LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Shelf .ZP#j:y 1 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 3*^aKS!* f Gleanings feom Populak Authors, GRAVE AND GAY. "STRAIGHT TO THE MAYOR HE TOOK HIS WAT." GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS GRAVE AND GAY INTRODUCTION BY EDWARD J. HARDING Author of "Cothurnus and Lyre," Etc. ILLUSTRATED CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited NEW YORK, LONDON, PARIS AND MELBOURNE ^f^^' Copyright, 1886, By O. M. DUNHAM. All rights reserved. PRESS OF HUNTER & BEACH, NEW YORK, INTRODUCTION. I HAVE occasionally amused my fancy by feigning the existence of a future state for books — a whole phantasmal world inhabited by the ghosts of dead and gone epics, dramas, romances, and where all the characters of fiction glide murmuring by, yeritable shadows of shades. Over the portico would be inscribed " Hahent sua fata libelUj" and the three kingdoms would all be thronged. In the infernal regions proper, we should look to find Heine and Swift and all the swarm of gross and profane writers, and with them whatever in literature is trite or dull or insincere, for in art these are among the cardinal sins. That which is not good in literature is bad ; there is no mean or borderland. Neither gods nor men nor birds of the air can endure an indifEerent bard. Yet better a quavering note than a false one; and for your dis- sembling poet the deepest dungeons are in store. Many a sonnet that in its day was greatly praised, resembling with its mincing gait and affected phrase some fine coquette, now lies "quite chapfallen," spite of all its airs and graces and "jDaint an inch thick." For a lie is in its nature mortal and vulnerable ; your glass and plaster will sooner or later crack and crumble, how bravely soever they flaunt it in robes of silver or bronze ; that which a man but half feels, but half believes, is forever at war with itself, and will die self-slain. False taste of a certain sort we call meretricious ; the phrase implies a harsh censure, but a just one. A fair and honest thought will never be over-dressed. A noble conception, a fine fancy, how- ever it may suffer in effectiveness or grace when clothed in other language, will still retain some power to thrill or charm, for beauty is unchangeable in its essence; but how woefully the poverty of many a pompous phrase is exposed by stripping it of its rhetoric! "One that wrajos the drapery of his couch about him" does but tuck himself up in his bed-clothes; and if the latter is not a striking or poetical image, then neither is the former. But take such an image as this : "I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, damsel, in the light of your blue eyes," and try to degrade it by substituting any equivalent phrase, and you will have your labor for your pains. There are literary sins, nowever, which are of a more venial type than affecta- tion or tediousness, and for such offences we should expect to find a purgatory prepared. Here might suffer and repent, not without hope, such works as were crude or flawed or ill-regulated ; the monuments of misdirected energy, novels with i INTRODUCTION. a mission, pbilo-Baconian Shakespeare commentaries, and such-like towers of Babel, would fitly be consigned to purgatory. Here, too, would be found all merely imitative literature; not in the lowest depth, for imitation demands a certain sincerity, a certain appreciation of the thing imitated ; ay, and sometimes there is a grace in the mimicry that goes far to excuse it. But unless the writer puts something of himself into his work — something good and admirable — your copyist is but an echo, and must share the fate of that disembodied nymph. Purgatory should be a populous place, recruited as it is from so large a class. How much of our early American literature has vanished thither ! Well-meaning books, many of them; ay, and useful too, in their own day and among their own audience, for not a few of us prefer good to best, mock turtle to real. "All claret would be port if it could," said Dr. Johnson; and for my part I find it hard to blame an unrealized aspiration. There is respectable society in purgatory, and the book that arrives there might easily have gone further and fared worse. Many an early work of a great writer has its home there, and plumes itself, no doubt, on its relationship to the nobility. Parodies and burlesques are sins against the light, and must be sought in a lower sphere. Needless to pursue the fancy further; the Elysian Fields of literature are famil- iar ground. Indeed, it scarcely seems a metaphor to speak of the soul of a noble book, so marked and characteristic is the impression which it leaves. Some books are like lovely ladies or charming children ; some like gallant knights, pious priests, lovers, gipsies. There are poems which resemble an exquisite violin-solo, a porcelain vase, a cup of ivory curiously carved ; others are like a trumpet call, a cataract, a tempest; others are akin to the mountain, the forest, the starlit skies. "Hamlet" is like the wailing of the winter wind ; " As You Like It " is a mountain brook ; "Kubla Khan" is a frost-picture on a window-pane; "Childe Harold" is a ruin tinged with moonlight ; " In Memoriam " a rainbow. Your song or story may be a cigarette, or a butterfly, or a peach, or a game of chess ; jasmine, violets, a nightin- gale, a kiss ; a splendid robe, a flying carpet, a spyglass, an altar ; strong wine, sweet milk, pure water, salt air. And then the characters of drama and fiction, the heroes of ballad and epic, what a goodly host they make, and what a wonderful world they inhabit ! Though for the matter of that, had we but eyes to see, this actual world of ours is far more strange and fair than any the poets feign, howso- ever the "light that never was on sea or land" may illumine it. But it is Art's mission to teach us to see and hear and feel ; to find the immortal hidden in the mortal. And hence it is that our friends m fiction are better known to us, almost more real to us, than our own kinsmen and companions. We believe in Colonel Newcome, although we never knew his like ; we recognize Rosalind at a glance ; Falstaff and lago, Margaret and Becky Sharp, Pecksniff and Uncle Toby, how vividly we remember them all ! And here let the Comic Muse claim her rightful place. If beauty is immortal, then wit is equally so. If, as the familiar verse of Keats affirms, the persistence of its power to please is the test of beauty, the same thing is true of wit. Your quibbles and far-fetched pleasantries, indeed, soon pall on the palate, INTRODUCTION. and a stale joke is even flatter than a stale moral. But a genuine piece of sound humor outlasts the ages, braving translator and commentator alike. Old Aristo- phanes can tickle us yet ; Dogberry's charge to the ■watch and M. Jourdain's delight in his native talent for iDrose are a joy forever. If Shakespeare's allusions were modernized for the reader, as would be done with a foreign classical author, we should earn many a laugh that our ignorance makes ns lose. And indeed a sweet laugh is pure music, pleasant alike to laugher and listener. Critics might come to prescribe the canons of wit and formulate its principles; nay, jests might be con- structed "by line and level;" observing the approved intervals and modulations, the laws of consonance and dissonance, as correctly as your mathematician's music. But it would be a sorry task to dissect a joke as though it were a syllogism, to weigh Puck in the scales and brush the bloom off Punchinello's grapes. We want to laugh, not to see the working of the showman's wires ; and after all it takes genius to create, no less in the realm of Humor than elsewhere. All hail then to "Jest and Youthful Jollity," whom even the singer of "Paradise Lost" was fain to invoke. The fancy upon which I played awhile ago ought not to be deemed in any wise irreverent. For if the best books are those which make the best men, how high a calling is that of the writer ! How heinous an offender is he who dishonors his gift ! The feeling of an honest literary craftsman in regard to his work is akin to that of the old monkish transcribers over their illuminated missals ; we spare not ourselves, for the work is worthy. Let it be pardoned me, then, if I return for a moment to my original thought. Anthologies and compilations, such as the present volume, somewhat resemble my fabled Paradise of Books. There are the Dii Majorum Gen- tium, the high-caste gods of literature, "aloft in awful state;" then come the lesser deities, and then the nymphs and fauns and translated heroes. Or let us rather liken it to a gathering of old friends, a Christmas company assembled under one roof — a company where none is dull, or trite, or profane; where every one earns his welcome, and stories new and old go round with the wine. So be it then ; and Prosit ! EDWARD J. HARDING. My Child- Wife . Bret Harte in Verse A Spoilt Boy . " . Paul Eevere's Eide A Highland Feud . The Rhine and the Moselle Sent lo God His Speech The Autobiography of a Wedding How to Wash a Dog The Christmas Choir Winstanley Rip Van Winkle . The Falcon A Quarter-Hour Chime Love in a Balloon The Discontented Pendulum The BaUad of OarmiDian . My Fare Ten Minutes with Puck . The Taming of the Shrew Two Clever Sailors Attacked hy Pirates The Prisoner of ChiUon Check to a Burglar Mr. and Mrs. Tihhs at VauxhaU The Tiger . The Dream of Eugene Aram Baron Trenck Jack Goodwin's Joke The Grave of Macleod of Dare Nothing to Wear . The Soap and Wather The Slave Ship Rinq Charles Dickens Captain Marryat . Henky Wadsworth Lonopeliow Sir Walter Scott . Edwin Aenold Mas Adeler . . . W. R. S. Ralston . Thomas Hardy Jean Ingelow Washington Irving Oliver Wendell Holmes . Theyre Smith Jane Taylor Henry Wadsworth Longfello-b' G. Manville Fenn . H. Cholmondeley-Pennell Charles Lamb Heraclitus Grey Chakles Eeade Lord Byron G. Manville Fenn . Oliver Goldsmith . William Blake Thomas Hood William Black William Allan Butlku Samuel Lover J. G. Whittier PAGE 2 12 U 19 20 22 26 27 28 32 36 42 44 48 51 52 55 58 60 64 65 70 74 78 79 80 82 85 88 92 97 99 CONTENTS. The Bachelor's Thermometer Briary Villas Home Again The Leaden Weight Broken Hearts Niagara in Winter The Song of the Shirt At Mrs. Jellyhy's Ben Blower's Story A Eeally Good Day's Fishing Lord XTllin's Daughter My XJncle Roland's Tale . Bevis at Home Poor Miss Finch . Captain Eeece The Tower of London Leedle Yawcoh Strauss Happy Thoughts . The Value of Thought Rupert's March Mr. Rabbit and Mr, Fox . First Blood My Mistakes The Bells . My Examination . A Cold Reception . King Jolm and the Ahhot . Sleighing in the Snow My Aunt . The Bravery of Bailie Nicol Jarvio A Dreadful Affair The Rime of the Ancient Mariner The Dilemma of Phadrig Hcrvc Eiel A Literary Dinner To Althea from Prison In Wonderland The Briefless Barrister The Vicar's Guest The Shipwreck Mrs. Brown on the Army . The Showman's Song James Smith William Sawyek Chakles Gibbon Geo. Augustus Saia Thomas Hood Chakles Dickens Chahles p. Hoffman James Payn Thomas Campbell Lord Lytton Richard Jepfeeie.= WiLKiE Collins W. S. Gilbert William Hepworth Dixon Charles F. Adams f. c. burnand John Ruskin Walter Thornbury J. C. Harris J. Fenimoue Cooper Richard WnixEiNa . Edgar Allan Poe . Captain Mareyat . F. W. Robinson From " The Fircy licliqtws " Colonel Fred Burnaey Oliver Wendell Holmes Sir Walter Scott Samuel Taylor Coleridge Gerald Griffin Robert Browning W. M. Thackeray Richard Lovelace William Senior John G. Saxe Thomas Archer Jane Porter Arthur Skutchley Henry J. Byron CONTENTS. Brought to Bay Her Letter Othello eii Amateur Boys will be Boys Tour London Lyrics : — Jly Mistress's Boots Sli's. Smith ; The Housemaid ; The Crossing- sweeper The Story of Le Fevro The Jackdaw of Eheims . The Tale of the English Sailor . Gone Home on New Year's Eve . Mr. Grains' Lake . The Strangest Adventure Phojhe's Suitor Attorney Sneak The Eox's Tale The Homes of the Poor Ode to a Nightingale The First Mate Grizzly .... The Pauper's Drive The Two Wellers . The Apple Dumplings and a King The Pit and the Pendulum Home Troubles The Buccaneer's Treasure The Courtin' Going Home Our Jerusalem Pony The Spanish Aimada What 1 went through to get Her Master and Man The Shandon BeUs One Struggle Gil Bias' Adventures at Pennaflor A Fatal Attachment The Boat Race Helping a Lame Dog over a Stile Fair Rosamond The Showman's Courtship A Thank Offering The Story of a Gridiron , B-KET Haute Chaules Lever PAGE 222 225 226 230 Frederick Locker 234 Laukexce Sterke . 236 The Kev. Thomas Bahham 240 Captain Marryat 243 F. E. Weatherly 246 Lt.-Colonel Hough 249 . 250 Miss Braddon 253 Robert Buchanan . 257 Samuel I;Over 259 Mrs. Henry Wooy . 263 John Keats 268 James Russell Lowell 269 AValter Besant and James Rice . 270 Thomas Noel 273 Charles Dickens 274 Dr. Wolcot 276 Edgar Allan Poe 278 . 284 Washington Irving 286 James Russell Lowell 289 Edmund Yates 289 James Payn 292 Lord Macaulay 295 Lt.-Colonel Hough 297 Thomas Crofton Croker . 302 From " The Reliques of Father Front" 305 F. W. RoiilNSON 306 xVlain Rene Le Sage 308 W. M. Thackeray . . ■ . 311 W. C. Bennett 315 Frank E. Smedley 317 Owen Meredith (The Earl of Lytton) 321 Aetemus Ward 324 G. Manville Fenn 326 Samuel Lover 329 CONTENTS. The Vision of the Maid of Orloans Drawn for a Soldier The Eibbonman BaUad Falstaff the Valiant The Tired Jester . The Clergyman's Story The Lays of Longfellow : The Day is Done ; The Bui-ial of the Minnisink ; The Village Blacksmith ; Weariness , The Children's Hour ; King Christian ; The Eainy Day The Siege of Torquilstone Noble Poverty Mazeppa's Punishment Striking lie . Bardell against Pickwick At the Alma The Blind Linnet . eobert southey Thomas Hood William Cakleton C. S. Calverley Shakespeare William Sawyer Charles Dickens PAGE 333 337 338 342 343 345 346 Day Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 350 Sir Walter Scott .... 355 Laurence Sterne .... 358 Lord Byron 360 Walter Besant and James Eice . .. 362 Charles Dickens .... 366 William Howard Eessell 371 EOEERT BcICHANAH . 375 IlSrTEODUCTOEY. f HERE are times when, per- haps with a few minutes to spare, or maybe weary, a lover of reading says to himself, "I want a book;" and he feels that he requires a volume upon which he can lay his hand, and without trouble or research, open it anywhere, sure of finding something into which, without preface or introduction, he can plunge at once. His want is r a work, not by any particular writer, but one in which he can meet with some of the best sayings of the best authors : of those who can paint the pas- sions of the human breast in prose or verse and of those who can, by a few touches of the pen, descriptively place a glowing scene before the reader's eyes; of the historian a]id the humourist ; of all, in short, of those whose writings bear the hall-mark of intrinsic merit, stamped by the gi-eat jury of the read- ing world. Such a work as this mil be placed before the reader ; a treasury, in fact, of pieces suitable for reading in pubHc, in private, on the platform, or in the easy chair; in silent com- muning with the author's thoughts, or to a listening circle at the fireside. In these days of multipHcity of publications, and ease of communication with goodly libraries, there should be no difficulty in at once finding sonxething to interest a public or private readei" or one who solely seeks instruction or amusement ; but, even with an infinity of books around, the would-be reader finds no little difficulty in selecting a short comprehensive extract, one that combine! the qualities of beginning and ending well, explain- ing itself, being free from errors of bad taste, and. above all, riveting the attention f*om first to last. Here, then, will be found what is justly looked upon as the very essence of our best writers, in selections suitable for a few minutes' reading, with their shorter pieces gathered from divers works, and linked together as a comprehensive whole. Well- known sketches that have become classic, and are as much favoured as our good old songs, are in- troduced ; but, in addition, pages have been taken from authors far less read, but whose works it is believed mil be found to possess the qualities so necessary here. Translations from some of the best Continental writers will be found side by side with the emanations from the minds of that Anglo- Saxon race across the Atlantic, whose writings need no translation : for the touchstone applied is to prove whether the extract be of genuine in- terest, and if so, its place will be within these pages. A reasonable balance has been preserved between prose and verse, the humorous, the pathetic, and those thrilling descriptive scenes in which so many of our writers excel. For the Editor's aim has been to produce such a work as will satisfy the most exacting. Whether to entertain others or for private reading, here is ample store— a book that will be always welcome, and reluctantly laid down. GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR. AUTHORS. MY CHILD-WIFE.* [From "David Copperfleld." By Chaeies Dickens.] SOMETIMES, of an evening, when I was at home and at work — for I wrote a good deal now, and was beginning in a small way to be known as a writer — I would lay down my pen, and watch my child- wife trying to be good. First of all, she would bring out the immense account-book, and lay it down upon the table, with a deep sigh. Then she would open it at the place where Jip had made it illegible last night, and call Jip up to look at his misdeeds. This would occasion a diversion in - Jip's favour, and some inking of his nose, perhaps, as a penalty. Then she would tell Jip to lie down on the table instantly, "like a lion" — which was one of his tricks, though I cannot say the likeness was striking — and, if he were in an obedient humour, he would obey. Then she would take up a pen, and begin to write, and find a hair in it. Then she would take up another pen, and begin to write, and find that it spluttered. Then she would take up another pen, and begin to write, and say in a low voice, " Oh, it's a talking pen, and will disturb Doady !" And then she would give it up as a bad job, and put the account book away, after pretending to crush the lion with it. Or, if she were in a very sedate and serious state of mind, she would sit down with the tablets, and a little basket of bills and other documents, which looked more like curl-papers than anything else, and endeavour to get some result out of them. After severely comparing one vfith another, and making entries on the tablets, and blotting them out, and counting all the fingers of her left hand over and over again, backwards and forwards, she would be so vexed and discouraged, and would look so unhappy, that it gave me pain to see her bright face clouded — and for me ! — and I would go .softly to her and say : "What's the matter, Dora 1" Dora would look up hopelessly, and reply, " They won't come right. They make my head ache so. And they won't do anything I want !" Then I would say, "Now, let us try together. .Let me show you, Dora." Then I would commence a practical demon- stration, to which Dora would pay profound atten- tion, perhaps for five minutes ; when she would begin to be dreadfully tired, ancl would lighten the subject by curling my hair, or trying the effect of my face -svith my shirt-collar turned down. If I tacitly checked this playfulness, and persisted, she would look so scared and disconsolate, as she became more and more bewildered, that the remembrance of her natural gaiety when I first strayed into her path, and of her being my child- wife, would come reproachfully upon me ; and I would lay the pencil down, and call for the guitar. When the debates were heavy — I mean as to length, not quality, for in the last respect they were not often otherwise — and I went home late, Dora would never rest when she heard my foot- steps, but would always come down stairs to meet me. When my evenings were unoccupied by the pursuit for which I had qualified myself with so much pains, and I was engaged in writing at home, she would sit quietly near me, however late the hour, and be so mute, that I would often think she had dropped asleep. But generally, when I raised my head, I saw her blue eyes looking at me with the quiet attention of which I have already spoken. " Oh, what a weary boy !" said Dora one night, when I met her eyes as I was shutting up my desk. "What a weary girl !" said I. "That's more to the purpose. You must go to bed another time, my love. It's far too late for you." "No, don't send me to bed!" pleaded Dora, coming to my side. " Pray don't do that ! " '' Dora ! " To my amazement she was sobbing on my neck. " Not well, my dear not happy !" " Yes ! quite well, and very happy !" said Dora. " But say you'll let me stop and see you write." " Why, what a sight for such bright eyes at mid- night ! " I replied. " Are they bright, though 1 " returned Dora, laughing. " I'm so glad they're bright." " Little Vanity ! " said I. But it was not vanity ; it was only harmless delight in my admiration. I knew that very well, before she told me so. " If you think them pretty, say I may always stop, and see you write ! " said Dora. " Do you think them pretty ?" " Very pretty." " Then let me always stop and see you write." " I am afraid that won't improve their bright- ness, Dora." " Yes it will ! Because, you clever boy, you'll not forget me then, while you are full of silent fancies. Will you mind it, if I say something very, very silly? — more than usual?" inquired Dora, peeping over my shoulder into my face. " What wonderful thing is that 1 " said L * By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall (Limited), MY CHILD-WIFK " Please let me hold the pens," said Dora. " I want to have something to do with aU those many- hours when you are so industrious. May I hold the pens?" The remembrance of her pretty joy when I said " Yes," brings tears into my eyes. The next time I sat down to write, and regularly afterwards, she sat in her old place, with a spare bundle of pens at her side. Her triumph in this connection with my work, and her deHght when I wanted a new pen — which I very often feigned to do — suggested to me a new way of pleasing my child-wife. I occasionally made a pretence of wanting a page or two of manuscript copied. Then Dora was in her glory. The preparations she made for this great work, the aprons she put on, the bibs she borrowed from the kitchen to keep off the ink, the time she took, the innumerable stoppages she made to have a laugh with Jip as if he understood it aU, her conviction that Jier work was incomplete unless she signed her name at the end, and the way in which she would bring it to me, like a school-copy, and then, when I praised it, clasp me round the neck, are touching recollections to me, simple as they might appear to other men. She took possession of the keys soon after this, and went jingUng about the house with the whole bunch in a little basket, tied to her slender waist. I seldom found that the places to which they belonged were locked, or that they were of any use except as a plaything for Jip — but Dora was pleased, and that pleased me. She was quite satisfied that a good deal was effected by this make-belief of house-keeping ; and was as merry as if we had been keeping a baby-house for a joke. ******** All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora in our cottage. I do not know how long she has been ill. I am so used to it in feeling, that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, in weeks or months ; but in my usage and ex- perience, it is a weary, weary while. They have left off telling me to " wait a few days more." I have begun to fear, remotely, that the day may never shine when I shall see my child- wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip. He is, as it were, suddenly grown very old. It may be that he misses in his mistress something that enlivened him and made him younger ; but he mopes, and his sight is weak, and his limbs are feeble, and my aunt is sorry that he objects to her no more, but creeps near her as he lies on Dora's bed — she sitting at the bedside — and mildly licks her hand. Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no hasty or complaining word. She says that we are very good to her ; that her dear old careful boy is tiring himself out, she knows ; that my aunt has no sleep, yet is always wakeful, active, and kind. Sometimes the little bird-like ladies come to see her ; and then we talk about our wedding-day, and aU that happy time. What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be— and in aU life, within doors and vrithout — when I sit in the quiet, shaded, orderly room, with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned towards me, and her little fingers twining round my hand ! Many and many an hour I sit thus ; but, of aU those times, three times come the freshest on my mind. It is morning ; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt's hands, shows nie how her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, and how long and bright it is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered, in that net she wears. " Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy," she says, when I smile ; " but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; and because, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in the glass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock of it. Oh, what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when. I gave you one ! " " That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given you, Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was." "Ah !" but I didn't like to tell you," says Dora, " then, how I had cried over them, because I believed you really liked me ! When I can run about again as I used to do, Doady, let us go and see those places where we were such a silly couple, shall we ? And take some of the old walks 1 And not forget poor papa ?" " Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So- you must make haste to get well, my dear." " Oh, I shall soon do that ! I am so much better,, you don't know !" It is evening ; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with the same face turned towards, me. We have been silent, and there is a smile upon her face. I have ceased to carry my light burden up and down stairs now. She lies here all the day. " Doady ! " " My dear Dora !" " You won't think what I am going to say, un- reasonable, after what you told me, such a little whUe ago, of Mr. Wickfield's not being well 1 I want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see- her." " I wiU write to her, my dear." "Will you?" " Directly." " What a good, kind boy ! Doady, take me on: GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. your arm. Indeed, my dear, it's not a whim. It's not a fooUsh fancy. I want, very mucii indeed, to see her." " I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure to come." " You are very lonely when you go down stairs now 1 " Dora whispers, with her arm about my neck. " How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I .see your empty chair V " My empty chair !" She clings to me for a little while in silence. " And you really miss me. " I won't, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy ; though my dear boy is so lonely by himself, before his child- wife's empty chair !" It is night ; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived ; has been among us for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have sat with Dora since the morning, all together. We have not talked much, but Dora has been perfectly con- tented and cheerful. We are now alone. Do I know now that my child-wife will soon Mt Child-wife. {Draun &y F, Barnard.} Doady ? " looking up, and brightly smiling. " Even poor, giddy, stupid me V " My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much ? " " Oh, husband ! I am so glad, yet so sorry !" creeping closer to me, and folding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobs, and then is quiet and quite happy. " Quite !" she says. " Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that I want very, very much to see her ; and I have nothing left to wish for." " Except to get well again, Dora." " Ah, Doady ! Sometimes I think — you know I always was a sUly little thing ! — that that wiU never be !" " Don't say so, Dora ! Dearest love, don't think sol" leave me ? They have told me so ; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts ; but I am far from sure that I have taken that truth to heart. I cannot master it. I have withdrawn by myself many times to-day to weep. I have remembered Who wept for a parting between the living and the dead. I have bethought me of all that gracious and compassionate history. I have tried to resign myself and to console myself ; and that, I hojie, I may have done imperfectly ; but what I cannot firmly settle in my mind is, that the end will absolutely come. I hold her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine, I see her love for me, alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out a pale lingering shadow of belief that she will be spared. " I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say something I have often thought of MY CHILD-WIFE. saying lately. You won't mind'?" ■with a gentle look. "Mind, my darling 1" " Because I don't know what you wOl think, or what you may have thought sometimes. Perhaps you have often thought the same. Doady, dear, I am afraid I was too young." I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into my eyes and speaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on, I feel, with a stricken heart, that she is speaking of herself as past. " I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don't mean in years only, but in experience, and thoughts, and everything. I was such a silly Uttle creature ! I am afraid it would have been better if we had only loved each other as a boy and girl and for- gotten it. I have begun to think I was not fit to be a wife." I try to stay my tears and to reply, " Oh, Dora, love, as fit as I to be a husband !" " I don't know," with the old shake of her curls. "Perhaps !" But if I had been more fit to be married, I might have made you more so, too. Besides, you are very clever, and I never was." " We have been very happy, my sweet Dora." " I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear boy would have wearied of his chUd-wife. ;She would have been less and less a companion for him. He would have been more and more sensible of what was wanting in his home. She wouldn't liave improved. It is better as it is." " Oh, Dora, dearest, dearest, do not speak to me so. Every word seems a reproach !" "No, not a syllable !" she answers, kissing me. ■" Oh, my dear, you never deserved it, and I loved you far too well to say a reproachful word to you in earnest — it was all the merit I had except being pretty — or you thought me so. Is it lonely down stairs, Doady]" "Very ! very !" " Don't cry ! Is my chair there ? " "In its old place." " Oh, how my poor boy cries ! Hush, hush ! N^ow, make me one promise. I want to speak to Agnes. When you go down stairs tell Agnes so, and send her up to me ; and whUe I speak to her let no one come — ^not even aunt. I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want to speak to Agnes quite alone." I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave her, for my grief. "I said that it was better as it is !" she whispers, as she holds me in her arms. " Oh, Doady, after more years you never could have loved your child- wife better than you do ; and, after more years, she would so have tried and disappointed you, that you might not have been able to love her half so well ! I know I was too young and foolish. It is much better as it is !" Agnes is down stairs when I go into the parlour ; and I give her the message. She disappears, leaving me alone with Jip. His Chinese house is by the fire ; and he lies within it, on his bed of flannel, querulously trying to sleep. The bright moon is high and clear. As I look out on the night my tears fall fast, and my undisciplined heart is chastened heavily^heavily. I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind remorse of all those secret feelings 1 have nourished since my marriage. I think of every little trifle between me and Dora, and feel the truth, that trifles make the sum of life. Ever rising from the sea of my remembrance is the image of the dear child as I knew her first, graced by my young love and by her own with every fascination wherein such love is rich. Would it, indeed, have been better if we had loved each other as a boy and girl and forgotten it 1 Undisciplined heart, reply! How the time wears I know not ; until I am recalled by my child- wife's old companion. More restless than he was, he crawls out of his house, and looks at me, and wanders to the door, and whines to go up stairs. "Not to-night, Jip ! Not to-night !" He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand and lifts his dim eyes to my face. " Oh, Jip ! It may be never again !" He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, and with a plaintive cry is dead. " Oh, Agnes ! Look, look, here !" — That face, so full of pity, and of grief, that I rain of tears, that awful mute appeal to me, that solemn hand upraised towards heaven ! " Agnes !" It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes ; and, for a time, aU things are blotted out of my I remembrance. GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. BRET HARTE IN VERSE. Wl^ RET HAETE, the American humourist, is generally known to us by his intensely dramatic jE) prose sketches, and his ingeniously satirical or political poem, " That Heathen Chinee." He ^^ has, however, at various times written poems of an intense and stirring dramatic nature, which are at the same time pecuUar from their being given in the rough dialect of the Far West. For instance, we have his rugged story of the miner, whom a wild life had made coarse and almost brutal, showing the tender side of his wild nature as he comes to a drinking-shed in search of his old companion " Jim " :- Say there ! P'r'aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild ? Well, — no offence : Thar ain't no sense In gittin' riled ! Jim was my chum Up on the Bar : That's why I come Down from up yar, Looldu' for Jim. Thank ye, sir ! You Ain't of that crew, — Blest if you are ! Money ? — Not much : That ain't my kind : I ain't no such. Rum ? — I don't mind, Seein' it's you. Well, this yer Jim, Did you know him ? Jess 'bout your si^e ; Same kind of eyes 1 — AVell, that is strange : Why, it's two year Since he came here. Sick, for a change. Well, here's to us : Eh? you say ! Dead ?— That little cuss? A^Tiat makes you star,— You over tliar ? Can't a man drop 's glass in yer shop But you must rar ? It wouldn't take much to break You and yoiu- bar. Poor — little — Jim ! — Why, thar was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben, — No-account men : Then to take him ! Well, thar— Good-bve, - No more, sii', — I— Eh? What's that you say ? — Why, dern it ! — sho ! — No : Yes ! By Jo ! Sold! Sold ! '\Vhy, you limb, You ornery, Derned old Long-legged Jim ! Just sucli anotlier rugged specimen of true human nature done into verse is the story of the hero who gave his life to save his partner in the mine : — Didn't know Flynn, — Flynn, of Virginia, — Long as he's been 'y^^ ? Look'ee here, sti-anger, Whar hcv you been ? Here in this tunnel He was my pardner. That same Tom Flynn, — Working together, Li wind and weather. Day out and in. Didn't know Flynn ! Well, that u queer ; AVhy, it's a sin, — To think of Tom Flynn,— Tom with bis cheer, Tom without fear,— Stranger, look 'yar ! Thar in the drift, Back to the wail, He held the timbers Beady to fall ; Then in the darkness I heard him call : ** Run for your life, Jake ! Run for yoiir wife's sake ! Don't wait for me." And that was all Heard in the din, Heard of Tom Flynn, — Flynn of Virginia. Tliat's all about Flynn of Virginia. That lets me out. Here in the damp, — Out of the sun, — That 'ar derned lamp Makes my eyes run. WeU, there, — I'm done ! But, sir, when youll Hear the next fool Asking of Flynn, — Flynn of Virginia, — Just you chip in. Say you knew Flynn ; Say that you've been 'yar BRET HARTE IN VERSE. But Bret Harte can cast aside the stylus which marks so roughly that it might be the miner's crow- bar dipped in ink, and taking up the poet's pen write simply, fluently, and with rhythmical measure. His verses want, perhaps, the rich imagery of the great poet, but he has that natural gift that enables him to enlist the reader's sympathy on the instant, touching the tenderest heart-chords, yet, withal, stirring them so gently that the touch is imperceptible. Poem after poem might be taken displaying this one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin ; but as examples of his style alone are needed, the selection is first made up, and that appeals right to the heart of those who have treasured children of their own — tenfold to those who think of " the voice of the children gone before." There is always some- thing especially attractive in an old chronicle of some mishap, and Bret Harte is probably at his best when he tells in simple verses the pathetic Legend of Greyport and the children lost at sea : — Thet ran through the streets of the seaport town ; They peered from the decks of the ships that lay : The cold sea-fog that came whitening down "Was never as cold or white as they. " Ho, Starbuck, and Pickney and Tenterden j Run for yoiu- shallops, gather your men, Scatter your boats on the lower bay." ■Good cause for fear ! In the thick midday The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, Filled with the children in happy play. Parted its moorings, and drifted clear, — Drifted clear beyond reach or call, — Thirteen children they were in all, — AU adrift in the lower bay ! Said a hard-faced skipper, " God help us all ! She will not floit till the turning tide ! " Said his wife, ' ' My darling will hear mi/ call, Whether in sea or heaven she bide : " And she lifted a quavering voice and high, Wild and strange as the sea-bird's cry. Till they shuddered and wondered at her side. The fog drove down on each labouring crew. Veiled each from each and the sky and shore : There was not a sound but the breath they drew, And the lap of water and creak of oar ; And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone, But not from the lips that had gone before. They come no more. But they tell the tale, Th.it, when fogs are thick on the harbour reef, The mackerel fishers shorten sail ; For the signal they know will bring relief : For the voices of children, still at play In a phantom hulk that drifts alway Through channels whose waters never fail. It is but a foolish shipman's tale, A theme for a poet's idle page ; But still, when the mists of doubt prevail, And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age, We hear from the misty troubled shore The voice of the children gone before. Drawing the soul to its anchorage. Lastly, there is a very short poem, so full of yet so full of pathos, that even were its subject other •every English breast. Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below ; The dim Sierras, far beyond, ui^lifting Their minarets of snow : The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth ; Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew ; And then, while round them shadows gathered faster. And as the firelight fell, simple inspiration, so wildly picturesque, and than it is Bret Harte would be stamped poet in He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of " Little Nell." Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy— for the reader "Was youngest of them all — But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall ; The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows. Listened in every spray, "WTiile the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows Wandered and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes— o'ertaken As by some spell divine — Their cares dropped from them like the needles sliaken From out the gusty jjine. GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Lost is that camiJ, and wasted all its fire ; And lie wlio wrougkt that spell ? — Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire. Ye have one tale to tell ! Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills, With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. And on that grave where English oak, and holly^ And laurel wreaths entwine. Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly — This spray of Western pine ! DicKEHS s Grave A SPOILT BOY. [From " Mr. Midshipman Easy. TAVE you no idea of putting the boy to school, Mrs. Easy?" said Dr. j\Iiddleton, who had been sum- moned by a groom with his horse in a foam to attend immediately at rest Hill — the name of Mr. Easy's mansion— and who, upon his arrival, had found that Master Easy had cut his thumb. One would have thought that he had cut his head off by the agitation pei-vading the whole household — Mr. Easy walking up and down very uneasy, Mrs. Easy with great difficulty prevented from syncope, and all the maids bustling and passing round Mrs. Eas/s chair. Everybody appeared excited except Master Jack Ea.sy himself, who, with a rag round his finger, and his pinafore spotted with blood, was playing at bob-cherry, and cared nothing about the matter. " Well, what's the matter, my little man 1 " said Dr. Middleton, on entering, addressing himself to Jack, as the most .sensible of the whole party. " Oh, Dr. Middleton," interrupted Mrs. Easy, " he has cut his hand ! I am sure that a nerve is divided, and then the lockjaw " The doctor made no reply, but examined the finger ; Jack Easy continued to play bob-cheriy with his right hand. " Have you such a thing as a piece of sticking- plaster in the house, madam?" observed the doctor, after examination. " Oh yes !— run Mary — run Sarah ! In a few seconds the maids appeared, Sarah bringing the By Captain Marryat.] sticking-plaster, and Mary following with the' scissors. " Make yourself quite easy, madam," said Dr. Middleton, after he put on the plaster. " I will answer for no evil consequences." " Had I not better take him upstairs, and let him lie down a little 1" replied Mrs. Easy, slipping a guinea into the doctor's hand. " It is not absolutely requisite, madam," said the doctor ; " but at all events he will be kept out of more mischief." " Come, my dear, you hear what Dr. Middleton says." " Yes, I heard," replied Jack ; " but I shan't go." " My dear Johnny — come, love — now do, my dear Johnny." Johnny played bob-cherry, and made no answer, " Come, Master Johnny," said Sarah. " Go away, Sarah," said Johnny, with a back- hander. " Oh ! fie, Master Johnny," said Mary. " Johnny, my love," said Mrs. Easy, in a coaxing tone, " come now — will you go 1" " I'll go in the garden, and get some more cherries," replied Master Johnny. " Come, then, love, we will go into the garden." Master Johnny jumped off his chair, and took his mamma by the hand. " Wliat a dear, good, obedient child it is ! " ex- claimed Mrs. Easy : " You may lead him with a thread." A SPOILT BOY. " Yes, to pick cherries," thought Dr. Middleton. ****** Mr. Easy announced to his wife, when they met that day at tea-time, his intentions with regard to his son John. " To school, Mr. Easy 1 what, send Johnny to school ! a mere infant to school !" " Surely, my dear, you must be aware that at nine years it is high time that he learnt to read." "Why, he almost reads already, Mr. Easy ; surely I can teach him that. Does he not, Sarah t " " Lord bless him, yes, ma'am ; he was saying his letters yesterday." " Oh, Mr. Easy, what can have put this in your head 1 Johnny, dear, come here — tell me now what's the letter A ? You were singing it in the garden this morn- ing." "I want some sugar," replied Johnny, stretching his arm over the table to the sugar-basin, which was out of his reach. " Well, my love, you shall have a great lump if you will tell me what's the letter A." "A was an archer, and shot at a frog," replied Johnny in a surly tone. " There now, Mr. Easy ; and he can go through the whole alphabet — can't he, Sarah'!" " That he can, the dear — can't you, Johnny dear T "No," replied Johnny. "Yes, you can, my love, you know what's the letter B. Now don't you '" " Yes," replied Johnny. " There, Mr. Easy, you see what the boy knows, and how obedient ho is too. Come, Johnny, dear, tell us what was B." " No, I won't," replied Johnny. " I want some more sugar ;" and Johnny, who had climbed on a chair, spread himself over the table to reach it. " Mercy ! Sarah, pull him off— he'll upset the urn," screamed Mrs. Easy. Sarah caught hold of Johnny by the loins to pull back, but Johnny, resisting the interference, turned round on his back as he lay on the table, and kicked Sarah in the face, just as she made another desperate grasp at him. The rebound from the kick, given as he lay on a smooth mahogany table, brought Johnny's head in contact wth the urn, which was upset in the opposite direction, and, not-ndthstanding a rapid movement on the part of Mr. Easy, he received a sufficient portion of boiling liquid on his legs to scald him severely, and induce him to stamp and swear in a veiy unphilosophical way, In the meantime Sarah and Mrs. Easy had caught up Johnny, and were both holding him at the same time, exclaiming and lamenting. The pain of the scald, and the indifference shown towards liirn, were too much for Mr. Easy's temper to put up with. He snatched Johnny out of their arms, and, quite forgetting his equality and rights of man, belaboured him without mercy. Sarah flew in to interfere, and received a blow which not only made her see a thousand stars, but sent her reeling on the floor. Mrs. Easy went off intc? hysterics, and Johnny howled so as to be heard at a quarter of a mUe. How long Mr. Easy would have continued it is impossible to say ; but the door opened, and Mr. Easy looked up while still administering the punishment, and perceived Dr. Middleton in mute astonishment. He had promised to come in to tea, and enforce Mr. Easy's arg-uments, if it were neces- sary ; but it certainly appeared to him, that in the argument which Mr. Easy was then enforcing, he required no assistance. However, at the entrance of Dr. Middleton, Johnny was dropped, and lay roaring on the floor ; Sarah too remained where she had been floored. Mrs. Easy had rolled on. the floor, the urn was also on the floor, and Mr, Easy, although not floored, had not a leg to stand upon. Never did a medical man look in more oppor- tunely. Mr. Easy at first was not certainly of that opinion, but his legs became so painful that he soon became a convert. Dr. Middleton, as in duty bound, first picked up Mrs. Easy, and laid her on the sofa. Sarah rose, picked up Johnny, and carried him kicking and roaring out of the room ; in return for which attention she received sundry bites. The foot- man, who had announced the doctor, picked up the urn, that being all there was in his department. I Mr. Easy threw himself panting and in agony on 10 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. the other sofa, and Dr. Middleton was excessively embarrassed how to act; he perceived that Mr. Easy required his assistance, and that Mrs. Easy could do without it ; but how to leave a lady who was half really and half pretendedly in hysterics, was difficult ; for if he attempted to leave her she kicked and flounced, and burst out the more. At last Dr. Middleton rang the bell, which brought the footman, who summoned all the maids, who carried Mrs. Easy up-stairs, and then the doctor was able to attend to the only patient who really required his assistance. Mr. Easy explained the affair in few words, broken into ejaculations from pain, as the doctor removed his stockings. From the applications of Dr. Middleton, Mr. Easy soon obtained bodUy relief ; but what annoyed him still more than his scalded legs, was the doctor having been a witness to his infringement of the equality and rights of man. Dr. Middleton perceived this, and he knew also how to pour balm into that wound. "My dear Mr. Easy, I am very sorry that you have had this accident, for which you are indebted to Mrs. Easy's foolish indulgence of the boy, but I am glad to perceive that you have taken up those parental duties which are inculcated by the Scrip- tures. Solomon says, ' that he who spares the rod, spoils the child,' thereby implying that it is the duty of a father to correct his children." ****** " That is exactly my opinion," replied Mr. Easy, comforted at the doctor having so logically got him out of the scrape. " But — he shall go to school to-morrow, that I'm determined on." " He will have to thank Mrs. Easy for that," replied the doctor. " Exactly," replied Mr. Easy. " Doctor, my legs are getting very hot again." " Continue to bathe them with the vinegar and water, Mr. Easy, until I send you an embro- cation, which will give you immediate relief. I will call to-morrow. By-the-bye, I am to see a little patient at Mr. Bonnycastle's ; if it is any accommodation, I will take your son with me." " It will be a great accommodation, doctor," re- plied Mr. Easy. " Then, my dear sir, I will just go up and see how Mrs. Easy is, and to-morrow I vsdll call at ten. I can wait an hour. Good-night." "Good-night, doctor." The