 the over-full chalices above to brighten briefly this 
 earth — only attainable in perfection, and for ever, by 
 " wings of silver and feathers of gold." 
 
186 
 
 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 DEATH AND THE LITTLE CHILD * 
 
 And singing as she ran. 
 
 WAS in the merry 
 Spring, when first 
 
 The building birds be- 
 gan 
 
 Their tiny nests, a lit- 
 tle maid, 
 
 Of scarce seven sum- 
 mers' span, 
 
 Went bounding to- 
 ward the church- 
 yard gate, 
 
 But where the weather-beaten porch 
 
 Both time and tempest braves, 
 
 Her song was hushed. With careful tread 
 
 She stept among the graves, 
 
 And wondering why above the dead 
 
 The grass so rankly waves. — 
 
 Her song was hushed. With careful tread 
 
 Among the graves she stept, 
 
 As she had feared to rouse the dead 
 
 See Memorials of Thomas Hood, Vol II. page 10, note. 
 
DEATH AND THE LITTLE CHILD. 187 
 
 So quietly they slept. 
 
 " They would awake again," she said, 
 
 " If silence were not kept." 
 
 A little child, who childish tears 
 Had shed — but ne'er had sighed, — 
 She knew not Death. To her it seemed 
 But slumber leaden-eyed. 
 She wondered why her mother mourned 
 When little baby died. 
 
 And while she pondered, as she went, 
 Upon that brother's doom 
 Of early death, she saw beneath 
 The spreading yew-tree's gloom 
 A man, who leant upon a scythe 
 Beside an open tomb. 
 
 She ran to him and " Adam " cried 
 
 " Good Adam, tell me, pray, 
 
 Who is the man, for whom a grave 
 
 Is open here to-day ? 
 
 And when he comes here, Adam Spade, 
 
 Will he for ever stay ? " — 
 
 And then she saw a stranger there, 
 
 The little timid lass — 
 
 " I thought you were " she said, and made 
 
 As she would onward pass, 
 
 " Old Adam, sir, the sexton, who 
 
 Had come to mow the grass." 
 
188 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 The stranger laughed a hollow laugh 
 
 And turned to look at her. 
 
 She felt within her tingling veins 
 
 The startled current stir. 
 
 " I am a sexton, little maid, 
 
 And many folks inter ! 
 
 " My parish though is wider far 
 
 Than that of Adam Spade ; 
 
 And in my graveyard trenches vast 
 
 Whole nations I have laid. 
 
 The grass I mow bears human life 
 
 In every single blade. 
 
 " So Adam is your sexton's name ! 
 
 I knew one of his kin. 
 
 He was called Adam too ; and did 
 
 The sexton's trade begin. 
 
 He was the first who dug a grave — 
 
 He laid his son therein." 
 
 The little child with wondering awe 
 
 That grisly stranger eyed : 
 
 He was so tall and gaunt and dark ; 
 
 And where, the yew beside, 
 
 His shadow fell, the very ground 
 
 Seemed withered up and dried. 
 
 He sate him down upon a stone, 
 The tablet of a tomb, 
 
DEATH AND THE LITTLE CHILD. 189 
 
 Worn with the dripping of the rain, 
 And green with moisture bloom, 
 " Come sit," said he, " upon my knee 
 Within the yew-tree's gloom, 
 
 " And I will tell yon stories strange 
 Of all that I have seen 
 In foreign countries far away 
 Wherein my steps have been, 
 The legends fair, and wonders rare 
 That curious travellers glean." 
 
 With timid eyes, in half-surprise 
 The little child drew near, 
 But as she sat upon his knee 
 So kind did he appear, 
 She looked up boldly in his face, 
 And prattled without fear. 
 
 "And pray where do you live?" she said, 
 
 " Is it a cottage small, 
 
 Covered with scented eglantine, — 
 
 Or is it like the Hall, 
 
 The great stone house, that you can see 
 
 Beyond the poplars tall?" 
 
 " My dwelling-place is far away, 
 A castle old and hoar, 
 Where noble knight and lady bright 
 Have dwelt in days of yore. 
 
190 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 Now 'tis a silent, solemn place : 
 Its glory is no more ! 
 
 " Within its walls from year to year 
 
 Man's footstep cometh not. 
 
 Of those, who dwelt within it last, 
 
 The very name 's forgot. — 
 
 In solitude profound all things 
 
 From floor to roof-tree rot ! 
 
 " It is a silent, solemn place, 
 
 A solemn place and lone ; 
 
 Yet dear to me — because therein, 
 
 'Full many years agone, 
 
 "Mid battle's roar, mid smoke and gore, 
 
 Full well my work was done !" 
 
 The tiny maid with wonder heard, 
 
 Nor half his meaning read. 
 
 " And where live you, my little child ? " 
 
 The stranger smiling said. 
 
 " I live, sir, at the little house 
 
 Beyond the Blacksmith's shed. 
 
 " It's close beside the little bridge, 
 
 Next to the water-mill ; 
 
 A pretty cottage : and we lived 
 
 So happily — until 
 
 That last, cold, winter weather, when 
 
 My father grew so ill. 
 
DEATH AND THE LITTLE CHILD. 191 
 
 " And now through all the weary day 
 
 He lies in bitter pain." — 
 
 The stranger laughed a hollow laugh, 
 
 " He shall not long complain. 
 
 I have a cure so strong, that he 
 
 Shall ne'er fall ill again ! 
 
 " Come, let us go, my little maid ! 
 
 And you shall lead the way, 
 
 And pick the flowers as you pass 
 
 And listen to the lay 
 
 Of thrush, and finch, and blackbird sweet 
 
 On every bending spray ! " 
 
 She took his hand, and led him on ; — 
 
 Strange si^ht it was, I ween. 
 
 As hand in hand the little child, 
 
 And stranger tall and lean, 
 
 Passed slowly from the yew-tree's shade 
 
 Across the churchyard green. 
 
 But song of bird they never heard. 
 One universal hush 
 All Nature kept, as if she slept. 
 The blackbird, finch, and thrush, 
 Fled from that stranger tall and lean, 
 And hid them in the bush. 
 
 In vain to pluck the flowers bright 
 With frequent pause she stooped. 
 All in that presence strange and dark 
 
192 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 Hung down their heads and drooped. 
 They withered ere her nimble hands 
 The wished-for wreath had looped. 
 
 She heeded not, that little child, 
 She was so gay and blithe ; 
 Around the stranger's hat she wove 
 The garland long and lithe, 
 And twined another chain about 
 The handle of his scythe. 
 
 A strange, strange sight it was, I ween 
 
 To see her all so gay 
 
 Go singing merrily beside 
 
 That stranger grim and grey 
 
 All prankt with flowers and trailing plants, 
 
 Quick dropping to decay. 
 
 And now they reach the cottage gate 
 
 The water-mill beside. 
 
 The evening sky dropt tears of dew, 
 
 The evening breezes sighed, — 
 
 And the stranger reached his bony hand 
 
 And flung the wicket wide. 
 
 But, when that grisly stranger came 
 
 The lowly roof beneath, 
 
 The father gave a heavy groan 
 
 And drew his parting breath ! 
 
 Alas ! for all unwittingly 
 
 The child had brought home Death ! 
 
193 
 
 AN IDLE TALE. 
 
 An idle tale — an idle tale : 
 Only the old old tale of love, 
 How from a withered shoot and pale 
 The rosy blossom burst above. 
 
 I was a sickly boy — the sport 
 Of all my passions good or ill ; 
 No love my weakness to support, 
 No better hope my heart to filL 
 
 An idle tale ! I was alone, 
 And none but she my state did mark. — 
 Then morning came — then sunlight shone ! 
 My heart up-mounted like a lark. 
 
 Her gentleness my footsteps led 
 Along the same sweet path she trod, 
 I raised my eyes with awe, and read 
 In everything the grace of God. 
 
 An idle tale ! She is not mine, 
 I never breathed my love to her. 
 Her kind frank eyes did ne'er divine 
 My yearning bosom's secret stir. t 
 o 
 
191 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 She wedded one, who is my friend ; 
 His children cling about her knee, 
 And in her hand their love they send 
 From distant India here to me. 
 
 An idle tale ! My life is such — 
 Yet calm and pure, without demur — 
 It never had seen half as much 
 Of good, if I had ne'er loved her. 
 
 An idle tale ! And yet I know 
 Of teaching not all destitute, — 
 The weakly plant bore flower, and tho' 
 The blossom died— yet lives the fruit ! 
 
 IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 For me no page of blushing tint, 
 Or splendidly embossed : 
 They are for happier mariners 
 On Love's wild ocean tossed. 
 
 Friendship my heart for castle holds 
 Determined ne'er to yield, 
 And snow-clad Honour fences well 
 My bosom with her shield. 
 
IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 195 
 
 And yet ! so fair, so fairy-like, 
 So exquisite is she, 
 If he who loves were not my friend 
 Enslaved my heart would be. 
 
 In Friendship's proof I stand aloof 
 That Honour may approve ; 
 I cannot choose but sing her praise 
 But must not, dare not love. 
 
 And so, with lips and heart, say I, 
 From Cupid's fetters free — 
 " A Blessing on her bonnie face 
 Wherever she may be !" 
 
 A HANDY LITTLE MAN. 
 
 o 2 
 
196 
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS, 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER. 
 
 eace be with us, 
 
 A oh my brothers, — 
 
 But an honest 
 
 peace and fair, 
 When we have 
 shown the 
 threat'ning foe 
 What we can do 
 and dare, 
 
 Like the lion who has awed the curs 
 That yelped around his lair. 
 
 By the spirit of our armies, 
 
 By our ocean's wooden towers, 
 
 By their deeds of gallant daring 
 
 In the face of hostile powers, 
 
 The world has learnt the worth of peace 
 
 With such stout hearts as ours ! 
 
 But swords will rust ! The olive wreath 
 In time becomes a chain ; 
 And we may lose our strength on shore, 
 Our empire on the main. 
 
THE VOLUNTEER. 197 
 
 Oh ! let us save our history's page 
 From such a hideous stain ! 
 
 "Defence and not Defiance !" 
 
 Be the motto of our band, 
 
 An army of determined hearts 
 
 To guard our English land. 
 
 " God shield the Eight " We trust our lives 
 
 And fortunes in His hand I 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 AFTER HUDIBRAS. 
 
 There is an evil catches writers, 
 
 Poetic scribes, or prose inditers, 
 
 Scribendi Cacoethes — which 
 
 Old writers call the scribbling itch. 
 
 Not mine the task to settle whether 
 
 There be a link that knits together 
 
 The Muse's lyre and Gaelic fiddle — 
 
 Let other folk decide the riddle. 
 
 "Whate'er decision they allot it 
 
 One thing I know — which is — I've got it. 
 
 Here I, on edge of sable inkstand, 
 That Black Castaly's very brink, stand — 
 Mine eye one glance around it throws. 
 One last long breath — and now, here goes ! 
 Yawn not, kind listener, — yet, if sleep 
 
198 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 From eyelids weary will not keep, 
 
 Then slumber on — but do not snore, 
 
 That is a habit I abhor ; 
 
 A fault in noses as displeasing, 
 
 Though not so startling quite, as sneezing. 
 
 Howe'er I hope I shall not be sop- 
 orific. Well — in Gay — or iEsop — 
 Or Phaedrus — or perhaps Fontaine — 
 Or, maybe, only in my brain, 
 To say just where I am not able — 
 But somewhere there exists this fable. 
 
 Once on a time, a sapient pig, 
 
 With ignorance and importance big, 
 
 Grunting and groping in his stye 
 
 Cast up his " meditative eye," 
 
 And saw before him (says the fable) 
 
 The open portal of a stable. 
 
 With curiosity our " swine " 
 
 Began most seriously t' incline 
 
 His little eye unto a cranny 
 
 (Of which in stable-door were many), 
 
 And, through schismatic boards' division 
 
 (Boards will breed rot, as men sedition), 
 
 Saw in the stable's stall of course 
 
 The thing that should be there — a Horse I 
 
 A stately Horse of noble race 
 
 Perfect in breeding and in pace 
 
 Who ere the pig of whom we talk 
 
A FABLE. 199 
 
 Was dreamt of e'en as sucking pork 
 Could pace, prance, canter, gallop, trot, 
 Curvet, and amble, and what not. 
 
 Well Hog no sooner spies the Horse 
 Than he must squeak and yell perforce 
 Until a long-eared solemn Ass, 
 That cropped the neighb'ring paddock's grass, 
 Thrust his staid visage o'er the paling 
 And asked the Hog what he is ailing. 
 
 " Oh ! " says the Pig, " It's murder, treason, 
 Enough to drive one from one's reason." 
 And so with many a dolorous squeak 
 He tells the Ass how he would seek 
 Some remedy against the source 
 Of all his ills — that horrid Horse. 
 
 The Ass incontinently sends 
 
 To two or three particular friends, 
 
 And, " with intentions the most pure," he 
 
 Eequested them to form a jury. 
 
 The Goose was one, with hoary plumage — 
 A staid old gander, past his bloom. Age 
 Had dimmed his goggle eyes — wherefore 
 A pair of spectacles he wore. 
 
 With him a Puppy mongrel-bred, 
 And stubborn Earn with woolly head. 
 
200 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 In grave and solemn convocation 
 Each creatnre made its declaration. 
 
 The Pig avowed that " liquid mud 
 
 Pleased not this minion of the stud. 
 
 He'd marked the beast — and really thought he 
 
 Had got ideas too grand and haughty." 
 
 The Ass alleged that all his fears 
 Eose wholly from the Horse's ears. 
 From ears so short he must dissent, 
 " They're neither use nor ornament." 
 
 The Gander's verdict came to this, 
 " He had no wings and couldn't hiss." 
 
 The Earn said Horse's guilt was proven 
 Most clearly — for his hoofs weren't cloven. 
 
 And last of all the Mongrel rose, 
 And tossed his puggy puppy nose, 
 Vowing the Horse a felon dark — 
 For why ? " Because he could not bark." 
 
 And thus, to cut the matter short, 
 They drew up their combined report — 
 " In matter Horse — on whom Committee 
 Was specially ordained to sit. He 
 Is guilty of this crime at least 
 That he is not a perfect beast. — 
 
A FABLE. 201 
 
 So not to add another sin to it 
 
 We hope the Donkey will look into it." 
 
 After this sage determination 
 
 The Council thought of separation. 
 
 But it so happened that a Bull 
 
 Had heard them state their case in full, 
 
 For he, while in a neighb'ring meadow, 
 
 Each single word the Council said, o- 
 
 verheard, and laughed to see that they 
 
 Had given the Horse such foul " fair-play." 
 
 So leaning o'er a five-barred gate 
 
 His notions he began to state, 
 
 And rubbed the raw of every sitter 
 
 In council with a sarcasm bitter. 
 
 At last when on the foolish pack 
 He turned his broad indignant back, 
 The Bam and Puppy to their places 
 Beturned with somewhat downcast faces 
 Looking less sapient and less bold, 
 This sought his kennel, that his fold ; 
 The Goose his grass, with mud to follow, 
 The Ass his thistles, Hog his wallow. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Might not some folks of " best designs " 
 
 Extract a lesson from these lines, 
 
 And learn to give another day 
 
 To every living man fair-play, 
 
 Nor how one errs — or where one fails — 
 
202 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 Weigh by their own delusive scales, 
 Measure by their own private plumbs, 
 And mete by their own rule-of-thunibs, — 
 But, judging not their friends who err, choose 
 Sweet Charity the best of virtues. 
 So shall they 'scape our scorn and pity 
 As members of the Pig's Committee. 
 
 UN-natural history. — the black cat. (Felis flagellina vd flagitiasa. — Link. ) 
 
 A TALE OF THE HOESE-SHOE FALL. 
 
 I was staying in the autumn of 18 — at one of 
 those palatial hotels then only to be found in America 
 close by the falls of Niagara. 
 
 My visit was made at the promptings of Science, 
 an imperious mistress who has frequently sent her 
 votary much further than Lake Superior in pursuit o. 
 the elucidations of some of her mysteries. 
 
 On the present occasion a problem in Phonics was 
 the knot I was to unravel. My readers may smile 
 when I tell them that it was but an application of a 
 trick (as it is called) that they have often witnessed 
 as children. I allude to the fact that, by drawing a 
 bow across a violin string in contact with a sheet of 
 
THE HOBSE-SHOE FALL. -03 
 
 paper sprinkled with steel-filings, you can produce 
 symmetrical figures and combinations of a surprising 
 character. 
 
 When we remember that a section of orange peel 
 gave the first model for a life boat,, that a tea--: 
 
 he mother of the steam engine, that the fall of 
 an apple revealed the law of gravity, we shall not 
 smile when we contemplate this simple experiment. 
 
 For my own pan this phenomenon had always 
 haunted me with strange persi- When I was 
 
 on a visit in Cornwall I took a trip to the quarries 
 overlooked by that gigantic fusus nature?, the Cheese- 
 wring. While there I heard the quarrynien " ring a 
 peal " as they call it. This is done by four, five, or 
 six men, with borers of, I suspect, different 
 producing a sound something like the Us by 
 
 striking the iron against the granite. 
 
 I observed that the powder and little fragments 
 formed themselves into figures rudely approaching 
 the geometric outlines of my favourite experiment. 
 However, friends, to whom I pointed it out, declared 
 that the phenomenon was owing to my imagination. 
 But I was used to rel 
 
 During my career at Cambridge my "hobby," as 
 
 How undergrads ealL a for ever a subject 
 
 of amusement. Indeed I went by the name of 
 
 '• Harmony Jones " or u the Harmonious Blacksmith " 
 
 from my being frequently d 1 fiddling to steel- 
 
 . -. I have no doubt I was rather troublesome to 
 
 •jllege. I had established a huge JEolian harp 
 
204 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 in my window to prosecute my experiments. From 
 this I found that the kind and intensity of the figures 
 depended to some extent upon certain circumstances 
 connected with the currents of air which caused the 
 sound. I must be excused from speaking more 
 plainly on a matter, where I would fain not have 
 the reward of my research snatched from me by an 
 outsider. 
 
 The iEolian harp of course was hardly amenable 
 to the rule that "no piano should be played in 
 College after twelve." On the contrary the wind at 
 night used to perform astounding obligates on the 
 instrument, such as were never heard by day. By a 
 delicate apparatus (which also I must decline to 
 describe, although from an announcement I have 
 seen of " photographic portraits taken by night " I 
 fear the secret is no longer mine) I managed to 
 register with tolerable accuracy all the forms taken by 
 the filings during the hours of darkness — and most 
 remarkable they were. Many were the complaints 
 that were laid against me, but I persisted in my 
 harmony in spite of discord. Of course, always 
 having my apparatus about me I had accidental 
 figures caused by ordinary sounds such as slamming 
 of doors, etc. From these I formed a theory as to the 
 particular notes, which formed the links as it were 
 between Dynamics and Acoustics, and established 
 an apparent connexion between the causes, means, 
 and effects producing and produced upon the organs 
 of sight and hearing. 
 
THE HOESE-SHOE FALL. 205 
 
 But my career at Cambridge came to an abrupt 
 close. One night a shrill whistle, which (being 
 engaged in making up my fire) I did not clearly 
 hear, caused a most extraordinary arrangement of the 
 metallic dust. I rushed out on my dark staircase, 
 and found some one groping up-stairs. In answer to 
 my enquiry a husky voice betraying signs of in- 
 toxication acknowledged that its owner had whistled. 
 I entreated him to repeat the sound. He declined. 
 I insisted. He refused " to be made a fool of because 
 he was a little elevated." The dispute waxed hot and 
 at last reached a climax. 
 
 " What key did you whistle in ? " I asked at last, 
 wrought to the highest pitch of excitement. 
 
 « Why the key of my oak, you fool " was the 
 answer. 
 
 In a moment of ungovernable rage I struck him, 
 swaying as he was on the stairs below me. The 
 moment my hand had left my shoulder, I was 
 horrified. I leapt forward to save him. Almost 
 simultaneously we arrived at the bottom of the flight 
 and bursting open a door that stood opposite we 
 rolled together into a fully lighted room where from 
 forty to fifty of our men were indulging in whist, 
 " Van John," and a newly introduced American game. 
 Imagine my horror, on picking myself up, to see that 
 the incarnadined party beneath me was the Eev. 
 Kneagus OTorthwine, the Irish Bursar, who, picking 
 himself up also, disappeared in a gentle cyclone of 
 anathemas up the corkscrew stair with a bleeding nose. 
 
206 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 His unpopularity was nry saving. I was unpopular 
 as a rule, though not violently so. He was universally 
 unpopular, and the fact that I had given him a rough 
 lesson in manners made me the hero of the night. 
 
 A council was held as to what I should do. The 
 general opinion was that nothing under expulsion 
 could wash out the stain on the Bursar's white neck- 
 cloth. Hearing this, I determined to leave the college 
 before the washing day, which I imagined would be 
 identical with the first Common Eoom meeting. 
 
 By and by the commotion subsided, and the party, 
 having left their cards on my sudden arrival, fell 
 to pipes and conversation. 
 
 I lounged about the room until I happened to 
 have my attention (sharpened by my experimental 
 habits to an extraordinary degree) drawn to the 
 conversation going on in a different corner. 
 
 The party, I gathered, had been convened for the 
 purpose of a lecture on the American game of 
 " Poker," to be delivered by a gentleman not long 
 returned from the States. He it was whom I now 
 overheard describing America to a knot of eager 
 listeners. He was describing Niagara, and that part 
 in particular where you can pass under the falls for 
 some distance. 
 
 "The noise was something tremendous," said he. 
 "You were in an atmosphere of sound — you could 
 hardly trust your senses. And yet, I don't know 
 whether it was imagination or a singing in my head, 
 but I certainly did hear, when, as I said, I was 
 
THE HORSE-SHOE FALL. 207 
 
 under the Horse-shoe Tall, a peculiar ringing sus- 
 tained sound, over-riding all others, just as the acute 
 squeak of a violin makes itself heard in a concert." 
 
 This was enough. A sudden thought struck — nay 
 rather possessed me. In five minutes I had collected 
 my few valuables, had written a note to a friend in 
 town asking him to run down to Cambridge and 
 settle my affairs, and was standing in the street 
 under my bedroom window, from which a rope, 
 consisting of two blankets, a sheet, and a railway 
 wrapper, was languidly waving its incongruous folds 
 in the night breeze. A fly soon carried me out of 
 Cambridge. 
 
 For some weeks I took up my quarters at Cowley 
 a little village near Oxford, where I had a few 
 friends, whose aid I required. 
 
 While there I prosecuted certain experiments (preli- 
 minary to my Niagara attempt) of which I need not 
 give a lengthened account. 
 
 Of course for the perfect development of the 
 phenomenon the filings must be quite dry — but how 
 was this to be managed where the atmosphere was 
 so charged with moisture? I made all the pre- 
 parations I could, and at length made a final trial 
 of my precautions. Seated under an umbrella which 
 was tolerably thick in texture I sat for an hour 
 under a stream of water directed from a tank 
 about 10 or 15 feet above me. My filings were 
 scattered on a piece of oiled silk stretched on a wire 
 frame and covered with a very light glass globe. 
 
208 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 As the hour came to an end I drew the bow with 
 trembling fingers across the strings of the violin to 
 which the wire frame was attached. To my delight 
 at the first vibration the particles arranged them- 
 selves in various symmetrical figures. In the centre 
 were three circles, the first incomplete — and after 
 the last a combination of right lines. To my excited 
 imagination this fortuitous circumstance had the ap- 
 pearance of an omen." In those figures I discerned 
 the words " GO ON." 
 
 This experiment, however, went near to costing 
 me my life. I started for Liverpool next day — 
 secured my berth, and almost immediately became 
 prostrated by sickness. For nearly the whole 
 voyage I was confined to my bed with brain fever 
 produced by the excitement and the cold water. 
 
 I found afterwards it was lucky that I had left 
 Cowley suddenly, for my landlady was so alarmed 
 at the eccentricity of my conduct in the water-tank 
 business that she had sent for two or three keepers 
 from the Lunatic Asylum near Headington, and 
 intended to have me confined. 
 
 After this digression I find myself once more at 
 the point from which I started at the beginning of 
 this story. Namely — that in the autumn of 18 — , I 
 was staying at an immense hotel about two or three 
 miles from Niagara. 
 
 I had arrived in the afternoon, but the weak state 
 I was in did not allow of my proceeding further, for 
 although the distance was not great the driving further 
 
THE HORSE-SHOE FALL. 209 
 
 would have been torture. Yankee whips seem to 
 drive as if their passengers had never had a moment's 
 illness in their lives — as if the end of the dominion 
 of sickness had been identical with that of the British 
 rule. It was a very calm night — to the eye. The 
 ear was not able to decide, for there was the per- 
 petual roar of the great cataract, never-ceasing, never- 
 changing. The effect was very strange. Overhead 
 the moon and stars were shining as clearly as they 
 do on a frosty night in England. Clouds weTe 
 loitering across the sky very lazily, and the tree- 
 tops barely made obeisance to the Queen of Night. 
 And still that tremendous voice of nature smote the 
 darkness and made the human heart tremble. One 
 prolonged monotonous roar, it was at first obtrusive 
 and wearying, but by degrees it so identified itself 
 with the peculiarities of the scene, the dense forests, 
 the jewel-like variety of the autumnal foliage, and 
 the vast building glittering with a hundred lighted 
 casements, that I felt it to be as necessary to the 
 place as the throbbing of the heart to the human 
 frame. 
 
 This idea seized me. I remembered how in the 
 delicate organization of my body some slight — very 
 slight — obstruction hindering the movements of a 
 valve of the heart, would produce instant death. 
 And then my mind became lost in wild imaginings, 
 comparisons of the stoppage of life's tide, and the 
 damming of this mighty torrent, moralisings on the 
 gradual attrition of the rocky lips from which the 
 
 P 
 
210 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 water leaps, and speculations on the duration of the 
 falls — nay of the world itself. Impressed, wonderfully- 
 stirred and softened by these meditations, I turned 
 back from the balcony where I had been standing, 
 into the room. 
 
 I found there a stranger of a very peculiar aspect. 
 He was tall, pale, and thin. His high cheek bones 
 lent additional power to his great dark eyes rolling 
 restlessly in their deep sockets. His hair very 
 straight and dark was brushed back from his pallid 
 forehead and fell on his collar. His neck was bare, 
 a simple white handkerchief, loosely knotted, taking 
 the place of a cravat. His dress was all black, 
 giving to his lean figure a still more attenuated 
 appearance. 
 
 Without removing his eyes from the window the 
 stranger said in a low voice, seeming half as if it was 
 only intended for himself — "You must pardon my 
 intrusion ; the reason of my coming will, with one 
 impressed as you are by that mystic sound, be ample 
 excuse for my apparently strange conduct." He 
 ceased. I observed that his voice had in it a pe- 
 culiar monotonous and sustained melody, that flowed 
 on in harmony with the falls. Indeed I might 
 almost say it seemed as if the falls ware accompany- 
 ing him in a chant. As his voice rose, so it ap- 
 peared (whether the wind was stronger for the time 
 I know not) that the sound of the cataract grew 
 louder. As his voice sank and fell, so the roar of 
 the waters died away and seemed about to drop into 
 silence. 
 
THE HOKSE-SHOE FALL. 211 
 
 This mysterious man alarmed me. His face 
 seemed to grow, and grow, larger, and larger, and 
 come closer to me. I sank into a chair, smiling at 
 my own weakness and faintly apologising to him 
 by an allusion to my recent illness. 
 
 And then seating himself opposite to me, he began 
 the following story in that strange sepulchral voice 
 of his. 
 
 "In me you see, sir, a most unhappy victim of 
 those great falls, whose voice rings for ever in my 
 ears, and haunts me wherever I go. I have fled 
 from them thousands of miles, but day and night 
 their ghostly murmur has hovered about me, calling 
 me back. 
 
 " And I have come ! From the Steppes of Eussia, 
 from the wilds of Australia, from the long winter of 
 the Arctic Regions — they have called me back times 
 upon times. And I have come ! 
 
 " For the best part of my life— my heart, my 
 soul, my whole being was lost in their stupendous 
 waters. 
 
 " Listen ! 
 
 "In the autumn of the year a happy party, con- 
 sisting of myself— my brother— and my intended 
 wife, with her father, mother and two sisters, paid a 
 visit to the falls. 
 
 "As you can judge for yourself, that season is one 
 
 of the loveliest features of nature. The variegated 
 
 maple leaves reflected the sun in a thousand brilliant 
 
 hues. The birds sang, and the insects sported, and 
 
 P z 
 
212 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 the whole country seemed to have put on her bridal 
 attire. But as we drew nearer to the end of our 
 journey, like a vague foreboding of ill, the murmur of 
 the mighty waters grew more and more distinct. 
 Alas, the day, begun with joy and beauty, was to end 
 iu desolation and misery. 
 
 " In our glee and thoughtlessness we had forgotten 
 h'alf the things necessary for the meal we intended to 
 make by the side of the falls. 
 
 " After some little consultation it was agreed that 
 I should drive to the nearest hotel (which at that 
 time was a considerable distance) and return with 
 what was wanted as quickly as could be. 
 
 "I was appointed, they told me, because I was 
 sure to be the quickest messenger, I should be in 
 such a hurry to rejoin May Walters. My brother 
 Charlie was a regular idler, and besides, had an eye for 
 a pretty face, and the barmaid at the hotel was 
 notably buxom and fair. 
 
 "As soon as the gig was ready I jumped up — 
 waved my hat to the company and was about to start. 
 May held out her hand to me. I gave it a warm 
 pressure. By some sudden impulse she leapt up on 
 the step. Our lips met, and then blushing red as a 
 rose (for we had never kissed each other in company 
 before) she sprang down and I drove off. That was 
 the last kiss I ever gave her ! ' Charlie,' I shouted 
 to my brother as I passed him, c I leave my May in 
 your care. As you are a jpreux chevalier, do your 
 devoir, and never leave her side till I return. Do 
 
THE HORSE-SHOE FALL. 213 
 
 her slightest bidding, and go through fire and water 
 for her ! Farewell ! ' 
 
 " That was the last time I saw him alive. 
 