doctor had his game to play with Mrs. Easy. He magnified her husband's accident — he magni- fied his wrath, and advised her by no means to say one word until he was well, and more pacified. The next day he repeated this dose, and, in spite of the ejaculations of Sarah, and the tears of Mrs. Easy, who dared not venture to plead her cause, and the violent resistance of Master Johnny, who appeared to have a presentiment of what was to come, our hero was put into Dr. Middleton's chariot, and with the exception of one plate of glass which he kicked out of the window with his feet, and for which feat the doctor, now that he had him all to himself, boxed his ears till he was nearly blind, he was, withoiit any further eventful occurrence, carried by the doctor's footman into the parlour of Mr. Bonnycastle. Master Jack had been plumped down in a chair by the doctor's servant, who, as he quitted him, first looked at his own hands, from which the blood was drawn in several parts, and then at Master Jack, with his teeth closed and lips com- pressed, as much as to say, " If I only dared, would not I, that's all 1 " and then walked out of the room, repaired to the carriage at the front door, when he showed his hands to the coachman, who looked down from his box in great commiseration, at the same time fully sharing his fellow-servant's indig- nation. But we must repair to the parlour. Dr. Middleton ran over a newspaper, while Johnny sat on the chair all of a heap, looking like a lump of sulks, with his feet on the upper front bar, and his knees almost up to liis nose. He was a promising pupil, Jack. Mr. Bonnycastle made his appearance — a tall, well-built, handsome fair man, with a fine powdered head, dressed in solemn black, and knee-buckles ; his linen beautifully clean; and with a peculiar bland expression of countenance. ****** Dr. Middleton, who was on intimate terms with Bonnycastle, rose as he entered the room, and they shook hands. Middleton then turned to where Jack sat, and pointing to him, said, " Look there." Bonnycastle .smiled. " I cannot say that I have had worse, but I have almost as bad. I will apply the Promethean torch, and soon vivify that rude mass. Come, sit down, !Middleton." "But," said the doctor, as he resumed his chair, "tell me, Bonnycastle, how you will possibly manage to lick such a cub into shape, when you do not resort to flogging 1 " "I have no opinion of flogging, and therefore I do not resort to it. The fact is, I was at Harrow myself, and was rather a pickle. I was called up as often as most boys in the school, and I perfectly recollect, that eventually I cared nothing for a flogging." "I should have thought otherwise." " My dear Middleton, I can produce more eflfect by one caning than twenty floggings. ****** "My dear sir, I really had an idea that you were excessively lenient," replied Middleton, laughing ; " I am glad that I am under a mistake." " Look at that cub, doctor, sitting there more like a brute than a reasonable being; do you A SPOILT BOY. n imagine that I could ever lick it into shape with- out strong measures 1 " Dr. Middleton wished Jack good-bye, and told liim to be a good boy. Jack did not vouchsafe to answer. " Never mind, doctor ; he will be more polished next time you call here, depend upon it." And the doctor departed. Although Mr. Bonnyoastle was severe, he was very judicious. Mischief of all kinds was visited but by slender punishment, such as being kept in at play hours, &c. ; and he seldom interfered with the boys for fighting, although he checked decided oppression. The great sine qud non with him was attention to their studies. He soon discovered the capabilities of his pupils, and he forced them accordingly ; but the idle boy, the bird who " could sing and wouldn't sing," received no mercy. The consequence was, that he turned out the cleverest boys, and his conduct was so uniform and un- varying in its tenor, that if he was feared when they were under his control, he was invariably liked by those whom he had instructed, and they continued his friends in after life. Mr. Bonnycastle at once perceived that it was no use coaxing our hero, and that fear was the only attribute by which he could be controlled. So, as soon as Dr. Middleton had quitted the room, he ad- dressed him in a commanding tone, " Now, boy, what is your name 1 " Jack started ; he looked up at his master, perceived his eye fixed upon him, and a countenance not to be played with. Jack was no fool, and somehow or other, the discipline he had received from his father had given him some intimation of what was to come. All this put together, induced Jack to con- descend to answer, mth his fore-finger between his teeth, "Johnny." " And what is your other name, sir 1 " Jack, who appeared to repent his condescension, did not at first answer ; but he looked again in Mr. Bonnycastle's face, and then round the room ; there was no one to help him, and he could not help himself, so he replied, " Easy." " Do you know why you are sent to school 1 " " Scalding father." " No ; you are sent to learn to read and write." "But I won't read and write," replied Jack, sulkily. " Yes, you will ; and you are going to read your letters now directly." Jack made no answer. Mr. Bonnycastle opened a sort of book-case, and displayed to John's astonished view a series of canes, ranged up and down like billiard cues, and continued, " Do you know what those are for 1 " Jack eyed them wistfully; he had some faint idea that he was sure to be better acquainted with them, but he made no answer. " They are to teach little boys to read and write, and now I am going to teach you. You'll soon learn. Look now here," continued Mr. Bonny- castle, opening a book with large type, and taking a capital at the head of a chapter, about half an inch long. " Do you see that letter 1 " " Yes," replied Johnny, turning his eyes away, and picking his fingers. " Well, that is the letter B. Do you see it ? Mr. Bonnycastle and Jack. Look at it so that you may know it again. That's the letter B. Now tell me what letter that is 1 " Jack now determined to resist, so he made no answer. " So you cannot tell ; well, then, we will try what one of these little fellows will do," said Mr. Bonnycastle, taking down a cane. " Observe, Johnny, that's the letter B. Now, what letter is that 1 Answer me directly." " I won't learn to read and write." Whack came the cane on Johnny's shoulders, who burst out into a roar as he writhed with pain. Mr. Bonnycastle waited a few seconds. "That's the letter B. Now tell me, sir, directly, what that letter is r' " I'll tell my mar." Whack ! " law ! law ! " " What letter's that ] " Johnny, with his mouth open, panting, and the tears on his ch eks, answered indignantly : " Stop till I tell Sarah." 12 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Whack came the cane again, and a fresh burst from Johnny. " What letter's that ? " "I won't tell," roared Johnny ; "I won't tell- that I won't." Whack — whack— whack, and a pause. " I told you before, that's the letter B. What letter is that 1 Tell me directly." Johnny, by way of reply, made a snatch at the cane. Whack ! he caught it certainly ; but not exactly as he would have wished. Johnny then snatched up the book, and dashed it to the corner of the room. Whack, whack ! Johnny attempted to seize Mr. Bonnycastle with his teeth. Whack, whack, whack, whack ! and Johnny fell on the carpet, and roared with pain. Mr. Bonnycastle then left him for a little while, to recover himself, and sat down. At last Johnny's exclamations settled down in deep sobs, and then Mr. Bonnycastle said to him, " Now, Johnny, you perceive that you must do as you are bid, or else you will have more beating. Get up immediately. Do you hear, sir?" Somehow or other, Johnny, without intenmng it, stood upon his feet. "That's a good boy ; now you see, by getting up as you were bid, you have not been beaten. Now, Johnny, you must go and bring the book from where you threw it down. Do you hear, sir? bring it directly ! " Johnny looked at Mr. Bonnycastle and the cane. With every intention to refuse, Johnny picked up the book and laid it on the table. " That's a good boy ; now we will find the letter B. Here it is ; now, Johnny, tell me what that letter is 1 " Johnny made no answer. "Tell me directly, sir," said Mr. Bonnycastle, raising his cane up in the air. The appeal was too powerful. Johnny eyed the cane ; it moved, it was coming. Breathlessly he shrieked out, "B !" "Very well indeed, Johnny — very well. Now your first lesson is over, and you shall go to bed. You have learnt more than you think for. To- morrow we will begin again." PAUL EEVEEE'S EIDE. ■'.'*'*V' I II *i»iiir ifi "If *■ ■" \ ISTEN, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy five ; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, " If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch [Longfellow. ] Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — One if by land, and two if by sea ; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm." Then he said, " Good night ! " and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay. Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war ; A phantom-ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar. And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack-door. The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made PAUL EEVERE'S RIDE. 13 Masses and moving shapes of shade, — Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall. Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the chm'chyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and stiU That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Now gazed at the landscape far and near. Then, impetuous stamped the earth. And turned and tightened the saddle-girth ; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill. Lonely and spectral and sombre and stOl. And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of Hght ! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns", But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 'He paused to listen.'' {Drawn hy G. C. Hindley.) Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well !" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; Eor suddenly all his thoughts were bent On a shadowy something far away. Where the river widens to meet the bay, — A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. ^Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Pooted and spurred, with a heavy stride, On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, A second lamp in the belfry burns ! A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet ; That was all ! And yet through the gloom and the light. The fate of a nation was riding that night ; And the spark struck out by that steed in his Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tmnquil and broad and deep. 14 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge. Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock. And the barliing of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog. That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed. And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare. Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock. When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock. And the twitter of birds among the trees. And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing ovor the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-balL You know the rest. In the books you have read. How the British Regulars fired and fled, — How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall. Chasing the red-coats down the lane. Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere : And so through the night went his cry of alaria. To every Middlesex village and farm, A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore ! For borne on the night- wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need. The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof -beats of that steed. And the midnight message of Paul Revere. A HIGHLAND FEUD. [Prom " The Fair Maid of Perth." By SiE Waltek Scoti.J IfOTH parties were disposed by the re- 1 spective Chiefs in three lines, each ^ containing ten men. They were ar- such intervals between as offered him scope to '>S- ranged with each individual. wield his sword, the blade of which was five feet long, not including the handle. The second and third lines were to come up as reserves, in case the first experienced disaster. On the right of the array of Clan Quhele, the Chief, Eachin Maclan, placed him- self in the second line betwixt two of his foster- brothers. Four of them occupied the right of the first line, whilst the father and two others protected the rear of the beloved chieftain. Torquil, in particular, kept close behind, for the purpose of covering him. Thus Eachin stood in the centi e of nine of the strongest men of his band, having four especial defenders in front, one on each hand, and three in his rear. The line of the Clan Chattan was arranged in precisely the same order, only that the Chief occu- pied the centre of the middle rank, instead of being on the extreme right. This induced Henry Smith, who saw in the opposing bands only one enemy, ! and that was the unhappy Eachin, to propose- placing himself on the left of the front rank of the- Clan Chattan. But the leader disapproved of this, arrangement ; and having reminded Henry that he- owed him obedience, as having taken wages at his hand, he commanded him to occupy the space in the third line, immediately behind himself — a post of honour, certainly, which Henry could not de- cline, though he accepted of it with reluctance. When the clans were thus drawn up opposed to> each other, they intimated their feudal animosity, and their eagerness to engage, by a wild scream, which, uttered by the Clan Quhele, was answered and echoed back by the Clan Chattan, the whole at the same time shaking their swords, and menacing each other as if they meant to conquer the imagi- nation of their opponents ere they mingled in the actual strife. The trumpets of the King sounded a charge, the- bagpipes blew up their screaming and maddening notes, and the combatants, starting forward in regular order, and increasing their pace till they came to a smart run, met together in the centre of A HIGHLAND FEUD. 15 the ground, as a furious land torrent encounters an advancing tide. For an instant or two the front lines, hewing at •each other with their long swords, seemed engaged in a succession of single combats ; but the second and third ranks soon came up on either side, actuated alike by the eagerness of hatred and the thirst of honour, pressed through the intervals, and rendered the scene a tumultuous chaos, over which the huge swords rose and sank, some still glittering, others streaming with blood, appearing, from the -wild rapidity with which they were swayed, rather to be put in motion by some complicated machinery than to be wielded by human hands. Some of the combatants, too much crowded together to use those long weapons, had already betaken themselves to their poniards, and endeavoured to get within the sword-sweep of those opposed to them. In the meantime, blood flowed fast, and the groans of those who feU began to mingle with the cries of those who fought ; for, according to the manner of the Highlanders at all times, they could hardly be said to shout, but to yell. Those of the spectators whose eyes were best accu.stomed to such scenes of blood and confusion, could nevertheless discover no advantage yet acquired by either party. The conflict swayed, indeed, at different intervals for- wards or backwards ; but it was only in momentary superiority, which the party who acquired it almost instantly lost by a corresponding exertion on the other side. The wild notes of the pipers were still heard above the tumult, and stimulated to farther exertions the fury of the combatants. At once, however, and as if by mutual agree- ment, the instruments sounded a retreat ; it was expressed in wailing notes, which seemed to imply a dirge for the fallen. The two parties disengaged themselves from each other, to take breath for a iew minutes. The eyes of the spectators greedily surveyed the shattered array of the combatants as they drew off from the contest, but found it still impossible to decide which hadsustained the greater loss. It seemed as if the Clan Chattan had lost father fewer than their antagonists ; but in com- pensation, the bloody plaids and shirts of their party (for several on both sides had thrown their mantles away) showed more wounded men than the Clan Quhele. About twenty of both sides lay on the fleld dead or dying ; and arms and legs lopped off, heads cleft to the chin, slashes deep through the shoulder into the breast, showed at once the fury of the combat, the ghastly character of the weapons used, and the fatal strength of the arms which wielded them. # * * . * * * The two Chiefs, after allowing their followers to breathe for the space of about ten minutes, again ■drew up in their files, diminished by nearly one- third of their original number. They now chose their ground nearer to the river than that on which they had formerly encountered, which was encum- bered with the wounded and the slain. Some of the former were observed, from time to time, to raise themselves to gain a glimpse of the field, and sink back, most of them to die from the effusion of blood which poured from the terrific gashes in- flicted by the claymore. Harry Smith was easily distinguished by his Lowland habit, as well as his remaining on the spot where they had first encountered, where he stood leaning on a sword beside a corpse, whose bonneted head, carried to ten yards' distance from the body by the force of the blow which had swept it off, exhibited the oak-leaf, the appropriate ornament of the body-guard of Eachin Maclaji. Since he slew this man, Henry had not struck a blow, but had contented himself with warding off many that were dealt at himself, and some which were aimed at the Chief. MaoGilHe Chattanach became alarmed, when, having given the signal that his men should again draw together, he ob- served that his powerful recruit remained at a distance from the ranks, and showed little disposi- tion to join them. " What ails thee, man 1 " said the Chief. " Can so strong a body have a mean and cowardly spirit t Come and make in to the combat ! " " You as good as called me hireling but now," replied Harry ; " if I am such," pointing to the headless corpse, "I have done enough for my day's wage." " He that serves me witliout counting his hours," replied the Chief, " I reward him without reckon- ing wages." " Then," said the Smith, " I fight as a volunteer, and in the post which best likes me." "All that is at your own discretion," replied MacGillie Chattanach, who saw the prudence of humouring an auxiliary of such promise. " It is enough," said Henry ; and shouldering his heavy weapon, he joined the rest of the com- batants with alacrity, and placed himself opposite to the Chief of the Clan Quhele. It was then, for the first time, that Eachin showed some uncertainty. He had long looked up to Henry as the best combatant which Perth and its neighbourhood could bring into the lists. His hatred to him as a rival was mingled with recol- lection of the ease with which he had once, though unarmed, foiled his own sudden and desperate attack; and when he beheld him with his eyes fixed in his direction, the dripping sword in his hand, and obviously meditating an attack on him individually, his courage fell, and he gave symptoms of wavering, which did not escape his foster-father. It was lucky for Eachin that Torquil was in- capable, from the formation of his own temper, 16 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. and that of those with whom he had lived, to con- ceive the idea of one of his own tribe, much less of his Chief and foster-son, being deficient in animal courage. That he was under the influence of enchantment was a solution which superstition had suggested, and he now anxiously, but in a whisper, demanded of Hector, "Does the spell now darken thy spirit, Eachin 1 " " Yes, wretch that I am," answered the unhappy youth ; " and yonder stands the fell enchanter ! " " What ' " exclaimed Torquil, " and you wear other's valour. Henry Wynd, in his impatience to begin the contest, advanced before the Clan Chattan, and signed to Eachin to come on. Norman, how- ever, sprang forward to cover his foster-brother, and there was a general, though momentary pause, as if both parties were willing to obtain an omen of the fate of the day, from the event of this duel. The Highlander advanced, with his large sword uplifted, as in act to strike ; but just as he came within sword's length, he dropped the long and cumbrous weapon, leapt lightly over the Smith's Duel between Henry Wtnd and Norman. (Brawnhij W. B. Hole, A.H.S.A.) harness of his making 1 — Norman, miserable boy, j why brought you that accursed mail ? " | " If my arrow has flown astray, I can but shoot my life after it," answered Norman-nan -Ord. " Stand firm ; you shall see me break the spell." " Yes, stand firm," said Torquil. " He may be a fell enchanter ; but my own ear has heard, and my own tongue has told, that Eachin shall leave the battle whole, free, and unwounded — let us see the Saxon wizard who can gainsay that. He may be a strong man, but the fair forest of the oak shall fall, stock and bough, ere he lay a finger on my Dault. " The wild pibroch again sounded the onset ; but the two parties approached each other more slowly than at first, as men who knew and respected each sword, as he fetched a cut at him, drew his dagger, and, being thus within Henry's guard, struck him with the weapon (his own gift) on the side of the throat, directing the blow downwards into the chest, and calling aloud, at the same time, " You taught me the stab !" But Henry Wynd wore his own good hauljerk, doubly defended with a lining of tempered steel. Had he been less surely armed, his combats had been ended for ever. Even as it was, he was slightly wounded. "Fool !" he replied, striking Norman a blow with the pommel of his long sword, which made him stagger backwards, "you were taught the thrust, but not the parry ;" and fetching a blow at his antagonist, which cleft his skull through the steel-cap, he strode over the Ufeless body to engage A HIGHLAND FEUD. 17 the young Chief, who now stood open before him. But the sonorous voice of Torquil thundered out, " Another for Hector ! " and the two brethren who flanked their Chief on each side, thrust forward upon Henry, and, striking both at once, compelled him to keep the defensive. " Forward, race of the Tiger Cat ! " cried Mac- Gillie Chattanach ; " save the brave Saxon ; let these kites feel your talons ! " Already much wounded, the Chief dragged him- self up to the Smith's assistance, and cut down ■one by whom he was assailed. Henry's own good sword rid Mm of the other. ' "Again for Hector !" shouted the faithful foster- father. " Death for Hector ! " answered two more of his devoted sons, and opposed themselves to the fury • of the Smith and those who had come to his aid ; j while Eachin, moving towards the left wing of the battle, sought less formidable adversaries, and again by some show of valour, revived the sinking hopes of his followers. The two children of the oak, who had covered this movement, shared the fate of their brethren ; for the cry of the Clan Chattan Chief had drawn to that part of the field some of his bravest warriors. The sons of Torquil did not faU unavenged, but left dreadful marks of their swords on the persons of the dead and living. But the necessity of keeping their most distin- .guished soldiers around the person of their Chief told to disadvantage on the general event of the ■combat ; and so few were now the number who remained fighting, that it was easy to see that the •Clan Chattan had fifteen of their number left, though most of them wounded ; and that of the Glan Quhele only about ten remained, of whom there were four of the Chief's body-guard, includ- ing Torquil himself They fought and struggled on, however, and as their strength decayed their fury seemed to in- crease. Henry Wynd, now wounded in many places, was still bent on breaking through or ex- terminating the band of bold hearts who continued to fight around the object of his animosity. But stiU the father's shout of " Another for Hector ! " was cheerfully answered by the fatal countersign, " Death for Hector ! " and though the Clan Quhele were now outnumbered, the combat seemed still dubious. It was bodily lassitude alone that again compelled them to another pause. The Clan Chattan were then observed to be twelve in number, but two or