 " Eapidly I drove through the fairy forests. But 
 the horse had been far already and was showing 
 signs of fatigue. 
 
 "It was late in the day before I returned. 
 
 "I sprang down the rocky pathway to the level 
 sward beside the Horse-shoe fall, where our rendez- 
 vous had been appointed. 
 
 " Good heavens ! As I turned the corner what a 
 sight met my eye ! Mrs. Walters lying half-dead on 
 the grass, and her husband sitting crushed and 
 speechless, gazing into the horrid chasm below. 
 
 <l ~No May — no Charlie to be seen ! At first to 
 my frenzied enquiries the only reply I obtained was 
 a mute gesture towards where the pathway passes 
 under the fall. 
 
 "At length in disjointed sentences I learnt the 
 terrible truth. 
 
 " May was a girl of tremendous spirit and gaiety, 
 not easily frightened, and, if anything, a fault too 
 venturesome. 
 
 "A wandering Indian, one of the Seneboio tribe, 
 happened to come up while the party were straying 
 about on the plateau I have mentioned. He soon 
 gathered about him a little knot of listeners. He sang 
 to them some of the wild airs of his tribe. He told 
 legends of their former power and might, drew rough 
 pictures of his deities, and carved rude figures of pith, 
 
214 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 " By and bye he began to refer to the scene around 
 him, and at length he gave an account of the won- 
 ders of the pathway which stretched far under the 
 Horse-shoe fall. He told them at the end of the 
 path an immense cavern stretched back into the rock 
 for two hundred yards. This he said was the place 
 where all the Indian deities were concealed when the 
 White Man took possession of the land. 
 
 "His description of the wonderful idols, and the 
 strange appearance of the cavern, which he said was 
 called the Great Manitou's Thunder Pouch (probably 
 from the noise of the water), had roused the curiosity 
 of his hearers. 
 
 "May, with one of her usual fits of enthusiasm, 
 declared she would explore the pathway. In vain 
 they all strove to dissuade her. She would go — 
 alone, if no one had courage enough to accompany 
 her. Seeing she was bent on the attempt, and bound 
 by my parting words, Charlie, who was courage itself, 
 promised to protect her. The present of a little 
 silver, and some persuasion were needed to prevail 
 on the scout to take the office of a guide. It seemed 
 as if he repented having revealed the secrets of his 
 nation in a moment of forgetfulness. 
 
 " At length however he was induced to go, more 
 perhaps by May's entreaties than anything else, for a 
 savage is strangely influenced by a civilized woman, 
 especially if she happens to be radiantly beautiful as 
 my May was. 
 
 " Not without considerable doubt and anxiety, but 
 
THE HORSE-SHOE FALL. 215 
 
 still without actual dread, the pic-nic party saw the 
 trio disappear under the arch of waters. They 
 watched them for some distance hy the dim green light, 
 that gleamed through the wall of descending waters. 
 At last a turn in the path hid them from sight. 
 
 "-Then the anxiety grew greater, and at last, as 
 hour after hour passed without their returning, the 
 whole company grew frightfully excited and alarmed. 
 
 " One of the servants, who was a bold fellow, ven- 
 tured in as far as the turn in the path. He returned, 
 looking white as a ghost ! within two steps of that 
 corner the pathway ceased. The face of the rock ran 
 sheer down further than eye could reach in that 
 mysterious twilight. 
 
 " In mercy to your feelings I draw a veil over the 
 scene of agony which followed. 
 
 " Let me now tell you what happened to the little 
 party in the expedition beneath the fall. 
 
 " The Indian as they advanced further and further 
 began to show signs of terror, and at last almost re- 
 fused to advance. He felt, he said, that the solid 
 rock was trembling beneath him — that the great 
 Spirit was angry that he should reveal his treasure 
 house to the White Man. By persuasion, not un- 
 mixed with threats, Charlie urged him on to the next 
 corner. 
 
 " Then with a terrified yell, the poor wretch sank to 
 his knees. The path came to an abrupt end. The 
 action of the waters had worn away the stone beyond 
 and it had fallen away into the gulf beneath. 
 
216 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 " This solution immediately struck Charlie, and he 
 said in a tone of disappointment, ' Well, May, neither 
 we, nor anyone else, shall ever get into the Thunder 
 Pouch. It seems that the gods wish to live retired. 
 So there is no help for it. We must return.' 
 
 "Before May could reply, the Indian, turned to 
 him, saying ' Silence ! It is the great Manitou, who 
 withdraws the cave from impious eyes. Not in vain 
 did the earth tremble beneath the feet of me — the 
 miserable wretch who dared reveal his secret !' 
 
 " At this moment a sound like the report of a can- 
 non rolled along the face of the cliff — making itself 
 heard even above the continuous roar of the fall. 
 
 " The Indian fell on his face in abject fear, for he 
 imagined it was the thunder of the Great Spirit. 
 
 " But on Charlie's mind a more ghastly thought 
 flashed up from the gulf before him. 
 
 "He sped back along the narrow, damp, slippery 
 path with dangerous haste. His worst fears were con- 
 firmed. A portion of the path, between the part 
 where they stood, and the mainland, had disappeared ! 
 
 "They were alone — isolated — shut off from life 
 for ever — doomed to a lingering death. 
 
 "Bushing back to May he revealed to her with 
 caution, and after much preparation, the awful event, 
 
 "She fell as if shot, and nothing but his strong 
 arm saved her from rolling off the steep rock into 
 the falls. 
 
 " The Indian meantime had discovered the nature 
 of their calamity. He whined, and crouched like a 
 
THE HOESE-SHOE FALL. 217 
 
 lashed cur at first — then he flew into an ungovern- 
 able fury, accusing Charlie and May of being his 
 murderers. But at length he fell into a sullen des- 
 pondency, blaming himself for revealing the Gitche 
 Manitou's secret. 
 
 "Presently May recovered. Charlie selected the 
 driest spot he could find, and laid down his cloak, 
 placing her upon it. He himself sat on a rock by 
 her side. 
 
 " Not a word passed for an hour, so stunned were 
 they with awe and despair. 
 
 "It was useless to hold counsels — for there was 
 nothing to do ! No human power could preserve 
 them. 
 
 "In the meantime the pangs of hunger began to 
 seize on them, for you remember they had eaten no- 
 thing since breakfast. Charlie shaking off his stupor 
 searched his pockets and found in them some frag- 
 ments of biscuit. These he devoted entirely to May. 
 
 "For himself (but it was not until the pangs of 
 hunger became agonising) he imitated the Indian 
 who was scraping the lichens and mosses, and water- 
 plants from the rock. 
 
 " With these he managed for a time to allay the 
 cravings of his appetite. 
 
 But why prolong the terrible narrative ? 
 
 " Hours, days, passed ! Even poor May was at 
 length driven to subsist on the loathsome growth of 
 the dark cavern. 
 
 " You may wonder that they did not throw them- 
 
218 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 selves into the fall and so end their misery at 
 once. 
 
 "But besides a natural horror of what would 
 have been suicide, disguise it how you may, they 
 could not bring themselves to despair. 
 
 "I believe despair never really enters a man's 
 heart until the very moment of the dissolution of 
 soul and body. At all events they clung to hope, 
 where there was no hope, and closed their eyes to 
 the last against the dark Spectre, who was gazing in 
 on his victims through the glassy wall of their prison. 
 
 "But Death was to visit them sooner than they 
 dreamed. One night May was taken violently ill. 
 In her weak state she could not sustain the shock. 
 She sank away, and died as if in a sleep. 
 
 "In the morning when the pallid light of day 
 began to appear through the gleaming fall, the corpse 
 showed such terrible disfigurement and discoloration 
 as left poor Charlie no alternative but to conclude 
 that one of the plants which had formed May's 
 evening meal (if such a pittance of garbage could 
 be called a meal) must have been a virulent poison. 
 In the first paroxysm of despair he rushed to the 
 little stock of plants gathered for breakfast and 
 devoured them in the wild hope that some of the 
 poisonous plant might be there, and that so he 
 might put an end to his torture. 
 
 "But he was safe — it seemed as if but one root 
 of the accursed thing had grown there to accomplish 
 its dread mission. 
 
THE HOESE-SHOE FALL 219 
 
 " But this act of Charlie's deprived them of much 
 provision. It was only by diligent search, and not 
 without danger that they gathered a few scanty 
 leaves to stay the pangs of hunger. 
 
 "At length even these failed. Starvation stared 
 them unmistakeably in the face. 
 
 " The corpse by this, time showed signs of decom- 
 position, but Charlie heeded not. 
 
 "He sat leaning over it, gazing into the boiling 
 sheet of water descending with the rapidity of light- 
 ning. Ever and anon some object, caught in the 
 rapids above, darted down with the velocity of an 
 arrow. Now a pine tree — now a timber-raft flashed 
 by. Once he thought he distinguished an ox, pro- 
 bably carried away by the floods further up the river 
 
 " Good Heavens, to see food almost within reach 
 and yet to be unable to taste it ! The foulest carrion 
 would have been a banquet. Instinctively he 
 grasped at it in a sort of delirium, — for the action 
 carried madness on the face of it. 
 
 " But the sudden action woke an echo behind, and. ' 
 turning round he saw the Indian, knife in hand, at 
 his back. His sudden movement had startled the 
 wretch, and his alarmed retreat betrayed him. 
 
 " Whether he intended to stab him he could not 
 tell. The creature professed to have another inten- 
 tion. He proposed to sustain life by devouring the 
 corpse before them. 
 
 " Horrified at the bare thought, Charlie flung him- 
 self upon him, and wrested the knife from his grasp. 
 
220 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 A violent struggle ensued on that slippery ledge. 
 Now one, now the other was uppermost. But it did 
 not last long, the combatants were too weak to 
 wrestle for any time. And my brother was the 
 strongest constitutionally, the. poor Indian being but 
 a wreck, half-consumed by fire-water, as is too gene- 
 rally the case with the unhappy creatures. My 
 brother staggering from him, pushed him back. 
 The Indian's foot tripped, and he rolled over the 
 edge of the precipice. Eor a minute he clung 
 desperately to the narrow ledge until the blood 
 spirted from his finger-ends. Then an unutterable 
 expression of agony and despair gathered in his face, 
 and he disappeared without a shriek — dying at last 
 like a true Indian warrior, without a groan or cry. 
 
 " I cannot prolong my story — Poor Charlie lay for 
 hours, delirious with brain fever. During the whole 
 time the sheet of falling water seemed like a ghastly 
 phantasmagoria, filled with mocking and mowing 
 faces. 
 
 "By degrees reason returned but found him so 
 weak that he had barely strength to write this narra- 
 tive in his pocket-book. 
 
 " That done, he bound poor May's dead body in his 
 arms and leapt from the fall ! 
 
 "A fortnight after, their mangled remains were 
 found in the lower lake. A grave was dug for them 
 on Goat Island, above the scene of their disaster. 
 
 "This day is the anniversary of that dreadful 
 event ! On this day an irresistible influence impels 
 
THE HOESE-SHOE FALL. 221 
 
 me to relate its incidents to a stranger. I thank you 
 for your patience." 
 
 I rose with tears in my eyes and begged him to be 
 seated. I condoled with him. I comforted him. I 
 made a vow to visit the grave. 
 
 "Alas, sir," said he, glancing at his threadbare 
 sleeve, "My poverty has been unable to place any 
 record above their nameless resting place. A terrible 
 fever which for eight months prostrated me, lost me 
 my only employment. I can get no other — indeed 
 folks say I am mad ! " He passed his hands through 
 his hair, and I thought I saw a wild expression on 
 his face and a glitter in his eye. 
 
 "Pardon me," I said, "Funds, that I had des- 
 tined for another purpose which your story tells me 
 can never be realized, are entirely at your disposal ! 
 Let this twenty pounds form the nucleus of a fund 
 to raise a fitting monument about the grave of poor 
 May Walters." 
 
 Without a word he placed the notes in his pocket. 
 In return he drew forth a little crumpled scrap of 
 paper. " Those sir," said he, " are the lines I wrote, 
 or rather composed, as I drove to fetch the provisions. 
 I have carried them about with me ever since. In 
 your sympathisiDg heart they will find an echo, and 
 I shall be glad to remember that I made this poor 
 offering in return for your generosity." 
 
 He bowed and disappeared as silently as he came. 
 
 On the paper were the following verses : — 
 
222 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 My Best Beloved— My Dearest Heart 
 Oh faint not, fail not. Patience yet ! 
 Although for long long years we part, 
 Love's light shall never set ! 
 
 E'en should some dark disaster come, — 
 If Death our pictured future mars — 
 Patience ! We have another home, 
 Sweet May— beyond the stars ! 
 
 Then, if on earth it be not given, 
 We meet though Death shall be our lot. 
 For oh 'twill scarcely be a Heaven 
 Wherein I find thee not ! 
 
 I was just thinking how prophetic the poor fellow's 
 feelings must have been — or wondering whether (as 
 is more likely) he wrote in the usual miserable strain 
 of young lovers, when a knock came at the door. 
 
 It opened, and in burst a gentleman, whose acquain- 
 tance I had made at New York. With him came 
 two others, and this rather boisterous party proposed 
 a quiet game at Poker. The proposal jarred on my 
 feelings — I made excuses alluding to the effect of a 
 communication I had just heard. This led to ques- 
 tions on their part, and at last one of them broke 
 out with "Why you've had Niagara Bobus with 
 you !" and sank into a chair in a fit of uncontrollable 
 laughter. 
 
 Explanations ensued. It appeared my friend in 
 black was a small litterateur in the habit of taking a 
 trip to Niagara, and of paying his bill by extracting 
 money by this artful story. 
 
 I was heartily ashamed of being so easily duped, 
 
THE HOKSE-SHOE FALL. 
 
 223 
 
 and made no enquiry into the American laws on the 
 subject of "obtaining money under false pretences." 
 
 The lines I afterwards saw in the Poet's Corner of 
 the "Bunghamville Bowie-knife," of which my deceiver 
 was editor. 
 
 The result of my experiment on the connection to 
 Phonics and Optics this is not the place for me of 
 describe. 
 
 A FINISHED PICTURE. DRAWN FROM THE ROUND. 
 
224 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 MOKN AND NIGHT. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Oh, art thou true to me, my love, 
 
 As I to thee am true ? 
 As to the Moon the Sea, my love, 
 
 Or to the Eose the Dew % 
 
 When sunlight gilds the skies, my love, 
 
 At Morn I think of thee ; 
 For the light within thine eyes, my love, 
 
 Is Life's best sun to me. 
 
 When Night brings rest from cares, my love, 
 
 And soft the moonlight gleams, 
 I bless thee in my prayers, my love, 
 
 I see thee in my dreams. 
 
 But art thou true to me, my love, 
 
 As I to thee am true ? 
 Oh search thy heart and see, my love, 
 
 Oh search it through and through ? 
 
225 
 
 EECOVEEY. 
 
 Thank God with me in this glad hour 
 That He has spared our tiny flower 
 
 The bud we love so well : 
 Thank Him that by His gracious Will 
 It lives and blossoms with us still, 
 That the stern arm upraised to kill 
 
 Unharming fell. 
 
 Thank Him Who spared her to our tears 
 Our sighs aud prayers for many years 
 
 To be our love's best wealth ; 
 The shadow of the Reaper stern 
 Fell on our flower and seemed to burn 
 Its tender leaves — but the return 
 
 Is here of health ! 
 
 The lifted sickle harmless fell, 
 
 And spared the bud we love so well — 
 
 The blossom undefiled. 
 Oh God ! — we thank Thee that to pray'r 
 Feeble as ours Thou gavest care ; 
 And from Thy cherub band didst spare 
 
 Our darling child ! 
 
226 
 
 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 THE SAEACEN" LADY. 
 
 H, softly blew the Eastern 
 
 gales, 
 Kich with the breath of 
 
 Eastern vales, 
 And proudly swelled the 
 
 snow-white sails ! — 
 
 She thought the jour- 
 ney weary. 
 She saw her native land 
 grow dim, — 
 She saw it sink beneath the rim 
 Of Ocean. But she thought of him — 
 
 "Gilbert— Gilbert!" 
 
 ^m-^M^ 
 
 mm 
 
 The tempest woke upon the sea. 
 
 The sky grew dark, the wind blew free ; 
 
 The groaning bark rolled heavily 
 
 Upon the waters dreary. 
 With faces pale, the frightened crew 
 To all the Saints for succour flew. 
 She called the only one she knew — 
 
 "Gilbert— Gilbert!" 
 
THE SAEACEN LADY. 227 
 
 The lightning showed the seething waves 
 Wide-yawning into hollow graves. 
 Armed with true Love, her spirit braves 
 
 The elements appalling. 
 " She fears not," said the seamen grim. 
 Ah, no ! She thought, or sink or swim, 
 'Twas death to be away from him — 
 
 "Gilbert, Gilbert!" 
 
 Love brought her safe across the sea, 
 Through town and village wandered she. 
 The people wondered what could be 
 
 The purpose of her calling. 
 At last her Gilbert heard her cry, 
 He hastened from his casement high. — 
 Toil, trouble, fear are all gone by ! 
 
 "Gilbert, Gilbert!" 
 
 A SONG TO THE EIPPLES. 
 
 Eivek — river — river, 
 Flowing so rapidly down 
 Making the reed-beds quiver 
 Under the banks so brown : — 
 Listen and hear my message, 
 Down to my Alice flow, 
 And whisper — whisper — whisper- 
 Whisper it soft and low. 
 Q 2 
 
228 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 Eiver — river — river, 
 Murmur " I come at night," 
 Safely my words deliver — 
 Whisper them all aright. 
 Then will she smile upon thee — 
 Bright will thy ripples run, 
 And glisten — glisten — glisten — 
 Glisten as with the sun. 
 
 Eiver — river — river, 
 Give her the tryst for me. 
 Love is a bounteous giver, 
 What shall thy guerdon be ? — 
 Smiles I would spare no other 
 She shall on thee bestow 
 To brighten — brighten — brighten- 
 Brighten your sullen flow ! 
 
 A QUESTION. 
 
 What makes my brow to throb and ache ? 
 What makes my eyes to weep begin \ 
 What makes my limbs beneath me quake 
 With shooting pains % Ah me ! The In- 
 fluenza ! 
 
 What makes me turn my " m " s to " b " s 
 And talk of " chill " instead of " chin," 
 
A QUESTION. 
 
 And speak profanely of my " d — " s 
 Instead of " knees " ? Ah me ! The In- 
 fluenza ! 
 
 What makes my nose as red as fire ? 
 What makes such parchment of my skin 
 What makes me sneeze, when my desire 
 Is not to sneeze ? Ah me ! The In- 
 fluenza ! 
 
 What makes my hand so dry and hot ? 
 Whence comes this changeless, ceaseless din- 
 This singing in my ears ? Oh what 
 What can it be ? Ah me ! The In- 
 fluenza ! 
 
 229 
 
 THE ATTITUDE ASSUMED BY GREAT BRITAIN. — Vide dcspati .' • 8 . 
 
230 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 MY DOMESTIC'S MEDICINE. 
 
 ERHAPS you don't un- 
 derstand what I mean 
 by that — 
 
 "Oh yes! all right," 
 
 says the Cursory 
 
 Eeader, " Dr. Buchan 
 
 and that sort of thing.'' 
 
 But the Cursory 
 
 Eeader is wrong. 
 
 That is no more than 
 
 lie generally is ; and if there were a Society for 
 
 Reforming him, it would be a benefit to authors 
 
 and society at large. 
 
 Your Cursory Observer is a human magpie with- 
 out very much brains. In the artist's studio he 
 hops from easel to portfolio. Skims a carefully 
 studied piece of composition, and then snatching up 
 a sketch, says "Yery good — very good, very effec- 
 tive," and puts it down again. But not before the 
 artist sees that he has in his hurry been looking at it 
 upside down. 
 
 In the author's study, he whips up notes and 
 
MY domestic's medicine. 231 
 
 disarranges them. Scans your last poem, and mis- 
 reads it. If you happen to have any picture-puns 
 about, he laughs at them consumedly, but destroys 
 all the effect of his criticism by misquoting them. 
 For instance he guffaws over a sketch of a jug of 
 hot-water, a tumbler and tea-spoon, sugar-basin and 
 lemon, but says "Beast's Medium in Spirits — ha, ha 
 — very neat — clever, uncommonly clever!" 
 
 As to society your Cursory Header is the curse of 
 it. He gives you his opinion upon all the newest 
 works, having only read their reviews in the papers. 
 He has experienced much pleasure in the perusal of 
 your book (which he has never set eyes on) and 
 especially admires that poem about " She said I am 
 a- weary" (which happens to be written by the Poet 
 Laureate and not by you). 
 
 Well then I repeat the Cursory Eeader is wrong. 
 
 " Perhaps " says a matronly female, with a bowl of 
 brimstone and treacle in one hand and a spoon in the 
 other, " perhaps you allude to those drugs and medi- 
 caments, which can always be administered with 
 safety, and which no mother of a family should be 
 without!" 
 
 I don't mean any such abominable thing in the 
 least, ma'am. 
 
 "Ah, then you're a homceopathist !" 
 
 No, Madam ! 
 
 Now it is very strange that ladies, who are so fond 
 of giving motherly doses, should hate Hahnemann's 
 practice so much as they do. Every lady, who has a 
 
232 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 medicine chest big enough for a Peninsular and 
 Oriental Steamship, and filled with all the drugs 
 from Assafoetida to Zingiber, will not allow any male 
 in her household from her husband upwards to in- 
 dulge in a little morocco case (nine inches by four) of 
 glass tubes, containing what look very much like the 
 things we called " Million sugarplums " when we were 
 children. The antipathy has no stronger reason to 
 back it than the old Protection one. The women 
 like to have the Monopoly of the " motherly doses," 
 but, unlike the farmers, they don't use it to garner 
 up their goods. 
 
 " Then you don't approve of Domestic Medicine 
 as exercised by wives and mothers any more than 
 Homoeopathy, I presume?" says a majestic lady in 
 black silk jingling a bunch of housekeeper's keys. 
 
 No, madam, — I don't. And if you wish me to be 
 candid I consider your practice to be the worst 
 system of iTome-eopathy of the two. 
 
 "Ah, you men are so prejudiced. But you're glad 
 enough to be nursed when you're ill ! " 
 
 True, madam, but for my part I prefer that my 
 nurse and my doctor should be distinct. I don't 
 want to imagine that the hand that smooths my 
 pillow has just been pinching my pills, any more 
 than I wish arrow-root out of the spoon I took my 
 castor oil from. 
 
 Do you know I verily believe that Eve did not 
 tempt Adam to eat an apple, but induced him to take 
 a large pill. Her daughters do it to this day. 
 
MY domestic's medicine. 233 
 
 The tragedy begins with "John dear, you're not 
 looking well. Hadn't yon better take a little medi- 
 cine?" Of Jcourse John, not feeling ill, declines, and 
 then his lady proceeds from entreaty, to indignation. 
 
 "Well, when yon're ill, don't expect me to nurse 
 you !" This finally subsides into tears, and the result 
 is that at last John gives way. I believe the 
 strength and quantity of the dose administered is 
 always in ratio to the length of time it took to per- 
 suade the victim. For your feminine physician 
 argues that the more ill you are, the more you will 
 show it in the disturbance of your temper, and since 
 as long as you will not be persuaded by her, you are 
 in "a horrid temper " it is pretty plain that the 
 continuance of the argument gives an extra weight of 
 drugs in the prescription. 
 
 Of course the wretched sufferer gets worse and 
 worse, and finally the Doctor is called in. All he 
 has to do is (if possible) to keep the lady from 
 throwing in more physic. If he can't succeed in 
 doing that, he administers antidotes. But he never 
 says a word about that, the sly dog. The more 
 ladies cure their husbands, the more patients he gets. 
 
 By and bye Benedict recovers, and then his wife 
 says "John dear — only think how ill you'd have 
 been if it hadn't been taken in time ! " 
 
 No ! I protest if there be one thing more than 
 another, that should entitle a man to a divorce, it is 
 the possession of one of those Pandora boxes of 
 physics and pills, that women love to call their own. 
 
234 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 In fact a medicine chest is a strong case for Sir 
 Cresswell Cresswell. 
 
 « Very true, very true," says a little gentleman, " I 
 quite agree with all your observations. But I am 
 astonished that, holding those opinions, you do not 
 agree with us." And he taps one of the small 
 morocco cases aforesaid. 
 
 What with the "similia similibus curantur" party? 
 
 " Just so, sir." 
 
 Well I confess I don't object to your motto — " Like 
 cures like." I'd much rather be cured by what I 
 like than what I dislike. But seriously speaking I 
 have only had the opportunity of seeing the theory 
 carried out on a large scale in one manner. And 
 there it fails. If you have got a few rogues and 
 criminals in your gaols, you will find that the more 
 you add to the number the less they cure each other, 
 
 "Ah, now you're jesting." says my little friend, 
 and away he goes in a huff. 
 
 Another gentleman succeeds him. 
 
 "What do you think about the Morisonian system, 
 Sir?" 
 
 When I see a systematic abuse of a body of 
 men whose skill, whose kindness, whose zeal, and 
 whose charity are so well known, — when I see our 
 professional men called murderers, poisoners, rogues, 
 and ignoramuses — in a word when I see a set of men 
 promulgating their doctrines by personal attacks, 
 and merely arguing according to the formulas of 
 Billingsgate Logic, I confess I have the very lowest 
 
MY domestic's medicine. 235 
 
 opinion not only of the theory, but also of those 
 who uphold it. 
 
 My interlocutor disappears, looking as ferocious as 
 the mangy lion on the College of Health in the 
 New Eoad. 
 
 But his place is speedily occupied by a short stout 
 pale gentleman with long hair and green specta- 
 cles. 
 
 " Ah, I have ze soluti-on of ze matere — you are 
 vun Hydropath. You believe zat ze cold vasser 
 cure every zickness ?" 
 
 Most implicitly, when administered in the right 
 way— 
 
 "By ze method of Priessnitz ?" 
 
 Not a bit of it. But I believe that if you want 
 an effectual cure for tooth-ache, head-ache, and all 
 the other aches, — when there's nobody looking, 
 jump into the river from the centre arch of London 
 Bridge. That's the only water-cure I believe in, 
 and I don't approve of it any more than Priessnitz's 
 system as a Perfect Cure. 
 
 " Then after all you believe in the regular style of 
 practice?" exclaims some one in an injured voice, 
 as if I had no business to be regular, and ought to 
 be eccentric. 
 
 Well then — to come out with it — I do. I have had 
 a few illnesses in my time, and I'm a very impatient 
 patient. But commend me to the regular practitioner 
 with his good temper, his kindliness, his soothing 
 and cheering words, and his uniformly calm temper. 
 
236 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 I have reason to thank several of them for putting 
 np with a very fretful and discontented invalid. 
 
 But " my Domestic's Medicine" is a story that has 
 nothing to do with any theory, or system, and 
 touches on no practitioners. It is simply a little 
 anecdote that I should not have been two minutes 
 in telling, if at my first outset I had not drawn down 
 such a medical examination upon my devoted head. 
 
 My Domestic's name was Martha. 
 
 JSTot that I have the slightest right to use the 
 possessive pronoun, only holding as I did a limited 
 property in her, for she was maid-of-all-work in a 
 house where there were two other lodgers besides 
 myself. 
 
 " The Parlours" — (for we lodgers took our titles 
 from our residences like other noblemen) was a 
 young man who studied medicine. He was no 
 favorite of Martha's, because he was always having 
 in arms and legs and " bits of skelintons" as she used 
 to call them — and, as I subsequently learnt for 
 another reason. 
 
 " The Drawin'-rooms" was a cashier at a Bank, a 
 very precise little old gentleman, with a real bald 
 head, and false white teeth. 
 
 I was " The Second Floor." 
 
 Now although mine was the share of her labours 
 which gave her most trouble, owing to an extra 
 number of stairs (and there were plenty of them, for 
 as she used to say " The house toas flighty"), Martha 
 always attended best upon me, and seemed to answer 
 
MY domestic's medicine. 237 
 
 my bell with twice the alacrity she showed in 
 obeying the summonings of the "Drawin' Booms" 
 and " The Parlours." 
 
 It was owing to no particular reason that I can 
 give, except that I used to accumulate my wants for 
 one errand so as to save her legs. But at all events 
 it obtained for me her attention, her respect, and 
 what is more, her confidence. 
 
 Poor Martha ! Hers was a hard life, though no 
 harder than that of many maids-of-all-work in 
 London lodging-houses. How she managed to 
 perform all her errands I cannot tell. I used to see 
 her coming upstairs with a breakfast-tray in one 
 hand, two pair of boots in the other, a coal-scuttle 
 on her left arm, and a coat, waistcoat, and trousers 
 on her right. I think it must have been in addition 
 to these feats that she carried my letters sometimes 
 in her mouth, for the covers often bore evident traces 
 of her teeth. 
 
 She was a red-armed, rough-handed, powerfully- 
 built woman, with a good work-a-day face, of which 
 the necessity of cleaning steps of a frosty morning 
 could not destroy the texture and frequent late 
 hours coupled with very early rising could not mar 
 the complexion In a word, she was as thoroughly 
 fitted for a drudge as if she had been made of cast 
 iron and worked by steam. 
 
 Of course I never suspected such a creature of 
 falling in love. But she had, and in a characteristi- 
 cally matter-of-fact manner. 
 
238 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 The way I found it out was highly ludicrous. I 
 had suffered from a bilious attack, and had got a 
 modest little collection of half-emptied physic bottles 
 by me, which led to the confession. 
 
 One evening a modest tap came at my door. I put 
 down my book, and said " Come in," expecting to see 
 my landlady. But it was Martha who made her 
 appearance. 
 
 " If yer please, sir," she began, after a little hesita- 
 tion, " if you'd hexcuse me the liberty, would yer 
 give me a little drop o' physic ? " 
 
 " I don't suppose I have got any that will suit you," 
 said I; " why does not your mistress send for a doctor 
 if you're ill?" I fancied the good lady might do 
 that, for I knew that Martha's wages could not 
 extend to such luxuries as medicine. 
 
 " 'Taint me that's hill," said she with emphasis. 
 
 "Who then?" said I. 
 
 " Oh no one, sir, on'y I thought you'd give me 
 somethin' as might do 'em good ! " 
 
 " Why not ask Mr. ISTeife (the medical student)? " 
 was my next question. But Martha turned up her 
 nose (the only feature in her whole face that could 
 convey expression) at the proposition. " He put some 
 nastyferrety or some hother 'orrid stuff in 'is gin, 'cos 
 'e thought I drinkt it — and I'd scorn the haction !" 
 
 I was amused at her anger, for it appeared to me 
 that if she had "scorned the haction," she would 
 never have discovered that the spirit had been treated 
 with assafcetida or any other compound. 
 
MY domestic's medicine. 239 
 
 " Well," said I, " what is it you want ?" 
 
 " Well, sir, then it's a little Tinker of Eewbub !" 
 
 I informed her, not without a smile, that I had 
 no specimens of that trade among my medica- 
 ments. 
 
 " Well, then, some feveressin' draffs '11 do ! " she 
 replied. 
 
 I was very much tickled at the accommodating 
 nature of an illness, which would suffer itself to be 
 treated indiscriminately with these two physics ; but 
 I determined to know more of it ere I ventured 
 to dispense for it. In fact I told Martha that I 
 would dispense ivith the matter altogether, if she 
 did not tell me a little more plainly what she- 
 wanted. 
 
 Thus driven into a corner, she was compelled to 
 make a clean breast of it. Something of a brick- 
 dust colour, that might pass for a blush, rose to her 
 rough cheeks, as she said, "Well, then, it's for my 
 young man. You see 'e's a baker, and, what with 
 the 'eat of the hoven and one thing and another, 'e do 
 suffer werry bad with it, to be sure." 
 
 "With what?" 
 
 " Why, it's the 'eat of the oven and the bakin' as 
 brings it hon fust. And then 'e always kneads is' 
 bread daily." 
 
 " He's not the only one who needs that, Martha, ' 
 said I. 
 
 " There his two hothers I know, but they're honly 
 boys," she answered, mistaking my meaning. " And 
 
240 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 it comes hon hall of a suddint, and Vs tooked up with 
 it so sharp as 'e can't ketch 'is breath." 
 
 "With what?" 
 
 " Why it was only last Good Friday it took 'im so 
 as 'e couldn't go the rounds with the cart — 'and cart 
 which it is. And 'is master was as cross as hall the 
 buns together, and 'e says 'e sha'n't keep 'im if 'e 
 don't get better on it." 
 
 "Of what?" I repeated. 
 
 " Well, and there's so many 'ouses to go to, and — " 
 
 " But what is the matter with him ? " I shouted at 
 last. 
 
 " Oh, sir," said Martha, startled at my impatience, 
 " then, sir, it's 'e suffers so most terrible from popula- 
 tion of the 'eart!" 
 
 rXNCV PORTRAIT- MR. BEARD, PHOTOGRAPHER 
 
241 
 
 FKIENDS. 
 
 I have friends who are kind to me : 
 
 Some that I do not often see, 
 
 And some that I daily come upon, 
 
 Grasp hands, and talk with, and pass on : 
 
 And others I have, who are more distant, 
 
 And we only know we are each existent 
 
 By mutual letters, arriving rarely — 
 
 (For I'm no correspondent, to tell you fairly) 
 
 Why they like me I cannot tell — 
 
 (Some may judge ill — and some judge well) 
 
 Some for a foolish trick I may have 
 
 In smiling — or, may be, in looking grave — 
 
 Some think me jovial — and some not a testy mate — 
 
 Perchance some have formed an erroneous estimate ! 
 
 Well, I won some by chance — and some well merited, 
 And some, that I keep, I first inherited : 
 And, since from the truth I am loth to swerve, 
 I think I have some that I don't deserve. 
 
 These are the friends that are kind to me ! 
 As for my enemies — let them be 
 
 R 
 
242 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 It may be five years ago that I took 
 
 The sudden idea of writing a book — 
 
 Full of whims, and thoughts, and fancies, 
 
 Poems, Essays, and Komances — 
 
 Just a book ! — not a ponderous tome 
 
 Of Travels in Turkey — or Eambles in Eome — 
 
 But a little mind-journeying — "Not without merit" — 
 
 So say some critics ; some kind hearts prefer it 
 
 To more serious volumes of weighter matter — 
 
 Just as you see in choosing a platter 
 
 Some prefer china — and some will take delf : — 
 
 However there it stands on the shelf, 
 
 And so you can read it, and judge for yourself. 
 
 But yet were some critics, be sure, made sad 
 
 ravage, 
 And cut it, and slashed it with sternness quite 
 
 savage — 
 " The author's too young" — " The attempt was too 
 
 rash "— 
 " He should not have published such terrible trash ! " 
 
 By and bye, however, there came 
 A number of letters addressed in my name, — 
 Letters of praise — not one of blame : — 
 That speaks well for human nature, 
 Which, they say, to hurt a fellow creature 
 Will go out of its way a mile or so — 
 But to help a fellow-creature ! No, 
 It will hesitate, and doubt, and linger, 
 And never stir a single finger. 
 
FRIENDS. 24o 
 
 That's " what they say " — if you like to receive it : 
 As for myself, I don't believe it — 
 For trust me this fact you may down as a law stick, 
 Men will sacrifice truth to say something that's 
 
 caustic. 
 But if / might prescribe, without being empirical, 
 I'd say take the good humour, and not the satirical. 
 
 "Well, after a time, the fire and pride 
 Of having published within me died — 
 And I settled down to the steady plod 
 Of the path in which I aforetime trod ; 
 Though still in my breast there lingered a spark 
 Not extinguished, but growing dark — 
 A spark of the flame, that kindly praise 
 And friendly notice can always raise — 
 A spark of the fire that burns and scorches 
 When, a mental martyr, you feel the torches 
 Of critical executioners. — So, 
 Not forgetting the joy or woe 
 Of laudings and blamings, I began 
 To settle down to my former man, 
 And was going quietly on, until 
 Something happened that sent a thrill 
 Of happiness into my inmost heart — 
 Not the less happiness, mind, that the smart 
 Of a solemn sadness was with it mingled : — 
 No wonder my tell-tale life-blood tingled — 
 The story's no long one — you need not fear it. 
 Sit down beside me, and then you shall hear it ! 
 
 R 2 
 
244 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 I met (it does not matter where, 
 
 And if I told you, yon would not care) 
 
 A lady of true and tender heart, 
 
 Quietly acting up to her part 
 
 In the Drama of Life — as a gentle woman 
 
 (A part that is somewhat more than human). 
 
 One evening in a window together 
 
 We stood gazing out : it was autumn weather, 
 
 And the evening was clear, the stars were bright, 
 
 And towards the West, with a mystic light, 
 
 Over the town a Comet hung, 
 
 Like a fiery Pentecostal tongue : 
 
 While beneath that streaming celestial sign, 
 
 Out in the streets, with a smoky shine, 
 
 Glared the lamps of the booths and shows 
 
 ('Twas a Fair-night, as you can guess I suppose). 
 
 Over the hoarse, low sound of the crowd 
 
 The trumpets brayed and the gongs rang loud, 
 
 But just as, in spite of the Comet afar, 
 
 And the lamps beneath, we could see each star — 
 
 So through harsh music, and ceaseless noise, 
 
 Flowed on distinctly the Lady's voice. 
 
 " One who was very dear to me — 
 
 " One who has left the earth to be 
 
 " A link between Heaven and my memory — 
 
 " Was lying on a bed of sickness, 
 
 "When I — to give time a seeming quickness — 
 
 " Eead aloud from your book to please her, 
 
FKIENDS. 245 
 
 " 'Mid the sick-room's sameness and gloom to ease 
 
 her. 
 " So I read it through from beginning to end 
 "During the last days of my friend : 
 " And I said, if ever it so befall 
 " That I meet the writer, I '11 tell him all, 
 " And thank him for myself, and the dead, 
 " For those thoughts of his we together read !" 
 
 Tell me now if I may not lay 
 
 This to my heart, and proudly say, 
 
 " If the volume have charmed away some pain 
 
 " From one at least — it is not in vain !" 
 
 The lamps may glare — but a tiny star 
 
 Is higher, if not so bright, by far — 
 
 The Comet in newness and glory transcends — 
 
 The stars are our humble familiar friends. 
 
 The critics may praise — the critics may blame — 
 The style may be weak — and too low the aim — 
 But I shall remember that autumn night — 
 The Stars — the Comet — the cressets bright : 
 But, better than all, the gentle light 
 Of a graceful act, and a kindly word, 
 That outweighs all the blame I ever heard ! 
 
 This is one of the friends, who've been kind to me. 
 As for my enemies — let them be ! 
 
246 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 GKAINS OF GOLD. 
 
 Far away in the Pacific, 
 Lies Australia — the prolific — 
 Where are streams that glide along 
 With a ceaseless murmuring song, 
 Glistening as oceanward they run 
 Their golden net- work in the sun. 
 For, from secret caves of earth, 
 In the mountains of their birth, 
 Golden sand they bear away : 
 And I dreamed the other day 
 That each atom was endowed 
 With a voice distinct and loud, — 
 That they sang as on they roll'd 
 Of the future fate of Gold. 
 
 Thus sang one : " I shall be seen 
 In the crown of some great queen, 
 And shall sometimes condescend 
 To the shouting crowd to bend. 
 Yet the circlet's leaden weight, 
 In the midst of pomp and state, 
 Shall, with an incessant pain, 
 
GRAINS OF GOLD. 2 4* 
 
 Press upon the wearer's brain. 
 
 Prison'd in its golden cage, 
 
 The brow shall furrowed seem with age." 
 
 Sang another, " I shall gleam 
 
 In a bracelet's dazzling beam ; 
 
 And its form shall be a spray — 
 
 Eoses set with rubies gay ; 
 
 And the bracelet's golden twist 
 
 Shall encircle beauty's wrist, 
 
 While, beneath, her pulse shall measure 
 
 Seconds of a life of pleasure." 
 
 Sang another : " I shall shine 
 In a slender golden twine ; 
 And a woman thin and spare 
 Shall embroider flowers fair 
 In a costly robe of state. 
 Yet that woman desolate, 
 Has not seen a blossom wild 
 Since she was a prattling child ; 
 But with little pay or praise, 
 She has measured out the days 
 Of her life, so cheaply sold, 
 With the slender threads of gold." 
 
 Sang another : " I shall aid 
 In the pommel of a blade, 
 Wielded by some valiant knight 
 To win the well-contested fight ; 
 
248 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 Nor rest until the weapon's hilt 
 Blush with blood of foemen spilt." 
 
 Sang another : " In the case 
 Of a watch shall be my place ; 
 And its voice shall whisper low 
 Of the minutes as they go. 
 
 In the portly sheriff's hand 
 Scanning the hour with moisten'd eye, 
 
 I shall time his loud command : 
 ' Bring the felon forth ' — to die ! 
 For the culprit's time is told 
 By the sheriff's watch of gold." 
 
 Sang another : " I shall shine 
 In the wedding ring ; the sign 
 That shall link two hearts together 
 To be fondly linked for ever." — 
 
 Sang another : " I shall rest 
 On an aching human breast 
 In a locket ; and, below 
 A simple silky auburn tress, 
 Shall the life-tide ebb and flow 
 Of a heart dead to happiness. ' 
 
 Sang another : " They will mould 
 Me into a coin of gold. 
 Bartered oft for happiness, 
 Bartered oft for deep distress, 
 
GRAINS OF GOLD. 249 
 
 Buying joy and buying grief. 
 
 Surely money is the chief 
 
 Of the uses manifold 
 
 That mankind can make of gold." 
 
 Sang the last one : " As a pen 
 In the hands of mi^htv men 
 I shall rouse the world to wonder, 
 Keen as lightning, loud as thunder. 
 If the sword can win and keep,. 
 'Tis the pen can rouse from sleep 
 Dormant spirits of a nation 
 To freedom and emancipation." 
 
 Emblem of pomp, of pledges broken ; 
 Trinket, sword, or marriage token, 
 Ye are metal vainly spent 
 Beside the pen omnipotent ! 
 
250 
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 ALL IN THE DOWNS. 
 
 With the Blue above, and the Blue below. 
 
 WOULD I had some- 
 thing to do — or to 
 think ! 
 
 Or something to read, 
 or to write ! 
 
 I am rapidly verging 
 on Lunacy's brink, 
 
 Or I shall be dead 
 before night. 
 
 In my ears has been 
 ringing and dron- 
 ing all day, 
 
 Without ever a stop or a change, 
 
 That poem of Tennyson's — heart-cheering lay ! — 
 
 Of the Moated Monotonous Grange ! 
 
 The stripes in the carpet and paper alike 
 I have counted, and counted, all through. 
 And now I've a fervid ambition to strike 
 Out some path of wild pleasure, that's new. 
 
ALL IN THE DOWNS. 
 
 251 
 
 They say if a number you count, and re-count, 
 That the time imperceptibly goes : — 
 Ah, I wish — how I wish ! — I'd ne'er learnt the amount 
 Of my aggregate fingers and toes. 
 
 " Enjoyment is fleeting," the proverbs all say, 
 " Even that, which it feeds upon, fails." 
 I've arrived at the truth of the saying to-day, 
 By devouring the whole of my nails. 
 
 I have numbered the minutes, so heavy and slow, 
 Till of that dissipation I tire. 
 And as for exciting amusements, — you know 
 One can't alicays be stirring the fire ! 
 
 PALL MALL PHANTOMS. 
 
 What my foreign friend saw in a dark passage in the War Office. 
 
252 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 LOVE AND PITY. 
 
 Oh, let my little shallop dance 
 
 The silver waters o'er, 
 
 Its painted sides as on they glance 
 
 Are close to either shore : 
 
 On either shore the violets 
 
 In easy reach I cull. 
 
 The tiniest of brooks it is 
 
 Slender, and beautiful. 
 
 " Oh maiden to its waters 
 Thy fortunes ne'er deliver ; 
 The streamlet in a little space 
 Will widen to a river." 
 
 Oh, let my little shallop glide 
 
 Where broader grows the stream ; 
 
 I love to watch upon its tide 
 
 The water-lilies gleam — 
 
 To see the clear reflection sleep 
 
 Upon its placid breast, 
 
 As softly on the ripples creep 
 
 'Mid universal rest. 
 
LOVE AND PITY. 253 
 
 " Oh maiden to its waters 
 Thy fortunes ne'er deliver ; 
 The stream within a little space 
 Will widen to a river !" 
 
 Oh let my little shallop rock 
 
 Upon the river wide, 
 
 Oh let me watch the happy flock 
 
 That wander by its side. 
 
 'Tis not the night that gathers round, 
 
 'Tis but a passing cloud : — 
 
 'Tis not the cataract's sullen sound 
 
 'Tis but the breezes loud. 
 
 " Oh maiden, vain to save thee 
 
 My warning, and endeavour. 
 
 You will not hear, you would not stay; 
 
 Farewell — farewell for ever !" 
 
 The river reached the roaring fall, 
 The night closed in above. 
 The rivulet men Pity call, 
 The river it was Love. 
 
254 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 THE GOVEKNESS. 
 
 " The Spartans used to make their Helots intoxicated and show 
 them to their children, in order to impress on them the evil of the 
 habit of drunkenness." — Ancient History. 
 
 " Mrs. C — 's governess being ill with the fever, was dressed and 
 sent off alone by rail to her brother — a direction was sewn to her 
 dress by the provident lady, so that if the poor girl died on the 
 road her body might be conveyed to its destination." — Modern 
 History. 
 
 They call you a " Governess " — ah, poor slave ! 
 Your very name there's a scoff in ; 
 No birthright you have on earth but a grave, 
 And scarce money enough for a coffin. 
 
 If you find employers be sure 'tis best 
 To be humble and meek and observant ; 
 And as for the rest — why think yourself blest 
 If they treat you no worse than a servant. 
 
 Their Helot you ! — that their children may — 
 " Thank God that they need not labour 
 For paltry pay (proud Pharisees they) 
 Like their poorer Publican neighbour." 
 
 At their table too, poor creature forlorn, 
 You're a scarcely acknowledged sitter ; 
 
 
 
THE GOVEKNESS. 255 
 
 And enough must be borne of slight and scorn 
 To make every mouthful bitter. 
 
 And since in a governess feeling's absurd, 
 All weaknesses you must dissemble, 
 Though a gentle word, so seldom heard, 
 Makes the foolish tear-drop tremble. 
 
 If weary and worn with working, still 
 You must rouse yourself, and awaken ; 
 If you choose to be ill you cannot fulfil 
 All the duties you've undertaken ; 
 
 And so, without doubt, you really must 
 Leave your place to be filled by another ! 
 And 'tis but just that you should be thrust 
 In the train, and sent off to your brother. 
 
 And — since haply you may expire on the way — 
 Thank your Christian employers politely, 
 Whose foresight is able to pen you a label, 
 That your corpse may be " forwarded rightly 1 
 
256 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 THE FAIE MAIDS OF COKNWALL. 
 
 " Five sliillings will be amply sufficient" we solilo- 
 quised, as we handed two half-crowns to the postboy 
 who had driven us over to our fishing-station. We 
 say postboy, because it is the usual term, and because 
 if he was no boy, but had grey hair and three 
 children, still he proved his title to the first half of 
 his name, being decidedly as stupid and deaf as any 
 post in the kingdom. He had been silent on the 
 subject of the weather, which we introduced at 
 starting ; he had merely given two conversational jerks 
 about the harvest, which we brought forward after 
 the first two miles ; and only warmed into a sentence 
 when, at the end of the journey, we started that 
 unfailing topic with his genus — namely matters 
 equine : describing a tandem-drive of some length 
 undertaken by ourself and a friend on a late interest- 
 ing crisis in our university career. 
 
 Five shillings appeared to be amply sufficient, to 
 judge from the manner in which they were received. 
 Away rattled the gig, and we turned into the hotel 
 in search of dinner. Of course the hotel is called 
 " The Ship :" sea-side hotels have a habit of being 
 called ships. Of course, too, there is a commercial 
 room wherein sits one of the tribe commercial. We 
 
 
THE FAIR MAIDS OF CORNWALL. 257 
 
 wonder what earthly purpose he can come down to 
 East Outoftheway for, and conclude he is a traveller 
 for a fish-hook manufactory, there being very little 
 opening for any other trade. We subsequently learn 
 he appears for a net-making firm at Bridport. 
 
 In the meantime, the darkness sets in all in a 
 minute, as it seems ; so we order candles and a 
 private room — the latter, we find, is a work of super- 
 erogation, all the rooms being private rooms. The 
 traveller in the fish-net line has a room to himself, 
 we have a room to ourself ; and the two other rooms 
 have themselves to themselves, there being no one 
 else in the house. 
 
 We find it not particularly lively ; so we make an 
 excitement by ordering dinner. Mentioning a list of 
 dishes, with the full conviction that we shall come at 
 length to a chop or a steak, we discover the fallibility 
 of man — we have no more varied a bill of fare than 
 
 Boiled chicken, 
 Roast chicken. 
 
 " Eoast ditto " would be more correct, the chicken 
 being but one — a logical ens unum, an individual fact 
 subject to the contingencies of roasting or boiling. We 
 decide upon the former, and then endeavour wildly 
 to find amusement while Mary retires to prepare the 
 meal. 
 
 We look out of the window, and perceive in the 
 gloom Dinner in prospectu, in the shape of an 
 ungainly fowl with a generally draggled appearance, 
 
 s 
 
258 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 standing on the dust-heap. To whom enter Mary, 
 and then ensues a lively chase, Dinner objecting to 
 be caught, and dodging about for some time among 
 cart-wheels, tubs, and hampers. At length, Mary 
 
 hems Dinner into a corner ; and then 
 
 We next read the paper through — even a week-old 
 Times — from the first advertisement to the printer's 
 name at the end. We try to do a little of the history 
 of East Outoftheway, and break down after three 
 pages ; and we are reduced to the dernier ressort of 
 imagining figures and landscapes in the pattern of 
 the paper on the walls, when dinner is announced — 
 by a rattle of dishes, and the thump of a tray against 
 the door. We fall to. The fowl was certainly an old 
 friend of the family, and we cease to wonder at his 
 reluctance to give up old associations. When we have 
 mangled the first course to the best of our ability, 
 the second enters. This is more hopeful. Cherry 
 tart and cream — such cream ! Eich, ripe, real, golden 
 cream, such as is only to be had in the west — a sort 
 of beatified butter, that we can only believe to be 
 the produce of asphodel-fed cows in the Elysian 
 fields. 
 
 After this, need we say we do justice to the cream 
 and tart? Dinner over, we light a cigar, and call 
 for some sherry. So we are soon wrapped in a 
 fragrant cloud, and oblivious of things mundane. 
 Anon through the vapours loom the forms of Bob 
 Tobbles and Harry Poltrepen (a Cornishman of 
 course), the two friends who were to join us in our 
 
THE FAIR MAIDS OF CORNWALL. 259 
 
 further proceedings. The sherry soon looks small ; 
 and as we do not find it sufficiently inviting to call 
 for another bottle, we sally out to look at the sea— 
 a ceremony which superstition compels all visitors 
 of watering-places to perform before they go to 
 rest the first day of their arrival. With us it was 
 a mere form, for the night was too dark for anything 
 to be seen. 
 
 We grope through a series of alleys, under the 
 guidance of Poltrepen, until we reach the church, 
 which of course faces the sea. Fishing-villages 
 always build their churches directly facing the sea. 
 The alleys through which we have passed are entitled 
 lanes here, the only real lane in the place being 
 dignified with the name of street. Our employment 
 on reaching the sea is of course that of throwing 
 stones into the water— another sea-side superstition. 
 It is hardly necessary to say that we fall in with 
 a ' Coast-guard, and give him some tobacco, in return 
 for which he favours us with some very improbable 
 yarns, all of which we believe : that is another sea- 
 side superstition. 
 
 Then we grope our way back to supper, but not 
 without an adventure of an amusing description — 
 a tumbling feat which long-legged Bob Tobbles (we 
 used to call him Old Compasses at school) performs 
 over the back of a little donkey in a dark alley. 
 We immediately express our belief that donkeys 
 are an emanation of the sea, which does not comfort 
 Bob or apply salve to his bruised elbow, but is 
 
 s 2 
 
260 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 nevertheless true, there being no sea-side place of 
 our acquaintance which does not abound with the 
 breed. As we approached in the gig beside the 
 taciturn postboy, we were conscious at one and 
 the same moment of a strong briny whiff of the 
 sea-breeze and a donkey by the roadside ; and the 
 nearer we came to the sea, the more asses we saw. 
 When we have finished a demonstration on this 
 subject to Bob and Harry, we find we are again at 
 the inn, where we have supper, and then a pipe, 
 and then a chamber-candle, for we have to be 
 stirring early. We separate at our doors with 
 mutual entreaties of "Now, mind you get up when 
 you're called ! " 
 
 We are sorry to have to record at this part of our 
 narrative, that it is our belief that Tobbles kissed 
 the chamber-maid, for we heard a slight scuffle at 
 his door, and a faint "Don't," which sounded very 
 much like "Encore" Our bed-room is very cosy- 
 looking, and the bed is so soft and white, that it 
 raises serious doubts in our minds as to whether 
 we shall be able to get up in the morning ; so we 
 jump out of our clothes and into the sheets as 
 quickly as we can, with the intention of doing as 
 much sleep as possible in the time. We close our 
 eyes, and hear, in a half-doze, the clock striking 
 eleven, and then go off like a top. Now, we are 
 morally certain, that in less than five minutes after, 
 we were awakened by a knock at the door, and a 
 voice that cried " Sleep no more ! " — not that it exactly 
 
THE FAIE MAIDS OF COKNWALL. 261 
 
 used those words, its remark being : " Here's your 
 thick boots sir and it's five o'clock and I've called 
 the other gentlemen ! " To this unpunctuated, and, 
 to our belief, unpunctual voice, we object that "it 
 can't be more than twelve ;" but are put to silence 
 immediately, by a husky, croaking, wheezing clock 
 down stairs, which, after a long preliminary coughing 
 and whizzing, proclaims, in the deathlike stillness of 
 the house, five o'clock. Without another word, we 
 get up, very sleepy in spite of a flounder in a tub 
 of cold water, and walk in a somnambulic manner 
 to the quay, where we find Bob, and where, in turn, 
 we are found by Harry ; and as the Tripos, as Bob 
 calls it, is assembled, we jump into the boat, and 
 are rowed off by the two fishermen to the larger 
 vessel, in which we are to make our attempt at the 
 fishes. 
 
 It is very cold on the water, and the air is raw ; we 
 all begin to feel as if we should like to be in bed 
 again, when Bob suddenly remembers his brandy- 
 flask, at which we take a good pull all round, and 
 so get livelier, and begin to talk. As a matter of 
 course, the conversation opens with an inquiry of 
 the fishermen as to the probable state of the weather ; 
 to which they return a favourable answer. Pre- 
 sently we reach and scramble into the other boat. 
 This is no easy matter, as the sea is running pretty 
 high, and Harry nearly tumbles in, but hangs on by 
 the bulwarks, and only gets dipped in the waves up 
 to his knees. He bears it heroically. Harry is 
 
262 QUIPS AND CRANK?. 
 
 # short, stout, and seven-and-twenty," and looks very 
 absurd in a white jersey, which is stretched so tight 
 round his fair proportions, that it looks like an open 
 net. His head is surmounted by a felt-hat, broadish 
 in the brim, and steeplish in the crown, so that he 
 looks like Vanderdecken in The Phantom Ship ; or 
 rather as that worthy would have looked if he had 
 been fed on oil-cake, or personated by Mr. Paul Bed- 
 ford. Bob, on the other hand, as we have already 
 remarked, is tall; he wears a pilot-coat that looks 
 like a monkey-jacket, while his nether extremities 
 are incased in a pair of waterproofs, which are evi- 
 dently too short, in spite of a compromise which he 
 has effected by not pulling them up to his waist, 
 or down to his ankles. Our own appearance we shall 
 not attempt to describe, leaving it to the imagination 
 of our readers, who will be kind enough to suppose 
 everything that is nice, and proper, and seamanlike. 
 They will have the goodness to picture to themselves 
 a tall, very graceful figure, clothed in a white jersey 
 with broad blue stripes, a rough coat, a pair of loose 
 flowing blue trousers falling gracefully over the foot, 
 all crowned with a natty tarpaulin-covered straw- 
 hat ; and when they have done this, they will have 
 the exact image of the figure we did not present on 
 the morning in question. 
 
 " Up anchor," and off we go, and have a very fine 
 run of eight miles ; the only incidents on the way 
 being breakfast and Harry, who turns white, and 
 volunteers the observation that he feels " very jolly." 
 
THE FAIE MAIDS OF COKNWALL. 263 
 
 This is immediately followed by large applications 
 to the brandy. 
 
 At length, having reached the fishing-ground, 
 which the fishermen make out by the relative bear- 
 ing of two points of land, we let down the anchor, 
 furl the sails, and set to work getting out our tackle. 
 We bait our hooks with pilchard and mussels, and 
 throw them over. Down they go, with a lead plum- 
 met to them, and we keep unwinding and unwinding, 
 until we begin to think they will never stop. At 
 length the line slackens ; we haul in a fathom of it 
 to prevent the bait from dragging, and wait patiently. 
 A bet of a pint of beer is laid all round as to who 
 gets the first fish. Then ensues a deep silence. 
 
 Presently Bob is seized with an apparently sudden 
 fit of insanity ; he shouts, and jumps, and hauls in 
 his line, hand over hand, with astounding rapidity. 
 Bump ! In comes the lead over the side ; a fathom 
 of line follows, and then at the end of it — bare hooks ! 
 Bob anathematises the fish, baits again, and throws 
 his line over. It is not half run out before Harry is 
 seized with a fit of similar frenzy, and begins haul- 
 ing in ; but it turns out that he is only entangled 
 with Bob's line ; so, after a little fuss, they both set 
 to work letting out again. We now feel it due to our 
 dignity to haul in, but we do so only for the sake of 
 appearances, since we do not imagine for a moment 
 that we have caught anything. In comes the lead, 
 and lo ! to our astonishment, half a minute after- 
 wards in comes a small fish, like a miniature shark. 
 
264 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 We all shout and rejoice, much to the amusement of 
 the two fishermen, who are not inclined to be rhapso- 
 dical over a " doggy-fish," as they call it. We comfort 
 ourself with the idea of the two pints delusively, for 
 we are quite certain we shall not see Bob's, as he 
 never pays up. 
 
 Presently the fun gets fast and furious, and we 
 begin to haul in as fast as we can, until our hands 
 get a little sore. In they come — bream and whiting, 
 and cod and dogfish — dogfish and cod, and whiting 
 and bream, until at length Harry howls out that he 
 has got the Eddystone lighthouse, or a whale, and 
 finishes up by handing in a large ray. 
 
 " By Jove, there's a turbot ! " 
 
 "Yes, sir, r'markable fine," observes one of the 
 fishermen, a wag in his way ; " ony look at the tail 
 of um ! " Harry retires. 
 
 We amuse ourself with contemplating the last 
 capture, as he lies in the bottom of the boat, smack- 
 ing his lips, and winking his eyes, and screwing his 
 mouth about in the absurd way in which rays take 
 leave of life. We are tacitly wondering whether 
 sunset-describing poets, when they talk about "expir- 
 ing rays," know what an absurd sight the moribund 
 monsters are, when suddenly we feel an immense 
 weight at the end of the line. We haul and tug. 
 "We have hold of a rock— no — there it comes— no 
 — it doesn't — yes, it does. Yeo, heave ho ! Now it 
 moves ; it must be a whale ! " We give it up, and 
 place the line in the hands of one of the men. 
 