three were scarce able to stand without leaning on their swords. Five were left of the Clan Quhele ; Torquil and his youngest son were of the number, both slightly wounded. Eachin alone had, from the vigilance used to intercept all blows levelled against his person, escaped without injury. The rage of both c parties had sunk, through exhaustion, into sullea desperation. They walked staggering, as if in their sleep, through the carcases of the slain, and gazed on them, as if again to animate their hatred towards their surviving enemies, by viewing the friends they had lost. The multitude soon after beheld the survivors of the desperate conflict drawing together to renew the exterminating feud on the banks of the river, as the spot least slippery with blood, and less en- cimibered with the bodies of the slain. " For God's sake — for the sake of the mercy which we daQy pray for," said the kind-hearted old King, to the Duke of Albany, "let this be ended ! Wherefore should these wretched rags and remnants of humanity be saiifered to com- plete their butchery 1 Surely they wUl now be ruled, and accept of peace on moderate terms ? " " Compose yourself, my liege," said his brother. " These men are the pest of the Lowlands. Both Chiefs are stiU living — if they go back unharmed, the whole day's work is cast away. Eemember your promise to the council, that you would not cry hold." ****** The King sighed deeply. "You must work your pleasure, and are too wise for me to contend with. I can but turn away, and shut my eyes from the sights and sounds of a carnage which makes me sicken. But well I know that God will punish me for even witnessing this waste of human life." "Sound, trumpets!" said Albany; "their woimds will stiffen if they dally longer." While this was passing, Torquil was embracing and encouraging his young Chief. " Eesist the witchcraft but a few minutes longer ! Be of good cheer — you wiU come off without either scar or scratch, wem or wound. Be of good cheer ! " " How can I be of good cheer," said Eachin, " while my brave kinsmen have one by one died at my feet? — died all for me, who could never deserve the least of their kindness ! " " And for what were they born save to die for their Chief ?" said Torquil, ccnposedly. "Why lament that the arrow returns not to the quiver, providing it hit the mark 1 Cheer up yet. Here are Tormot and I but little hurt, while the wild- cats drag themselves through the plain as if they were half throttled by the terriers. Yet one brave stand, and the day shaU be your own, though it may well be that you alone remain alive. Min- strels, sound the gathering ! " The pipers on both sides blew their charge, and the combatants again mingled in battle, not indeed with the same strength, but with unabated in- veteracy. They were joined by those whose duty it was to have remained neuter, but who now found GLEANIiNGS i'KOM PoriFLAR AUTHORS. themselves unable to do so. The two old cham- pions who bore the standards had gradually ad- vanced from the extremity of the lists, and now approached close to the immediate scene of action. When they beheld the carnage more nearly, they were mutually impelled by the desire to revenge their brethren, or not to svirvive them. They at- tacked each other furiously with the lances to which the standards were attached, closed after exchanging several deadly thrusts, then grappled in close strife, still holding their banners, until at length, in the eagerness of the conflict, they fell together into the Tay, and were found drowned after the combat closely locked in each other's arms. The fury of battle, the frenzy of rage and despair, infected next the minstrels. The two pipers, who during the conflict had done their utmost to keep up the spirits of their brethren, now saw the dispute well-nigh terminated for want of men to support it. They threw down their in- struments, rushed desperately upon each other with their daggers, and each being more intent on des- patching his opponent than in defending himself, the piper of Clan Quliele was almost instantly slain, and he of Clan Chattan mortally wounded. The last, nevertheless, again grasped his instru- ment, and the pibroch of the clan yet poured its expiring notes over the Clan Chattan, while the dying minstrel had breath to inspire it. The in- strument which he used, or at least that part of it called the chanter, is preserved in the family of a Highland Chief to this day, and is much honoured under the name of the Federan Dim, or Black Chanter. Meanwhile, in the final charge, young Tormot, devoted, like his brethren, by his father Torquil to the protection of his Chief, had been mortally wounded by the unsparing sword of the Smith. The other two remaining of the Clan Quhele had also fallen, and Torquil, with his foster-son, and the wounded Tormot, forced to retreat before eight or ten of the Clan Chattan, made a stand on the bank of the river, while their enemies were making such exertions as their wounds would permit to come up with them. Torquil had just reached the spot where he had resolved to make the stand, when the youth Tormot dropped and expired. His death drew from his father the first and only sigh which he had breathed throughout the eventfid day. " My son Tormot ! " he said, " my youngest and dearest ! But if I save Hector, I save all. Now, my darling Dault, I have done for thee all that man may, excepting the last. Let me undo the clasps of that ill-omened armour, and do thou put on that of Tormot ; it is light, and will fit thee well. While you do so, I will rush on these crippled men, and make what play with them I can. I trust I shall have but little to do. for they are following each other like disabled steers. At least, darling- of my soul, if I am unable to save thee, I can show thee how a man should die." While Torquil thus spoke, he unloosed the clasps- of the young Chiefs hauberk, in the simple belief that he could thus break the meshes vyhich fear^ and necromancy had twined about his heart. " My father, my father, my more than parent ! " ' said the unhappy Eacliin. " Stay with me ! — with you by my side, I feel I can fight to the last." " It is impossible," said Torquil. " I will stop- them coming up, while you put on the hauberk. God eternally bless thee, beloved of my soul ! " And then, brandishing his sword, Torquil of the Oak rushed forward with the same fatal war-cry^, which had so often sounded over that bloody field. The words rung three times in a voice of thunder : and each time that he cried his war-shout, he struck down one of the Clan Chattan, as he met them successively straggling towards him.- — " Brave battle, hawk — well flown, falcon ! " exclaimed the multitude, as they witnessed exertions which seemed, even at this last hour, to threaten a change of the fortunes of the day. Suddenly these cries - were hushed into silence, and succeeded by a clashing of .swords so dreadful, as if the whole conflict had recommenced in the person of Henry Wynd and Torquil of the Oak. They cut, foined,.. hewed, and thrust, as if they had drawn their blades for the first time that day ; and their in- veteracy was mutual, for Torquil recognised the foul wizard, who, as he supposed, had cast a spell over his child ; and Henry saw before him the giant, who, during the whole conflict, had inter- rupted the purpose for which alone he had joined the combatants — that of engaging in single combat with Hector. They fought with an equality which, perhaps, would not have existed, had not Henry,, moi-e wounded than his antagonist, been somewhat, deprived of his usual agility. Meanwhile Eacliin, finding himself alone, after a disorderly and vain attempt to put on his foster- brother's harness, became animated by an emotion of shame and despair, and hurried forward to- support his foster-father in the terrible struggle,, ere some other of the Clan Chattan should come up. When he was within five yards, and sternly determined to take his share in the death-fight^ his foster-father fell, cleft from the collar-bone well- nigh to the heart. The unfortunate youth saw the- fall of his last friend, and at the same moment beheld the deadly enemy who had hunted him through the whole field standing within sword's point of him, and brandishing the huge weapon which had hewed its way to his life through so many obstacles. Perhaps this was enough to bring- his constitutional timidity to its highest point ; or perhaps he recollected, at the same moment^. THE RHINE AND THE MOSELLE. la "that lie was without defensive armour, and that a line of enemies, halting indeed and crippled, but •«ager for revenge and blood, were closely approach- ing. It is enough to say that his heart sickened, his eyes darkened, his ears tingled, his brain turned ■;giddy — all other considerations were lost in the apprehension of instant death ; and, drawing one ineffectual blow at the Smith, he avoided that which was aimed at him in return, by bounding backward ; and ere the former could recover his weapon, Eachin had plunged into the stream of the Tay. THE EHINE AND THE MOSELLE. [By Edwin Arnold.] I^f S the glory of the sun, ^ When the dismal night is done. Leaps up in the summer blue to shine, So gloriously flows. From his cradle in the snows. The king of all the river floods, The Rhine. As a mailed and sceptred king Sweeps onward triumphing, With waves of helmets flashing in his line ; As a drinker, past control. With the red wine on his soul, ■Ho flashes through his vintages The Rhine. As a lady who would speak What is written on her cheek, if her heart would give her tongue the leave to tell. Who fears and follows still. And dares not trust her will. So follows all its windings The Moselle. Like the silence that is broken When the wished-for word is spoken. And the heart hath a home where it may dwell, Like the sense of sudden bliss And the first long, loving kiss, Is the meeting of the Rhine and the Moselle. Like the two lives that are blended When the loneliness is ended. The loneliness each heart has known so well ; Like the sun and moon together, In a sky of sj^lendid weather. Is the marriage of the Rhine and the Moselle. 20 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. SENT TO GOD. AEK to the sounds of toil ! — the signs and the sounds of life ; The strivings of muscle, hand-labour, and brain. With which the city is rife. How strange and unfit doth the turmoil break On the stilly chamber where Death doth reign Unseen like a coU^d snake. In the heart of this heartless town — well the term agrees ! — The heart of a woman beats fitful and slow, For life is at the lees ; And the breath that she breathes would scarcely stir A feather away from its flickering blow ; Death measures it unto her. O ! look at that thin, wan face, — look at that straining eye. And read the tale of the broken heart That is about to die ; And read the tale of that anguished look Whiich speaks, though the tongue forgets its part. As plain as a printed book. Look at that wasted arm — the bones through the white skin start. Wasted, 'tis true, by sickness and pain ; But hunger has worked its part : The last of its strength was spent, to circle his neck and draw Her child to the breast where his head is lain, So soon to lie no more. Widow and orphan-boy — one flesh — one love — one life- Knotted in one, like a Gordian knot. And cut by Death's keen knife. Each had but each— the Widow her son, the Son his mother's love ; And she shivered with fear to exchange that lot For the lot in Heaven above. What ! leave that little child 1 She had seen him hunger and thirst, AVhen the crust that she had feigned to eat. And the mUk that she had nursed. Starving herself that he might live. Had faUed, yet his kisses and whispers sweet Were loving as when she had food to give. What ! leave that loving child f She had seen his little face Peering out thro' the broken pane. With its anxious baby grace. When she sold her shawl for a loaf of bread, And seen its peace come back again. When he has heard her tread. She had seen his troubled look, of wonder and - blended thought. When, crushed at last, the anguished wail Has burst from her soul distraught ; She has seen him conceal both hunger and cold, Tho' his face grew pinched, and sharp, and pale — In misery growing old. And how could she leave her child 1 — the hearth and the cupboard bare — With never a soul to comfort or shield — Not even a stranger's care. She had told him, while yet her tongue coulo. speak. That the Father in Heaven to whom they had kneeled. Would temper the wind to the weak. That He had called her away, and she and her child must part. And he, with a smothered cry, to her languid arms had crept. Till his face lay on her heart. She had heard his cry of love — his trembling,, gasping prayer — To take him with her where father slept. And not to leave him there. And how could she leave her child 1 How could his little mind Conceive the meaning of Soul and Death 1 Why he was left behind — She said her soul had come from God, and now it went to Him, To live, tho' her body would lose its breath. And her eye of flesh be dim. That she should see her boy — that she should hear him pray That God would make a home for her. And call him too away. Then strangely thoughtful grew the child — "Oh, mother, will you tell Your soul to tell the God of prayer That I do love you well 1 SENT TO GOD. 21 ''And, if He takes you quite, I've nothing left to love ; And, then, He'll let me go with you, And live in the Home above ! " Resting upon the mother's breast, while his littl& coat was spread, To warm the form whence warmth was fled, With useless, childish care. ** For life is at the lees." {Drawn by M. L. Gou-.} She answered never a word — ^the last beam of her eye, Raised from her child, to Heaven flew. And her soul passed in a sigh. A day and a night were passed — and strangers entered there, And found the mother Ijing dead, And the child with his curly hair, Mother and child were dead — the last of their care was o'er — A life of want — a pauper's grave — The world would give no more. But the smile on the face of the chUd, tho' he was but a lifeless clod. Told of the answer that Mercj'gave To the message — Sent to God ! 23 GLEANINGS PROM POPULAR AUTHORS. HIS SPEECH. . [By Max Adeler.] |E" OME of the friends of Judge Pitman induced him, jast before the last ipj^^ election, to permit himself to be nomi- Ivi nated for the State Legislature, and accordingly he was presented to the people of this community as a candidate. On the day before the election I received from the chairman a brief note, saying that I had been announced to speak at Dover that evening before a great mass meeting, «,nd requesting me to take the early afternoon "train, so that I might report to the local chairman in Dover before nightfall. The pleasure with which this summons was received was in some measure marred by the fact that I had not a speech ready, and the time was so short that elaborate preparation was impossible. The synopsis, if it may be called by that name, presented an appearance something like the iollowing. THE SPEECH. 1. Exordium, concluding with Scott's famous lines, " Breathes there a man with soul so ■dead," &c. 2. Arguments, introducing a narrative of the iacts in the case of Hotchkiss, who was locked out Tipon the roof of his house all night. The design -of the story is to give a striking picture of the ananner in which the opposition party wiU be left out in the cold by the election. (Make this strong, and pause for cheers.) 3. Arguments, followed by the story of the Kickapoo Indian who saw a locomotive approach- ing upon the plains, and thinking it was a superior breed of buffalo, determined to capture it, so that he could take the first prize at the Kickapoo agricultural fair. He tied his lasso to his waist and threw the other end over the smoke-stack. "The locomotive did not stop ; but when the •engineer arrived at the next station, he went out .and cut the string by which a small bit of copper- coloured meat was tied to his smoke-stack. This is to illustrate the folly of the attempt of con- servatism to check the onward career of pure and ■enlightened liberalism toward perfect civilisa- tion, &o. &c. 4. Arguments, and then the anecdote of that Dutchman in Berks county, who on the 10th •of October, 1866, was observed to go out into his jrard and raise the American flag ; then he got his .^un and fired a salute seventeen or eighteen times, after which he consumed six packs of fire-crackers and gave three cheers for the Union. He enjoyed timseif in this manner nearly all day, while his neighbours gathered around outside and placed their elbows upon the fence, watching him and wondering what on earth he meant. A pedlar who came along stopped, and had an interview with him. To his surprise, he found that the German agriculturist was celebrating the Fourth of July, 1859. He did not know that it was any later in the century, for he had been keeping his time on a notched stick ; and having been sick a great deal, he had gotten the thing in a dreadful tangle. When he learned that he was seven Fourths in arrears, he was depressed ; but he sent out and bought a box of fire-crackers and a barrel of gunpowder, and spent a week catching up. 5. Arguments, supplemented with the narrative of a confiding man who had such child-like faith in a patent fire-extinguisher which he had purchased, that he set fire to his house merely to have the fun of putting it out. The fire burned furiously, but the extinguisher gave only two or three imbecile squirts and then collapsed, and in two hours his residence was in ashes. Go on to say that our enemies have applied the torch of anarchy to the edifice of this government, but that there is an extinguisher which will not only not collapse, but will subdue the flames and quench the incendiary organisation, and that extinguisher is our party. (Allow time for applause here.) 6. Arguments, introducing the story of the Sussex county farmer who was discouraged because his wife was perfidious. Before he was married she vowed over and over again that she could chop four cords of wood a day, but after the ceremony the farmer found he was deceived. The treacherous woman could not chop more than two cords and a half, and so the dream of the husband was dissipated, and he demanded a divorce as the only balm for the wounds which lacerated his heart. Let this serve to illustrate the point that our political enemies have deceived us with promises to reduce the debt, to institute reforms, &c. &c., none of which they have kept, and now we must have the government separated from them by such a divorce as will be decreed to- morrow, c&C. (fee. 7. Peroration, working in if possible the story of Commodore Scudder's dog, which, while out with its master one day, pointed at some partridges. The commodore was about to fire, but he suddenly received orders to go off on a three years' cruise, so he dropped his gun, left the dog standing there, and went right to sea. When he returned, three years later, he went back to the field, and there was his gun, there was the skeleton of the dog HIS SPEECH. 23 still standing and pointing just as be had left it, and a little farther on were the skeletons of the partridges. Show how our adversaries in their relations to the negro question resemble that dog. We came away years ago and left them pointing at the negro question, and we come back now to find that they are at it yet. When the train arrived at Dover, I was gratified to find the chairman of the local committee and eighteen of his fellow-citizens waiting for me with carriages and a brass band. As I stepped from the car the band played "See, the Conquering Hero comes ! " Then the music ceased, and the chairman pro- posed " three cheers for our eloquent visitor." The devoted beings around him cheered lustily. The chairman thereupon came forward and welcomed me. I had to begin. Bowing to the chairman, I said, " Mr. Chairman and fellow-citizens, there are times — times — there are times, fellow-citizens, when — times when — when the heart — there are times, I say, Mr. Chairman and fellow-citizens, when the heart — the heart of — of — " It wouldn't do. I stuck fast, and coidd not get out another word. I began again : — " There are times, I say, fellow-citizens and Mr. Chairman, when the heart inquires if there breathes a man with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said, '-This is my own, my native land' — whose heart has ne'er within him burned as home his footsteps he hath turned from wanderings on a foreign shore? If such there breathe, go, mark him well ! " (Here I pointed to the street, and one of the committee, who seemed not to comprehend the thing exactly, rushed to the window, and looked out, as if he intended to call a policeman to arrest the wretch referred to.) " For him no minstrel raptures swell." (Here the leader of the baud bowed, as if he had a vague idea that this was a compliment ingeniously worked into the speech for his benefit.) "High though his titles, proud his name, boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; despite these titles, power, and pelf, the wretch, concentrated all in self, living, shall forfeit fair renown, and doubly dying shall go down to tlie vile dust from whence he sprung, unwept, unhonoiu'ed, and unsung." I stopped. There was embarrassing silence for a moment, as if everybody thought I had some- thing more to say. But I put on my hat and shouldered my umbrella to assure them that the affair was ended. Then it began to be apparent that the company failed to grasp the purpose of my remarks. One man evidently thought I was complaining of something that happened to me while I was upon the train, for he took me aside and asked me in a confidential whisper if it- wouldn't be better for him to see the conductor- about it. Another man inquired if the governor was the- man referred to. I said, " No ; the remai-ks were of a poetical nature ; they were quoted." The man seemed surprised, and asked where I got them from. " From Marmion." He considered a moment, and then said— "Don't know him. Philadelphia man, L reckon 1" The occasion was too sad for words. I took the chairman's arm and we marched out to the carriages. It was supper-time when we reached the hotel, and as soon as we entered, the chairman invited us into one of the parlours, where an elaborate repast had been prepared for the whole party. We went into the room, keeping step- with a march played by the band, which was placed in the corner. When supper was over, it was with dismay that I saw the irrepressible chairman rise and propose a toast, to which he called upon one of the company to respond. So I resolved that if the chairman called upon me I would tell my number two story, giving the arguments, and omitting all of it from my speech in the evening. He did call. When two or three men had, spoken, the chairman ofiered the toast, " The orator of the evening," and it was received with applause. I rose, and said : "Mr. Chairman and gentlemen, I am too much fatigued to make a speech, and I wish to save my voice for to-night ; so I will tell you a story of a man I used to know whose name was Hotchkiss. He lived up at New Castle, and one night he thought he wonld have a little innocent fun scaring his wife by dropping a loose brick or two down the chimney into the fireplace in her room. So he slipped softly out of bed ; and crept out upon the roof. Mr. Hotchkiss dropped nine- teen bricks down that chimney, Mr. Chairman and gentlemen, each one with an emphatic slam,, but his wife didn't scream once." Everybody seemed to think this was the end of the story ; so there was a roar of laughter, although I had not reached the humorous part of the real point of the anecdote, which describes how Hotch- kiss gave it up and tried to go down-stairs, but was surprised to find that Mrs. Hotchkiss, who had been watching all the time, had retreated, fasten- ing the trap-door, so that he spent the next four- hours upon the comb of the roof. At eight o'clock a very large crowd really dii assemble in front of the porch of one of the hotels^ I felt somewhat nervous ; but I was tolerably- certain I could speak my piece acceptably, even. 24 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Tvitli the poetry torn out of the introduction and the number two story sacrificed. The chairman began with a short speech in which he went over almost precisely the ground •covered by my introduction ; and as that portion ■of my oration was already reduced to a fragment T)y the use of the verses, I quietly resolved to begin, when my turn came, with point number -two. The Chairman introduced to the crowd Mr. Keyser, who was received with cheers. He was a ready speaker, and he began, to my deep regret, by telling in capital style my story number three, after whicli he used up some of my number six •arguments. Mr. Keyser then sat down, and Mr. Schwartz was introduced. Mr. Schwartz observed that it was pleasantly familiar. Krumbauer went ahead, and the crowd received his remarks with roars of laughter. After one particularly exuberant out- burst of merriment, I asked the man who sat next to me, and who seemed deeply interested in the story — " What was that little joke of Krumbauer's ? It must have been iirst-rate." " So it was," he said. " It was about a Dutch- man up in Berks county who got mixed up in his dates." " What dates V 1 gasped, in awful apprehension. "Why, his Fourths of July, you know. Got seven or eight years in arrears and tried to make them all up at once. Good, wasn't it ? " '' Good 1 I should think so ; ha ! ha ! My very best story, as I'm a sinner ! " Ekumbatjer's Speech. ■was hardly worth while for him to attempt to make anything like a speech, because the gentle- man from New Castle had come down on purpose to discuss the issues of the campaign, and tlie audience, of course, was anxious to hear him. Mr. Schwartz would only tell a little story which .seemed to illustrate a point he wished to make, and he thereupon related my anecdote number seven, making it appear that he was the bosom friend of Commodore Scudder and an acquaint- ance of the man who made the gun. The point illustrated, I was shocked to find, was almost precisely that which I had attached to my story number seven. The situation began to have a serious appearance. Here, at one fell swoop, two •of my best stories and three of my sets of argu- ments were swept ofi' into utter uselessness. When Schwartz withdrew, a man named Krum- bauer was brought forward. Krumbauer was a German, and the chairman announced that he would speak in that language for the benefit of those persons in the audience to whom the tongue It was awfully bad. I could have strangled Krumbauer and then chopped him into bits. The ground seemed slipping away beneath me ; there was the merest skeleton of a speech left. But I determined to take that and do my best, trusting to luck for a happy result. But my turn had not yet come. Mr. Wilson was dragged out next, and I thought I perceived a de- moniac smile steal over the countenance of the cymbal player as Wilson said he was too hoarse to say much ; he would leave the heavy work for the brilliant young orator who was here from New Castle. He would skim rapidly over the ground and then retire . He did. Wilson rapidly skimmed all the cream off of my arguments numbers two, five, and six, and wound up by offering the whole of my number four argument. My hair fairly stood on end when Wilson bowed and left the stand. What on earth was I to do now ? In an agony of despair, I turned to the man next to me and asked him if I would have to follow Wilson. He said it was his turn now. HIS SPEECH. 