THE FAIE MAIDS OF COENWALL, 265 
 
 After a long struggle, up it comes ; we lean over, 
 and see something, now white, now black, rising 
 through the dim green waters. " By Jove ! it's a 
 shark !" The fishermen grow vindictive immediately, 
 and are bent upon his destruction. "Where's the 
 gaff?" "Here it is;" and Bob insists upon doing 
 the honours. He "will introduce the gentleman to 
 the party in the boat," The shark reaches the sur- 
 face. Bob makes a lunge at him, but only succeeds 
 in giving him a poke in the ribs, and the shark, see- 
 ing the sort of treatment he is likely to meet with on 
 board, objects strongly. There is a great splash and 
 a jump, and the fisherman finds his level rather sud- 
 denly in the bottom of the boat, and off goes the 
 shark with a couple of hooks in his mouth. We all 
 abuse Bob roundly — ourself in particular — and retire 
 to our stations very glum ; but the sport still going 
 on well, Ave soon brighten up. 
 
 Now we have a false alarm. Harry vows he has 
 got a shark, but it turns out to be only a very large 
 ray, which comes up, the sly dog, presenting himself 
 flat to the water, and so offering no slight resistance 
 to all attempts at close acquaintance. But we soon 
 overcome his scruples ; and, in spite of his retiring 
 disposition, he is gaffed by one of the fishermen with 
 a skill that makes us regret that we allowed Bob to 
 make an attempt by which he deprived us of a great 
 triumph. After this, we light the fire — we have a 
 little grate on board — and produce the provisions, 
 and make a sort of dinner. We had, on our way out, 
 
2C6 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 laid a ground-tier of breakfast, but we find the sea- 
 air appetising, with the exception of Harry, who is 
 off his feed, and evinces a strong dislike to the sight 
 of eatables. Of course we chaff him cruelly — "the 
 sea-sick have no friends." 
 
 Dinner over, we set to work again, and begin haul- 
 ing away ; by this time the appearance of our hands 
 is not exhilarating. Nevertheless, we stand to our 
 lines like men, and haul them in of all colours, red, 
 and pink, and blue, and black, and brown. But at 
 length a change comes o'er the spirit of our dream. 
 There is an ominous sameness in our catches. Bob 
 hauls in a dogfish ; Harry lands two more ; we haul 
 in our line minus the hooks : verdict of the fisher- 
 men, "Bit off by doggy-fish." And so it goes on, 
 until the fishermen, seeing we are in a regular school 
 of them, advise us to ■• about ship," and go ashore ; 
 so in less than five minutes we are scudding along 
 before a nice fresh breeze. There is a heavy swell 
 rolling, and by and by Harry is discovered to be lean- 
 ing over the side, as if, Narcissus-like, he was in love 
 with his reflection in the water. He rises presently 
 with a white face and a vehement desire for brandy. 
 
 The tide is running in, so we sail up alongside of 
 the quay, and land amid the admiring populace. 
 We place our spoil in the hands of an elderly lady, 
 with a promising beard and two eyes that are not a 
 pair, and give orders that the whiting may be cured. 
 After this, with a queer sensation in our legs, as if 
 the street were tossing and tumbling about, we walk 
 
THE FAIK MAIDS OF COENWALL. 267 
 
 towards the hotel, and are nearly run down on the 
 way by some score of eager fellows who are going 
 out after a school of mackerel which we saw leap- 
 ing and flashing in the bay as we came into port. 
 Before we get to the end of the quay, we see them 
 jump into the boats and pull away with a hearti- 
 ness that bodes ill for the future happiness of the 
 mackerel. Watching all this, we are very foolishly 
 walking one way and looking another, and therefore 
 we soon found ourselves seated on a heap of what 
 seems to us grey sand ; but we are speedily unde- 
 ceived by Harry, who informs us that we are seated 
 on about a hundred pounds' worth of copper ore. 
 So we rise with a profound respect for the heap, 
 and begin to wish we could sing — 
 
 " Who '11 buy my gray sand ? " 
 
 The quay-master, a very curious specimen of the 
 Quaker, and a friend of Harry's, comes up, and we 
 fall into conversation with him, and learn that the 
 heaps of ore we see on the quay are worth altogether 
 nearly a thousand pounds, and are about to be ship- 
 ped for Wales. New quays are being built, for East 
 Outoftheway is a rising little town, and does an 
 immense deal of business in this way. We look into 
 the hold of one of the vessels lying alongside, and 
 see the ore lying in great heaps there on the way to 
 its destiny — kettles and penny-pieces. 
 
 Harry, who is blase in the matter of copper, and 
 has just regained his appetite, insists on an adjourn- 
 
268 grips and cranks. 
 
 merit to the hotel, where we make a very substantial 
 dinner. 
 
 Of course, over this meal there are great disputes. 
 Each of us is certain that he has caught more than 
 " the other two put together."' We argue in an ami- 
 cable manner as to who caught the finest fish, and 
 when we venture to observe that, at all events, we 
 caught the first fish, Bob and Harry, who have 
 become a little more knowing than they were when 
 we started, observe coldly ^ " Ah, yes — only a dog- 
 fish." We quietly " involve ourself in our virtue." 
 and resign the pints tacitly, being sure we should not 
 get them if we asked for them. 
 
 When dinner is over, it is time to go and see the 
 " seine shot." as there are pilchards in the bay. 
 
 We sally forth, and scramble up the hill outside 
 the town, arriving, after a tedious climb, at the look- 
 out post. Here we find a crowd of persons, who 
 hold shares in the seine ; for a seine, boats and all, 
 costs when new about a thousand pounds. 
 
 Borrowing a glass, we perceive two large boats and 
 one small one rowing out. Presently the little one 
 shoots ahead, and goes on a voyage of discovery to 
 find the fish. Just at this moment, an excited 
 gentleman behind us knocks our hat over our eyes 
 with his glass, and commences a wild war-dance, 
 yelling. " I see colour !" " Where ? where V " There 
 — not far from the vollier!" Yollier is the boat 
 which attends on the one which contains the seine ; 
 its name is a corruption of the word "follower." 
 
THE FAIE MAIDS OF COKNWAIXl 209 
 
 "When the excitement has subsided a little, we get 
 hold of a sailor, who points out to na a spot in the 
 sea which is of a reddish colour — this, he tells us, is 
 caused by the quantity of fish. 
 
 This dark red spot in the glassy surface of the sea 
 is the first warning the fish give of their arrival on 
 the coast, and inexperienced eyes would overlook it, 
 though, perhaps, they might perceive the fish leaping 
 in another place, turning the water into a flickering 
 sheet of silver. But the experienced eyes would 
 have the best of it, for a better shoal is shown by 
 colour, with perhaps one fish flashing out here and 
 there, than is betrayed by the leaping or stoiting, as 
 the fishermen call it, of a hundred. 
 
 In the first case, the fish lie dead — a steady shoal, 
 so large and leisurely as not to be easily frightened 
 by a boat sailing almost over it. The stoiting school 
 are called skirmers, and consist only of a few hundred 
 scattered fish with very few below the water. 
 
 Three boats belong to each seine. The largest 
 contains the seine itself; the second is called the 
 vollier, which follows the seine boat ; while the third 
 — a smaller one — contains the master seiner, or 
 director of the whole, an experienced pilchard-fisher. 
 
 The general complement to each seine is eighteen 
 men or thereabouts ; who, besides their wages and 
 allowance of eatables and drinkables, have a share 
 in the fish caught ; not a bad plan, as it ensures 
 their best endeavours to catch all they can. Long 
 after the other two boats have been got ready, you see 
 
270 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 the string of men staggering down with the seine, 
 coiling it up in the boat until you begin to think 
 there is no end to the net. It is not quite endless, 
 but is about two hundred and forty fathoms in length 
 and fifteen in depth, and being, moreover, heavily 
 leaded, it is by no means an easy task to get it 
 into the boat. As for the getting it out again, that 
 is a different matter altogether, as you will learn 
 presently. 
 
 When at length the mortal coil is all on board, 
 the boats start. The seine boat pulls out about two 
 or three miles, the vollier about a quarter of a mile 
 closer in shore, and a little astern of the other. The 
 little boat skims about in search of a school in a 
 favourable position where the bottom is clear of 
 rocks. This office of dodging about and hanging 
 near the fish gives this boat her name — the Lurker. 
 At some places on the coast men are stationed on 
 the hills, who, by hallooing or telegraphing by 
 significant gestures, point out the shoals to the 
 boats. 
 
 But generally the master seiner does this work, 
 and when he has found the fish, is to be seen sig- 
 nalling frantically with arms, legs, and hat, in a 
 manner eccentric to the uninitiated, but quite in- 
 telligible to the crews of the two boats, which come 
 creeping quietly up to their prey. Three men in 
 the seine boat divest themselves of every strip of 
 clothing, preparatory to shooting the seine when the 
 signal is given, The vollier pulls up to the first boat 
 
THE FAIR MAIDS OF CORNWALL. 271 
 
 and receives the rope which is attached to the end of 
 the seine, and then ships its oars. 
 
 As soon as the master-mariner sees that all is 
 ready, he dashes down his hat — if he is an excitable 
 man he generally dances on it too, but that is not 
 a part of his duty. In a second the sturdy unen- 
 cumbered three begin to heave over the net. The 
 boat shoots ahead, and makes a wide circle round 
 the shoal until it reaches the vollier again, when — 
 in a well-managed shoot — the seine is all overboard. 
 
 It seems hardly possible — even to those who have 
 seen it — that a seine should be shot in a time a little 
 under five minutes, but so it is ! Four minutes and 
 a half is considered a good shoot, anything the other 
 side of five minutes is reckoned clumsy. 
 
 When the two ends of the seine have met, the 
 vollier men lash them together with ropes for a 
 short length, forming what is called the goose neck, 
 which reduces the circle of the seine to a smaller 
 compass. Looked at from above, the seine now 
 looks like the outline of a common peg-top — the 
 body of the top being represented by the line of 
 corks in the circle of the seine, while the peg is 
 formed by the aforesaid goose-neck. This done, they 
 attach grapnels to different points in the circum- 
 ference, and then row ashore until the time comes 
 for taking up the fish. 
 
 At about eleven at night — if there be no moon so 
 much the better, for at sea it is never absolutely 
 dark, and the fish are not so easily scared in the 
 
272 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 absence of light — the boats set out with a small net, 
 entitled a tuck- seine, which they cast inside the 
 other and bring up to the surface, dipping the fish 
 out in baskets and throwing them into the boats. 
 The stop-seine is still left in the water, until by 
 successive tuckings it is emptied. If only a small 
 quantity is believed to be caught, the stop-seine itself 
 is hauled up ; but if otherwise, is not removed, as 
 there would be a chance of breaking it. 
 
 The seine, in the case of a good haul, stops down 
 two or three days. You can discern it from the hill 
 by the circle of corks and the glossy appearance 
 of the sea around it, caused by the oil of the fish. 
 
 But this is only looking on the bright side of 
 pilchard-fishing, for it has its dark side too. Not 
 to mention such accidents as the fish escaping while 
 the seine is being shot, or t a huge marauding shark 
 making breaches through and through the net, occa- 
 sionally a heavy ground-swell sets in in the night, 
 and the net drags, and is torn to pieces on the rocks. 
 After such times as this the shore presents a busy 
 scene ; all available hands in the place are at work 
 patching, letting-in pieces of spare net where the 
 breach seems otherwise irreparable, or netting together 
 the edges of less formidable rents. Hard work it is, 
 too, to get the seine in trim to shoot again the same 
 day, and harder still, when it is ready, to find the 
 fish are gone or the weather too rough for fishing. 
 
 For many years seining has been a losing specu- 
 lation, but formerly it was as great a mania as mining 
 
 
THE FAIK MAIDS OF COENWALL. 273 
 
 is now, in the same districts ; bnt many successive 
 years of failure damped the ardour of the adventurers, 
 and seines were sold for a song. Many owners of 
 seines, who sold them the beginning of this year, are 
 lamenting their folly ; and it is really hard that, after 
 struggling patiently against loss so long, they should 
 part with their nets just at the very time when the 
 fishery begins to promise well again. 
 
 A seine with boats with all the belongings costs, 
 when new, very little less than a thousand pounds ; 
 and when we come to think of repairs and wages 
 (not to mention the expense of salting) the success 
 must have been very great to make it a profitable 
 speculation. 
 
 To return to Outoftheway ! The cry is, " They see 
 it — the lurker sees it." The master-seiner, whose 
 duty it is to give orders to shoot the seine, &c. at 
 the present moment, is standing up in the boat, 
 making frantic signals with his hat. The seine-boat 
 rows on; three men in it are busily assuming the 
 Adamite style of dress : when they are ready the 
 frantic gentleman in the lurker dashes his hat down, 
 and the Three Graces begin heaving over the seine. 
 Immediately the spectators pull out their watches — 
 "Five minutes to seven!" The boat commences 
 rowing a large circle round the fish. The end of the 
 seine is attached by a warp to the vollier, which 
 remains stationary. Vigorously, and without stop or 
 stay, the three men heave away at the net — the boat 
 
 T 
 
274 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 completes the circle, having reached the vollier again, 
 and the seine is all out ! 
 
 "It wants half a minute to seven — not a bad 
 shoot." We think not, considering that the seine is 
 about 200 fathoms long, and 15 deep, and leaded 
 heavily. The three men sink exhausted in the 
 bottom of the boat. We observe it is terrible work. 
 " Ah, sir, I knew a man as killed hisself — he were 
 short-winded, and he lost his breath shooting the 
 seine, and didn't get it again — died in the boat." 
 We are horrified. And now the ends of the seine 
 are hemmed together with a rope, and the net is 
 kept extended and held in its place by grapnels, or 
 " grapes," as the East Outofthewayans call them. 
 
 We retire to grog and pipes, inviting an old fisher- 
 man to come with us and deliver us a lecture on 
 pilchard-fishery. 
 
 He informs us that he supposes the seine just shot 
 contains from 300 to 500 " hosgeads " of fish. We 
 learn in time that it is the fashion to say " hosgead " 
 instead of hogshead in East Outoftheway, and we 
 are almost inclined to believe it the more euphonious 
 name of the two. He assures us there has been no 
 such season as this for the last thirty years — the fish 
 during that period having never been so numerous, 
 so fine, or so close in-shore. He also tells us that, as 
 there is a great scarcity in the market, they will fetch 
 fabulous prices (he does not say fabulous, but we sup- 
 pose that word to be equivalent to the sentence he 
 
THE FAIR MAIDS OF CORNWALL. 275 
 
 uses — " a brave deal more nor you'd reckon "). All 
 this we gather with difficulty, for the old man chews 
 tobacco, and has acquired a voice more or less as if 
 he had been in the habit of swallowing hobnailed 
 shoes ; besides this, there is an immense clattering of 
 glasses and plates, and talking and shouting, going 
 on in the next room. We learn from the Phyllis of 
 the inn — who is not " neat-handed," but, on the con- 
 trary, red and chappy about those extremities — that 
 the noise arises from a sampling dinner of mine- 
 captains. 
 
 East Outoftheway rivals America in her captains 
 — most of the old fishermen claim the title, to say 
 nothing of the skippers that trade in the port, and 
 the mayor, who is an old naval officer, and a whole 
 bevy of mine-agents. The mayor of East Outofthe- 
 way is a relic of the departed grandeur of the 
 borough, which before that absurd and iniquitous 
 Eeform Bill sent two members to parliament, and 
 West Outoftheway used to do the same. West Out- 
 oftheway is separated from East by a bridge built in 
 Edward I.'s time — we say separated, not connected, 
 after mature deliberation, as being the most expres- 
 sive. It is not a bright specimen of architecture, the 
 last arch on the east side being made of wood, for 
 the. purpose of easy destruction, if the West Outof- 
 thewayans attempted to make a descent on the East 
 Outofthewayans — not that such a step would be 
 necessary, for one man could effectually resist a 
 thousand, the bridge is so narrow. If two carts met 
 T 2 
 
276 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 at the bridge, one has to wait at the end while the 
 other comes over, as it would be a bold attempt for 
 two horses to try to pass, not to mention the word 
 cart. Their patience during the operation would be 
 a bright example to abusive drivers in narrow Lon- 
 don lanes — to be sure, at our bridge the thorough- 
 fare is not great, and the meetings of carts can 
 scarcely number hundreds since the bridge was built. 
 Indeed, there is a tradition that such occurrences were 
 used as dates in the two Outoftheways, people say- 
 ing, "So-and-so happened about three weeks after 
 Bill's cart and Bob's wagon met at the bridge." We 
 grieve to say that a new ugly but wider bridge is 
 being built, and our old friend will be pulled down 
 altogether. Of course, as the two Outoftheways are 
 such close neighbours, they are almost always at 
 enmity — the East pilots are always racing with the 
 West to get the pilotage of the ships running into 
 port ; and whenever you are on the East side, you hear 
 the West men abused as the idlest, dirtiest fellows 
 under the sun — a character which transfers itself to 
 the East men as soon as you get over the bridge. 
 
 But this is not to the point, which is, that when 
 we heard of the convivial meeting of the mine-cap- 
 tains, we managed to make our way among them, and 
 found vehement speechifying going on on the sub- 
 ject of rating the mines. These men have for the 
 greater part been mere working-miners, but have 
 risen by their own exertions ; and when we come to 
 know them, we are not surprised at it, for they are 
 
THE FAIR MAIDS OF CORNWALL. 277 
 
 a clever, shrewd, practical set of men. Sampling is 
 the periodical sale of the ore, which is bought by the 
 samplers, who are sent to purchase for the smelters 
 in Wales, and are very inferior men to the mine 
 captains. 
 
 After their day's work is over, they love to adjourn 
 to a good dinner, and consume champagne, not so 
 much because they like it, we believe, as because 
 it is an expensive wine, and sounds very grandly 
 This evening, they were more at home over gin-and- 
 water and pipes, and warmed into eloquence. This 
 is very good fun if you can keep your countenance — 
 which is not easy, as they have an ingenious way of 
 speechifying for a, quarter of an hour, with a nomina- 
 tive at one end of the oration, and the verb belong- 
 ing to it at the other, the interval being filled up by 
 a parenthesis and various eccentric branches from it, 
 like a genealogical tree or a Greek verb. 
 
 But, in spite of the amusing features of this meet- 
 ing, we are obliged to seek our couches, for we stole 
 so much from our sleep this morning, that nature, like 
 the nurse-maid of our youthful days, imperatively 
 beckons us to bed ; so we bow our heads — Harry 
 has been doing so literally for the last half-hour, 
 utterly regardless of dislocation of the vertebras — and 
 obey her commands. 
 
 We are happy to be able to state, as a fact, that 
 Tobbles did not kiss the chamber-maid this evening ; 
 but we found him next morning asleep outside the 
 bed, with nothing on but his collar and his boots. 
 
278 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 He complained of headache, which he attributed to 
 pickled pilchards at supper. Of course, with our 
 usual originality, we quoted Bon Gualtier — 
 
 " Bless your soul, it was the salmon ! " 
 
 We beg to recommend this quotation as quite new 
 — one that we are sure can never have occurred to 
 anybody before ! 
 
 By the way, gentle reader, did you ever taste 
 pickled pilchard? If not, just take our advice and 
 a carpet-bag containing a clean collar, a screw of 
 tobacco, a tooth-brush and a night-cap, and come 
 down at once to East Outoftheway, and eat some of 
 that delightful fish. They are delicious — exactly 
 like sardines ; in fact, in two points they are, we 
 humbly submit, superior, — firstly, because they are 
 not so oily; and, secondly, there is no leaden case 
 to break your knife and scarify your fingers in open- 
 ing. 
 
 After breakfast, we take Bob out for some fresh 
 air and soda-water, and then set out on our way to 
 be introduced to the Fair Maids ! The Fair Maids 
 are more properly called Fumadoes, because they 
 were smoke-dried. The Outofthewayans, like the old 
 Greeks, call all that is good and beautiful by femi- 
 nine names ; so they entitle salted pilchards " Fair 
 Maids ; " and we can assure you that a Fair Maid of 
 East Outoftheway would hardly yield precedence to 
 the one of Perth. 
 
 They are very beautiful fish to look at, — not verv 
 
THE FAIR MAIDS OF CORNWALL. 279 
 
 large, but silvery bright, with a tinge of pink in the 
 scales here and there, and with very large, lustrous, 
 gold and black eyes. But, to add still more to their 
 beauty (according to that very old proverb, "Beauty is 
 as Beauty does "), they are called the poor man's fish. 
 
 As we approach the salting-cellars, we are told 
 that the operation is performed by women — a gra- 
 tuitous and unnecessary piece of information, for our 
 ears tell us so distinctly. Such a screeching and 
 calling, with an under-current of female tongues 
 running like— like — female tongues : we can find no 
 higher point of comparison ! N.B. — Of course, dearest 
 young ladies, we mean elderly female tongues. 
 
 As soon as we enter the cellars, there is a mys- 
 terious whispering among the women, who are on 
 their knees piling the fish in layers ; and presently 
 one lady approaches us, and daubing our boots with 
 a fishy cloth, informs us that she has wiped our shoes, 
 which of course implies a fee, which we give as readily 
 as we would have dispensed with the preliminary 
 defilement of our clean boots with a scaly, oily rag. 
 N'importe — we were served in the same way when, 
 after bumping our heads, skinning our elbows, and 
 bruising our knees, we arrived at the lowest level 
 of a seventy-fathom mine ; and we conclude that 
 "wiping the shoe " is the Cornish for "paying your 
 footing." {KB. — For the information of travellers. 
 Never go down a mine. You can see just as much in 
 a damp coal-cellar, without the terrible fatigue of the 
 descent.) 
 
280 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 But to return to our Fair Maids. After the cere- 
 mony we described is over, we have time to look 
 round us. The fish are stacked against the walls in 
 heaps, formed, as we saw, by placing a layer of fish 
 upon a groundwork of salt, then sprinkling more over 
 that, so as to make, in short, a series of sandwiches 
 of salt and pilchards. Each layer is made smaller 
 than the one beneath, to prevent them from toppling 
 over, and the last layer is saline, so that nothing is to 
 be seen but innumerable heads sticking helplessly 
 out of the salt. This operation is called hulking, and 
 in this state the fish are left for about four weeks, in 
 the odour of anything but sanctity (except it be that 
 sanctity which refuses the thirsty man a drain of 
 beer, or a strain of music on Sundays). During this 
 time, the oil is slowly exuded and caught in gutters, 
 which lead to pits in the floor, called train-pits, 
 whence it is conveyed away to be sold, — no despi- 
 cable part of the profit of pilchards, which contain an 
 immense amount of oil. The poor people collect the 
 entrails and scrapings of the fish, and melt them 
 down, preserving the oil so obtained for winter con- 
 sumption. 
 
 After the fish have been bulked about four week 
 they are taken down and washed in tubs ; the water, 
 rich with oil and salt, is afterwards sold as manure, 
 for which purpose also are employed the damaged 
 and useless fish thrown aside during bulking, for 
 beside pilchard, a great many scad or horse-mackerel, 
 chads, &c, are caught in the net. 
 
THE FAIK MAIDS OF CORNWALL. 281 
 
 When washed, the fish are put into hogsheads, 
 pierced at the bottom to let what oil still remains 
 ooze out. These hogsheads are ranged round the 
 cellars, and covered witlrround heads called bucklers, 
 which are pressed down by levers — long poles fixed 
 into holes in the wall at one end, and weighted with 
 heavy stones at the other. When the buckler sinks 
 level with the edge, a block of wood is placed under 
 the lever, and when, by these means, a vacancy is 
 made in the hogshead, fresh fish are put in, and 
 pressed down again, until the cask will hold no more. 
 When all are ready, the hogsheads are headed up, 
 and start off on their travels. The greater part, if not 
 all, go to the Mediterranean. 
 
 One of the shareholders of the seine we saw shot 
 last night invites us to go and see them "tucking" 
 to-night. We are for a moment at a loss to perceive 
 what amusement we can possibly derive from seeing 
 other men " tucking," having heard from our sisters 
 — who sat in the gallery at Freemasons' Hall once 
 during a dinner — that it is not an exhilarating pro- 
 ceeding. Harry comes to our rescue, and explains 
 that " tucking" is casting the tuck-seine, inside the 
 fixed one, in order to catch a portion of the enclosed 
 shoal. We do not at first see why the seine itself 
 should not be hauled up bodily ; but we are told 
 that when a great number are caught, it would be 
 difficult to get hands enough to bulk them before 
 they got bad. The seine, therefore, is in fact a 
 
282 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 preserve, not without a poacher either — no other than 
 our friend of yesterday — the shark, which darts 
 through and through the nets in a most reckless 
 manner, doing no end of mischief. Having received 
 this description of "tucking," we eagerly accept the 
 invitation, but discover that, as it does not come off 
 till eleven or twelve, we shall have to vegetate about 
 East Outoftheway all day. 
 
 We poke about among the rocks, and bully in- 
 offensive crabs, and try experiments with sea< 
 anemones and shrimps in the pools, until, at length, 
 in scrambling over a rocky promontory, Tobbles 
 meets with an accident, as regards his nether- 
 clothing, occasioned by his seating himself too 
 suddenly upon a sharp limpet. 
 
 The only remedy which at first presents itself is 
 to sit where he is until he has a new pair made — 
 (of course, we, none of us, brought a very extensive 
 wardrobe ) but this scheme having its drawbacks — 
 among which w T e may mention the rising of the 
 tide — he is compelled to walk home. As we near 
 Outoftheway, poor Bob's evolutions are painfully 
 laughable. He sidles past everybody he meets like 
 a crab, and backs upstairs with a grace that would 
 kill the lord-chamberlain with envy. Harry sallies 
 forth with "the garments" to the tailor's, while we 
 undertake to amuse Bob, as he sits shivering in his 
 bed-room, by playing ecarte" with him. To our great 
 satisfaction, we win a pint, which consoles us for the 
 
THE FAIR MAIDS OF CORNWALL. 283 
 
 one we were defrauded of in the " first fish " matter. 
 Need we say we call for it on the spot, and drink it 
 in triumph ? 
 
 Presently Harry and "the garments" make their 
 appearance. The tailor is certainly colour-blind. 
 " The garments" are decidedly dark, almost black, 
 while the patch inserted is of so light a shade as 
 to suggest to Harry's mind, when he sees Tobbles 
 once more incased, that he "would make a capital 
 pair to the governor's black mare — only the white 
 star isn't in his forehead !" 
 
 Dinner, and a long chat over a cigar afterwards* 
 are followed by an excursion in a boat, and th n a 
 scramble up a hill to see a splendid view. All this 
 brings us on to dusk, when we get up a convivia 
 party at the Ship, until about half-past eleven, which 
 find us in utter darkness out at sea. 
 
 We venture to wish it was moonlight, but are 
 reduced to insignificance by the information that 
 night is chosen for tucking because the fish are less 
 scared in the dark. We see very little at present 
 except a lot of black figures, but the sea when 
 broken has the luminous appearance of naughty 
 boys' fingers when they have been playing with 
 matches. The rope, as it is hauled up, looks like " a 
 glow-worm — to be continued." There is no necessity 
 to inform the reader that there was plenty of noise, 
 for no one connected with the sea can possibly do 
 anything without an immense amount of " yo heave 
 hos," and " cheerily, my boys, cheerilies," as every- 
 
284 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 body is well aware. At length in comes the tuck- 
 seine — and there is a great splashing of fish and a 
 glittering of scales, and a general phosphorescence 
 in the water round the boat, that lights everything 
 up in an astonishing manner. The fish are dipped 
 out of the net in baskets, called in East Outoftheway 
 " moans"* — we judge of the spelling from the sound. 
 Bob, with his usual recklessness, observes that " the 
 moaning of the sea" seems rather profitable than 
 otherwise in the present instance ; for this, however, 
 he is rewarded by a retributive Providence, which, 
 when he falls asleep in the stern of the boat on our 
 way back, precipitates his hat into the sea. We 
 never beheld it more — it was lost in the surrounding 
 darkness. Perchance on the wide ocean some home- 
 ward-bound vessel will pick it up ; and emigrants 
 returning after long years to their native soil, will 
 welcome, as the first token of Old England, that 
 weather-beaten hat with the name of Tobbles con- 
 spicuously inscribed in the crown ! 
 
 We make this cheering remark to Bob, but he is 
 not consoled, saying that he is " very unlucky — 
 downright fate-spited — that he shall return to his 
 domestic hearth minus his hat, and plus an incon- 
 gruous patch in his ' garments !'" 
 
 Next morning we turn our backs upon East Out- 
 oftheway. We went there for a day's fishing — we 
 come back wiser, and perhaps happier men — know- 
 ing a great deal about the fisheries, and not least — 
 
 * The word is really inaund, but is pronounced moan. 
 
THE FAIR MAIDS OF CORNWALL. 
 
 285 
 
 being assured that the fish we have seen brought on 
 shore will bring hundreds of pounds into East Out- 
 oftheway — not to be engulfed wholesale in the 
 pockets of wealthy speculators, but to go by driblets 
 to support the poor fishermen and their families, 
 and keep the wolf from many a poor cottage-door 
 during the coming winter. 
 
 And so in the evening over our quiet bottle of 
 port we give the toast : " The Fair Maids of Corn- 
 wall that feed and clothe the poor ! " 
 
 Conductor. "Now then, 'Angel'!" 
 
 Lovely and interesting Female. " Here I am." 
 
280 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 THE SECRET OF THE STREAM. 
 
 When the silver stars looked down from heaven 
 
 To smile the world to rest, 
 A woman from all refuge driven, 
 
 Her little babe caressed, 
 And thus she sang : 
 
 " Sleep within thy mother's arms, 
 
 Folded to thy mother's heart, 
 Folded to the breast- that warms 
 
 Only from its inward smart, 
 Only from the pent-up flame 
 
 Burning fiercely at its core, 
 Cherish'd by my loss and shame : — 
 
 Shall I live to suffer more ? 
 Shall I live to bear the pangs 
 
 Of the world's neglect and scorn ? 
 Hark ! the distant belfry clangs 
 
 Welcome to the coming morn. 
 Shall I live to see it rise ? 
 
 Is't not better far to die ? 
 Shall I gaze upon the skies 
 
 Gaze upon them shamelessly ? 
 Clasp me, babe, around my neck, 
 
 Do not fear me for the sobs, 
 
THE SECEET OF THE STREAM. 287 
 
 That I cannot, cannot check. 
 
 Oh ! another moment robs 
 Life of all its painful breath, 
 
 Wak'ning us from this sad dream, 
 E'en the wretched rest in death. 
 
 Hark ! the murmur of the stream ! 
 Nestle closely, cheek to cheek ; 
 
 Let us hasten to the wave, 
 Where is found what we would seek, 
 
 Death, oblivion, and a grave." 
 
 And the tide rolls on for ever 
 Of that dark and silent river ; 
 And beneath the wave-foam sparkling, 
 'Mid the weeds embowered and darkling, 
 There they lie near one another, 
 Youthful child and youthful mother ; 
 And the tide rolls on for ever 
 Of that swift and silent river. 
 
 TO * * * * 
 
 ON HE.R BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Oh, welcome is that merry month, 
 The merry month of May ; 
 When blooms in every shady lane 
 The snowy hawthorn spray. 
 
288 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 0, welcome is the month of June ; 
 When bonnie roses blow, 
 And load with perfume every breeze 
 That wanders to and fro. 
 
 Oh, welcome is September too ; 
 When fall the russet leaves, 
 And in the ripen'd Autumn fields 
 Are ranged the golden sheaves. 
 
 But of all fairest months that are, 
 Sweet March the foremost ranks, 
 When first the purple violets 
 Peep forth on sunny banks. 
 
 And doubly dear to me the month 
 That saw my lady's birth : 
 And when my life — in loving her — 
 Began again on earth. 
 
 The dearest month in all the year 
 That twice its title proves ! 
 That brings two birthdays in its course- 
 My lady's — and my love's ! 
 
289 
 
 PILEKAPHAELITE EHYMES TO A PICTUEE 
 OF MY NATIVE SEAPOET. 
 
 (painted and presented to the author by a lady.) 
 
 Hall, thou scene of memories sainted, 
 Deeply printed in my heart : 
 And in water-colors painted 
 By a lady : — Dear thou art ! 
 
 Here, in childhood's free emotion,- 
 Did I ramble o'er the rocks, 
 Wreathed my brow with spoils of ocean, 
 Scratch'd my knees, and spoilt my frocks. 
 
 Oft in yonder cove, that nestles 
 Eound that corner of the coast, 
 (Where you see the fishing vessels 
 Lying bottom uppermost) — 
 
 There — secure from all invasions — 
 Have I wept my childish woes, — 
 As, for instance, on occasions 
 When the sand had filled my shoes. 
 ***** 
 Lo ! the sun among the daughters 
 Of the sea his chariot cools, 
 u 
 
290 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 Gilds the glassy-looking waters, 
 Gilds the looking-glassy pools. 
 
 Calm the sunset sea, and placid, 
 With its foam-line long and straight, 
 Fizzing, like tartaric acid 
 Mixed with soda's carbonate. 
 ***** 
 Sail the vessels outward — toiling 
 Bound the headland crown'd with name ; 
 And the vessels, home recoiling,* 
 Also toil around the same. 
 
 Smooth the sea as any dish is, 
 Not a whisper — scarce a sound — 
 Save the leap of playful fishes, 
 ("Weighing often several pound). 
 
 (Not that fishes leap in pictures, 
 But in that real scene they used, 
 So don't pass ungentle strictures, 
 Saying that I get confused.) 
 ***** 
 When I left thee I was older, 
 Whisker-fringed my cheeks were grown, 
 ' But my heart no whit was colder 
 Toward thee — native seaport town ! 
 
 * " Recoil, v.a. To rush back, fall back, come or go back." 
 
 Walker. 
 
PK^IEAPHAELITE EHYMES. 291 
 
 As from out thy bay I floated, 
 Proudly on the deck I trod 
 Of a little bark, devoted 
 To the fishery of cod. 
 
 Swift it bore me to the steamer, 
 Which soon landed me in this 
 Babylon — an idle dreamer 
 In a great metropolis ! 
 
 From whose tumult, dust, and scrimmage 
 Gladly I for peace would fly, 
 Fondly gazing on thine image, 
 Town of my nativity ! 
 
 Pigment has been reading Ruskin on Turner. He is now engaged in painting 
 " That fatal and perfidious bark, 
 Built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark." 
 
 u 2 
 
292 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 SO FAB AWAY. 
 
 So far away, so far away, so distant as thou art from 
 
 me, 
 How can I tell, Sweet May, the change, the chance 
 
 that has befallen thee ? 
 Another now may call thee his, may watch his image 
 
 in thine eyes, 
 And list love-whispers from the lips that should 
 
 be breathing sighs. 
 Yet, no ! Though thou art far away, I will not dream 
 
 of thee estranged, 
 For oh, my heart had ceased to beat — had ceased to 
 
 beat if thou hadst changed ! 
 
 So far away, so far away, I know not whether cruel 
 
 Death 
 Has stolen the light from eyes so bright, from lips so 
 
 sweet has sucked the breath. 
 Oh, dreary, dreary, dreary thought ! Ah, dream too 
 
 dreadful to be told ! 
 Can such bright eyes be closed for aye, such rosy lips 
 
 be cold ? 
 All, no ! though thou art far away — so far away, I 
 
 fear no ill, 
 For, oh, my heart had ceased to beat — had ceased to 
 
 beat if thine were still ! 
 
293 
 
 AUTUMN 
 
 A DIRGE OF SUMMER. 
 
 Ah me ! so soon the Summer dies 
 Above the gathered sheaves ! 
 
 The gold that tinsel' d Summer skies 
 Now tinges Autumn leaves. 
 
 Night sooner draws her starry veil 
 
 Across the swooning Day ; 
 The Eobin's song grows clear and strong- 
 
 The Swallow is away ! 
 
 The Summer air no longer sighs 
 Like lover's whispered vows, 
 
 But ruder breezes now arise 
 To shake the rustling boughs. 
 
 The leaves fall ever more and more 
 
 In Autumn's sullen wrath ; 
 And what was Summer-shade before 
 
 Will be a Winter-path. 
 
 Ah me ! so soon the Summer dies ! 
 So short her happiest hours ! — 
 
294 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 All pale and motionless she lies 
 Among her fading flowers ! 
 
 " She's dead ! "—Speak softly ! Not aloud 
 Let those sad words be said : 
 
 Till winter weaves her snowy shroud 
 We cannot think her dead ! 
 
 THE OLD YEAE'S EECOED. 
 
 Old friend, you go a journey long, 
 You leave us with a sorrowing heart, 
 
 Eeach forth your right hand, staunch and strong- 
 One grasp before we part ! 
 
 Close up the volume — shut its clasps ; — 
 
 Our friendship is recorded there : 
 When backward yawn the sullen hasps 
 
 May it be written fair ! 
 
 For, ah, old friend, a time will come 
 When I shall meet you face to face, 
 
 And in that volume's record dumb 
 My history shall trace ; 
 
THE OLD YEAR'S KECOKD. 295 
 
 Shall read of hopes that never came 
 
 To their fulfilment on the earth, 
 But died — as dies the Yule-log's flame 
 
 Upon the darkening hearth, — 
 
 Of high intents — that failed and fell, 
 Of good resolves — that came to nought, 
 
 Of lessons — learned too bitter- well 
 And very dearly bought, — 
 
 Aye ! and of blessings unforeseen 
 That did from sorrow take their rise ; 
 
 Of Heaven-sent trials — that have been 
 But blessings in disguise ! 
 
 Yet, though from good it oft hath swerved, 
 
 I know this life of mine will prove 
 In tenderness by you observed 
 
 And chronicled in love. 
 
 I know within a distant land, 
 
 To human vision ne'er revealed, 
 Your brethren — gone before you — stand, 
 
 Each with a volume sealed ! 
 
 They wait you ! Time must intervene 
 Ere, when my heart has ceased its strife, 
 
 From those dread pages I shall glean 
 The Kecord of a Life ! 
 
296 
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 BEADING ALOUD. 
 
 N Byrd's collection 
 of Psalms and Son- 
 nets, bearing date 
 1588, that quaint 
 old fellow, endea- 
 vouring to impress 
 on his readers the 
 moral obligation 
 they lie under of 
 learning music, 
 makes use of the 
 following arguments. 
 
 " Firstly : " says he, " it is a knowledge easily 
 taught and quickly learned, where there is a good 
 master and an apt scholar. 
 
 " Secondly : the exercise of singing is delightful to 
 Nature, and good to preserve the health of man. 
 
 " Thirdly : it doth strengthen all parts of the 
 breast, and doth open the pipes. 
 
 "Fourthly: it is a singular good remedy for a 
 stutting or stammering in the speech. 
 
 " Fifthly : it is the best means, whereby to procure 
 a perfect pronunciation, and make a good orator. 
 
READING ALOUD. 297 
 
 " Sixthly : it is the only way to know where 
 Nature hath bestowed a good voice. And in many 
 that excellent gift is lost because they want the Art 
 to express Nature. 
 
 " Seventhly : there is not any music of instruments 
 whatsoever comparable to that which is made by the 
 voices of men, when the voices are good, and the 
 same well-sorted and ordered. 
 
 " Eighthly : the better the voice is, the meeter it 
 is to honor and serve God therewith : and the voice 
 of man is chiefly to be employed to that end." 
 
 Our friend winds up with two doggerel lines. 
 
 " Since singing is so good a thing, 
 I wish all men would learn to sing." 
 
 For my part I do not wish to rob singing of its due 
 honor, especially the singing of Byrds, whether with 
 a (t j " or an " i." But I do think what he says 
 applies twice as well to Beading. 
 
 I leave out of the question his " Firstly " — for it is 
 not unusual that a knowledge should be easily and 
 quickly learnt when the master is good and the 
 scholar is apt. 
 
 As regards the rest, I hold the exercise of reading 
 to be as delightful and healthful as singing — nor is it 
 so violent an exercise. It opens the chest, and clears 
 the pipes, and is recommended as the best cure for 
 hesitation of speech. 
 
 If the human voice too surpasses all instruments, 
 surely it is in reading that its compass is best ascer- 
 
298 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 tained, and its various intonations of pathos or fun, 
 mirth or sadness, most pleasingly, because most natu- 
 rally, drawn forth. 
 
 And surely the voice of man cannot, in my humble 
 opinion, be better employed secularly in the worship 
 of God, than in reading aloud to others the works of 
 those great and good writers to whom He has confi- 
 ded genius and inspiration. Thus may we assist, 
 though but slightly, the spread of civilization, 
 education, and the humanizing influences of literature 
 among our fellow creatures. 
 
 So, to conclude with a parody of Byrd's lines, 
 
 " If Reading be so good a deed 
 I wish all men would learn to read ! " 
 
 Man is a gregarious animal, and all his pleasures 
 are enhanced by the participation of others. Hence 
 many who cannot get through a book themselves, 
 will hear it all read with delight. 
 
 The result of this sociable disposition is to be seen 
 in Clubs, Dorcas Societies, Debating Forums, and 
 Smoking Boom gatherings. 
 
 Now I would not have the upholders of these 
 Institutions imagine I am underrating them. But 
 why is the chief of the Sociable Social Societies allowed 
 to lapse from memory. The very costermongers have 
 something of the sort implied in a rule that any 
 coster, having a scrap of print and education enough 
 to spell it out, shall read it to the assembly at the 
 public-house he frequents. 
 
READING ALOUD. 299 
 
 A very excellent Society of the sort lias been 
 started in London, and does much good, and gives 
 much pleasure. 
 
 But in the country, people are backward in this, 
 though they have more time and opportunity than 
 we in England's Heart. 
 
 Every town has a town-hall, and with the new 
 Municipal Act surely the enlightened Corporations 
 will universally lend those public buildings for such 
 public benefits. Numbers who could not find leisure 
 to compile a discourse or lecture for a Literary 
 Institute, would be able to give their voice to the 
 Beading Society. 
 
 I do wonder at one thing, which is, that the large, 
 busy body of Temperance Advocates have not 
 thought of this as a substitute for their lectures, 
 which are either mere repetitions of doubtful physio- 
 logical and other facts ; or deductions, from the 
 experience of one reformed drunkard, that the rest of 
 the moderate world are what he was ; or, — worse than 
 all, — the buffooneries of a too sober jester, like some 
 man whose name began with E, and whose sorry fun 
 I once underwent. 
 
 But, without a separate organisation, Beading 
 Aloud might be almost universally adopted. 
 
 When Misses A. B. C. &c. are asked to tea by Mrs. 
 D, and are told " to bring their work," suppose they 
 appointed one of the number to read aloud ! It 
 would be well — even if it were only a novel, ami 
 from some of W. M. TVs novels the sex might gather 
 
900 QOFS AND CRJLNK& 
 
 much information. do this, than to rip up 
 
 reputations while they are " unpicking bodies," — lash- 
 ing their friends while they are •' whipping e: 
 or weaving fictions while thev are working anti- 
 macasseis. 
 
 I throw this out as the merest hint, and in an 
 . ::;:iy hopeless frame of mind, being informed on 
 g ; i authority that that irresistible sex is far I 
 gifted with conv 3 I power ever to supply good 
 
 listeneia 
 
 N o w for the gentlemen ! When they meet to- 
 1 1 h 1 I 1 1 I x action — indidsrnsr even, le I in 
 
 the depravity of " a pipe and a pint. — wine and the 
 
 I" they would do well to nominate a reader, 
 he read only a newspaper it would be far better, than 
 trusting to chance for topics of desultory conve:- - 
 tion What generally happens is that manors of 
 business and the shop are brought up, and rem:. - 
 — j a 5t is sows and other ruminating animals do. and 
 that is si style ( iigest ton neither natural nor healthy 
 in the two-pronged intelligent animal. 
 
 But there is a third way in which Reading Aloud 
 may be useful How humanising would it be if the 
 civ .rally copied a prie* I wot of (and of the 
 
 much-abused High Church party too), who devoted 
 one night a week to reading to his labouring flock 
 some book of present interest. When I 
 ley the book in course of reading referred to the war 
 in the East H was pleasant, yet melancholy 
 the surprised delight with which the audience 
 
RBADTBG ALOUD. 301 
 
 listened They seemed astonished and awal: 
 that was a rational Revival) to find that they were 
 regarded as something more than necessary appen- 
 dages to spades, rakes, and hoes something bettei 
 than mere machines to he kept in repair and wor kin g 
 : at about seven or eight shillings a week. 
 pite of all these uses, sources andresoi 
 Beading Aloud is not more neglected as a rule in the 
 Cannibal Isles where there is no written language, 
 than in Great Britain, where to number the books 
 printed annually would carry me out of my depths 
 in numeration, as I am not a Cambridge man, much 
 less a Senior Wrangler. 
 
 The reas liat reading is not taught in Eng- 
 
 land. 
 
 : Universities as seats ;: English knowledge 
 and wells of English undefiled, cannot of course be 
 
 ted tc teach it. The only collegiate attempt 
 at anything of the sort is that which ordains the 
 scholars, more privileged than the commoners in this 
 
 :t, to read the lessons in chapeL But as they 
 have to read at a hand gallop in order not to be 
 at discord with the celerity of the rest of the service, 
 the advantage is a dubious one. 
 
 N wonder is it that it is to the stage, wh 
 
 :T of business, that we must turn for a masterly 
 
 rendering and refined pronunciation of English 
 
 And sad is it that in the pulpit least of all do we 
 
 look I will no* - | i , otion, but for the plainest 
 
 of pronunciation, the simplest grammar of 
 
302 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 reading. Why there is not one clergyman in a thou- 
 sand who reads the Lord's prayer, and does not 
 violate common sense even in the sentence relating 
 to the forgiveness of trespasses. What are we taught 
 at school ? Among our teachers and governors there 
 is a vain superstition that a round black dot means 
 that you are to count four ; two dittos one above 
 the other that you are to count three ; a black dot 
 with another curly-tailed under it that you are to count 
 two, and a curly-tailed one by itself that you are to 
 count one. About the words occurring between these 
 marks you are taught nothing except to read louder 
 than usual any that are printed in that eminently 
 feminine text, the Italic. 
 
 The consequence is that the pupil is ever nervously 
 watching for the all important full stop, standing for 
 four, the colon representing three, the semicolon 
 equivalent to two, and the comma going for one ; 
 or exhausting his breath in roaring italics, instead 
 of thinking of the sense and sentiment of the words 
 he is politely supposed to be reading. 
 
 Better than teach such nonsense as this it would 
 be well if schools did not pretend to more than 
 Colleges. 
 
 To read properly we must read without rules. 
 
 It is my belief, and I have listened to many good 
 readers, that a pause of four may often represent a 
 comma, and a pause of one a full stop. Why a full 
 stop is often only a comma in sense. Who can tell 
 the gradations of three and a half — four — four and 
 
 
BEADING ALOUD. 303 
 
 a quarter that a good reader at times finds necessary 
 between the close of one sentence and the beginning 
 of another, in order to give the writer full expres- 
 sion. 
 
 As for italics, an emphasis is better given by a 
 slow distinct pronunciation, with an indescribable 
 intonation that seems to stab you with the word, 
 than the combined roar of all the beasts in Eegent's 
 Park at three o'clock. 
 
 In a word, to read we must understand. It is only 
 by throwing ourselves heart and soul into the recital 
 that we can come to read even passably. 
 
 Study is necessary to attain correct pronunciation, 
 and that certainty, which the knowledge, that we 
 can meet with no word to puzzle us, gives to add 
 solidity to our style. 
 
 Nerve and coolness are the necessary consequents 
 of the identification of self with the subject read. 
 We are so absorbed that we forget ourselves, and 
 self and vanity being the origins of nervousness 
 and shyness, we* lose all that uncertain fluttering 
 and fidgetty feeling so common with beginners in 
 reading. 
 
 There is one piece of advice I would give to 
 aspirants. 
 
 Because you are not perfect in reading, do not 
 shrink from doing so whenever you are asked. 
 
 " Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall." 
 
 So wrote Sir Walter Ealeigh. And his Eoyal Mis- 
 
304 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 tress put his pipe out, as effectually as his servant 
 did with the bucket of water. 
 
 " If your heart fail you do not climb at all," 
 
 wrote she, and Sir Walter sat himself down at the 
 foot of the tree without a scramble. 
 
 Those who would perform gymnastic feats must 
 be prepared for a few slips and tumbles. If they 
 cannot bear those they had better give up their 
 acrobatic ambition at once. Last week I stood for 
 half an hour watching an urchin in the Green Park 
 teaching himself " a cart-wheel." He flung himself 
 over frantically, and bruised all the bones in his 
 miserable little body, but he persevered in his 
 attempts at the desired gyration. He had not ac- 
 complished it when I left, but I have no doubt he 
 went on, and is going on at this moment if he has 
 not succeeded. All this for the possible proprietor- 
 ship of a few uncertain halfpence ! Surely embryo 
 readers must blush after that to be disheartened by 
 a stumble or a stutter. As for those who will not 
 do anything unless they can do it well, they had 
 better give up the idea of doing it at all. Every- 
 thing must have a beginning. Look at Children ! 
 They learn to walk by slow degrees. First sprawling, 
 then crawling, and then staggering on their feet at 
 last, — not without many falls productive of much 
 anguish to anxious mothers. 
 
 If they fall, they get up and try again, without 
 
READING ALOUD. 
 
 305 
 
 any shyness about it. And so must they do, who 
 would learn to read. 
 
 To take an illustration from music at the close, as 
 at the opening, of my essay. — I once heard a singing 
 master say to his pupil, " Whenever you are asked — 
 sing. You don't do it well at all now, but the more 
 you sing before people the more confidence you get, 
 and that is half the battle !" 
 
 Eeaders — do as the children do ! Follow the 
 musicians advice, and all your mental bruises will 
 be amply salved over, by the gratification which 
 invariably falls to the lot of those, who minister in 
 ever so small a degree to the benefit, the improve- 
 ment, the pleasure of others. 
 
 POPULAR EDUCATION. — A GOVERNMENT SCHOOL. 
 
306 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 THE BRACELET. 
 
 (fkom abroad). 
 
 Take, dearest one, this golden band, 
 And clasp it round thine arm for me — 
 Who fain would link with mine own hand 
 This token of my life to thee. 
 
 Oh, may thy pulse beneath it beat 
 One measured rythm with thy heart, 
 Beat quick with joy, Love, when we meet— 
 And only slowly when we part. 
 
 And may thy moments, free from pain, 
 And full of joy, pass calmly by — 
 Links, dearest, of a silver chain, — 
 Beads in a golden rosary ! 
 
 
307 
 
 IN THE TKENCHES. 
 
 IHEN the snow lies on 
 
 the ground ; 
 When the cold wind 
 
 whistles round, 
 And the rain with 
 
 sullen sound 
 Downward drenches; 
 When of fuel there 
 
 is none, 
 Though the frost cuts 
 
 to the bone : 
 Oh how drearily the time goes in the trenches ! 
 
 When the watch-fires as they shine, 
 
 With their glow-worm sparks define, 
 
 Where the far-extended line 
 
 Of the French is : 
 
 When around the fires we sit, 
 
 When the evening pipe is lit, 
 
 Oh how merrily the time goes in the trenches ! 
 
 And when to arms we stand, 
 To repel the hostile band, 
 x2 
 
308 
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 Each his weapon in his hand 
 
 Firmly clenches : 
 
 When the wild alarm is given, 
 
 And the pickets in are driven ! 
 
 Oh how wakeful are the watchers in the trenches ! 
 
 When the trumpets loudly peal, 
 
 When we meet them, steel to steel, 
 
 Oh what deadly blows we deal ; — 
 
 No one blenches ! 
 
 Not a single cheek grows white, 
 
 Not a single thought of flight ; 
 
 Oh how bravely goes the battle in the trenches ! 
 
 ACTIVE SERVICE IN CHINA. 
 
309 
 
 THE TWO TWILIGHTS. 
 
 One Twilight there is, ere begins, grim and murk, 
 The Night of Oblivion, when no man may work ; 
 If this be the Twilight that holds ns its slaves, 
 In its gathering gloom let ns steal to our graves : 
 We have wasted the day, and neglected the task, 
 'Twere vain for unmerited mercy to ask ; — 
 No — cowards and faithless, let's slink to our graves, 
 We deserve this Last Twilight, to which we are 
 slaves. 
 
 But a Twilight there is, ere the Morning appears, 
 As the sun rises slowly the mist-vapour clears ; 
 If this be the Twilight, that o'er us holds sway, 
 Then hail, the brief Twilight, that ushers in Day ! 
 We have toiled — and still toil, pressing on to the 
 
 light, 
 Nor long shall this darkness o'ershadow our right. 
 No — strivers and workers, we chase it away — 
 This dim Prophet Twilight that goes before Day ! 
 
 Dark, silent, uncertain, dim Twilight, and grey, 
 Shall we let it still linger, or drive it away ? 
 Shall it herald Oblivion, Sloth, Slumber, and Night 
 Or the Day of new Life, broader Freedom and Right ? 
 
310 
 
 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 Shall it linger and cling, like an evil Old Cause, 
 
 Or give way, as old Wrongs, to true Eights and free 
 
 Laws? 
 Soon the time will arrive for the choice, Brothers ! 
 
 Say- 
 After Twilight so long, will ye choose Night or 
 
 Day? 
 
 THE EIGHT MAN IN THE RIGHT PLACE. 
 NE OF THE " BORED OF WORKS." 
 
311 
 
 AN UNTOLD STOEY. 
 
 There stands a Tower on a lake, 
 
 Wherein some crime was done, 
 
 For evening ever sees it red 
 
 As with the setting sun. 
 
 The sun may hide in mists of grey, 
 
 Or murky clouds, his head : 
 
 And yet at evening glows the tower 
 
 Blood-tinted, brightly red. 
 
 For long ago a shriek there rang 
 
 Within that lonely tower, 
 
 A shriek that told a life was ta'en 
 
 Before its timely hour. 
 
 Then in the lake a form was cast, 
 
 And ever since, they say, 
 
 At eve a ripple curls the lake 
 
 As on that dreadful day. 
 
 A shriek is heard, and in the wave 
 
 A gleam of white there falls, 
 
 And the ripple, trembling, seems to shun 
 
 Those grey polluted walls. 
 
 The fisher as he sees it curl 
 
 Upon the lake's calm face 
 
 Withdraws his line, and breathes a prayer 
 
 For hapless Lady Grace. 
 
312 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 A GATHEEED BUD. 
 
 Spring cometh over wood and wold, 
 And fills the world with glee, 
 The primrose opes its paly gold, 
 The violet's on the lea, — 
 Spring cometh, merry as of old ; 
 But comes in vain to me ! 
 
 Eor, when, in Autumn's slow decline 
 
 They reaped the rustling grain, 
 
 And pressed the gushing grape to wine, 
 
 By deadly blight was slain 
 
 A tender blossom, half-divine ; — 
 
 It will not bloom again ! 
 
 When Winter chained the gliding wave 
 
 Our hearts' life-torrent froze — 
 
 In vain to us the dear one clave ! — 
 
 Amid the winter snows 
 
 We hollowed out a tiny grave, 
 
 Wherein to lay our Eose. 
 
 Yet God is good. His will be done ! 
 Be patient — wait and pray ! 
 
A GATHERED BUD. 
 
 313 
 
 He gives — lie takes. Nor that alone — 
 He will restore some day, 
 When pain and sorrow shall be gone, 
 And joy shall last alway. 
 
 " CHILDISH LITEKATUKE. 
 
 AN AUTUMN ESSAY. 
 
 ND is this really Autumn? Can 
 that be the Harvest moon that 
 is looking down upon my 
 labours ? 
 
 It really seems as if we 
 could scarcely have arrived 
 at the Fall of this year. 
 Summer was so summary that we appear to have 
 jumped from last Winter into this Autumn with only 
 a very short Spring. 
 
 But Autumn it is — and everybody is gone to a 
 watering-place. Papas and Mammas are making most 
 uncommon objects of themselves on the Sea-shore, 
 in all sorts of free and uneasy costumes better fitted 
 for the Swell of the Tide than the Swell of the Town. 
 Oh, you happy little mortals down there by the 
 sea ! Scooping out fortifications, unaided by a Com- 
 mission, and planning Cherbourg's unwatched by 
 
314 . QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 jealous eyes — filling your jovial little shoes with that 
 companionable sand — you merry little urchins, run- 
 ning up to your white knees in the effervescent 
 waves, and leading the Crabs and Anemones such a 
 life of it in your pursuit of Natural History ! Do, 
 there's good children, turn a few thoughts, and blow 
 a few kisses this way, towards a solemn old lover of 
 yours, who is sitting in smoky London, conning his 
 brief, and arranging his pleas. ' 
 
 For I belong to a " Society for the Protection of 
 Children of Tender Years," from the insidious attacks 
 and encroachments of over-education. 
 
 Juvenile literature has gone as the world's see-saw 
 
 " Here we go up, up, up ; and here we go down, down, down ! " 
 
 Some time back, ladies were wont to sail along in 
 hoops, with stomachers down to their kness, and 
 skirts up to their ankles, to show their " high-heeled 
 shoon." Then came a revulsion of feeling ; and 
 they wore their waists under their arms, and their 
 " skimpy " skirts down to their toes, as graceful 
 as a tablecloth hung on a mop-stick. 
 
 Hey, presto ! The world gives another turn, and 
 what do I see ? Skeleton petticoats, and military 
 heels — aye, and velvety cabbage-nets for the hair, 
 just like those that the ladies of the middle ages 
 (not the middle-aged ladies) wore. 
 
 It is something like this with children's books — 
 once they were all amusement, and now they are all 
 
CHILDISH LITEEATTEE. 315 
 
 instructiorL And of the two I think the latter 
 
 alternative is the worst as infinitely more productive 
 
 ."* than the former was of ■ ''idle Turks." 
 
 The myth of Greece and the legend of Eome, 
 growing with the nation's growth, flowed on ever, 
 we are told, in their old channels,, into which the 
 increase of civilization turned one by one fresh 
 streams of knowledge, until they became by the 
 slowest and most imperceptible legrees lost in their 
 abundance. 
 
 So, alas ! has " the old spring of English child- 
 lore undefiled" become diluted by the mainpif — : 
 ::"-: ".ei- -liriiir. 
 
 Where, oh, where, are u Goody Two-shoes " and 
 " Cinderella " — the only two women I ever truly 
 loved ? 
 
 I wish the see-saw of Time would bring round its 
 revenges in this matter, for I am sure it is high time. 
 Upon my word u Instruction has been blended with 
 Amusement " (as the cant phrase goes) to such a 
 fearful extent that it is absolutely necessary to blend 
 Amusement with Instruction, so much has the 
 original matter in children's lore become overlaid 
 he additions. 
 
 Charles Lamb once said, I- i: at all necesc 
 that knowledge should come to a child in the shape 
 of knowledge? * * *" Science, it seems, has 
 eed Poetry in the walks of little children. I- 
 not this a sor 
 
 What would our EKa have said to see Knowl 
 
316 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 now coming and calling itself Amusement, and 
 Science declaring itself to be Poetry, in the most 
 bare-faced manner ? 
 
 I can't for the life of me imagine what is meant 
 by " Fairy Tales of Science." Is it an account of the 
 marriage of Prince Hydrogen and the Princess 
 Oxygen — or of the persecution of Manuel Laber by 
 the stern enchanter Bustumbiler ? 
 
 But this is a title professedly scientific, and caveat 
 emptor! If Paterfamilias buys it for his children, 
 he does so with his eyes open, and fixed on the 
 word "Science," to which no meretricious addition 
 of " Fairy Tales " ought to blend him. 
 