25 "And what are you going to say ^" I demanded, suspiciously. " Oh, nothing," he replied — " nothing at all. I ■want to leave room for you. I'U just tell a little story or so, to amuse them, and then sit down." " What story, for instance 1 " I asked. "Oh, nothing, nothing; only a Uttle yarn I happen to remember about a farmer who married a woman who said she could cut four cords of wood, when she corddn't." My worst fears were realised. I turned to the man next to me, and said, with suppressed emotion — " May I ask your name, my friend 1 " He said his name was Gumbs. " May I inquire what your Christian name is 1 " He said it was William Henry. "Well, Wilham Henry Gumbs," I exclaimed, *' gaze at me ! Do I look like a man who would slay a human being in cold blood ? " " Hm-m-m, n-no ; you don't," he replied, with an air of critical consideration. " But I AM ! " said I, fiercely—" I AM ; and I tell you now that if you undertake to relate that anecdote about the farmer's wife I will kill you without a moment's warning; I will, by George !" Mr. Gumbs instantly jumped up, placed his hand on the railing of the porch, and got over suddenly into the crowd. He stood there pointing me out to the bystanders, and doubtless advancing the theory that I was an original kind of a lunatic, who might be expected to have at any moment a fit which would be interesting when studied from a distance. The chairman looked around, intending to call upon my friend Mr. Gumbs; but not perceiving iim, he came to me and said : " Now is your chance, sir ; splendid opportunity ; crowd worked up to just the proper pitch. We have paved the way for you ; go in and do your best." " Oh, yes ; but hold on for a few moments, wiU you 1 I can't speak now ; the fact is I am not quite ready. Run out some other man." " Haven't got another man. Kept you for the last purposely, and the crowd is waiting. Come ahead and pitch in, and give it to 'em hot and heavy. Hit 'em hard, old fellow, hit 'em hard." The crowd received me with three hearty cheers. As I heard them I began to feel dizzy. The audience seemed to swim around and to increase tenfold in size. By a resolute eifort I recovered my seK-possession partially, and determined to begin. I could not think of anything but the two stories, and I resolved to tell them as well as I could. I said, " Fellow-citizens ; It is so late now. that I will not attempt to make a speech to you." (Cries of " Yes ! " " Go ahead ! " " Never mind the time !" &c. &c.) Elevating my voice, I re- peated : " I say it is so late now that I can't make Consternation of CoiiiiirrEE. a speech as I intended on account of its being so late that the speech which I intended to make would keep you here too late if I made it as I intended to. So I will tell you a story about a man who bought a patent fire-extinguisher which was warranted to split four cords of wood a day ; so he set fire to his house to try her, and — No, it was his wife who was warranted to split four cords of wood — I got it wrong; and when the flames ob- tained full headway, he found she could only split two cords and a half, and it made him — What I mean is that the farmer, when he bought the exting — courted her, that is, she said she cordd set fire to the house, and when he tried her, she collapsed the first time — the extinguisher did, and he wanted a divorce because lus house — Oh, hang it, fellow-citizens, you understand that this man, or farmer, rather, bought a — I should say courted a — that is, a fire-ex — " (Desperately) " Fellow- citizens ! If any man shoots the American" FLAG, PULL HIM DOWN UPON THE SPOT ; BUT AS FOR ME, GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE ME DEATH !" As I shouted this out at the top of my voice, in an ecstasy of confusion, a wild tumultuous yell of laughter came up from the crowd. I rushed down the street to the station, with the shouts of the crowd and the uproarious music of the band ringing in my ears. I got upon a train, and spent the night riding to New Castle. 26 GLEANI^-GS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY OF A WEDDING RING. [By W. E. S. Ealsiok.) Xp ''"-'"'' I? ID in a drawer which rarely sees the light, With no companions of my solitude Beyond a few worn relics of the Past, A glove, a lock of hair, and two or three Old letters, here I slowly pass away ';'■ A dull existence. I Yet there was a time When all my life was joyous, when I knew What warmth and sunlight meant, and I was loved And valued far beyond comparison With costlier trinkets. j\Iany a year has passed Since deep within the earth the gold lay hid From which men fi-amed me : fading memories Still haunt me of a former life which ran In glittering veins through lustrous rocks of spar, And then of transformations swift and strange Through which I passed till, one bright summer day, I found myself, a gleaming circlet, wrapped In softest bed of fleecy wool, a score Of bright companions nestling by my side. Laid in the sunlight which came streaming through A wall of crystal. Every day there bent Bright faces over u.s, fair girls whose cheeks Flushed rosy-red as in their little hands They poised us, youths whose voices took A softer tone whenever they addressed Their sweet companions. Happy laughter rang Above us, mixed with tender cadences. And now and then a tear would fall and dim Our lustre for a moment. Well, there came A day when I was chosen by a hand So white and delicate, it seemed as if 'Twere made of snow, and snow-like seemed the brow Of her who chose me, and the graceful neck ; But sunny light gleamed from her golden hair, And sky -like beamed the azure of her eye. A few brief hours went swiftly by, and then I found myself encircling in my clasp Her soft white finger, and I felt the hand Of her proud husband, as it tenderly But firmly closed round hers, and heard his voice Address her as his love, his own at last. From that time forward, for a score of years. My life was linked with happiness ; the sun ■Seemed always shining on me ; joyfulness Made its abode within the peaceful home Wherein my mistress moved, and time passed hy And scarcely altered her ; she never lost The charm of voice and look which won all hearts Where'er she went, and sorrow seldom came To line her cheek or brow, or turn to grey The golden radiance which, halo-like, Gleam'd round her head ; about her grew a group Of children, from whose soft blue eyes her calm, Contented spirit seemed to look ; and he Who won her maiden love, still ruled her heart Through womanhood, nor ever swerved one jot From his allegiance to his perfect wife. My place seemed fix'd for ever on her hand. Until that fatal day which brought the shade Of death across our sunlight, and she lost The child she loved the dearest : from that time Her voice grew sadder, and I felt my hold Grow feebler on her finger ; still she tried To wear the old smile on her cheek whene'er Her husband watched her ; but at times, alone, I heard her sob as if her heart would break. Then she fell ill, and all the house grew dark, And one sad day her hand turned cold and numb^ And I was taken from it. Ne'er again Saw I the mistress whom I loved so well ; But from her hair a golden chain' was made, From which I hung close to her husband's heart. There all his life he wore me, till at last He, dying, gave me to his eldest girl. And bid her keep me for her mother's sake. And so I found myself placed here, away With these old letters telling of his love And hers, the ink now faded, and the gloss Gone from the paper ; here, too, shines a lock Of her bright hair, and there a glove she wore Upon the day when she became a wife. Her children long have married, and at times I hear sweet tiny voices eiying, " Please Open the drawer and let us see the ring Grandmamma wore upon her wedding-day." Then the drawer opens, and the light once more Dances around me, and again I seem To see the golden hair I knew so well. And watch the soft blue of the eyes I loved. For in her children's children yet there lives Some sweet reflection of my lady's face. Then shuts the drawer, the darkness comes again. And I am left once more to muse alone, And brood upon the memories of the Past HOW TO WASH A DOG. 27 HOW TO WASH A DOG. DOG was look- ing very scrubby about the back. I thought he was going to have the mange — not that I knew mange if I saw it, only it was a sort of word that sounded like the look of that dog's back. So I went to a friend who knew a deal about dogs (which I •don't), and said mine was going to have the mange — what was good for it? Sulphur, he said, was the best thing to use ; safe cure for it ; no diffi- culty. I didn't know whether the sulphur should be taken as a pUl, or put on like ointment ; all I knew was that he said " sulphur," and I did not -choose to expose my ignorance by asking. I concluded I would try the effects of a wash first. I went into a grocer's, and asked for three- penn'orth of soft-soap, sajring in an off-hand way, "Kills fleas, doesn't it?" I had never , seen soft-soap before (I never want to see it again ; but let that pass), so I was in- terested in its appearance when I got a lump, about the size of my two fists, of a stodgy, moshy, clammy- ,:'--''=W looking mass, resembling a Tnixture of sand and half —^ frozen honey. The man wrapped it up in a piece of paper, ^ and I shud- thank you." Some men always say, " Thank you." And, self-satisfied I went my way, the noble hound (N.B. — Cross between a general mongrel and a pine log) following me unconscious of his fate. It was in the back-yard that the deed was done. With a generosity worthy of a better cause, I had brought down from my bed-room my own bath — one of those round, shallow, milk-pan affairs — and had filled it about two inches deep with lukewarm water. Then came the scratch ; I use this word meta- phorically, but it became literal before the operation was over — as the paint that is not in my bath can testify. I knew no more about the application of soft- soap than of sulphur, but I thought that I could guess how to use the former, which I imagined to In the Bath. {Brawn by W. Halston,) •dered at the feel of it, as I put it into my coat- pocket. " Thanks — good morning." " Mornin', sir — be harmless ; while with the sulohur I might have done it wrong, and have been had up for culpable canicide. 28 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Cook kindly pinned the sacking cover of her travelling-box round me, to keep off the splashes, and provided a square of old carpet, folded up small, so as to be soft, for me to kneel on. I hfted the dog into the bath, and held him by the scruff, while he madly plunged, kicked, and struggled in his anxiety to get out, ploughing up the bright paint at the bottom in long beautiful furrows — four of them parallel, at a stroke. To do the dog justice, however, he did not waste the paint. At the end of each nail-rut was a sweet little coil, all ready to be stuck down in the fiu-row again by any one who knew how. I did not know how. With my right hand I applied the soft-soap. It never struck me that it might act like ordinary soap does when rubbed into hair ; but it did — only more so. If it had struck me I might have been content with using a lump — say about the size of a piece of mud; but, being in ignorance, I calmly and systematically plastered that dog until all my three-penn'orth was gone, and the faithful beast looked like a stuffed brown-tabby cat with its com- plexion a little bit faded. Then the wash really began. Taking some water in my hand, Iset-to to workup the soap, commencing on the back. At first there was no effect, and my hand slipped about like an eel spiralising on a greasy pole— downwards. Presently a tinge of white appeared, and gradually spread and spread. This was lather. I think I'll alter the type of that sentence, and say, " This tvas lather." It was ! It rose, and rose, and rose ; it spread ; it widened out ; it hung down, and stuck out in front and behind far beyond the last hairy extremities of dog. Still I persevered, and still the lather in- creased, till the four legs were one solid pedestal of white, and all semblance of animal shape was lost in soap. Then I began to wash the soap off, but the more I washed it off, the more it didn't go. It only increased and thickened, and I began to feel dis- couraged. I knew the dog was there — somewhere — because I hadn't seen him go away ; but the only sight I had had to remind me of him was one great bubbling, frothing, hissing, seething, effervesceiV" mass of lather, which grew and grew, and rounded off at the corners, till it looked like a huge, steam- ing, animated snowball. I grew more discouraged. I saw something must be done, or something else might happen to- the dog. Presently a thought struck me, and I hit it back. I lifted that mass up, and carried it to the scullery. There was a tap, and also a pump, over the sink. - Holding the snowball with the part where the head would be under the tap, I turned on the water, and got cook to pump on the tail part. The stone of the sink was soon hidden from sight in a snowy covering. Presently two spots of dog appeared, deep down in two chasms of lather. Then I grew hopeful, and shifted the entirety a bit, so that more transformation might ensue. At last I was able to welcome a considerable portion of my old friend, when I began to rub what I could see of him, and lo, more white arose ! This went on, and I finally treated the dog like somebody else's riddle, and gave him up. Discarding the box-cover, I sallied forth with him into the wood, and, as I proceeded towards the pond by the brick kilns, he left behind him along the heather a bright, glistening, gleaming track, as if some gigantic snail had passed that way. But the pond was reached, and two masterly immersions (I say it with conscious pride) settled him. He came out clean, wet, and happy. Happy 1 — Well, that is, speaking comparatively. My dog has got a cold now ! P. W. T. v-ej^. [From '^HORTLY after ten o'clock, the singing- boys arrived at the tranter's house, which was invariably the place of meet- ing, and preparations were made for the start. The older men and musicians wore thick coats, with stiff perpendicu- lar collars, and coloured handkerchiefs wound round and round the neck till came to hand, over all which they just showed their ears and noses, like people looking over a wall. The remainder, stalwart ruddy men and boys, were mainly dressed in THE CHEISTMAS CHOIE. "Under the Greenvrood Tree." By Thomas Hakdt.] the end snow-white smock-frocks, embroidered upon the shoulders and breasts, in ornamental forms of hearts, diamonds, and zigzags. The cider- mug was emptied for the ninth time, the music-books were arranged, and the pieces finally decided upon. The boys, in the mean time, put the old horn- lanterns in order, cut candles into short lengths to fit the lanterns ; and, a thin fleece of snow having fallen since the early part of the evening, those who had no leggings went to the stable and wound wisps of hay round their ankles to keep the insi- dious iiakes from the interior of their boots. THE CHEISTMAS CHOIR. 29 Old William Dewy, with the violoncello, played the bass ; his grandson Dick the treble violin ; and Keiiben and Michael Mail the tenor and second violins respectively. The singers consisted of four men and seven boys, upon whom devolved the task of carrying and attending to the lanterns, and holding the books open for the players. Directly music was the theme, old William ever and instinctively came to the front. " Now mind, naibours," he said, as they aU went out one by one at the door, he himself holding it ajar and regarding them with a critical face as they passed, like a shepherd counting out his sheep. " You two counter-boys, keep your ears open to Michael's fingering, and don't ye go stray- ing into the treble part along o' Dick and his set, as ye did last year ; and mind this especially when we be in ' Arise, and hail.' Billy Chimlen, don't you sing quite so raving mad as you fain would ; and, all o' ye, whatever ye do, keep from making a great scuffle on the ground when we go in at people's gates ; but go quietly, so as to strik' up all of a sudden, like spirit.s." " Farmer Ledlow's first 1 " " Farmer Ledlow's first ; the rest as usual." " And, Voss," said the tranter terminatively, "you keep house here till about half -past two ; then heat the metheglin and cider in the warmer you'll find turned up upon the copper ; and bring it wi' the victuals to church-porch, as th'st know." ****** Most of the outlying homesteads and hamlets had been visited by about two o'clock : they then passed across the Home Plantation toward the main village. Pursuing no recognised track, great care was necessary in walking lest their faces should come in contact with the low-hangiiig boughs of the old trees, which in many spots formed dense overgrowths of interlaced branches. " Times have changed from the times they used to be," said Mail, regarding nobody can tell what interesting old panoramas with an inward eye, and letting his outward glance rest on the ground, because it was as convenient a position as any. " People don't care much about us now ! I've been thinking, we must be almost the last left in the county of the old string players. Barrel-organs, and they next door to 'em that you blow wi' your foot, have come in terribly of late years." " Ah ! " said Bowman, shaking his head ; and old William, on seeing him, did the same thing. "More's the pity," replied another. " Time was — long and merry ago now ! — when not one of the varmits was to be heard of ; but it served some of the choirs right. They should have stuck to strings as we did, and keep out clar'nets, and done away with serpents. If you'd thrive in musical rehgion, stick to strings, says L" I " Strings are well enough, as far as that goes," said Mr. Spinks. I " There's worse things than serpents," said Mr. Penny. " Old things pass away, 'tis tr^ie ; but a serpent was a good old note : a deep rich note was the serpent." I " Clar'nets, however, be bad at all times," said ' Michael Mail. "One Christmas — years agone now, years — I went the rounds wi' the Dibbeach I choir. 'Twas a hard frosty night, and the keys of all the clar'nets froze — ah, they did freeze ! — so that 'twas like drawing a cork every time a key was opened ; the players o' 'em had to go into a hedger and ditcher's chimley- corner, and thaw their clar'nets every now and then. An icicle o' spet hung down from the end of every man's clar'net a span long; and as to fingers— well, there, if ye'll believe me, we had no fingers at all, to our knowledge. " " I can well bring back to my mind, ' said Mr. Penny, "what I said to poor Joseph Ryme (who took the tribble part in High-Story Church for two-and-forty year) when they thought of having clar'nets there. ' Joseph,' I said, says I, ' depend upon't, if so be you have them tooting clar'nets you'll spoil the whole set-out. Clar'nets were not made for the service of Providence ; you can see it 30 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. by looking at 'em,' I said. And what cam o't? Why, my dear souls, the parson set up a barrel- organ on his own account within two years o' the time I spoke, and the old choir went to nothing." " As far as look is concerned," said the tranter, " I don't for my part see that a fiddle is much nearer heaven than a clar'net. 'Tis farther off. There's always a rakish, scampish countenance about a fiddle that seems to say the Wicked One had a hand in making o'en ; while angels be supposed to play clar'nets in heaven, or som'at like 'em, if ye may beheve picters." "Robert Penny, you were in the right," broke in the eldest Dewy. They should ha' stuck to strings. Your brass-man, is brass — well and good ; your reed-man, is reed— well and good ; your percussion-man, is percussion — good again. But I don't care who hears me say it, nothing will speak to your heart wi' the sweetness of the man of strings ! " " Strings for ever ! " said little Jimmy. "Strings alone would have held their ground against all the new comers in creation." (" True, true : " said Bowman.) " But clar'nets was death." (" Death they was ! " said Mr. Penny.) " And harmoniums," William continued in a louder voice, and getting excited by these signs of approval, " harmoniums and barrel-organs " (" Ah ! " and groans from Spinks) " be miserable — what shall I call 'em 1 — miserable — " " Sinners," suggested Jimmy, who made large strides like the men, and did not lag behind like the other little boys. " Miserable machines for such a divine thing as music ! " " Right, William, and so they be ! " said the choir with earnest unanimity. By this time they were crossing to a wicket in the direction of the school, which, standing on a slight eminence on the opposite side of a cross lane, now rose in unvarying and dark flatness against the sky. The instruments ivere retuned, and all the band entered the enclosure, enjoined by old William to keep upon the grass. " Number seventy-eight," he softly gave out, as they formed round in a semicircle, the boys open- ing the lanterns to get a clearer light, and directing their rays on the books. Then passed forth into the quiet night an ancient and well-worn hymn. 4f * * * * * Having concluded the last note, they listened for a minute or two, but found that no sound issued from the school-house. " Forty breaths, and then, ' 0, what unbounded goodness ! ' number fifty-nine," said William. This was duly gone through, and no notice svhatever seemed to be taken of the performance. " Surely 'tisn't an empty house, as befell us in the year thirty-nine and forty-three ! " said old Dewy, with much disappointment. " Perhaps she's jist come from some noble city, and sneers at our doings," the tranter whispered. " 'Od rabbit her ! " said Mr. Penny, with an annihilating look at a corner of the school chimney, " I don't quite stomach her, if this is it. Your plain music well done is as worthy as your other sort done bad, a' b'lieve souls ; so say L" "Forty breaths, and then the last," said the leader authoritatively. " ' Rejoice, ye tenants of the earth,' number sixty-four." At the close, waiting yet another minute, he said in a clear loud voice, as he had said in the village at that hour and season for the previous forty years : " A merry Christmas to ye !" When the expectant stillness consequent upon the exclamation had nearly died out of them all, an increasing light made itself visible in one of the windows of the upper floor. It came so close to the blind that the exact position of the flame could be perceived from the outside. Remaining steady for an instant, the blind went upward from before it, revealing to thirty concentrated eyes a young girl, framed as a picture by the window- architrave, and unconsciously illuminating her countenance to a vivid brightness by a candle she held in her left hand, close to her face, her right hand being extended to the side of the window. She was wrapped in a white robe of some kind, whilst down her shoulders fell a twining profusion of marvellously rich hair, in a wild disorder which proclaimed it to be only during the invisible hours of the night that such a condition was discover- able. Her bright eyes were looking into the grey world outside with an uncertain expression, oscillating between courage and shyness, which, as she recognised the semicircular group of dark forms gathered before her, transformed itself into pleasant resolution. Opening the window, she said, lightly and warmly : " Thank you, singers, thank you ! " Together went the window quickly ancl quietly, and the blind started downward on its return to its place. Her fair forehead and eyes vanished ; her little mouth ; her neck and shoulders ; all of her. Then the spot of candlelight shone nebu- lously as before ; then it moved away. " How pretty ! " exclaimed Dick Dewy. "If she'd been rale Avexwork she couldn't ha' been comelier," said Michael Mail. " As near a thing to a spiritual vision as ever I wish to see ! " said tranter Dewy fervently. " 0, sich I never, never see ! " said Leaf. All the rest, after clearing their throats and adjusting their hats, agreed that such a sight was worth singing for. THE CHRISTMAS CHOIR. 