 But in this profundity of cruelty to children there 
 is yet a deeper gulf. They are actually deluded with 
 the " History of a good little boy " to be stabbed 
 from behind it with a life of the inventor of the 
 steam engine. Or they are cozened by the " Story of 
 an Apple " into a lecture on Sir Isaac Newton and 
 Specific Pravity. 
 
 Go to ! it is worse than passing a bad note ! I, a 
 child for the nonce, go out for a stroll in Fairy Land, 
 or the Fabulous Country of Good Children. And 
 you go and take me into the middle of the Pons 
 Asinorum, and plunge me into pure Mathematics. 
 I protest against such false pretences and forgeries 
 upon fiction. Take me back to the legends of my 
 childhood ! Eestore to me " Jack and the Bean- 
 stalk," "The Yellow Dwarf," and "The Kuby Girl 
 and the Toad Girl." 
 
CHILDISH LITEEATUEE. 317 
 
 Keep your modern literature for those good chil- 
 dren, who, I firmly believe are only to be found in its 
 pages — for Little Evas and Master Williams, who are 
 nauseatingly perfect. 
 
 Ah, Miss Edgeworth, your Harry and Lucy, who 
 are the very nicest fictional children I know, were 
 far from perfect ; they had their faults, and were true 
 to life, because you had studied from the life. 
 
 But as for Evas and faultless Williams, I don't 
 believe in them, except as sheer inventions wanted 
 either to fill up gaps, and form links in novels, or to 
 parade morals and deportment in little tales. 
 
 They are the most odious, detestable little wretches 
 I ever met with. 
 
 Of course it is an unpardonable crime to promul- 
 gate this doctrine, or to hint that it is better to amuse 
 children than to instruct them. 
 
 Instruct them by all means, but be very careful to 
 give little doses, and at decent intervals. But of all 
 hideous crimes in the world, avoid giving Lessons 
 and calling them Becreations. Children who have 
 taken powders in brown sugar, or black-currant jam, 
 hate those inexpensive sweeteners of life for ever 
 afterwards. If you disgust the little ones with reading 
 as a recreation, Heaven have pity on you, for if Jack 
 without play be, to a proverb, a dull boy, Jack with- 
 out a taste for amusing books, is a very sad boy to 
 think of. 
 
 I wish people would study the old models of chil- 
 dren's lore more carefully. In the ancient legends 
 
318 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 the good fairy always turned out to be most powerful 
 in the end, and the bad one was sure to have made 
 a mistake in the charm. The wicked step-mother 
 generally got rolled down a hill in a barrel of vipers ; 
 and the good steward, or the tender-hearted scullion 
 got made a Duke. 
 
 But modern writers lose this broad morality in 
 making nice sectarian distinctions between right and 
 wrong — as if those limits were not puzzling enough 
 for us oldsters ? 
 
 We know, at our mature years, that good does not 
 always visibly overcome evil, and that wicked step- 
 mothers avoid the barrel, while good stewards and 
 tender-hearted scullions very seldom rise even to the 
 dignity of Lords Mayor. 
 
 But who would have this hinted at to young 
 children ? To introduce recondite and not immediate 
 punishments, in lieu of the vipers would be dangerous 
 — almost sinful. 
 
 When a lunatic was shown the prisoners at Dart- 
 moor, working on the treadmill, he did not find much 
 to admire in that triumph of penitentiary ingenuity. 
 
 " If," said he, " you set men to go up steps, let 'em 
 go up steps. But if you let the steps come down to 
 meet 'em, why it's encouraging idleness ! " 
 
 I am quite sure some of the refined punishments 
 in modern " good juvenile books," are quite as unin- 
 telligible and contradictory to children, as this was 
 to the madman. 
 
 If children's books are to be made the vehicles of 
 
CHILDISH LITEEATUEE. 
 
 319 
 
 party views and sectarian notions, where will it end ? 
 We shall have a new version of the "Sleeping 
 Beauty/' where, instead of the story ending with the 
 Handsome Prince waking her with a kiss, we shall 
 have a little dissertation on marriage with a deceased 
 wife's sister, or the Eegistration style of union. 
 And then the old finish of " they married, and lived 
 happily ever after," will have to give way, to admit 
 of Sir Cresswell Cresswell's appearing on the scene. 
 
 Do let us go back to the old Ehymes and Legends. 
 I believe they are the oldest, as they are the best 
 literature we possess. I believe they were the Nur- 
 sery Ehymes of Nations, and that a Babylonish 
 mother was the authoress of "Bye Baby Bunting, 
 Daddy's gone a hunting," composed for, and dedicated 
 to Little Master Mmrod. 
 
 As for " The cat and the fiddle," I believe that to 
 be at least as old as the pyramids. I give a sketch 
 (from memory, so I cannot vouch for its accuracy,) of 
 
 NURSERY RHYMES FROM THE rTRA.MID3 
 
320 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 some hieroglyphics from one of the pyramids, which 
 seem to bear me out in my theory. 
 
 If we only imitated the broad principles of these 
 compositions more, our children would be much the 
 better for it. 
 
 There are no puzzling refinements in that, for 
 instance, which describes how the historian wandered 
 " Upstairs, and downstairs, and in my lady's chamber." 
 
 Why was the punishment of precipitation down 
 the whole flight awarded to the old man therein 
 spoken of? 
 
 Because " he wouldn't say his prayers." This only, 
 without any reference to his having neglected to turn 
 east or west, or to express a belief in Mr. Spurgeon, 
 or any other catchword of cant. 
 
 I rejoice greatly in this rhyme, and am glad to 
 record that, after long research at the British Museum, 
 among all the authorities on the point, I have been 
 unable to trace any latent sectarian dogma, in the 
 somewhat suspicious preference of the left leg for the 
 purposes of precipitation. 
 
 Look now at " Little Jack Horner." He sat in a 
 corner, we are told, and when he pulled out a plum, 
 he exclaimed with childish, innocent, self-laudation, 
 " What a good boy ami!" 
 
 Don't you see the premises and the consequence — 
 that rightful old moral, teaching the reward of good- 
 ness thus — "Goodness meets a reward. Whatever 
 meets a reward, is goodness." Not logical, but very 
 healthy is Jack's conclusion. He finds a plum, and 
 
CHILDISH LITEEATUEE. 321 
 
 argues therefore that he is a good boy. Let the 
 children think this, they will learn otherwise soon 
 enough. 
 
 Of all sorts of stories, I hold Fairy Tales to be the 
 legitimate Child-Literature. I regret to see the uses 
 it is sometimes put to. 
 
 Of all things in the world, Eeligion should not be 
 dragged into these legends. It is exactly like the figure 
 of the Eiver God of Nile, whom the old masters used 
 to paint in their pictures of the finding of Moses. 
 It is out of place. It is dangerous of introduction. 
 For there is the chance that as the child grows older 
 and finds the mythology is not meant for actual cre- 
 dence, he may possibly throw the other belief aside 
 with it, and that is a frame of mind we should not 
 originate. Doubt and wavering come soon enough of 
 themselves, — worse hap ! 
 
 It is just this injudicious mixture of fact and 
 fiction, that destroys the Child Lore of our days. It 
 clips the wings of Fancy, and puts Fun in fetters. 
 For instance, in the History of a certain Pig pretty 
 well-known in Nurseries, at the suggestion of Pas 
 and Mas of misguided opinions, the young porker's 
 ghost had to be cut out (I suppose they thought it a 
 Buddhist tract), in company with a gentleman mas- 
 querading as a demon in tail and horns. I don't 
 think my parents (and there never were better) would 
 have objected to the book on that account. 
 
 I know some one, too, who in a tale concerning 
 three notable Giants was told, as touching their 
 
 Y 
 
322 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 breakfast, mentioned in one passage, that " the Spirit 
 of the Age would not admit of babies being eaten on 
 toast!" 
 
 Such is the result of this same latter-day spirit. 
 
 No doubt in the next "Champions of Christen- 
 dom," the dragon will be herbivorous ; just as they 
 wanted to make my friend believe that Giants were 
 fed on spoon meat. 
 
 This is a sickly sentimentality that but ill accords 
 with the bold and graphic style of the old fairy tales. 
 
 Depend upon it, the legends of the days when 
 we oldsters were children, are the true sort of things. 
 As a sign of it, let me remind you that no one grows 
 too old to read Cinderella, Puss in Boots, or Jack the 
 Giantkiller. 
 
 But what sane person of mature years will venture 
 on the stories that are now foisted on the little ones. 
 
 Instead of talking-birds and silver fountains — glass 
 slippers and pumpkin coaches, we have scientific 
 machinery and railways. Where, oh, where are the 
 paper-covered, quaint little volumes, with grotesque 
 woodcuts, that used to delight us ? Let their simple 
 philosophy be the philosophy we teach our children. 
 Theirs is the only safe plan to go upon. 
 
 Many other devices may seem praiseworthy, but 
 the old method was best. They taught a broad 
 moral, and showed it in unmistakeable colours. 
 
 It is all very well to say nowadays that we must 
 have a little of the utile, wrapt up with the dulce. 
 Even if you don't put in more of the former than 
 
CHILDISH LITERATURE. 323 
 
 the latter can sweeten, which is generally the case, 
 you take away from the full enjoyment of the book. 
 
 You may say that the particular doctrinal spirit 
 instilled into your hook is so homceopathico-infinitesi- 
 mally small that it is imperceptible, — that it is hardly 
 worth a button. 
 
 Listen to the value of a button ! 
 
 A young friend of mine, a clergyman, and a most 
 exemplary worker in his schools, could not cure his 
 class of a peculiar abstraction and wandering of 
 thought which had seized on them, in spite of his 
 clever and interesting discourses anent the various 
 subjects they had to consider. 
 
 Punishment was of no avail — entreaty was power- 
 less. 
 
 At last a little curly-pated favourite, who came 
 with a note, unintentionally let him into the secret. 
 
 The fact was my friend wore a long black waistcoat 
 of the High Church style of architecture. And this 
 same vest plunged the little scholars into endless 
 theories as to how it was fastened. 
 
 The village school of Foodie Monachorum was 
 divided into the Hook-and-eye and the Button 
 factions, and the minds of the infants were engaged 
 all school time in endeavouring to decide between 
 the rival schisms. 
 
 And that is what a button may be worth. 
 
 Beware then of introducing even a button's value 
 of irrelevant matter, or party spirit, or doctrinal 
 arguments, or philosophical theory into the children's 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 books, or you may originate difficulties in their 
 minds as difficult to set at rest as the great Button 
 and Hook-and-eye controversy, which raged among 
 the fry of Foodie Monachorum. 
 
 Again I repeat — adhere to the old models. Set 
 " Goosey, goosey, gander," and " Little Jack Horner," 
 " Hop o' my Thumb," and " Jack and the Beanstalk," 
 before you, and don't be led away into new-fangled 
 pedantry and cruelty to children. 
 
 So shall you take an honourable niche in the 
 temple of juvenile literature — a temple whose wor- 
 ship, let the critics say just what they please, is one 
 of the most difficult in the world. 
 
 And now, my dear little friends, down there by the 
 sea, you are all sound asleep and snug in bed, with 
 your great playfellow's voice mingling with your 
 dreams. 
 
 The harvest moon has set long since, and the stars 
 are shining cold and bright. 
 
 Good night, little sleepers ! If your great play- 
 fellow, the sea, loves you only half as much as I do, 
 he will whisper to you all night long such beautiful 
 dreams — fairy tales like the dear old legends of my 
 childhood, invented and written long before people 
 had devised that specious form of knowledge made 
 unpleasant, and pleasure made too full of knowledge, 
 which passes under the name of "Juvenile Literature, 
 or amusement combined with instruction." 
 
325 
 
 THE BIKDIE. 
 
 Oh cease your songs, ye warblers, 
 Lark, Linnet, Finch, and Thrush : 
 Cease, Nightingale, thy mournful tale, 
 Thy pipings, Blackbird, hush ! 
 
 For sweeter, dearer, better, 
 
 Than e'er your lays can be, 
 
 Is the low sweet song that all day long 
 
 One Birdie sings to me ! 
 
 Ye sing to every comer, 
 And rove on faithless wings : — 
 But for me alone is each sweet tone 
 That Bonnie Birdie sings. 
 
 Ye sing but in the woodlands, 
 In the happy Summer-tide, 
 This Birdie's song, the winter long, 
 Makes glad my own fireside. 
 
 I need no cage or tether 
 My Birdie to retain : — 
 But a slender golden circlet, 
 And affection's viewless chain. 
 
326 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 And my Birdie does not wander 
 To seek a distant nest ; 
 For her home is fixed for ever 
 Within my loving "breast. 
 
 And a gentle light and blessing 
 She sheds around my life — 
 My Bonnie, Bonnie Birdie, 
 "Whose other name is Wife I 
 
 THE LAST OF THEM ALL. 
 
 The Past will not return again. 
 Cold in its grave and still it lies. 
 My heart aches with repining vain, 
 And dimness gathers in mine eyes. 
 
 Some friends are changed, and some are dead, 
 
 And some are dwelling far apart. 
 
 The echoes of kind accents fled 
 
 Wail through the chambers of my heart. 
 
 As on some lonely shore I stand 
 And list the heaving Ocean's moan, — 
 A stranger in a desert land 
 I dwell in misery — alone ! 
 
327 
 
 TO MY DOG. 
 
 OMPAMON of a lonely 
 wight, 
 The only friend that's true 
 
 to me, 
 (Go, and lie down ! — I can- 
 not write 
 
 With you upon my knee,) 
 
 You've been my faithful friend and true 
 
 While many a year did wane and wax, 
 
 And (though twelve shillings yearly due 
 
 Is a tremendous tax) 
 
 You still shall share my " sup and bit " — 
 
 My scanty plate, my water-jug — 
 
 (Oh, come, I say, — I can't permit 
 
 Those bones upon the rug) — 
 
 And while a bed I sleep on, I 
 
 Its foot to you will still devote, 
 
 (Hullo — by Jove, you must not lie 
 
 Upon my " Sunday coat " !) 
 
 Long converse with a master kind, 
 Who makes your every want his own, 
 Has so improved you that your mind 
 Is almost human grown, 
 
328 QUIPS AND CEANKS, 
 
 Of all dog-habits you've got rid, 
 Or Doctor Watts is far from right : 
 (Although I think you never did 
 Delight to bark and bite)— 
 Well ! if I come to grief and woe — 
 A beggar's lot — you shall be fed 
 On my last crust I (Only I know 
 You never will eat bread.) 
 
 \mww^ 
 
329 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Joy is shining in your eyes, oh Lady mine, 
 Joy is ringing in your laugh so sweet and clear, 
 And its music in your speech I can divine 
 So familiar is each cadence to mine ear. 
 But my thoughts they have wandered far away — 
 Back — back into the past they all have fled, 
 And my heart whispers low, " Ah, well-a-day ! 
 Oh give me back the years that are dead — 
 
 That are dead!" 
 
 Then I loved ! Not as now I love, mine own. 
 Then, like wine, flowed the passion o'er its cup. 
 Now the strength of love is left to me alone 
 All the bloom of its youth is withered up. 
 Ah, I think of what is gone with fond regret, 
 Though your love on my life its light has shed. 
 Yet my heart sighs, and never can forget, — 
 Oh give me back the years that are dead — 
 
 That are dead ! 
 
330 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 HEE FOOT-STEP. 
 
 The blackbird whistles in the croft — the tiny lark is 
 in the sky, 
 
 And musical with tinkling falls the merry brooklet 
 hurries by, 
 
 The lays of linnet, finch, and thrush, are loudly ring- 
 ing in mine ear, 
 
 And chapel'd deep in lily bells, the drowsy hermit- 
 bee I hear, 
 
 But I am listening for a step, and though as light it 
 touch the ground 
 
 As falling snow — its tread I know, and hear o'er 
 every other sound. 
 
 Then babble, brooklet, on thy way — your piping, 
 blackbird, still prolong, 
 
 And in your cells of lily bells, ye drowsy bees 
 chant matin song, 
 
 In woodland chorus, soaring lark, and quiring 
 finches, still bear part, 
 
 I hear your music in mine ears — Her lightest foot- 
 step in my heart. 
 
 It trembles now ! My lady's near — oh, countless, 
 warblers of the grove ! 
 
 Her presence greet with anthems sweet ! — she comes, 
 behold she comes — my Love ! 
 
331 
 
 THE TIDE-LINE. 
 
 The storm had passed off some hours when I paced 
 the ocean shore, but lingering stragglers, dark tat- 
 tered fragments of cloud, were driving rapidly over- 
 head in pursuit of the main body of the storm-army. 
 The waves had not yet laid aside their foamy crests ; 
 and the sea-birds flying low, and hoarsely screaming, 
 were but just re-issuing from their refuges in the 
 cliffs. 
 
 Many and most unmistakeable were the traces left 
 by the fierce battle of the elements, of which the 
 beach had been the arena ; sea-weeds of all shapes 
 and kinds were scattered along the shore, the Zostera 
 and sea-grasses looking as if the startled sea-nymphs 
 had been tearing their snaky tresses, the broad oar- 
 weed flapping helplessly over the ridges of rock, 
 while the beautiful and delicate red and purple 
 Ptilota and Ehodymenia lying around in profusion 
 told that the very inmost depths of ocean had been 
 convulsed, and rifled of their treasures. 
 
 Here sprawled a helpless jelly-fish, there lay a 
 mangled star-fish, or a dead crab, while the very sand 
 looked lacerated by the savage waves, and could not 
 conceal its wounds under the thick shower of rain- 
 bow shells that was strewn lavishly upon it, some 
 deprived of their tiny inhabitants, others whose little 
 inmates were alive, but not yet sufficiently recovered 
 
332 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 from the effects of their violent exile from the twi- 
 light homes beneath the soft green crystal sea, to 
 make any attempt to establish the fact of their 
 existence. 
 
 Looking first at one, then another of these strange 
 objects I wandered on beside the hoary sea, now 
 turning over some rare denizen of the deep, revealed 
 to me now for the first time, now gazing over the 
 scarcely-appeased waters at the distant sails, and 
 anon musing audibly on the recent awful tempest. 
 
 "Aye, roar!" I murmured, "roar and shout to 
 your caverns, wave thy thousand flag-like wracks 
 and tangles, oh sea, for thou hast fought fiercely. 
 Wild defiance hast thou growled back to the thunder 
 of the heaven, and mad grapplings and furious 
 wrestlings has thou held with capes and storm-worn 
 headlands of the shore. Yea, and moan too, oh sea, 
 moan and murmur low ; for many a gallant vessel 
 has gone down into thy mysterious deeps, gone down 
 with all on board. Oh the cries ! the helpless, hope- 
 less struggles ! the wild, the deep despair, wild as thy 
 fury, deep as thy abyss. 
 
 "Shriek, ye discordant sea-birds, and mock the 
 flying foam with your white breasts ! Shriek and 
 flutter, dart and dive, — your ungainly nestlings and 
 insensate eggs are safe beneath the friendly ledges of 
 the cliffs and in sea-beaten caves. Shriek and flutter 
 in your thoughtless gambols, for you have lost no 
 dear ones. There shall be in many a home the echo 
 of your wailings, birds of plaintive note ! 
 
THE TIDE-LINE. 333 
 
 " Mothers shall wait, vainly striving to choke back 
 their laments, nntil the hope deferred shall cease to 
 make the heart sick, and sorrowful certainty shall 
 slay it. 
 
 " There are voids in many nests, and vacancies by 
 many firesides, and mighty grief in many hearts, oh 
 hoarse-voiced hoverers of the sea. 
 
 " Sail ! sail on swiftly into your hundred ports, ye 
 distant white-sailed fleets, for ye need to hurry, to 
 bear home beloved ones to anxious hearts that the 
 storm has set so terribly a-tremble, that the waves, 
 not yet forgetful of the storm, are calm in compari- 
 son to the throbbing life-tide in those aching breasts. 
 Sail on ! sail on ! and glimmer white as stars to tear- 
 dimmed eyes grown weary with long watching. 
 Swell out, then, snowy sails ; lean forward, tapering 
 masts, and ripple, gurgle, whiten before swift-speed- 
 ing bows, you dark green waves, — for yearning hearts 
 are waiting to see their beloved ones' ships once 
 more beside the busy quays, and tears in loving 
 women's eyes are waiting to be kissed away." 
 
 As I thus spoke I seemed to see before me a 
 vessel just lying-to by a crowded pier. As in a 
 dream I saw the eager faces of that crowd scanning 
 the vessel's deck, and I beheld, as each boatload 
 landed, the speechless embraces, the long lingering 
 kisses that welcomed home the storm-tossed weary 
 mariners. 
 
 Here was the portly mate with his little wife 
 Jaanging round his neck, and his sturdy children 
 
334 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 clinging to his knees. Here a tall seaman clasped 
 his sweetheart to his breast, or a sailor-lad flung his 
 arms round his widowed mother ; while others, push- 
 ing through the throng, grasped the friendly, hard, 
 rude, right-hands of great strong burly men, whose 
 fears, though unacknowledged and unrevealed, hac 
 been no less agonising than those of the women, who 
 now wept for joy around. 
 
 Each one there, sailor, or sailor's wife, knew the 
 real amount of the danger that was past, and could 
 realise accurately all the perils of the storm, and so 
 none felt ashamed of fear or cared to disguise joy, 
 joy that was certainly not lessened by the true know- 
 ledge of the by-gone danger and distress. And I 
 exclaimed, as I looked on the wave-washed sand at 
 my feet, " We are like the sand. Placed beyond the 
 tide-line of circumstances, our life is a dull mono- 
 tonous grey shore, dull as the dry sand, shifting and 
 uncertain. But when the sea of trouble rises over 
 us, and for a time buries us beneath its surges, we 
 grow strong and firm ! and when it recedes reflect the 
 light above, attaining somewhat a closer likeness to 
 Heaven, as the wet sands, when the tide retreats, 
 mirror back the blue sky, and harden beneath our 
 tread." 
 
 As I spoke, I looked down; the gleaming sands 
 beneath me were darkened by the reflex and shadow 
 of a passing cloud that toiled in the wake of the 
 storm; and there at my feet lay a sailor's hat, 
 drenched with the salt water, that, trickling from it, 
 
THE TIDE-LINE. 335 
 
 flowed down the sloping shore in a myriad of tiny- 
 rivulets, that seemed like tears. 
 
 My visions shattered and scattered like a rainbow, 
 when the sun disappears behind low trailing storm 
 clouds ; and then methought I beheld driving, drift- 
 ing, plunging between sea and sky, a rudderless, 
 mastless hull, — between sea and sky, so seemingly 
 close together, that wave and cloud seemed to mingle. 
 
 Heavily the dismantled bark rolled and tossed, 
 fearfully spotted here and there with clinging forms 
 — forms that grew ever fewer and fewer as each 
 quickly succeeding lurid lightning-flash revealed the 
 battered vessel plunging headlong down endless 
 slopes of black and foam-mingled billows into yawn- 
 ing graves in the ocean. 
 
 Bright flashed the livid gleams on glistening 
 bulwarks and soaking decks — bright on the stream- 
 ing sides and trailing cordage — bright on those 
 swiftly thinning forms of hapless mariners clinging 
 for dear life to slippery ropes and treacherous planks, 
 that shook, and gave, and, crashing, broke away. 
 Bright gleamed the blue levin, too, on a few storm- 
 overtaken gulls that flew wildly in their fear around 
 that fated bark, and amid the roaring wind I heard 
 the shrill cries of those terrified sea-birds — cries of 
 horror and alarm yet sounding only too fearfully 
 like the mocking howls of demons. 
 
 Nor less brightly shone the awful momentary 
 glare upon the sides of the huge mountain waves, 
 upon whose gleaming slopes, few and rare, could be 
 
336 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 seen struggling figures, vainly battling with the 
 maddened waters. The picture was so vividly pre- 
 sented by my imagination that it ceased to be a 
 picture ! Tearfully close, rolled on one awful wave 
 — upon whose angry crest, amid the boiling surge, 
 one form was feebly striving. That ghastly face — 
 those helpless outstretched arms ! Oh, cruel sea ! 
 spare, spare him. Gleam, glisten once again, fierce 
 fire of Heaven — let me see once more that hapless 
 wretch ; perchance some floating spars, some provi- 
 dential rope may save. Ha ! another flash, blue, 
 bright, revealing all. No, not all ! 
 
 I see the awful wave — closer and still closer it 
 rolls. I see the angry crest ! I see the boiling surge ! 
 But the sailor — where is he ? Half-way down that 
 dreadful slope of death, half-way down the side of 
 the wave, almost lost in the Valley of Death's 
 Shadow, between this billow and the next, I see a 
 hat floating and whirling downward. It is over — he 
 is lost ! He is lost, and who is he ? Perchance, a 
 son, a father, a well-beloved ! Beside what desolate 
 hearth sit the bereaved parents of that wave-whelmed 
 wretch? For him some prattling babes are, it may 
 be, helplessly calling, some woman waiting and 
 watching; and all that the sea returns of him to 
 earth is this sodden relic — this tattered waif. 
 
 I paused, looking at the soaking straw-hat. As I 
 raised my eyes I beheld a woman approaching along 
 the sands. One glance sufficed to tell me she was a 
 seaman's wife. As I saw her coming towards me 
 
 s 
 
THE TIDE-LINE. 337 
 
 with her eyes fixed on the ground — "Even thus," I 
 mused, "might that waiting, watching woman pace 
 the utmost shore, looking for the vessel that can 
 never return — expecting the husband she will never 
 see again." She treads the extreme edge of the 
 sands, the waters lave her feet, but what cares she ? 
 She is as near as may be to her beloved. What is 
 it that the tide casts at her feet ? The hat so often 
 seen, oh, too, too well known — the hat, that was 
 waved so hopefully as — 
 
 At this moment the woman had reached the place 
 where I was standing. Her eyes caught the hat 
 upon the shore — she started. Ha ! she recognised 
 it ! Good heavens ! my heart stood still ; she knew 
 the hat ! What, oh what will be the first wild cry 
 of her agony ? Hush, my heart ; be still ! She 
 speaks — 
 
 " Why, Lar ! if there bean't our Bill's hat, as was 
 blowed off the pier-end yesterday !" 
 
 
 CETERA JDESUN1\ 
 
338 QUIPS AND CKANKF. 
 
 DYING LOVE. 
 
 When Earth becomes a living tomb, 
 And Mirth for ever flies the heart, 
 When Day becomes an endless gloom, — 
 When Love from Love must part : — 
 How wild the grief of that last Day ! 
 How vain to strive the thoughts, the bliss 
 Of happy moments, dead for aye, 
 To sum in one last kiss ! 
 
 When Sighs steal all that we would speak, 
 And Eyes for tears can nothing tell, 
 When Hearts first learn what 'tis to break, - 
 When Love bids Love " Farewell ! " — 
 Of all deep sorrows of True Hearts 
 The crowning anguish sure is this, — 
 When Love from Love in silence parts 
 With one long lingering kiss. 
 
 OXFOKD BY NIGHT. 
 
 Night floated downward to the Earth, and furled 
 
 Her dusky pinions o'er the drowsy world, 
 
 As sinks at eve the dove into her nest, 
 
 And hides her tender brood with downy breast. 
 
 
OXFORD BY NIGHT. 339 
 
 Through solemn aisles of old majestic trees 
 The diapasons of the midnight breeze, 
 Like sacred music 'neath cathedral roof,. 
 Trembled, and died — and echoed far aloof. 
 
 Cloudless the sky. No fleecy wreaths were driven 
 
 Across the deep serenity of Heaven : 
 
 While the pale Moon, Night's gleaming silver lamp, 
 
 Stole slow and silent through the starry camp ; 
 
 And strangely fair, in light and shadows bent, 
 
 Stood pier and buttress, tower and battlement. 
 
 And far away, amid the moonlit meads 
 
 Old Isis whispered to his rustling reeds : 
 
 But the low murmur to the aching sense 
 
 But made the solemn stillness more intense. 
 
 So slept the city, when in spire and tower, 
 
 Deep-toned, or silver sweet, with varied power, 
 
 The myriad bells awoke, and rang the midnight hour. 
 
 OXFORD CELEBRITIES— A MODERATOR. 
 
 z 2 
 
340 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 DEATH AKD SPKING. 
 
 I SAT in early Spring the fields among, 
 
 I saw the green blade bursting from its prison ; 
 
 And, viewless as a spirit newly risen 
 
 From Death's dark house, the lark was lost in song. 
 
 Mght on Earth's bosom silently had wept, 
 Till merry Morning came to wake the world ; 
 Then — not to see the Sun — away she crept, 
 And left the fields with dewy sorrow pearl'd. 
 
 Alas ! that ever we in tears should sow, 
 
 And blind with too much grieving, earthward gaze, 
 
 Forgetful of the golden Morning-glow 
 
 That waits to greet us if our looks we raise. — 
 
 Alas ! that we on graves should fix our eyes, 
 
 Nor see — on wings of Love — the happy Spirit rise ! 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 TWO SONNETS. 
 I. — THE PRIDE OF LIFE. 
 
 Ah, why should Man be proud of his estate — 
 Because he breathes and moves : and other thins 
 
LIFE. 341 
 
 Unto his bounded eyesight seem less great 
 
 Which breathe and move as he does? He but brings 
 
 His unit to the sum of Life ; of which 
 
 These lesser things the greater portion have, 
 
 Being in breath and motion not less rich ; 
 
 In number far exceeding ! Why, the grave — 
 
 The earthly frontier of Death's silent coast — 
 
 Is the last boundary of this empty boast ! 
 
 Mere breath and motion all the earth pervade, 
 
 And yonder lawn, so fresh and dewy-pearl' d, 
 
 Has little lives enough on every blade 
 
 To animate with men another world ! 
 
 IL — THE SCORN OP LIFE. 
 
 " Mere breath and motion all the earth pervade, 
 
 And yonder lawn, so fresh and dewy-pearl' d, 
 
 Has little lives enough on every blade 
 
 To animate with men another world ! " 
 
 Yet scorn not Life — the general gift — but use 
 
 As not abusing it ; and humbly crave 
 
 Tor a true knowledge of its aim, and choose 
 
 Proud hopes, that end not only with the grave : 
 
 Thinking with awe, that in this single leaf — 
 
 Of all that people it — no life is done, 
 
 With tiny toils, and pains and passions brief, 
 
 But it is known and noticed by that One, 
 
 Who sees alike, in love o'erlooking all, 
 
 The Monarch's death-bed, and the sparrow's fall ! 
 
 
342 
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 THE SHELL. 
 
 S does the hollow shell 
 In mournful murmurs 
 
 tell 
 Of ocean, once its own 
 belovM home, 
 And mimics faintly the melodious swell 
 Of the far distant foam : 
 
 So, when away from thee, 
 Does mournful memory 
 Amid my heart's deserted chambers moan, 
 And sings sad songs of what may never be ; — 
 When I am all alone ! 
 
 bull's eyes and sheep's eyes. 
 
343 
 
 PKOFESSOK STEINHEKZ. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Yes, the Professor was in love ! 
 
 For five and twenty years, all the female beauty 
 and talent of the University Town of Dummepup- 
 chen had exerted every wile to make him a prisoner. 
 
 In vain ! He entrenched himself in the stone for- 
 tresses of geology and mineralogy. Behind these 
 defences he retired before the artillery of brilliant 
 glances, and the very Armstrongs and Whitworths of 
 loveliness could not pierce through them. 
 
 The Professor had long yellow hair — so long that 
 it coiled on his shoulders. But then, to make up for 
 it, it did not begin from the top of his head. It grew 
 in a line round his head, just above his ears, leaving 
 the upper hemisphere of his skull smoothly polished 
 as a billiard ball, though presenting phrenological 
 irregularities, which would not be admissible in that 
 " round of amusement.'' 
 
 His eyes, small, and lacking lustre, resembled pig's 
 eyes, as some mischievous wag of Charles the II.'s 
 time translated yeux des marcassins. His nose, 
 symbol of his mind, was aspiring, and bestridden by 
 spectacles riding as comfortably as on a Spanish 
 saddle, — his chin rolled gracefully over his turn- 
 down collar in unstudied folds of obesity. 
 
344 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 His complexion was sallow, his height about three 
 feet nine inches. His legs were thin, his body was 
 huge. A greasy bright brown coat with brass buttons 
 — a waistcoat as brilliant as a kaleidoscope pattern, 
 and a pair of trousers of a rich purple, formed his 
 ordinary costume. 
 
 "But, sir," exclaims a fair reader, "is it possible 
 that such a monster should have been the idol of a 
 German University town ? " 
 
 Why not, madam ? Idols are not always the most 
 lovely things to behold. And besides, there is no 
 accounting for tastes. In some parts of Africa, no 
 fair negress can hope to captivate an ebony beau, 
 unless she have a ring through her nose. An 
 American brave lays a bundle of scalps at his 
 intended's feet. 
 
 " Ah, yes, but then that is among savage nations." 
 
 Very true, madam ; but young ladies in civilized 
 nations put gold rings through their ears and steel 
 hoops round their waists in order to catch the eye 
 of marriageable men. And as for the other sex, is 
 not the red coat of the soldier the most " killing " 
 with the ladies — and do not those tender beings 
 like a man, who has fought a duel or two, besides 
 breaking a score of women's hearts ? 
 
 " Well — it's all very easy to talk like that, but you 
 won't persuade me that any girls could be so lost to 
 taste as to run after that little dwarfy, oily, smoky, 
 horrid little Professor." 
 
 Nevertheless such was the case, madam, and, what 
 
PEOFESSOE STEINHEEZ. 345 
 
 is more, they admired him precisely for those quali- 
 ties, which you have described in those very epithets. 
 
 " Oh, impossible !" 
 
 Not a bit of it. Just listen to the following story. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Peecisely five years ago Jacob Potter, Drysalter 
 of Thames Street, found himself at the foot of the 
 Alps, possessed of an alpenstock and a strong desire 
 to climb. 
 
 Poor Albert Smith's Mont Blanc was the motive 
 power which drove Jacob from his desk in the city 
 to the Swiss glaciers. 
 
 Potter was one of those men, who never do things 
 by halves. On the Alps he was a Switzer — he 
 believed in all the " Tell " tales he heard, and he 
 whistled the Eanz des Vaches from morning till night. 
 As for costume he had discarded hodden grey and 
 British homespun. His jacket was of the true moun- 
 taineer cut and material — and as for his breeches — 
 why there was nothing like leather — especially 
 chamois leather. 
 
 It is no wonder then that a gentleman, so thorough 
 in his adoption of the habits and manners of the 
 country in which he found himself, should fall in love 
 with a Swiss peasant girl 
 
 To be sure there was every excuse for him. An- 
 nette was young and blooming. Her cheeks were as 
 
 
346 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 round and red as two apples, and seemed to throw out 
 a perceptible warmth, and that, let me to tell you, at 
 the height to which Jacob had climbed before he fell 
 in love is no small recommendation. 
 
 Never was there a more devoted lover than Jacob. 
 He hovered about her all day, and watched the light 
 in her window all night from the gallery of the 
 chalet at which he was quartered. 
 
 He climbed precipices, and crossed yawning cre- 
 vasses to gather a blue gentianella to wreathe among 
 her black tresses. 
 
 "And how did Annette appear to regard him?" 
 
 Well, at first she seemed rather to look upon his 
 behaviour as one watches the gambols of an unknown 
 animal. But by degrees she seemed to gain confi- 
 dence, and her rosy cheeks were crumpled with 
 perpetual smiles like frost-bitten pippins. 
 
 There was one drawback to the course of true love. 
 The language spoken in this very high mountainous 
 region was a patois which it took Jacob a long time 
 to master. 
 
 In vain did he engage an old cure*, who inhabited 
 this eagle's nest of a hamlet as his teacher. That 
 worthy old gentleman began his lessons after the 
 Greek model, with a verb representing "tupto, I 
 beat," instead of, after the Latin, with the equivalent 
 of " amo, I love." 
 
 At last Jacob, weary of beating about the bush, 
 told his learned friend straight out, that all the 
 vocabulary he wanted was just enough to show to 
 
PROFESSOR STEINHERZ. 347 
 
 Annette Dorgat that he was head over heels in love 
 with her. 
 
 The good father assured him that it was in vain — 
 she was betrothed to a young man, at present absent 
 as a guide with a party of young Englishmen, who 
 were exploring a new region. 
 
 But Jacob was not to be so easily turned from his 
 purpose. Armed with enough patois to make his 
 passion intelligible, he sought his Dulcinea. He 
 found her driving home some dozen gross of the best 
 Parisian gloves in a living form — namely, a flock of 
 young kids, who were butting, and jumping, and 
 skirmishing about so wildly, that Annette was really 
 grateful for his arrival. Between the two, the skittish 
 beasts were safely housed at last. 
 
 The moment had come ! 
 
 Jacob poured out his love in a tolerably successful 
 speech — and asked in a fond whisper — " Could she 
 return his passion?" 
 
 Alas for the fickleness of the sex ! The guide 
 was forgotten, and for a moment it seemed as if the 
 girl were about to return his avowal. She said " she 
 liked him — but " — and then she cast a look at him, 
 and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 "What was the but?" he inquired, "He was 
 wealthy!" 
 
 " Yes, she had heard that — but " — 
 
 "Was he not attentive, affectionate?" 
 
 "Yes — a very pattern for lovers — but" 
 
 " Did she not think him worthy of her ?" 
 
348 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 " Oh — yes indeed he was — "but" 
 
 " What then — was he not good looking enough ?" 
 
 Now Jacob was a little vain, and not without 
 reason ; he was a strong, fine, handsome fellow — a 
 very Adonis of drysalters. 
 
 Why then did Annette pause? She hesitated — 
 she "blushed — she turned away her head. 
 
 Imagining this to be a signal of consent, Jacob 
 drew her (without much resistance too) towards 
 him, and then when her head was resting on his 
 shoulder, he, for lack of a better, repeated his former 
 question. 
 
 " Was he not sufficiently good-looking?" 
 
 " Ah !" was the whispered response — " Handsome 
 — lovely — all but perfect — all but perfect. Oh how I 
 should love — worship — admire you — if you had hut 
 a goitre /" 
 
 Jacob returned to Thames Street, and married the 
 daughter of Alderman Figgins — but he declares that 
 to this day that goitre has stuck in his throat. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 How the Professor did hate the Sex ! 
 
 That is to say rather — how he avoided it — how he 
 fled at the sight of a petticoat, and vanished at the 
 sound of female voices. 
 
 It was the hardest matter in the world to get him 
 to come to a conversazione. It was only by the 
 
PKOFESSOR STEINHERZ. 349 
 
 express command of the Prince Katzengraben, High 
 Chamberlain, and Grand Buff Eibbon of the Duchy 
 of Ganserichberg Smelitz that he was dragged forth 
 once a quarter to attend the great meeting of the 
 University of Duinmepupchen, held in the Town 
 Hall. 
 
 For two months and twenty-nine or thirty days, 
 as the case might be, Steinherz dwelt in his gloomy 
 rooms on the Grasse Platz. There, surrounded by 
 the fossil remains of by-gone ages, the Professor 
 revelled in the brightness of his collection of min- 
 erals, whose glances he preferred to all the oglings 
 that the Dummepupchen ladies were capable of. 
 
 But for the one day out of the quarter, like an owl 
 suddenly hustled into daylight, the poor man was 
 to be seen blinking and giaring in the most secluded 
 corners of the Great Hall, looking feebly at the wax- 
 lights, and giving fidgetty frightened murmurs in 
 answer to the numerous cooing addresses made to 
 him by his flocks of female admirers. 
 
 And how numerous they were ! 
 
 There was the Princess Schwarzengel. She was 
 fifty if she was a day — but then her rank prevented 
 this from being observed. Half the young Officers 
 quartered at Dummepupchen, and all the middle- 
 aged ones, were sighing at her feet — and a pretty 
 good size they were — so there was room for all. 
 
 The four daughters of the Bnrgmeister, Hen 
 Klootz, were the next in rank after the Princess. 
 A nice little fortune of some millions was to be 
 
350 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 divided among them at their father's death. And 
 Eumonr said that he had divided it already into four 
 unequal portions. Of these the greatest was to be 
 handed over to her, who should be fortunate enough 
 to become Mrs. Professor Steinherz. The other 
 dowers were to be given according to the rank in 
 the University held by the various future husbands. 
 If either of the girls married out of the collegiate 
 body her portion was to go to found a scholarship. 
 If this were true it was quite sufficient to account 
 for the devotion which the four daughters of Klootz 
 paid to the Professor. 
 
 Need I enumerate the nine daughters of the three 
 chief tobacconists — the five and twenty of the seven- 
 teen silk-mercers, or the fourteen of the six sub- 
 professors, who swayed second ferules in the Univer- 
 sity of Dummepupchen under the beneficent rule of 
 Herr Steinherz ? 
 
 One — my heroine — I must attempt to describe. 
 
 Miss Wilhelmina Grethel Katarina Amelia Clausen 
 was five and thirty. Thalers in the bank she had 
 plenty, for her father had been agent to the Univer- 
 sity of Dummepupchen in the capital city of England. 
 And that was a very lucrative post. 
 
 Of course beneath the thin veil of Dummepupchen 
 my readers have discerned the real place I write of. 
 Behold, are not all its sons wise and all its daughters 
 lovely — " Know you the land V* 
 
 Why, the University was so famous that hundreds 
 of men, British-born and bred, had heard of its great 
 
PKOFESSOR STEINHEEZ. 351 
 
 renown. Many of them were, alas, too closely 
 bound by fetters of business and interest, so that 
 they could not bathe in the stream of wisdom at its 
 source. But sooner than have no sweet tie to connect 
 them with the German Olympus of Learning, they 
 paid to the late Mr. Clausen immense sums of 
 sterling coin in return for certain papers, which he 
 obtained for them from that seat of erudition — 
 papers allowing them to suffix the proud letters 
 " Ph. D." to their otherwise humble names. 
 
 Such was the celebrity of the University of 
 Dummepupchen, and such were the sources whence 
 the fair Wilhelmina Grethel Katarina Amelia 
 Clausen derived her thalers. 
 
 She was not tall — no maypole of a woman, So 
 far below the standard was she that the Venus could 
 have given her a neck and beaten her. But what 
 she wanted perpendicularly measured, she made up 
 for horizontally meted. So that after all it was as 
 broad as it was long. To speak literally and literarily 
 she was to the average run of her sex (not that she 
 ever did or could run) what Maunder's Treasury 
 of Knowledge is to a Pamphlet on the Currency. 
 She made up by her ponderosity for other sterling 
 qualities such as grace, form, and carriage. As to 
 her neck, it was neck or nothing, and inclined to the 
 latter alternative, for her chin was double and her 
 shoulders high. Her hair was a silvery flaxen, and 
 her eyes were of a subdued emerald tint. 
 
352 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 " Dear me," says Curiosity, " how I should like to 
 see her likeness !" 
 
 I have no doubt of it, my dear Madam (of course 
 Curiosity, like all the other virtues, is personified as 
 a female). You would like to have a photograph 
 of her. And between you and me Wilhelmina did 
 sit for one. 
 
 " Well, sir, let us hear all about it — I'm thinking 
 of having myself taken off soon." 
 
 The sooner the better, ma'am. But Grethel's por- 
 trait would not have been any incentive to such 
 an act. 
 
 "Why, sir?" 
 
 Because what with the lady's proportions and the 
 very dingy colour, which that foggy art flings over 
 the face, she was only fit to hang in Messrs. 
 Guinness' Brewery. 
 
 "What for, sir?" 
 
 A personification of Brown Stout. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "Then I presume, sir," says a gentleman, the 
 normal state of whose fingers seems to be of a 
 scorched and volcanic nature, " that the art of photo- 
 graphy does not meet with your approval." 
 
 Not with my entire approval certainly. The in- 
 fliction it is to the sitter is terrible — both mental and 
 bodily distress. 
 
PEOFESSOE STEINHEEZ. 353 
 
 Happening to have affectionate friends or relatives 
 you are compelled to go to the slaughter-house, 
 which is at the top of a house, whither you climb 
 by a tedious winding stair (you may pronounce the 
 "i" in winding long or short as you please), and 
 then torture begins. 
 
 First of all it is necessary that your hands and 
 face should be in one plane — (and they generally 
 succeed in getting your face plain enough) — so that 
 you are forced into an uncomfortable attitude and 
 then told to " look as easy as you can." 
 
 Absorbed in the idea of handing your own face 
 down to posterity, you get grave. You are told to 
 smile, and — as any one knows, a " laugh to order " is 
 the most grim contortion in the world, — you look as 
 pleasantly unpleasant as you can. 
 
 Just at this moment sitting in the un-Easy chair, 
 with some one manipulating at your back, you are 
 strongly reminded of the dentist's, and the recollection 
 casts a cheerful expression over your features. To 
 carry out the illusion, a couple of brass knobs are 
 screwed up against your head behind as if your 
 teeth were to be extracted backwards. These knobs 
 are horribly uncomfortable, and in trying to escape 
 you thrust your neck forward, and look, when photo- 
 graphed, as if you had swallowed a half-crown and it 
 was just passing the epiglottis. 
 
 But there is another thing I detest, that some 
 photographers will thrust upon you. 
 
 Why should I go down to my children's children 
 A A 
 
354 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 with a great vase of flowers at my elbow ? If ever 
 I have flowers in my room I put them in a tumbler. 
 Bless my soul, that vase would take up three parts 
 of my little Brompton dining-room. 
 
 Then again I'm not in the habit of sitting in 
 my massive balcony without my hat. If I did I 
 should deserve to catch a cold from a draught from 
 that very purple mountain that I can't see from any 
 window in my house. 
 
 But even these adjuncts are not so painful as some 
 I know of. When a photographer does you "in 
 character," oh my good gracious, what a character 
 he makes of you. Because I have written a book, 
 is that any reason why I should be represented as 
 playing at scribbling on a little round table not big 
 enough to hold a sheet of foolscap. And when I do 
 write, it is with the magnum bonum of everyday 
 life, not with that silver-mounted porcupine's quill 
 that I should only poke my eye out with, in a fit 
 of abstraction. 
 
 And then to finish the joke, when I am turned out 
 half murderer and half sweep, with a black smudge 
 for a mouth, and two odd sides to my face, all my 
 friends tell me " it must be like." 
 
 " And so it must," says my friend of the fingers — 
 " the sun never lies ! " 
 
 " If he sets, I don't see as how why he shouldn't 
 lie," says Ignorance. 
 
 And Ignorance is right. Not that I blame the 
 sun. It is not his fault, — it is the other members 
 
 i 
 
 
PROFESSOR STEINHERZ. 355 
 
 of the firm with faulty glass, dirty lenses, or bad 
 collodion that make the sun such a fib-teller. 
 
 " That is a dangerous assertion," says Prudence ; 
 " only think of the hundreds and hundreds of photo- 
 graphers there are, with every style of art from the 
 five guinea portrait down to the Whitechapel four- 
 penny one with a hot potato given in." 
 
 True for you. I shall be hocussed and focussed to 
 death. I shall be drowned in a bath, I shall be 
 burked with a sheet of albumenised paper, or be 
 burned in holes with lenses. I shall have my life 
 " taken by the last new process." 
 
 But I can't help it. I must speak the Truth. And 
 by the way if Truth lives in a well, it is not the one 
 whence they get water for their photographic baths. 
 
 "But have you," says my photographic friend, 
 "any other objections to the Art besides those 
 prompted by personal vanity?" 
 
 That's severe, but you photographers never flatter 
 — there's that much to be said for you. 
 
 I have another objection. I hold that it is utterly 
 subversive of our bump of veneration, as well as 
 horribly confusing to one's organs of identification, 
 and indeed the fruitful cause of mild insanity and 
 idiocy. 
 
 " As how, sir ? " says a lady reader. 
 
 Why, my dear madam, if you will have the good- 
 ness to come and look into this shop-window with 
 me I will give you ocular demonstration of what 
 I mean. 
 
 a a2 
 
356 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 That white-haired gentleman is a well-known 
 pulpit orator: that little gentleman in an ostler's 
 dress is an equally well-known actor. There they 
 are both standing in the same oriel window, by the 
 same table, and the same chair. That figure with 
 the intelligent face and fine forehead is our Chan- 
 cellor of the Exchequer. You may possibly have 
 admired the genius and concentration that framed 
 the Great Budget. Look at that background and 
 double your admiration. It is the oriel window 
 again. And there is the Bishop of London, and here 
 is Mr. Keeley, and there is Mr. Clarke, and yonder is 
 Lord Elcho, and below that Mario, and above that 
 the bewitching Piccolomini, and beside her Mr. Leech, 
 the right hand (and cunning right hand) of Punch. 
 And there is for ever that same oriel. Why it 
 gives you the idea that they all live in one house ! 
 What a happy family ! Wit, talent, nobility and 
 piety all looking out of the same window. 
 
 Upon my word I think you may treble your admi- 
 ration of the mind that conceived the Budget. 
 
 "Why?" asks snappishly a little gentleman, whose 
 Income Tax does not seem to agree with him. 
 
 Because, sir, I would defy most men to frame such 
 a stupendous piece of machinery in the same bow 
 window where Mr. Bellew was singing Vilikins and 
 his Dinah, and Mr. Bobson was lecturing on Milton 
 and Palestine — or vice versd, for the very thought is 
 confusing, and I'm afraid I have transposed their 
 performances. 
 
 
PROFESSOR STEINHERZ. 357 
 
 " Very well, sir," says a young lady who flourishes 
 a photographic album, consisting of numerous card 
 Punch-shows for the insertion of friendly photo- 
 graphs. 
 
 " Very well, sir, I will not put your picture in my 
 book." ^ 
 
 " Very likely not, Miss, and for the best of reasons." 
 
 "And pray why not?" retorts the damsel, firing up 
 at the accusation of having a reason for anything she 
 does. "Why shall I not put your likeness in my 
 book?" 
 
 Because, my dear young creature, you haven't "got 
 the face to do it." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " But you have not given us Miss Clausen's like- 
 ness yet," interposes Curiosity. 
 
 No I haven't, I confess. But I have been thinking 
 the matter over, and find it impossible. Words 
 cannot paint her. There is perhaps one form in 
 which I might give a description of her face and 
 figure, and that is — 
 
 " What sir— pray what ?" 
 
 A circular, madam. 
 
 " I can't for the life of me see," says a stout 
 gentleman, who might be Daniel Lambert, " why you 
 should make fun of the young German for being fat. 
 Fat is a thing not to be made light of!" 
 
358 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 I believe, sir, the Greenlanders burn it in their 
 lamps. 
 
 " Pshaw, sir, you're trifling in a most improper 
 manner !" 
 
 Not a bit ; if I did laugh at the width of her 
 person it was not a broad joke. 
 
 " Let me tell you, young man, that such levity is 
 only fit for shrimps of boys. When you reach my 
 time of life you will have a more becoming gravity." 
 
 Well, and if I do, sir, I'll try to get rid of it. If 
 I find my habit deposits too much fat upon me, I'll 
 make fun of it, and see if I can't take it off. 
 
 "But," again interposes Curiosity, "how about 
 Miss Clausen?" 
 
 Well, about thirteen stone, ma'am. That is to say 
 before she fell in love with the Professor. After that 
 she declined in weight and size. Why, the band of 
 her apron would have gone twice round her, so it was 
 evident she was waisting away. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 What could be the matter with the Professor ? 
 
 For five and twenty years the ladies had besieged 
 him, and now here he was rendering himself up a 
 voluntary captive. 
 
 The Princess could not believe her eyes. That The 
 Schwartzengel should be neglected for a little dump- 
 
PROFESSOR STEINHEEZ. 359 
 
 ling of a woman with nothing but a few thalers to 
 recommend her. 
 
 As for the Misses Klootz, they were furious — with 
 the exception of the youngest, who having become 
 desperately in love with Lieutenant Blutegel of the 
 19th Polish Infantry, was not sorry that a deus ex 
 machind should remove the Professor from the 
 competition into which she was compelled to enter. 
 
 How those dear ladies all slandered poor Wilhel- 
 mina! 
 
 "Oh' — The bold thing — look how she is flirting 
 with him ! " 
 
 " How could he be taken with such a plain piece 
 of goods ! " 
 
 " Well ! what he can see in her I can't tell ! " 
 
 " She's bewitched him ! " 
 
 " She's put a philtre in his choppe ! " 
 
 "Do you believe in philtres, Mr. Author?" inter- 
 poses my old friend Curiosity. 
 
 Most implicitly — my dear creature. 
 
 " What in Canidia's philtres ?" 
 
 No, in Lipscombe's, — for if anything could make 
 me in love with cold water as a beverage they would 
 do it. 
 
 But we must not forget the Professor. 
 There was no mistake about it. He was clearly 
 regarding Miss Clausen with looks of interest. 
 
 When he first came into the room, he was as 
 
360 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 silent and abstracted as usual. He saluted the 
 Prince, chatted with two or three under-Professors — 
 but only bowed very shyly and distantly to the ladies. 
 In vain did The Schwartzengel level the artillery 
 of her black eyes at him. He fled to the table 
 whereon were arranged some splendid specimens of 
 copper, lead, and tin ores, lately sent to the Dumine- 
 pupchen Museum from Cornwall. 
 
 Then amid his favourite minerals the Professor 
 forgot the outer world. He did not hear the three 
 Klootzes admiring the peacock ore in loud voices 
 designed to attract his attention. Even when The 
 Schwartzengel, tired of the long range, joined issue at 
 close quarters it was useless. 
 
 She laid her hand on his shoulder, and pointing 
 out some attractive specimen, asked him about it. 
 Without looking up, the student pored over the 
 mineral, giving a rapid resume of its component 
 parts, and its whole history. But this was rather 
 spoken to himself, than intended as an answer to 
 the Princess. She had but touched the spring and 
 the automaton had run down. 
 
 She turned away in disgust and despair, and the 
 four Klootzes sailed after her, heaving tremendous 
 sighs. But at length the Professors eyes grew dim 
 with long admiring and examining. His feelings 
 were almost too overpowering — the pleasure of these 
 wonders was too great. 
 
 His hand accidentally fell upon the tube of his 
 pipe, which protruded from his pocket. Happy 
 
PROFESSOR STEINHERZ. 361 
 
 thought ! He would go and smoke — it would calm 
 his agitation. 
 
 He rose, and moved towards the door. 
 
 At that moment, her fortune, good or evil — or 
 (as the other ladies averred) a deep-laid design — 
 brought Wilhelmina Grethel Katarina Amelia Clausen 
 face to face with the object of her hopes — the idol 
 of her dreams — the lord of her heart — the ruler of 
 her destiny — in a word with Professor Steinherz. 
 
 Most elaborate had been our heroine's toilette this 
 night. Flowers were festooned in her hair, jewels 
 glistened on her breast, and gold bracelets encircled 
 her round arms. Her dress was of pure white book- 
 muslin, with fourteen rows of flounces, and trimmed 
 with little blue bows. 
 
 It was very clear she had come determined to 
 conquer or die. 
 
 And Fortune seemed about to smile on her boldness. 
 
 Steinherz stopped short — his eyes fixed on Wilhel- 
 mina, whose colour rose to a brilliant poppy tint. 
 
 It was done ! A sigh escaped from the Professor's 
 lips. He thrust his pipe back into his pocket, and 
 for the rest of the night he never quitted her side. 
 
 What rapture ! To have brought to her feet the 
 man for whom all female Dummepupchen was sigh- 
 ing. She sat, and walked, and ate, and drank in a 
 dream. 
 
 Why was he so constrained? What was that 
 question that, she saw, rose so often to his lips, but 
 was as often strangled at its birth ? 
 
362 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 She longed to tell him that he need not fear. Her 
 heart beat so fast ! Oh it was indeed happiness ! 
 He did not talk of love it is true. His conversation 
 was of the most commonplace order — nay, (must she 
 admit it to herself?) even stupid. But then what 
 matter ? "Was not that question for ever rising to the 
 surface of the sluggish stream, even though it was 
 only to disappear again ? 
 
 The great hope of her life was realised. That 
 question would come at last. The volcano of passion 
 would bear it out of the Professor's bosom on a 
 lava-stream of love. She planned where it should 
 be made. It should be in the conservatory among 
 the emblematic orange-trees. She would fling herself 
 into his arms exclaiming, " And I too love, my Stein- 
 herz — my first last love — for this I have lived. 
 I am too happy, let me die ! " Yes, that question 
 would be asked before the night was over. 
 
 Again and again did the Professor begin it, and 
 again and again it died on his lips. It was very 
 trying. The fact was his sole and undivided atten- 
 tion to Wilhelmina had attracted the notice of every 
 one. The men saw and wondered. The women saw 
 and fumed. The men stared stupidly at him. The 
 women frowned viciously at him. And men and 
 women alike hovered round the pair, and watched 
 them so closely that no wonder the question was 
 never asked. 
 
 Fifty times that question trembled on his lips. 
 It rang in her ears, it ran in her blood, her 
 
PEOFESSOK STEINHEEZ. 363 
 
 heart kept beating in tune with it — " Question — 
 Question." 
 
 It was impossible to bear it any longer. 
 
 She murmured a few hasty words. " She must go. 
 She was ill." He started up. It was almost spoken. 
 But no — he would wait. "Might he shawl her?" 
 " Oh, it would be too pleasant." 
 
 Arm in arm they descended the broad staircase. 
 He would ask her there ! But no — he could not 
 muster courage. 
 
 He led her along the passage to the door. Her 
 dingy little carriage was waiting to jolt her home. 
 He would ask her in the passage ! But no — it got 
 no further than his lips. She saw it must soon be 
 spoken. She sprang into the carriage, and threw 
 herself back, and waited for his words. At last 
 they came. 
 
 " Might he ask her a question, only one — one he 
 had wished to put all night — ever since he saw her." 
 
 The voice in the back of the carriage said in faint 
 hoarse accents — "Yes ! yes !" 
 
 But the question must have a chapter to itself. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AND LAST. 
 
 "What is that stone in your brooch?' 
 
364 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 LONG AGO. 
 
 You and I — ah ! you and I, 
 
 We were children once together — 
 
 Out among the gorse and heather 
 
 In the bright and blowing weather — 
 
 You and I ! 
 
 In the North — 'mid moor and wild-wood 
 
 Singing through our happy childhood 
 
 In the days so long gone by. 
 
 You and I — ah ! you and I, 
 We look back now on the distance 
 O'er long years of bare existence, 
 Weary struggles for subsistence, 
 You and I ! 
 
 Then no trouble for the morrow — 
 Not a thought of pain or sorrow 
 In the days so long gone by. 
 
365 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 See, if the Koses, heavy with the rain, 
 Do not fresh beauty from their burden borrow, 
 And soon erect their drooping heads again ; — 
 So should we draw a secret strength from sorrow. 
 Tor falling tears should foster, and not kill, 
 The Buds of Hope that lurk within our bosoms : 
 Some good from bitterness we should distil, 
 As bees find hidden sweets in poison-blossoms. 
 Though now 'tis dark, yet will the Dawn appear, 
 Seeming from Night to gather light and gladness : 
 And future happiness will be more dear, — 
 And sweeter — for the sense of bygone sadness. 
 ( Look how the dewdrops glitter on the thorn ; 
 So, Love, the tears of night become the gems of 
 morn ! ' 
 
 'CRABBED AGE. 
 
366 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 BEYOND THE SEA. 
 
 Ah, sweetest May ! the Shade within thine eyes 
 Is dearer far to me than is the Light 
 Of glances less beloved. It takes its rise 
 From tender thoughts of me, that make less bright 
 Eyes, that would else excel all others. So, 
 When we are severed, love, by sea and land, 
 I prize far less the golden beams, that glow 
 Around me here, than that dark distant strand 
 (Ah, happy shore !) that thy dear footsteps press. 
 
 And thus, though kind the eyes, and sweet the smiles, 
 That brighten here, I think, Beloved, less 
 Of all their witcheries and pleasing wiles, 
 Than of those eyes, that, by a distant sea, 
 Gleam forth — in tears unshed — their gentle thoughts 
 of me ! 
 
 THE DAYS OF POWDER 
 
 " The good old times ! " — how much they prate 
 Of those old days of fashion, 
 So stiff, and cold, and formal. Zounds ! 
 They put one in a passion! 
 When Sir to Madam stiffly bent 
 As to her " Chair " he bowed her, — 
 
THE DAYS OF POWDER. 867 
 
 A lamp-post is as graceful as 
 The men in Days of Powder. 
 
 And Madam too was quite as prim, 
 
 "No stateliness allowed her ; 
 
 They must have been quite starched to death 
 
 In those old Days of Powder. 
 
 They spoke in mincing tones genteel, 
 
 Then whispers little louder, — 
 
 A sugar-loaf's as graceful as 
 
 A dame in Days of Powder ! 
 
 But then this artificial life 
 
 Caused such extremes atrocious, 
 
 There were the Mohawks, — Captain Stabs, — 
 
 And Highwaymen ferocious — 
 
 And (greater thieves !) the Thief-takers. 
 
 Such times ! Of nought I'm prouder 
 
 Than that I was not born in those 
 
 Confounded Days of Powder ! 
 
 "COME with a hoop and come with a CAUL." 
 
368 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 A VEEY EEMAEKABLE DEEAM. 
 
 EEELN" I am about to relate, 
 from my own experience, one 
 of those peculiar premonitory 
 visions, which occur in the 
 life-times of individuals of a 
 particular frame of mind, but 
 which by the generality of the 
 world are disbelieved. For 
 the truth of the following marvellous story I can, 
 without hesitation, vouch, strange though it may seem 
 and even supernatural. 
 
 There are connected with the narrative, in addition 
 to the dream, one or two of those extraordinary 
 psychological facts, which I find others know and 
 recognise as well as myself, but of which I have 
 never seen or heard an explanation. 
 
 In the year 18 — , I was placed at the Grammar 
 School of Lowthorpe cum Clay, in the North of 
 England. The reason for the exile of a boy of weak 
 constitution and excitable mind, like myself, to those 
 unhealthy fens was no more nor less than the 
 friendship, which existed between my uncle and 
 the Head Master, who was a very intelligent man, 
 as well as a good scholar, and a gentleman to boot, 
 so that it was, it may be, the. best tuition to place 
 
 

 A VEEY REMARKABLE DREAM. 369 
 
 me under, as I was intended to distinguish myself at 
 Oxford. 
 
 It was rather to finish my education, I should 
 have said, that I was entrusted to the care of the 
 Eev. E. Barclay, LL.D. : for I had passed several 
 years in the junior school at King's College. 
 
 On my arrival I was placed in the sixth form, and 
 immediately arrogated to myself all the privileges 
 of that favoured class. I enforced the services of 
 two smaller boys as fags — I bought a pipe, and I 
 wore a tail-coat on Sundays — on which occasions I 
 also exhibited (whenever it happened to be home 
 from the wash : i, e. once a fortnight) the stick-up 
 collar, which I had purloined from my elder brothers 
 drawer. 
 
 I looked forward to making a similar raid, un- 
 noticed, during the next holidays, and pictured to 
 myself, with pride and pleasure, the time when I 
 should be able to wear a "proper collar" every 
 Sunday : for I am afraid I was in those days rather 
 vain. On mature consideration, I think I might 
 venture to say — very vain. 
 
 I was just between boyhood and youngmanhood — ■ 
 standing, as Longfellow says of the maiden, — 
 
 " Where the brook and river meet." 
 
 I had begun to have an intense admiration of the 
 fair sex (as personified by Miss Walshingham's school 
 in general, which sat next to our pew in church — 
 and a certain Miss in particular, who mauaged to 
 
 B B 
 
370 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 give me glimpses of her face through the gap in the 
 red curtain), and yet I had not given up my devotion 
 to tarts and toffy. Between these two feelings my 
 pocket-money suffered seriously, as well as my mind. 
 Hours of the solemn night I spent in doubt and 
 anxiety, trying to decide whether I should have a 
 pot of pomatum or some of the sausage rolls at the 
 confectioner's in School Lane. Similar struggles 
 were perpetually going on between my person and 
 my appetites, the outer and the inner man divided 
 as to the respective merits of a new neck-tie and a 
 veal-pie, — or of a pair of gloves and a bottle of 
 grape wine. 
 
 I grieve to have, in addition to this, to own that, 
 in order to bedizen myself in trinkets — jewels and 
 barbaric gold, — I ran up a large bill with one 
 Eichard Bull, a jeweller, who was foolish enough to 
 give me credit. 
 
 Every half-holiday I used to adorn my person 
 with care, and accompanied by two chosen friends, 
 sally out with a double purpose. We used to walk 
 past Miss Walshingham's — so timing our visit as to 
 meet the damsels setting forth for their afternoon 
 walk — and then, turning into the fields, lie down 
 under a hedge, and enjoy the furtive pleasure of 
 tobacco. We returned after frequent pipes, just in 
 time to meet the girl-school once more on its return, 
 and to have another gaze at our respective fair-ones : 
 for we each of us had one of the pupils in our eyes. 
 
 Oh, Anna Wyse ! How devotedly did I adore you ! 
 
 i 
 
A VERY REMARKABLE DREAM. 371 
 
 Like you, I thought, were all the pictures in the 
 Book of Beauty, without an exception — after you I 
 named my meerschaum pipe, and your initials T 
 carved on every tree, and gate, and form, that my 
 knife could approach. 
 
 I once wrote an Acrostic to you, with much labour 
 and little poetic merit, and sent it on Valentine's 
 day, but I fear it never got further than Miss W.'s 
 fire-place. 
 
 Ah well! "I never loved a bright gazelle !" — Anna, 
 Anna! Why did you marry lanky Doctor Blogg? 
 But I suppose I must not complain, having myself, 
 since my Lowthorpe days, been engaged five times, 
 and married once. 
 
 Of course, as our walks were invariably in the 
 same direction as far as Miss W.'s, and of the same 
 duration, — they generally terminated in one place : 
 — a field, on the borders of the town, with a planta- 
 tion in one corner, in the centre of which stood the 
 remains of a small cottage, and a garden fallen into 
 decay. 
 
 One of my two companions was a native of Low- 
 thorpe, and from him I learnt the history of these 
 ruins. 
 
 At the time of the French Ee volution in 1792, 
 an Emigre*, who called himself Le Cocq, purchased 
 this cottage and field : and here he lived with his 
 only child — a girl about six years old. They were 
 attended by an old female-servant, whom they 
 brought with them. At first the inhabitants of Low- 
 
 BB 2 
 
372 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 thorpe were very curious indeed to learn who the 
 new-comers were — but to no avail. They saw no 
 one — and indeed no one ever saw them, for father 
 and child never went beyond the house and planta- 
 tion, and the servant only visited the town of an 
 evening, every now and then, for the purpose of 
 purchasing provisions. They seemed to live well, 
 and to lack no means of procuring any comforts, 
 so it became after a time the general belief that 
 the old man was immensely rich — but as nothing 
 further was ascertained, the good folk were obliged 
 to pocket their inquisitiveness, and be contented. 
 
 This went on for many years, until a tall fine- 
 looking foreigner, a military man, arrived in a very 
 handsome carriage and pair — drove straight to the 
 Tuileries (as the Lowthorpers called the Frenchman's 
 cottage, somewhat spitefully, on account of his not 
 mixing in their society), and was seen to drive away, 
 taking with him the young girl. This made another 
 nine days' wonder, but nothing more was then learnt 
 of Le Cocq than before. 
 
 Not long after this, however, the tradespeople, 
 with whom the old servant had been in the habit 
 of dealing, having missed her for some time, at 
 length acquainted the constable with the fact, and 
 he told the Mayor, who in turn told the Corporation, 
 and so, after some discussion, it was determined that 
 the Worshipful the Mayor should pay an official visit 
 to the cottage, and enquire into matters. 
 
 Of course his errand got bruited abroad, and half 
 
A VEEY EEMAEKABLE DREAM. 373 
 
 the town was at his heels before he arrived at Le 
 Cocq's. 
 
 He knocked repeatedly, and called on the inmates 
 to open, but obtained no answer. He was just on 
 the point of returning to the Hall to hold another 
 council, when a man, who had climbed over the 
 garden-palings, came up, and informed him that 
 the servant was lying apparently dead on the floor 
 of the kitchen. This was quite enough to warrant 
 what followed. A dozen sturdy hands and shoulders 
 soon burst open the door, and the Mayor walked 
 in : the Constable standing in the entry, and per- 
 mitting only a chosen few to follow in the steps 
 of the Dignitary. 
 
 The servant was discovered as described, lying on 
 her face. She had apparently fallen off her chair 
 in a fit of apoplexy — at that time it was usual to 
 account for all sudden death by apoplexy, but I 
 dare say in this case it was disease of the heart. 
 
 "Where was old Le Cocq?" was naturally the 
 next question. 
 
 They proceeded up stairs, and there they found 
 him in bed, reduced to a skeleton. At first they 
 thought him dead, but he opened his eyes, and 
 endeavoured to sit up, when he heard their voices. 
 They raised him into a sitting posture. He looked 
 earnestly at the Mayor, and in a barely audible 
 voice said, " The money — the money — I have buried 
 it all there — out there ! " — He raised his arm, as if 
 to point out the spot, but before he could do so, 
 
374 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 his hand fell back powerless on the coverlet, and 
 life was extinct. 
 
 It was supposed the poor old man had been con- 
 fined to his bed, and that, on the death of his servant, 
 being unable to rise through illness, he had literally 
 been starved to death ! 
 
 Of course a search was instituted for the money, 
 but it was unsuccessful. For years and years, one 
 person after another was bitten by the gold-hunting 
 mania, but to no purpose. An Irishman came from 
 Dublin to try his hand, and hunted everywhere ; and 
 a Scotchman walked from end to end of the field — 
 over every inch of it — with a divining rod. But the 
 charms of treasure-fertile Ireland failed, and the twig 
 even gave never a sign of hidden gold. 
 
 Such was in effect the story my schoolfellow told : 
 his words I have not attempted to give, for they were 
 no finer in composition and finish, than schoolboys' 
 tales are wont to be. 
 
 We were all three seated on a fallen tree in Le 
 Cocq's plantation at the time, and, when he had 
 done, the other fellow said, "I wonder the old boy 
 did not chew up the sheets, or tear open the pillow 
 and eat the feathers !" 
 
 As he uttered the words, one of those remarkable 
 — those mysterious psychological revelations, that I 
 have hinted at, occurred to me. As I sat there, it 
 came into my mind that " I had heard those words 
 before, and that we were all sitting on this tree, 
 when they were spoken" — but more I could not 
 
 
A VERY REMARKABLE DREAM. 375 
 
 remember. It was just a glimpse through a cloud 
 vague and indistinct ! Surely some of my readers 
 have met with such. It seems as if we had acted 
 our life previously ; as if we had rehearsed it before 
 in dreams, awaking from which, we totally forget 
 what has passed in them, except at times, when 
 some chord or nerve of memory is touched, and, 
 we remember that we have done, or said, exactly 
 what we have just done, or said, under precisely 
 the same circumstances, in a previous state of exist- 
 ence — or else in some dream, foreshadowing our life. 
 
 At that moment I could have — and would have — 
 sworn, that in a former state, or a prophetic sleep, I 
 had sat with the same companions, in that same spot, 
 and heard those same words, — but what happened 
 before, or was to happen after, was lost in obscurity 
 and confusion. 
 
 I had frequently felt this sensation before, but this 
 time it was stronger than ever, and, together with the 
 story, it caused me such disturbance that I lay 
 awake nearly all night, puzzling my brain for a 
 solution of the mystery, and vainly striving to re- 
 member the precedent and consequent actions in the 
 pre-existence or foreshadow of which memory had 
 brought back only a snatch — a glimpse. This en- 
 quiry after a time began to shape itself into a desire 
 to discover the lost gold, and I almost gave way to 
 the belief that I was fated to discover it. 
 
 I believe, if I could have got away unobserved, I 
 should have dug up, and searched the plantation, but 
 
376 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 I could never have managed to steal off, and if I had 
 done so, half-holidays would have been my only 
 opportunities, and then I should have been dis- 
 covered by my two companions, who, even when I 
 was not with them, were accustomed to go to the 
 ruined cottage. 
 
 My mind was incessantly occupied by this one 
 subject, and at length my anxiety and awe were still 
 further increased by a series of dreams which I had. 
 I seemed to be wandering, night after night, in the 
 plantation, always seeing it as clearly as if awake — 
 every tree, and stone, the same — not (as often hap- 
 pens in dreams) even a slight variation from the real 
 scene. 
 
 I seemed to traverse the ground backward and 
 forward, but to no effect. Still I whispered to myself 
 "Patience — have patience, and you will yet succeed !" 
 
 After having dreamt this same dream for some 
 nights, it underwent a change. I was, as before, 
 wandering in the plantation, I thought, when I saw 
 an old man, drest in the costume of the last century, 
 seated on a fallen tree : he was deep in conversation 
 with a young girl, who stood before him. I paused 
 and listened : the girl was speaking. " Surely, mon 
 pere," she said, "he has watched enough — he has 
 passed the ordeal — reveal the gold ! He has well 
 won it I" "I will !" replied the old man, " My vigil 
 is at an end, my duty done ! I will reveal it to 
 him ! " He rose, and turned towards me. I rushed 
 forward — "Oh, thanks, thanks!" I cried "tell me 
 
A VERY REMARKABLE DREAM. 377 
 
 where — where is it concealed?" The old man opened 
 his lips, and raised his arm, as if to indicate the spot, 
 when I woke suddenly to find the boy, who slept in 
 the same room with me, shaking me violently. It 
 seems I had groaned and muttered so much in my 
 sleep that he got alarmed and roused me. 
 
 I cannot describe how angry I was with him. I 
 stormed, I raved at him, until he was glad to slink 
 off to bed again, quite at a loss to account for my 
 passion. 
 
 That night I did not have another wink of sleep. 
 I laid my plans, I made my determination. I 
 counted the number of nights since the first dream I 
 had had on the subject — and found that this was the 
 ninth ; — mystic number ! I must then watch nine 
 nights, ere I could hope to discover the treasure. 
 How was I to get out at night ? That was a difficult 
 question : but my mind was so bent on making the 
 trial, that I soon hit upon a scheme. 
 
 During the day I could procure some large nails, 
 and drive them in between the bricks, under my 
 window, so as to form a species of ladder to the 
 ground — or rather a set of steps, which would be 
 effectually hidden by the leaves of the pear tree, 
 which was trained against the wall underneath, and 
 whose fruit I had often feloniously gathered by 
 means of an umbrella and knife, each at the end of a 
 fishing-rod, minus the top-joint, cutting off the pears 
 with the knife, and holding the umbrella beneath to 
 catch them, as they fell. Until morning I lay wide 
 
378 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 awake, determining on the road I should take to the 
 field, and how to get hack again unperceived. I 
 thought too, prematurely numbering my brood before 
 it had chipped the shell, what I should do with my 
 prize. I would buy a house near London, furnish it 
 handsomely, and then procure a very fast horse and 
 gig — drive past Miss Walshingham's, at walking time, 
 and when the girls came out, jump down, lift Anna 
 Wyse into the trap, and rattle away to Gretna Green ! 
 Ah, Miss Wyse ! You little thought how nearly you 
 were being the partner of such a romantic match ! 
 
 Next day I managed, unperceived, to drive in the 
 requisite nails, and at night, for the first time, I 
 clambered down, and hurried off by the back lanes 
 to my destination. It was a very dark, and solitary 
 place, and my heart beat violently, — I broke out in a 
 cold perspiration, but I compelled myself to complete 
 my task ! Three hours I waited, and then stole 
 swiftly back, and, unobserved, got to my bedroom. 
 
 In this way passed a week : I had but two more 
 days to wait ! But, lo, my plan was crushed — my 
 labour lost ! The morning of the last day but one, I 
 was called into the Master's study. I trembled, for I 
 feared I was detected, — but it was not so. Dr. Barclay 
 was standing before the fire with a black-edged letter 
 in his hand. In a few kind words he prepared me 
 for a shock I had little expected — my mother's 
 death ! Almost before he had finished speaking, my 
 brother arrived. My box was hurriedly packed, and 
 in an hour's time I was rattling London-ward, in 
 
A VERY REMARKABLE DREAM. 379 
 
 that stunned stupified condition, in which a great 
 and sudden calamity leaves us. I had been passion- 
 ately fond of my mother : my father had died the 
 year I was born, so that this was the first time I 
 stood face to face with Death. 
 
 The grief, in which I was plunged, entirely oblite- 
 rated all memory of my treasure-seeking from my 
 mind : and when I at length rallied from my sorrow, 
 absence and time had effaced my passion for gold- 
 digging, as well as my love for Miss Wyse ; and so 
 I heard, without a sigh, that I was not to return to 
 Dr. Barclay's, but to live with my uncle in London, 
 and read with a private tutor. 
 
 In time I went to the University. My career there 
 was not marked by any striking peculiarities, except 
 that, now and then, I experienced those inexplicable 
 dim recollections of a pre-existence or foreknowledge 
 (I do not know which to call it), of which I have 
 given an instance. 
 
 While at Oxford, I fell in with a young man 
 called Gilbert Markham. Our tastes coincided on 
 all points, and we soon became firm friends. He 
 was somewhat my senior in the University, but 
 of my own age to a month. After we had been 
 acquainted for a short time, I discovered that he was 
 the nephew of the Eector of Lowthorpe. We talked 
 a good deal about the old place, but I avoided any 
 mention of my gold-visions. The morning after this 
 conversation had taken place, I felt, when I woke, 
 a firm conviction that I had been dreaming of Low- 
 
380 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 thorpe, but what the circumstances of the dream 
 were, I could not call to mind. I puzzled my brains 
 over and over again, but in vain : — I could recall 
 nothing further than that Lowthorpe had been the 
 scene of my vision. 
 
 I have frequently found this difficulty in remem- 
 bering dreams, and this it is that has strengthened 
 my belief, that the recollections of a previous ac- 
 quaintance with our life, which I have spoken of, 
 arise from prophetic dreams. They resemble very 
 strikingly those fragmentary recollections of dreams, 
 which occur to us of a morning, although we are 
 unable to remember the whole. 
 
 Well, during the day I forgot all about this dream 
 of Lowthorpe, and did not dream of it again. Just 
 as I was passing my degree examination in the first 
 school, Markham put on his bachelor's gown, and left 
 Oxford, with the intention of getting a curacy, to 
 take title for ordination, as he was going into the 
 Church. 
 
 We wrote tolerably often to each other, until I 
 took my degree, and began to keep my terms at the 
 Temple, at which time a break took place in our cor- 
 respondence, owing however, I must confess, to my 
 negligence. 
 
 However, just at the beginning of one long vaca- 
 tion, I got a letter from Markham, saying that his 
 uncle had offered him the curacy at Lowthorpe — 
 that he had accepted it, and had been there already 
 three months. His letter concluded with an invita- 
 
A YEEY REMARKABLE DREAM. 381 
 
 tion to me " to come down to his bishopric, and 
 stay with him." The invitation was just the thing ; I 
 had no place to go to, and I did not desire to stay in 
 town ; so I packed my portmanteau and set off. 
 
 I arrived at Lowthorpe late on Saturday night. 
 Markham had just finished his sermon, so we sat 
 over the fire, smoked a pipe, and talked over old 
 times. Lowthorpe soon became the theme of con- 
 versation, and I heard of many changes. 
 
 Barclay had got a mastership at Eton ; the old 
 school-house had been burnt down ; one of the town 
 boys, who sat next to me in the sixth, had com- 
 mitted a forgery, and was off on one of those 
 
 " — travels, that nobody hurries 
 To publish at Colburn's or Longman's or Murray's." 
 
 Miss \Valshinghani had given up school ; and 
 finally — perfidious Anna Wyse had married lanky 
 Dr. Blogg, who used to attend us boys at Barclay's, 
 and physic us through our ailments ! 
 
 After we had consumed much tobacco, we retired 
 to bed, and I began again to suffer with my old Low- 
 thorpe disease. I wondered and thought over the 
 Treasure Field. Had old Le Cocq's money been 
 discovered ? It was not probable, or I should most 
 likely have seen it in the papers. With my head 
 full of these thoughts, I fell asleep, to see once more 
 in a dream the old plantation and ruined cottage, as 
 distinctly as in my schoolboy days. 
 
 Xext morning I was up only just in time for 
 
382 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 church, for my sleep had been disturbed, and I 
 had passed but a restless night. Markham told 
 me that he had procured a seat for me, in a friend's 
 pew, in the gallery : and thither I accordingly went. 
 
 This was the first time I had ever been in the 
 gallery of Lowthorpe Church. The Grammar-school 
 pew was down in the aisle, close to the chancel, and, 
 as I never went to Church except with the school, I 
 had never been in the gallery : so that I looked round 
 with some curiosity, as I went towards the pew, in 
 which I was to sit. How strange — how very strange ! 
 The place seemed as familiar to me as if I had been 
 there every day for twenty years. I must have been 
 there before ! But when ? I sat down completely 
 at a loss. All of a sudden, a light burst in upon 
 me ! I had seen it in a dream — the dream, which 
 I had dreamt at Oxford, but had been unable to 
 recall at the time. Wonderful to tell, the whole 
 of it now came back to my memory, as clearly as 
 if it had happened but yesterday. 
 
 I had dreamt that I went into the gallery of Low- 
 thorpe Church, and had seated myself in the very 
 pew, in which Markham had procured me a place 
 — that opposite to me was Anna Wyse, smiling to 
 me, and beckoning me to come to her. As I re- 
 membered this part of the vision, I looked at the 
 opposite gallery — and there, exactly facing me, sat 
 Mrs. Blogg — as pretty as ever, and apparently quite 
 disposed to renew our old smiling acquaintance. 
 However, to go on with my dream. In it I had 
 
A VERY REMARKABLE DREAM. 383 
 
 seen everything as it really was — the lamps the 
 same — the pews the same — the very monuments on 
 the wall the same ! I seemed to hear the service 
 through, and then to quit the church, with one last 
 gaze at Anna. Then followed one of those awful 
 visions, which it is painful even to think of when 
 awake. As the people came out of the Church, a 
 loud bellowing arose — the crowd began to fly, and 
 I heard the cry of "Mad Bull ! save yourselves !" 
 
 All those around me made their escape, but I, 
 with the dreadful impotence of dreams, could not 
 stir: my feet were glued to the ground, my arms 
 hung powerless, I tried to scream, but no sound 
 came : and, when at length I was able to run, I 
 was fearfully conscious that, though I strained every 
 muscle, I did not make an inch of ground ! 
 
 After this my dream became confused more and 
 more, and I could not remember anything distinctly. 
 
 When service was over, I joined my friend in the 
 vestry ; while he was disrobing, I told him of my 
 dream, and how strangely it had come back to my 
 memory. As we left the Church, he said, laugh- 
 ingly, " Well, the first part has come true : let us 
 hope the last won't !" " It's not very likely :" said I. 
 "You don't have such infuriated animals running 
 loose in Lowthorpe of a Sunday, do you?" 
 
 Before he had time to answer, I felt a hand laid 
 on my shoulder : I turned, and saw before me a 
 little fat angry-looking man, who was eyeing me 
 sternly. "What do you want?" said I. "Your 
 
384 QUIPS AND CEANKS. 
 
 name is ?"he said, half-enquiringly. I bowed. 
 
 "And a nice fellow yon are/' lie broke ont, "to try 
 and cheat an honest tradesman. But I knew you 
 again. You owe me ten pound : — You'll excuse 
 my talking business on Sunday, Mr. Markham, but 
 this gent's a slippery customer !" 
 
 "What is your name?" I enquired brusquely, for 
 I was getting angry in my turn. 
 
 " I'm a Jeweller, and my name's Bull ; and you 
 owe me ten pound, and you sha'n't go till you pay 
 me!" 
 
 When he mentioned his name, Markham and I 
 looked at one another, and burst into a roar of 
 laughter ! The little man got more infuriated than 
 ever. Markham however appeased him. " See ! " 
 said he to me aside, "this is the infuriated Ox of 
 your dream ! " then turning to Bull he added — " If 
 your claim is just, I will guarantee its settlement ; 
 in the meantime I should recommend you to con- 
 duct yourself with greater propriety on Sunday, and 
 treat a gentleman with more respect : " and he read 
 the irascible little fellow a lecture, that sent him off 
 humbled and abashed. 
 
 He was quite right though ! In the hurry of 
 leaving, and in my subsequent sorrows, I had quite 
 forgotten the bill I had run up with him. On the 
 Monday I paid it, after frightening my savage little 
 friend, by threatening him not to settle the bill, as 
 more than the requisite seven years had elapsed 
 since I incurred the debt. 
 
A VERY REMARKABLE DREAM. 385 
 
 The dream was a remarkable one, both Markham 
 and myself agreed. Had the forewarning been less 
 figurative, the wonder would have been less ! 
 
 To return once more to the Treasure field. I 
 found that the site of Le Cocq's house, and the 
 adjoining field, were now occupied by the Low- 
 thorpe Baths and Wash-houses ; during the erection 
 of which, not a penny was discovered, although the 
 foundations were laid pretty deep. 
 
 Markham told me that, a short time ago, the 
 Mayor got a letter from a French lady, stating that 
 she was the daughter of the Emigre* Le Cocq (as he 
 had given out his name to be), that she had passed 
 through great troubles, but had reached her 68th 
 year. "She had lately heard," she wrote, "that 
 there was a belief prevalent in Lowthorpe, that her 
 father had concealed treasure on the premises. This," 
 she said, " was not possible, as he only received small 
 remittances from France, and could not have left any 
 considerable sum behind him/' He must, therefore 
 have been wandering in his mind, when he spoke to 
 the Mayor — and no wonder, after all his sufferings, 
 poor old man ! 
 
 So there was an end of my Fortune hunting ! 
 
 I have headed this paper "A Very Eemarkable 
 Dream." I leave my readers to apply the title to 
 whichever vision they prefer — either the one about 
 Le Cocq, or the one about the Bull. 
 
 c c 
 
386 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 LITTLE KINDNESSES. 
 
 "tenuis fugiens per gramina rivus." I 
 
 Look how a slender rivulet steals along 
 In windings devious through a meadow's grass ; 
 Its waters all too scant to yield a song 
 Of murmurous pleasure unto all that pass. 
 Therefore with humble aim it does but seek 
 The thirsting herbage to refresh unseen, 
 Whereat each tiny leaf, — each flow'ret meek, 
 Doth clothe itself with sweets and livelier green. 
 
 Thus the Good Heart, who has no store of wealth 
 His poorer brethren to endow withal, 
 Doeth all Little Kindnesses by stealth, 
 That so the World may not perceive at all. 
 Nor should we know the virtues, which he hath, 
 Save for the bright'ning looks that mark his humble 
 path. 
 
387 
 
 A PAETING SONG. 
 
 Heavens, keep watch above her 
 'Gainst all care and strife, 
 For I love — I love her 
 Better than my life ! 
 
 Parted — yet united, 
 Hoping through our fears, 
 Look we on, love-lighted, 
 Down the coming years. 
 
 I can find none better 
 Whether far or near ; 
 How can I forget her, * 
 Who is all so dear ? 
 
 Heavens, keep watch above her. 
 Mine elected wife, 
 For I love — I love her 
 Dearer than my life ! 
 
388 QUIPS AND CRANKS. 
 
 A CONSTANT MIND. 
 
 JOJquam memento rebus in arduis 
 Servare mentem, non secus in bonis." 
 
 As you have seen a cliff to seaward front 
 Calm and unchanged — immoveable alike, 
 Whether the Ocean with fierce ceaseless brunt 
 Against its broad bare bosom wildly strike, 
 Driving the foam of the tumultuous waves 
 In mist-clouds inland ; — or with gentle flow, 
 One living emerald, the smooth Sea laves 
 Its moveless feet — whereat wave-fringes throw 
 A lavish hoard of pearly bubbles. Know 
 That, as the rock the tempest-billow braves, — 
 And scorns the fawning tide — of the great Sea 
 With equal calm and majesty, — so we, 
 Without excess of joy or sorrow, still 
 Should face, with steady heart, our fortunes good 
 or ill! 
 
389 
 
 L'EISTVOI. 
 
 Kind Keader, when the spring is dry, 
 
 And all is told I had to tell, 
 
 I pray you put the volume by 
 
 With this kind word — "His meaning's well !" 
 
 I've drawn you funny men and things, 
 The flying fancy photographing : — 
 At times I've aimed at Social stings 
 To mingle purpose with the laughing. 
 
 I've sung you gay and solemn rhymes, 
 I've told you sad and merry stories 
 Of ancient days and modern times — 
 " Nunc vino"s and " Memento mori"s. 
 
 And if some good, a thread of gold, 
 Amid the web of fancy lingers, 
 It is enough ! For then, I hold, 
 Not vainly toiled the willing fingers ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 And you, kind Lady, too, whose name 
 My dedicative page rehearses, 
 Hoping to gain your praise, I frame 
 My varied chain of tales and verses. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Good Temper, bearing much despite, 
 But ne'er returning good for evil, — 
 
390 QUIPS AND CKANKS. 
 
 And open Candour, clad in white, 
 
 That "speaks the truth, and shames the devil," 
 
 True Charity, that hears no ill 
 Of any friend or neighbour living, — 
 And active Goodness never still, 
 For ever planning, ever giving, — 
 
 These virtues form the daily round 
 Of duty, which your life engages. — 
 Their teaching may, I trust, be found 
 Eeflected in my volume's pages. ' 
 
 * * % 
 
 To your kind hands the book I trust, 
 With all its faults, its end is true : — 
 Were not its purpose good and just, 
 It had not been inscribed to you. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 
 IE O'Jl 
 
 londok : 
 
 printed bv r. clay, son, and taylor, 
 
 bread street hill. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 ' ■ 
 
 
 . I I