31 " Now to Fanner Shinar's, and then replenish our insides, father," said the tranter. " Wi' all my heart," said old William, shoulder- ing his bass-viol. Farmer Shinar's was a queer lump of a house, standing at the corner of a lane that ran obliquely into the principal thoroughfare. The upper windows were much wider than they were high, and this feature, together with a broad bay-window where the door might have been expected, gave it by day the aspect of a human countenance turned askance, and wearing a sly and wicked leer. To- night nothing was visible but the outline of the roof upon the sky. The front of this building was reached, and the preliminaries arranged as usual. " Forty breath.s, and number thirty-two, — ' Be- hold the morning star,' " said old William. They had reached the end of the second verse, and the fiddlers were doing the up bow-stroke ■previously to pouring forth the opening chord of the third verse, when, without a light appearing or any signal being given, a roaring voice exclaimed : "Shut up ! Don't make your blaring row here; A feUer wi' a headache enough to split likes a quiet night." Slam went the window. " Hullo, that's an ugly blow for we artists 1 " said the tranter, in a keenly appreciative voice, and turning to his companions. " Finish the carrel, all who be friends of harmony !" said old William commandingly ; and they continued to the end. " Forty breaths, and number nineteen ! " said William firmly. " Give it him well ; the choir can't be insulted in this manner ! " A light now flashed into existence, the window opened, and the farmer stood revealed as one in a terrific passion. " Drown en ! — drown en ! " the tranter cried, fiddling frantically. " Play fortissimy, and drown his spaking ! " " Fortissimy ! " said Michael Mail, and the music and singing waxed so loud that it was impossible to know what Mr. Shinar had said, was saying, or was about to say ; but vrildly flinging his arms and body about in the form of capital X's and Y's, he appeared to utter enough invectives to consign the whole parish to perdition. " Very unseemly— very ! " said old William, as they retired. "Never such a dreadful scene in the whole round o' my carrel practice— never ! And he a churchwarden ! " " Only a drap o' drink got into his head," said the tranter. " Man's well enough when he's in his religious frame. He's in his worldly frame now. Must ask en to our bit of a party to-morrer night, I suppose, and so put en in track again. We bear no martel man iU-wilL" They now crossed Twenty-acres to proceed to the lower village, and met Voss with the hot mead and bread -and -cheese as they were crossing the churchyard. This determined them to eat and drink before proceeding farther, and they entered the belfry. The lanterns were opened, and the whole body sat round against the walls on benches and whatever else was available, and made a hearty meal. In the pauses of conversation cou'd be heard through the floor overhead a little world of undertones and creaks from the halting clock- work, which never spread farther than the tower they were born in, and raised in the more meditative minds a fancy that here lay the direct pathway of Time. Having done eating and drinking, the instru- ments were again tuned, and once more the party emerged into the night air. " Where's Dick t " said old Dewy. Every man looked round upon every other man, as if Dick might have been transmuted into one or the other ; and then they said they didn't know. " Well now, that's what I call very nasty of Master Dicky, that I do so," said Michael Mail. " He've clinked off' home-along, depend upon't," another suggested, though not quite believing that he had. " Dick ! " exclaimed the tranter, and his voice rolled sonorously forth among the yews. He suspended his muscles rigid as stone whilst listening for an answer, and finding he listened in vain, turned to the assemblage. " The tribble man too ! Now if he'd been a tinner or counter chap, we might ha' contrived the rest o't without en, you see. But for a choir to lose the tribble, why, my sonnies, you may so well lose your . . . ." The tranter paused, unable to mention an image vast enough for the occasion. " Your head at once," suggested Mr. Penny. ****** " Was ever heard such a thing as a young man leaving his work half done and turning tail like this 1 " " Never," replied Bowman, in a tone signifying that he was the last man in the world to wish to withhold the formal finish required of him. " I hope no fatal tragedy has overtook the lad !' said his grandfather. " O no," replied tranter Dewy placidly. " Wonder where he've put that there fiddle of his Why that fiddle cost thirty shillens, and good words besides. Somewhere in the damp, without doubt ; that there instrument will be unglued and spoilt in ten minutes — ten ! ay, two." "What in the name o' righteousness can have happened 1 " said old William, still more uneasily. Leaving their lanterns and instruments in the 32 GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHOES. belfry, tliey retraced tlieir steps. "A strapping lad like Dick d'know better than let anything happen onawares," Reuben remarked. ****** They had now again reached the precincts of Mr. Shinar's, but hearing nobody in that direction, one thrown back, his eyes fixed upon the illuminated lattice. "Why, Dick, is that thee? What's doing here 1 " Dick's body instantly flew into a more rational attitude, and his head was seen to turn east and " Why, Dice, is that thee? " (Lratin hii J. R. Ecid.) or two went across to the school-house. A light was still burning in the bedroom, and though the blind was down, the window had been slightly opened, as if to admit the distant notes of the caroUers to the ears of the occupant of the room. Opposite the window, leaning motionless against a wall, was the lost man, his arms folded, his head west in the gloom, as if endeavouring to discern some proper answer to that question ; and at last he said, in rather feeble accents, "Nothing, father." " Th'st take long enough time about it then, upon my body," said the tranter, as they all turned towards the vicarage. WINSTANLEY. A BALLAD. [By Jeah Ingelow.] THE APOLOGY. UOTH the cedar to the reeds and rushes, "Water-grass, you know not what I do ; Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes, And — I know not you." Quoth the reeds and rushes, " Wind ! oh waken ! Breathe, O wind, and set our answer free, For we have no voice of you forsaken, For the cedar-tree." Quoth the earth at midnight to the ocean, " AVilderness of water, lost to view. Nought you are to me but sounds of motion ; I am nought to you." Quoth the ocean, " Dawn ! O fairest, clearest, Touch me with thy golden fingers bland ; For I have no smile till thou appearest lor the lovely land." V^INSTANLEY. 33- Quoth the hero dying, whelmed in glory, " Many blame me, few have understood ; Ah, my folk, to you I leave a story — Make its meaning good." Quoth the folk, " Sing, poet ! teach us, prove us ; Surely we shall learn the meaning then : Wound us with a pain divine, O move us, For this man of men." " Cast away." (Drawn htj W. H. Overviid. Winstanley's deed, you kindly folk. With it I fill my lay, And a nobler man ne'er walked the world, Let his name be what it may. The good ship Snoivdrop tarried long, Up at the vane looked he ; "Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped, " She lieth becalmed at sea." The lovely ladies flocked within, And still would each one say, " Good mercer, be the ships come up 1 " But still he answered "Nay." Then stepped two mariners down the street With looks of grief and fear : " Now, if Winstanley be your name. We bring you evil qheer ! " For the good ship Snotvdrop struck — she struck On the rock — the Eddystone, And down .she went with threescore men, We two being left alone. '' Down in the deep, with freight and crew, Past any help she lies, And never a bale has come to shore Of all thy merchandise." " For cloth o' gold and comely frieze," Winstanley said, and sighed, " For velvet coif, or costly coat, They fathoms deep may bide. " O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, O mariners bold and true. Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, A-thinking of yours and you. " Many long days Winstanley's breast Shall feel a weight within, For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared And trading count but sin. " To him no more it shall be joy To pace the cheerful town. And see the lovely ladies gay Step on in velvet gown." The Snowdrop sank at Lammas tide, All under the yeasty spray ; On Christmas Eve the brig Content Was also cast away. He little thought o' New Year's night, So jolly as he sat then, While drank the toast and praised the roast The round-faced aldermen, — Wliile serving lads ran to and fro, Pouring the ruby wine, And jellies trembled on the board. And towering pasties fine, — While loud huzzas ran up the roof Till the lamps did rock o'erhead. And hoUy boughs from rafters hung Dropped down their berries red. GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, With every rising tide, How the wave washed in his sailor lads, And laid thena side by side. There stepped a stranger to the board : " Now, stranger, who be ye 1 " He looked to right, he looked to left, And " Rest you merry," quoth he ; " For you did not see the brig go down, Or ever a storm had blown ; For you did not see the white wave rear At the rock — the Eddystone. '' She drave at the rock with stern- sails set ; Crash went the masts in twain ; She staggered back with her mortal blow. Then leaped at it again. " There rose a great cry, bitter and strong, The misty moon looked out ! And the water swarmed vidth seamen's heads, And the wreck was strewed about. " I saw her mainsail lash the sea As I clung to the rock alone ; Then she heeled over, and down she went. And sank like any stone. " She was a fair ship, but all's one ! For nought could bide the shock." " I will take horse," Winstanley said, '' And see this deadly rock." " For never again shall barque o' mine Sail over the windy sea. Unless, by the blessing of God, for this Ee found a remedy." Winstanley rode to Plymouth town All in the sleet and the snow. And he looked around on shore and sound As he stood on Plymouth Hoe. Till a pillar of spray rose far away. And shot up its stately head, Reared and fell over, and reared again: " 'Tis the rock ! the rock ! " he said. Straight to the mayor he took his way, " Good Master Mayor," quoth he, " I am a mercer of London town. And owner of vessels three, — " But for your rock of dark renown, I had five to track the main." " You are one of many," the old mayor said, '' That of the rock complain. "An iU rock, mercer ! your words ring right. Well with my thoughts they chime. For my two sons to the world to come It sent before their time." " Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, And a score of shipwrights free, For I think to raise a lantern tower On this rock of destiny." The old mayor laughed, but sighed also ; ■'Ah, youth," quoth he, " is rash ; Sooner, young man, tliou'lt root it out From the sea that doth it lash. " Who sails too near its jagged teeth. He shall have evil lot ; For the calmest seas that tumble there Froth like a boiling pot. " And the heavier seas few look on nigh. But straight they lay him dead ; A seventy-gun ship, sir ! — they'll shoot Higher than her masthead. " O, beacons sighted in the dark, They are right welcome things. And pitchpots flaming on the shore Show fair as angel wings. " Hast gold in hand ? then light the land. It 'longs to thee and me ; But let alone the deadly rock In God Almighty's sea." Yet said he, " Nay — I must away. On the rock to set my feet ; My debts are paid, my will I made, Or ever I did thee gi-eet. " If I must die, then let me die By the rock and not elsewhere ; If I may live, Oh, let me live To mount my lighthouse stair!" The old mayor looked him in the face, And answered, '' Have thy way ; Thy heart is stout, as if round about It was braced with an iron stay : '' Have thy will, mercer ! choose thy men. Put off from the storm-rid shore : God with thee be, or I shall see Thy face and theirs no more." Heavily plunged the breaking wave. And foam flew up the lea. Morning and even the drifted snow Fell into the dark grey sea. WINSTANLEY. 35 Winstanley chose him men and gear ; He said, " My time I waste," For the seas ran seething up the shore, And the wrack drave on in haste. But twenty days he waited and more, Pacing the strand alone, Or ever he set his manly foot On the rock — the Eddystone. Then he and the sea began their strife, And worked with power and might : Whatever the man reared up by day The sea broke down by night. He wrought at ebb with bar and beam, He sailed to shore at flow ; And at his side by that same tide. Came bar and beam also. " Give in, give in," the old mayor cried, " Or thou wilt rue the day." " Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed ; " But the rock will have its way. ■" For all his looks that are so stout. And his speeches brave and fair, He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, But he'll build no lighthouse there." In fine weather and foul weather The rock his arts did flout, Through the long days and the short days. Till all that year ran out. With fine weather and foul weather Another year came in : " To take his wage," the workmen said, "We almost count a sin." Now March was gone, came April in, And a sea-fog settled down, And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, He sailed from Plymouth town. With men and stores he put to sea, As he was wont to do ; They showed in the fog hke ghosts full faint— A ghostly craft and crew. And the sea-fog lay and wax'd alway For a long eight days and more ; " God help our men," quoth the women then ; " For they bide long from shore." They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread : " Where may our mariners be 1 " But the brooding fog lay soft as down Over the quiet sea. A Scottish schooner made the port, The thirteenth day at e'en : " As I am man," the captain cried, " A strange sight I have seen : " And a strange sound heard, my masters all, At sea, in the fog and the rain, Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low. Then loud, then low again. " And a stately house one instant showed Through a rift on the vessel's lee ; What manner of creatures may be those That build upon the sea ? " Then sighed the folk, " The Lord be praised! " And they flocked to the shore amain ; All over the Hoe that livelong night Many stood out in the rain. It ceased, and the red sun reared his head, And the rolling fog did flee ; And, lo ! in the offing faint and far Winstanley's house at sea ! In fair weather with mirth and cheer The stately tower uprose ; In foul weather, with hunger and cold, They were content to close ; Till up the stair Winstanley went, To fire the wick afar ; And Plymouth in the silent night Looked out and saw her star. Winstanley set his foot ashore : Said he, " My work is done ; I hold it strong to last as long As aught beneath the sun. " But if it fail, as fail it may, Borne down with ruin and rout, 'Another than I shall rear it high. And brace the girders stout. " A better than I shall rear it high. For now the way is plain, And tlio' I were dead," Winstanley said, " The light would shine again. " Yet, were I fain still to remain. Watch in my tower to keep. And tend my light in the stormiest night That ever did move the deep ; " And if it stood, why then 'twere good. Amid their tremiilous stirs, To count each stroke when the mad waves broke For cheers of mariners. 36 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " But if it fell, then this were well, That I should with it fall ; Since, for my part, I have built my heart In the courses of its wall. " Ay ! I were fain long to remain, Watch in my tower to keep, And tend my light in the stormiest night That ever did move the deep." With that Winstanley went his way. And left the rock renowned, And summpr and winter his pilot star Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. But it fell out, fell out at last, That he a\ ould put to sea, To scan once moie Ins li^hthou e tower On the lock o destiny And the winds woke, and the storm broke, And wrecks came plunging in ; None in the town that night lay down. Or sleep or rest to win. The great mad waves were rolling graves. And each flung up its dead ; The seething flow was white below, And black the sky o'erhead. And when the dawn, the dull grey dawn, — Broke on the trembling town, And men looked south to the harbour mouth. The lighthouse tower was down. Down in the deep he doth sleep Who made it shine afar, And then m the night that dio^A ned its light, Set A\ ith his pilot stai Many fau tombs m the glorious glooms At Westminster they show , The biai e and the gieat lie theie m state : Winstanley lieth low On the Rock of Destiny." {Drawn by W. if. Ov(n-6ad.) RIP VAN WINKLE [By Washingtoh Ietins.] ^HEEE lived, many years since, while America was yet a province of Great ^r Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, ^? of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He [^1 was a simple, good-natured man; he was moreover a kind neighbour, and an obedient henpecked husband. Certain it is, that he was a great favourite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. ■ The children -of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clamber- ing on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity ; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighbourhood. The great error in Rip's composition was an in- RIP VAN WINKLE. 37 superable aversion to aU kinds of profitable labour. It could not be for the want of assiduity or perse- verance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never even refuse to assist a neighbour in t'']e roughest toil, and was a foremost point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to do. So that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was Little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighbourhood. His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, -with the old clothes, of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his -;r^ -^r'-:j^lj -^. A Melancholy Party of Pleasure." man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn or building stone fences ; the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them : -in a word. Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his own ; but as to doing family duty and keeping his farm in order, it was impossible. In fact, he declared it was no use to work on his farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country ; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces ; his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain always made a mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting . an honourable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The moment Wolf entered the house, his crest fell, his taU dropped to the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked 38 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and, at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, would flee to the door with yelping precipitation. Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edge-tool that grows keener by constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, that held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his Majesty George III. Here they used to sit in the shade, of a long lazy .summer's day, talk listlessly over village gossip, or tell endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it "would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound discussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the school- master, a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place. Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and his only alternative to escape from the labour of the farm and the clamour of his wife was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathised as a feUow- sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he recipro- cated the sentiment with all his heart. In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day. Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was after his favourite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. For some time Rip lay musing ; evening was gradually advancing, the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys, he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle ! " He looked around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its soli- tary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air : " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " — at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him ; he looked down anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighbourhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick, bushy hair and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist — several pairs of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity, and, mutually relieving each other, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended. Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals. Like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time. Rip and his com- panion had laboured on in silence ; for though the former marvelled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehen- sible about the unknown that inspired awe and checked familiarity. On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion : some wore short RIP VAN WINKLE. 39 doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with those of the guide. Their visages, too, were peculiar : one had a large head, broad face, and small piggish eyes ; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cockstail. They aU had beards, of various shapes and colours. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout, old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance ; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt, and hanger, high- crowned hat and feather, red stockings and high- heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlour of Dominie Van Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were evidently amusing them- selves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever wit- nessed. Nothing interrupted the stUlness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote to- gether. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling ; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavour of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another, and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in liis head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. On awaking he found himself on the green knoll from whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. " Surely," thought Rip, " I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with the keg of liquor — the mountain ravine — the vsdld retreat among the rocks— the woebegone party at nine-pins— the flagon—" Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked flaaon ! " thought Rip — " what excuse shaU I make to Dame Van Winkle?" He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old fire- lock lying by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysterers of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and having dosed him with bquor, had robbed him of his gun. WoH, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in vain ; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which some- what surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when to his astonishment he found his beard had gro^va a foot long ! He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his grey beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognised for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors — strange faces at the windows — everything was strange. His mind now misgave him ; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a dis- tance — there was every hiU and dale precisely as it had always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — " That flagon last night," thought he, " has addled my poor head sadly ! " It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows- shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half- starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, .showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed. " My very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has forgotten me ! " He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. 40 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife and children — the lonely chambers rung for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. He now hurried forth and hastened to his old resort, the village inn ; but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken, and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted — "The Union Hotel, by beard, his rusty fowHng-piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and children that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians ; and a short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, "whether he was Federal or Democrat '? " Rip was equally at a loss to com- prehend the question, when a knowing self-im- portant old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and Kip Vaw Winkle's Return. Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red night- cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognised on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters. General Washington. The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, "What brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village ? " — "Alas ! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him ! " Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — " A tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him ! " It was with great difiiculty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order ; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown RIP VAN WINKLE. 41 culprit what lie came there for, and whom he was seeking ? The poor man humbly assured him that be meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbours, who used to keep about the tavern. "Well — who are they? name them." Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, " Where's Nicholas Vedder 1 " There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder 1 why he is dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotted and gone too." "Where's Brom Butcher?" " Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war ; some say he wa." killed at the storm- ing of Stoney-Point, others Sc^y he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know, he never came back again.' " Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster 1 " " He went off to the wars too, \-'as a great militia general, and is now in Congress." Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand : war — congress — Stoney - Point ; — he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle 1 " "Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three, " Oh, to be sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." Rip looked and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain : apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged . The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name 1 " God knows ! " exclaimed he at his wit's end ; "I'm not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and everything's changed and I am changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am ! " The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper also about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the grey-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool, the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. " What is your name, my good woman 1 " asked lie. "Judith Gardenier." " And your father's name 1 " "Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle ; it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun and never has been heard of since — his dog came home without him ; but whether he shot himself or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it with a faltering voice : " Where's your mother 1 " " Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedlar." There was a drop of comfort at least in this intelligence. The honest man could contain him- self no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father ! " cried he I — " Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now !— does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?" All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sm-e enough ! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself ! Welcome home again, old neighbour. Why, where have you been these twenty long years 1 " Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighbourhood. He recollected Eip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first dis- coverer of the river and countiy, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon, being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by his name. 42 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. THE FALCON. s-^^HERE lived in Florence a young "^^ man, called Federigo Alberigi, who ^ surpassed all tlie youth of Tuscany in feats of arms, and in accomplished manners. He (for gallant men will fall in love) became enamoured of Monna Giovanna, at that time con- sidered the finest woman in Florence; and that he might inspire her with a reciprocal passion, he squandered his fortune at tilts and tournaments, in entertainments and presents. But the lady, who was virtuous as she was beau- tiful, could on no account be prevailed on to return his love. While he lived thus extravagantly, and without the means of recruiting his coffers, poverty, the usual attendant of the thoughtless, came on apace ; his money was spent, and nothing remained to him but a small farm, barely sufficient for his subsistence, and a falcon, which was, how- ever, the finest in the world. When he found it impossible, therefore, to live longer in town, he retired to his little farm, where he went a-birding in his leisure hours ; and disdaining to ask favours of any one, he submitted patiently to his poverty, while he cherished in secret a hopeless passion. It happened about this time that the husband of Monna Giovanna died, leaving a great fortune to their only son, who was yet a youth ; and that the boy came along with his mother to spend the sum- mer months in the country (as our custom usually is), at a villa in the neighbourhood of Federigo's farm. In this way he became acquainted with Federigo, and began to delight in birds and dogs, and, having seen his falcon, he took a great longing for it, but was afraid to ask it of him when he saw how highly he prized it. This desire, however, so much affected the boy's spirits, that he fell sick; and his mother, who doted upon this her only child, became alarmed, and to soothe him pressed him again and again to ask whatever he wished, and promised that, if it were possible, he should have all he desired. The youth at last confessed, that if he had the falcon he wou.ld soon be well again. When the lady heard this, she began to consider what she should do. She knew that Federigo had long loved her, and had received from her nothing but coldness ; and how could she ask the falcon, which she heard was the finest in the world, and which was now his only conso- lation ? Could she be so cruel as' to deprive him of his last remaining support 1 Perplexed with these thoughts, which the full belief that she should have the bird if she asked it did not relieve, she knew not what to think, or how to return her son an answer. A mother's love, however, at last prevailed ; she resolved to satisfy him, and deter- mined, whatever might be the consequence, not to send, but to go herself and procure the falcon. She told her son, therefore, to take courage, and think of getting better, for that she would herself go on the morrow, and fetch what he desired ; and the hope was so agreeable to the boy, that he began to mend apace. On the next morning Monna Giovanna, having taken another lady along with her, went as if for amusement to the little cabin of Federigo and inquired for him. It was not the birding season, and he was at work in his garden ; when he heard, therefore, that Monna Giovanna was calling upon him, he ran with joyful surprise to the door. She, on the other hand,, when she saw him coming, advanced with delicatft politeness ; and when he had respectfully saluted her, she said, " All happiness attend you, Federigo.^ I am come to repay you for the loss you have- suffered from loving me too well, for this lady and I intend to dine with you in an ea.sy way this, forenoon." To this Federigo humbly answered, " I do not remember, madam, having suffered any loss at your hands; but, on the contrary, have received so much good, that if ever I had any worth, it sprung from you, and from the love with, which you inspire me. And this generous visit to your poor host is much more dear to me than would be the spending again of what I have already spent." Having said this, he invited them respectfully into the house, and from thence con- ducted them to the garden, where, having nobody else to keep them company, he requested that they would allow the labourer's wife to do her best to amuse them while he went to order dinner. Federigo, however great his poverty, had not yet learned all the prudence which the loss of fortune might have taught him ; and it thus happened that he had nothing in the house with which he could honourably entertain the lady for whose love he had formerly given so many enter- tainments. Ciu'sing his evil fortune, therefore, he stood like one beside himself, and looked in vain for money or pledge. The hour was already late, and his desire extreme to find something worthy of his mistress ; he felt repugnant, too, to ask from his own labourer. While he was thus perplexed he chanced to cast his eyes upon his fine falcon, which was sitting upon a bar in the ante-chamber. Having no other resoirrce, therefore, he took it into his hand, and finding it fat, he thought it would be proper for such a lady. He accordingly pulled its neck without delay, and gave it to a little girl to be plucked ; and having put it upon a spit, he made it be carefully roasted. He then covered THE FALCON". 43 the table with a beautiful cloth, a wreck of his former splendour ; and everything being ready, he returned to the garden, to tell the lady and her companion that dinner was served. They ac- cordingly went in and sat down to table with Federigo, and ate the good falcon without know- ing it. When they had finished dinner, and spent a short while in agreeable conversation, the lady thought it time to tell Federigo for what she had come. She said to him, therefore, in a gentle tone, " Federigo, when you call to mind your past life, and recollect myvirtue, which perhaps you called coldness and cruelty, I doubt not but that you will be astonished at my presumption, when I tell you the principal motive of my visit. But had you children, and knew how great a love one bears them, I am sure you would in part excuse me ; and although you have them not, I, who have an only child, cannot resist the feelings of a mother. By the strength of these am I constrained, in spite of my inclination, and contrary to propriety and duty, to ask a thing which I know is with reason dear to you, for it is your only delight and consolation in your misfortunes : that gift is your falcon, for -which my son has taken so great a desire, that unless he obtain it, I am afraid his illness wiU increase, and that I shall lose him. I beseech you to give it me, therefore, not by the love which you bear me (for to that you owe nothing), but by the nobleness of your nature, which you have shown in nothing more than in your generosity ; and I will remain eternally your debtor for my son's life, which your gift will be the means of preserving." When Federigo heard the lady's request, and knew how impossible it was to grant it, he burst into tears, and was unable to make any reply. The lady imagined that this arose from grief at the thought of losing his favourite, and showed his unwillingness to part with it ; nevertheless she waited patiently for his answer. He at length said, " Since it first pleased Heaven, madam, that I should place my affections on you, I have found Fortune unkind to me in many things, and have often accused her ; but all her former unkindness has been trifling compared with what she has now done me. How can I ever forgive her, therefore, when I remember, that you, who never deigned to visit me when I was rich, have come to my poor cottage to ask a favour which she has cruelly prevented me from bestowing. The cause of this I shall briefly tell you. When I found that in your goodness you proposed to dine with me, and when I considered your excellence, I thought it my duty to honour you with more precious food than is usually given to others. Recollecting my falcon, therefore, and its worth, I deemed it worthy food, and accordingly made it be roasted and served up for dinner ; but when I find that you wished to get it in another way, I shall never be consoled for having it not in my power to serve you." Having said this, he showed them the wings, and the feet, and the bill, as evidences of the truth of what he had told them. When the lady had heard and seen these things, she chided him for having kiUed so fine a bird as food for a woman, but admired in secret that greatness of mind which poverty had been unable to subdue. Then, seeing that she could not have the falcon, and becoming alarmed for the safety of her chUd, she thanked Federigo for the honourable enter- tainment he had given them, and returned home in a melancholy mood. Her son, on the other hand, either from grief at not getting the falcon, or from a disease occasioned by it, died a few days after, leaving his mother plunged in the deepest aifliction. Monna Giovanna was left very rich, and when she had for some time mourned her loss, being importuned by her brothers to marry again, she began to reflect on the merit of Federigo, and on the last instance of his generosity disjilayed in killing so fine a bird to do her honour. She told her brothers, therefore, that she would marry since they desired it, but that her only choice would be Federigo Alberigi. They laughed when they heard this, and asked her how she could think of a man who had nothing ; but she answered, that she would rather have a man without money, than money without a man. When her brothers, who had long known Federigo, saw, therefore, how her wishes pointed, they consented to bestow her upon him vsath all her wealth ; and Federigo, with a wife so excellent and so long beloved, and riches equal to his desires, showed that he had learned to be a better steward, and long enjoyed true happiness. 44 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. A QUAETEE HOUE CHIME. [From Oliver Wendell Holmes.] I I'D some men the task of being serious comes very light, while others seem to be blessed by nature with a genuine humorous side to their dispositions. So with writers : some are 8| at their best in a sad or pathetic vein, some never put pen to paper without inditing iM^ something laughter-begetting and full of mirth. It seems, however, to be a peculiarity of a small section, to be able to blend the humorous and pathetic, often in so admirable a T fashion that the eyes of the reader are frequently moistened by a tear, which for the life ] of him he cannot easily explain, whether it was brought there by the mirth or the sadness in the writers' works. American authors have this peculiarity strongly; this mingling of the sad and ridiculous, and in no one is it more strongly developed than in Oliver Wendell Holmes, who is best known among us for his "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," and his "Professor." He has, however, written some exquisite verses from time to time, chief among which is the following curious blending of mirth and sadness : — I saw him once before As he passed by the door, And again The pavement-stones resound As he totters o'er the gTOund With his cane. They say that in his prime. Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets So forlorn ; And he .shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, " They are gone ! " The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has pressed In their bloom ; And the names he loved to hear Have been cai'ved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said, — Poor old lady ! she is dead Long ago, — That he had a Roman nose. And his cheek was like a rose In the snow ; But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff ; And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here. But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer ! And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the Spring — Let them smile as I do now At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. We have the same mingling of quaint and humorous conceits blended together in that pleasant ballad, which is so picturesque that you seem to see the embossed old piece of tarnished silver, as the story runs : — This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christ- mas chimes ; They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true. That dipp'd their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. A Spanish galleon brought the bar — so runs the ancient tale ; 'Twas hammer'd by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail ; And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail. He wiped his brow, and quafTd a cup of good old Flemish ale. A QUARTER HOUR CHIME. 'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, Who saw the cherubs and conceived a longing for the same ; ' This ancient silver bowl. ."^d oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, ^Twas fill'd with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round. 'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and fill'd it to the brim ; The little captain stood and stirr'd the posset with his sword, And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board. He pour'd the fiery Hollands in — the man that never fear'd — He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard ; And one by one the musketeers — the men that fought and pray'd — All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid. That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew — He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo ; And there the sachem learn'd the rule he taught to kith and kin, " Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin ! " But, changing hands, it reach'd it length a Paiitan divine, Who used to follow Timotln , iiid t ikc i little wine, But hated punch and piehcy, and so it was perhaps. He went to Leyden, wheie he found (.on\entitlts and schnaps. The men that focght ahd pkat d. And then, of course, you know what's next, it left the Dutchman's shore With those that in the Mayflower came, a hundred souls and more. Along with all their furniture, to fill their new abodes — To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads. A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, A thousand rubs had flatten'd down each little cherub's nose. When once again the bowl was fill'd, but not in mirth or joy — 'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. 46 GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. " Drink, John," she said, " 'twill do you good ; poor child, you'll never bear This -working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air ; And if — God bless me! — you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill ; " So John did drink — and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill ! I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer ; I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here : 'Tis but the fool that loves excess ; hast thou a drunken soul 1 I love the memory of the past — its press'd yet fragrant flowers — The moss that clothes its broken walls — the ivy on its towers ; Nay, this poor bauble it bequeath'd, my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the vanish'd joys that danced around its brim. Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me ; The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be ; And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver That dooms one to those dreadful words— "My bowl ! I dear, where have you been 1 " But Oliver Wendell Holmes can laugh, and that too, freely — laugh with his pen, as when, in his poem " Evening," supposed to be written by a tailor, he says : — Day hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Or, when he describes the miseries inflicted by music grinders as fervently as a man who has been constantly pestered by organs, and says : — But hark ! the air again is still, The music all is ground. And silence, like a poultice, comes To heal the blows of sound ; It cannot be — it is, it is — A hat is going round ! No ! Pay the dentist when he leaves A fracture in your jaw, And pay the owner of the bear That stunned you with his paw, And buy the lobster that has had Your knuckles in his claw ; But if you are a portly man, Put on your fiercest frown, And talk about a constable To turn them out of town ; Then close your sentence with an oath, And shut the window down ! And if you are a slender man, Not big enough for that, Or if you cannot make a speech Because you are a flat, Go very quietly and drop A button in the hat ! In fact, speaking of laughter, he goes so far in one of his poems as to say of his servant, who read some lines : — He read the second, the grin grew broad, And shot from ear to ear ; He read the third, a chuckling noise I now began to hear. The fourth, he broke into a roar, The fifth his waistband split ; The sixth he burst four buttons oft", And tumbled in a fit. Ten days and nights, with sleepless eyes, I watched that wretched man. And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can. All the same, though, he ventures to be very humorous in his description of that masterpiece of mechanism, that was designed and built from beginning to end by the Deacon, to whose genius is due " The Wonderful One-hoss Shay." A QUARTER HOUR CHIME. 47 Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay, That was built in such a logical way, It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden it — ah ! but stay, I'U tell you what happen'd without delay. Soaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits — Have you ever heard of that, I say 1 Seventeen hundred and fifty-five : Geo7-gius Secimdus was then alive — Snuffy old drone from the German hive ! That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down. And Braddock's army was done so brown. Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible earthquake-day That the deacon finished the one-hoss-shay. Now in building of chaises, I tell you what. There is always somewhere a weakest spot — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or cross-bar, or floor, or sill. In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace — lurking still. Find it somewhere you must and will, Above or below, or within or without ; And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. But the deacon swore (as deacons do, With an " I dew vum," or an " I tell yeou " ) He would build one shay to beat the taown 'N' the keounty, 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; It should be so built that it couldn't break daown : " Fur," said the deacon, " 't's mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain ; 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, is only jest To make that place uz strong uz the rest." So the deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak. That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke — That was for spokes and floor and sills ; He sent for lancewood to make the thills ; * The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees ; The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese. But lasts like iron for things like these ; The hubs of logs from the " settler's ellum " — Last of its timber — they couldn't sell 'em ; Never an axe had seen their chips. And the wedges flew from between their lips. Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too. Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide ; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he " put her througli." " There ! " said the deacon, " naow she'll dew 1 " Do ! I'll tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less. Colts grew horses, beards turned grey, Deacon and deaconess dropp'd away, Children and grand-children — where were they ? But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay, As fresh as on Lisbon earthquake-day ! Eighteen Hundred : it came and found The deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten : " Hahnsum kerridge " they call'd it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came : Running as usual much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then came fifty and fifty-five. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth. So far as I know, but a tree and truth, (This is a moral that runs at large ; Take it. You're welcome. No extra charge). First of November— the earthquake day : There are traces of age in the one-hoss-shay, A general flavour of mild decay. But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn't be, for the deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree f neither less nor more And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore And spring, and axe, and hub J encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt. In another hour it will be worn out. First of November, 'fifty-five : This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way ! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss-shay. Drawn by a rat-tail'd, ewe-neck 'd bay. " Huddup ! " said the parson. Off went thoj The parson was working his Sunday's text. Had got to fifthly, and stopp'd perplex'd At what the — Moses — was coming next. AH at once the horse stood still. Close by the meet'n' -house on the hilL t Splinter-bar. X Nave. 48 GLEANINGS FKOM POPULAR AUTHORS. First a shiver, and then a thrill, Tlien something decidedly like a spill — And the parson was sitting upon a rock. At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock — Just the hour of the earthquake-shock ! "What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around ? — The poor old chaise in a heap or mound. As if it had been to the mill and ground ' You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once — All at once, and nothing first. Just as bubbles do when they burst. End of the wonderful one-hoss-shaj . Logic is logic — that's all I say. End of the wonderful one ho«s shay LOVE IN A BALLOON. [By Theyke Smith.] [('BT^OME time ago I was staying with Sir i^^ George P , P House, "P shire. Great number of people there — all kinds of amusements going on. Driving, riding, fishing, shooting, everything in fact. Sir George's daughter, Fanny, was often my companion in these expeditions, and I was considerably struck with her. She could ride like Ninirod, she could drive like Jehu, she could row like Charon, she could dance like Terpsichore, she could run like Diana, .she walked like Juno, and she look like Venus. I've even seen her smoke. You should have heard that girl whistle and laugh — you should have heard her laugh. She was truly a delightful companion. We rode together, drove together, fished together, walked together, danced together, sang together ; I called her Fanny, and she called me Tom. All this could have but one termination, you know. I fell in love with her, and determined to take the first opportunity of proposing. So, one day, when we were out together fishing on the lake, I went down on my knees amongst the gudgeons, seized her hand, pressed it to my waistcoat, and in burning accents entreated her to become my wife. "Don't be a fool!" she said. "Now drop it, do ! and put me a fresh worm on." " Oh ! Fanny," I exclaimed ; " don't talk about worms when marriage is in question. Only say- — " " I tell you what it is now," she replied angrily, "if you don't drop it, I'L. pitch you out of the boat." I did not drop it ; and I give you my word of honour, with a sudden shove she sent me flying into the water ; then seizing the sculls, with a stroke or two she put several yards between us, and burst into a fit of laughter that fortunately prevented her from going any further. I swam up and climbed into the boat. " Jenkyns ! " said I, to myself, " Revenge ! revenge ! " I disguised my feelings. I laughed — hideous mockery — I laughed. Pulled to the bank, went to the house, and changed my clothes. When I appeared at the dinner table, I perceived that every one had been told of my ducking — universal laughter greeted me. During dinner Fanny repeatedly whispered to her neighbour, and glanced at me. Smothered laughter invariably followed. "Jenkyns ! " said I, " Revenge ! " The opportunity soon offered. There was to be a balloon ascent from the lawn, and Fanny had tormented her father into letting her ascend with the aeronaut. I in.stantly took my plans ; bribed the aeronaut; learned from him the management of the balloon, though I understood that pretty well before, and calmly awaited the result. The day came. The weather was fine. The balloon was inflated. Fanny was in the car. Everything was ready, when the aeronaut suddenly fainted. He was carried into the house, and Sir George accom- panied him to see that he was properly attended to. Fanny was in despair. " Am I to lose my air expedition 1 " she ex- claimed, looking over the side of the car. "Some- one understands the management of this thing, surely 1 Nobody ! Tom ! " she called out to me. " you understand it, don't you 1 " " Perfectly," I answered. " Come along then," she cried, " be quick ; before papa comes back." LOVE IN A BALLOON. 49 The company in general endeavoured to dis- suade her from her project, but of course in vain. After a decent show of hesitation, I climbed into the car. The balloon was cast off, and rapidly sailed heavenward. There was scarcely a breath of wind, and we rose almost straight up. We rose above the house, and she laughed and said : " How jolly !" We were higher than the highest trees, and she smiled, and said it was very kind of me to come with her. We were so high that the people below looked mere specks, and she hoped that I thoroughly understood the management of the balloon. Now was my time. pleasantly ; " only with love for you. Oh, Fanny, I adore you ! say you will be my wife. ' "I gave you an answer the other day," she replied ; " one which I should have thought you would have remembered," she added, laughing a little, notwithstanding her terror. "I remember it perfectly," I answered; "but I intend to have a different reply to that. You see those five sand-bags, I shall ask you five times to become my wife. Every time you refuse I shall throw over a sand-bag. So, lady fair, as the cabmen would say, reconsider your decision, and consent to become Mrs. Jenkyns." " I won't ! " she said, " I never will ! and let me ' You SEE THOSE FIVE SAND BAGS ? " " I understand the going up part," I answered ; " to come down is not so easy," and I whistled. " What do you mean 1 " she cried. "Why, when you want to go up faster, you throw some sand overboard," I replied, suiting the action to the word. "Don't be foolish, Tom," she said, trying to appear quite calm and indifferent, but trembling uncommonly. "Foolish !" I said. " Oh, dear no ! but whether I go along the ground or up in the air I like to go the pace, and so do you, Fanny, I know. Go it, you cripples ! " and over went another sand-bag. " Why, you're mad, surely," she whispered in utter terror, and tried to reach the bags, but I kept her back. " Only with love, my dear," I answered, smiling G tell you, that you are acting in a very ungentle- manly way to press me thus." "You acted in a very ladylike way the other day, did you not," I rejoined, " when you knocked me out of the boat 1 " She laughed again, for she was a plucky girl, and no mistake — a very plucky girl. " However," I went on, " it's no use arguing about it — will you promise to give me your hand?" " Never !" she answered ; " I'll go to Ursa Major first, though I've got big enough bear here, in all conscience. Stay, you'd prefer Aquarius, wouldn't you 1 " She looked so pretty that I was almost inclined to let her off (I was only trying to frighten her, of course — I knew how high we could go safely well enough, and how valuable the life of Jenkyns was to his country) ; but resolution is one of the strong 50 GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. points of my character, and when I've begun a thing I like to carry it through, so I threw over another sand-bag, and whistled the Dead March in Saul. " Come, Mr. Jenkyns," she said, suddenly, "come, Tom, let us descend now, and I'll promise to say nothing whatever about all this." I continued the execution of the Dead March. "But if you do not begin the descent at once I'll tell papa the moment I set foot on the ground." I laughed, seized another bag, and, looking steadily at her, said : " Will you promise to give me your hand 1 " " I've answered you already," was the reply. Over went the sand, and the solemn notes of the Dead March resounded through the car. " I thought you were a gentleman," said Fanny, rising up in a terrible rage from the bottom of the car where she had been sitting, and looking per- fectly beautiful in her wrath; "I thought you were a gentleman, but I find I was mistaken ; why a chimney-sweeper would not treat a lady in such a way. Do you know that you are risking your own life as well as mine by your madness 1 " I explained that I adored her so much that to die in her company would be perfect bliss, so that I begged she would not consider my feelings at all. She dashed her beautiful hair from her face, and standing perfectly erect, looking like the Goddess of Anger, or Boadicea — if you can fancy that per- sonage in a balloon — she said : "I command you to begin the descent this moment." The Dead March, whistled in a manner essentially gay and lively, was the only response. After a few minutes' silence, I took up another bag and .said : " We are getting rather high ; if you do not decide soon, we shall have Mercury coming to tell us we are trespassing — will you promise me your hand? " She sat in sulky silence in the bottom of the car. I threw over the sand. Then she tried another plan. Throwing herself upon her knees, and bursting into tears, she said : " Oh, forgive me for what I did the other day ! It was very wrong, and I am very sorry. Take me home and I will be a sister to you." " Not a wife 1 " said I. " I can't ! I can't ! " she answered. Over went the fourth bag, and I began to think that she would beat me, after all ; for I did not like the idea of going much higher. I would not give in just yet, however. I whistled for a few moments, to give her time for reflection, and then said : " Fanny, they say that marriages are made in Heavein — if you do not take care, ours will be solemnised there." I took up the fifth bag. "Come," I said, "my wife in life, or my com- panion in death ! Which is it to bel" and I patted the sand-bag in a cheerful manner.. She hid her face in her hands but did not answer. I -nursed the bag in my arms as if it had been a baby. " Come, Fanny, give me your promise ! " I could hear her sobs. I'm the most soft-hearted creature breathing, and would not pain any living thing, and I confess she had beaten me. I forgave her the ducking ; I forgave her for rejecting me. I was on the point of flinging the bag back into the car, and saying: "Dearest Fanny ! forgive me for frightening you. Marry whomsoever you will. Give your lovely hand to the lowest groom in your stables, — endow with your priceless beauty the Chief of the Panki-wanki Indians. Whatever hap- pens, Jenkyns is your slave — your dog — your foot- stool. His duty henceforth is to go whithersoever you shall order — to do whatever you shall com- mand." I was just on the point of saying this, I repeat, when Fanny suddenly looked up and said, with a queerish expression upon her face : " You need not throw that last bag over ; I promise to give you my hand." " With all your heart V I asked, quickly. " With all my heart," she answered, with the same strange look. I tossed the bag into tlie bottom of the car, and opened the valve. The balloon descended. Will you believe it 1 When we had reached the ground, and the balloon had been given over to itj recovered master : when I had helped Fanny ten- derly to the earth, and turned towards her to receive anew the promise of her affection and her hand ; will you believe it 1 she gave me a box on the ear, that upset me against the car, and run- ning to her father, when he came up, she related to him what she called my disgraceful conduct in the balloon, and ended by informing me that all of her hand I was likely to get had been already bestowed upon my ear, which she assured me had been given with all her heart. " You villain ! " said Sir George, advancing towards me with a horse-whip in his hand. " You villain ' I've a good mind to break this over your back." " Sir George," said I, " villain and Jenkyns must never be coupled in the same sentence ; and as for the breaking of this whip, I'll relieve you of the trouble," and, snatching it from his hand, I broke it in two, and threw the pieces on the ground. "And now I shall have the honour of wishing you a good morning. Miss P . I forgive you, and I retire." Now I ask you whether any specimen of female treachery equal to that has ever come within your experience, and whether any excuse can be made for such conduct? THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 51 THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. [By Jane Tatlok ] 'N old clock tliat had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitclien without giving its owner any cause of com- plaint, early one summer's morning, before the family were stirring, sud- denly stopped. Upon this the dial-plate, if we may credit the fable, changed countenance with alarm ; the hands made a vain eflfort to continue their course ; the wheels remained motionless with surprise ; the weights hung speechless ; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation, when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below from the pendulum, who thus spoke : — "I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage ; and I am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of ticking." Upon hear- ing this, the old clock became so enraged, that it v.-as on the very point of striking. " Lazy wire ! " exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands. " Very good," replied the pendulum : " it is vastly easy for you. Mistress Dial, who have always, as everybody knows, set yourself up above me, — it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness ! You, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the kitchen ! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag backwards and forwards year after year as I do." "As to that," said the dial, "is there not a window in your house, on purpose for you to look through '? " "For all that," resumed the pendulum, "it is very dark here : and, although there is a window, I dare not stop even for an instant, to look out at it. Besides, I am really tired of my way of life ; and, if you wish, I'll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. I happened this morning to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in the course only of the ne.xt twenty-four hours : perhaps ■ some of you above there can give me the exact sum." The minute hand, being quich at figures, presently replied, "Eighty -six thousand four hundred times." "Exactly so," replied the pendulum ; "well, 1 appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue one ; and when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really it is no wonder if I felt dis- couraged at the prospect ; so, after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I'll stop." 'The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue ; but, resiuning its gravity, thus replied : — "Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, industrious person as yourself should have been overcome by this sudden notion. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time ; so have we all, and are likely to do ; which, although it may fatigue us to think of, the question is whether it will fatigue us to do. Would you now do me the favour to give about half-a-dozen strokes, to illustrate my argument 1 " The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace. " Now," resumed the dial, " may I be allowed to inciuire, if that exertion was at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you 1 " " Not in the least," replied the pendulum ; " it is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of millions." "Very good," replied the dial; "but recollect, that though you may think of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to execute but one ; and that, however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in." " That consideration staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum. " Then 1 hope," resumed the dial-plate, " wc shall all immediately return to our duty ; for the maids will lie in bed till noon if we stand idling thus." Upon this the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed ; when, as with one consent, the y,'heels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum began to swing, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever ; while a red beam of the rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the kitchen-shutter, shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up as if nothing had been the matter. When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the clock he declared that his watch had gained half-an-hour in the night. 52 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. THE BALLAD OP CAEMILHAN. [By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.] MT Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, Within the sandy bar, ^^^dc> At sunset of a summer's day. Ready for sea, at anchor lay The good ship Valdemar. The sunbeams danced upon the waves. And played along her side, And through the cabin-windows streamed In ripples of golden light, that seemed The ripple of the tide. There sat the captain with his friends — Old skippers brown and hale — Who smoked and grumbled o'er their grog. And talked of iceberg and of fog, Of calm, and storm, and gale. And one was spinning a sailor's yarn About Klaboterman, The Kobold of the sea ; a sprite Invisible to mortal sight, Who o'er the rigging ran. Sometimes he hammered in the hold. Sometimes upon the mast. Sometimes abeam, sometimes abaft. Or at the bows he sang and laughed. And made all tight and fast. He helped the sailors at their work. And toiled with jovial din ; He helped them hoist and reef the sails, He helped them stow the casks and bales, And heave the anchor in. But woe unto the lazy louts, The idlers of the crew ; Them to torment is his delight, And worry them by day and night, And pinch them black and blue. And woe to him whose mortal eyes Klaboterman behold ; It is a certain sign of death ! — The cabin-boy here held his breath, He felt his blood run cold The jolly skipper paused awhile. And then again began : "There is a Spectre Ship," quoth he, "A ship of the Dead, that sails the sea. And is called the Carmilhan. " A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew. In tempests she appears ; And before the gale, or against the gale. She sails without a rag of sail. Without a helmsman steers. "She haunts the Atlantic north and south, But mostly the mid-sea, Where three great rocks rise bleak and bare, Like furnace-chimneys in the air, And .are called the Chimneys Three. " And ill betide the luckless ship That meets the Carmilhan ; Over her decks the seas will leap, She must go down into the deep, And perish mouse and man." The captain of the Valdemar Laughed loud with merry heart. " I should hke to see this ship," said he ; I should like to find these Chimneys Three, That are marked down in the chart. " I have sailed right over the spot," he said, " With a good stiff breeze behind. When the sea was blue, and the sky was clear — You can follow my course by these pinholes here — And never a rock could find." And then he swore a dreadful oath. He swore by the Kingdoms Three, That should he meet the Carmilhan, He would run her down, although he ran Right into Eternity ! All this, while passing to and fro. The cabin-boy had heard ; He lingered at the door to hear. And drank in all with greedy ear, And pondered every word. He was a simple country lad. But of a roving mind ; " Oh, it must be like heaven," thought he, " Those far-off foreign lands to see. And fortune seek and find ! " But in the fo'castle, when he heard The mariners blaspheme, He thought of home, he thought of God, And his mother under the churchyard soa, And wished it were a dream. THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN. 53 One friend on board that ship had he ; 'Twas the Klaboterman, Who saw the Bible in his chest, And made a sign upon his breast, All evil things to ban. " It is the tide," those skippers cried, " That swings the vessel so ; It is the tide ; it rises fast, 'Tis time to say farewell at last, 'Tis time for us to go." "A HOPELESS WRECK, UPON THE CHIMNEYS THREE." {Brawnhy E. Wagner.) The cabin-windows have grown blank As eyeballs of the dead ; No more the glancing sunbeams burn On the gilt letters of the stem. But on the figure-head ; On Valdemar Victorious, Who looketh with disdain, To see his image in the tide Dismembered float from side to side, And reunite again. They shook the captain by the hand, " Good luck ! good luck ! " they cried ; Each face was like the setting sun. As, broad and red, they one by one Went o'er the vessel's side. The sun went down, the full moon rose, The tide was at its flood ; And all the winding creeks and bays And broad sea-meadows seemed ablaze. The sky was red as blood. 54 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. The south-west wind blew fresh and fair, As fair as wind could be ; Bound for Odessa, o'er the bar. With all sail set, the Valdemar Went proudly out to sea. The lovely moon climbs up the sky As one who walks in dreams ; A tower of marble in her light, A wall of black, a wall of white, The stately vessel seems. Low down upon the sandy coast The lights begin to burn ; And now uplifted high in air They kindle with a fiercer glare, And now drop far astern. The dawn appears, the land is gone. The sea is all around ; Then on each hand low hills of sand Emerge and form another land ; She steereth through the Sound. Through Kattegat and Skager-rack, She flitteth like a ghost ; By day and night, by night and day, She bounds, she flies upon her way Along the English coast. Cape Finisterre is drawing near, Cape Finisterre is past ; Into the open ocean stream She floats, the vision of a dream Too beautiful to last. Suns rise and set, and rise, and yet There is no land in sight ; The liquid planets overhead Burn brighter now the moon is dead. And longer stays the night. And now along the horizon's edge Mountains of cloud uprose. Black, as with forests, underneath. Above, their sharp and jagged teeth Were white as drifted snows. Unseen behind them sank the sun. But flushed each snowy peak A little while with rosy light, That faded slowly from the sight. As blushes from the cheek. Black grew the sky, all black, all black ; The clouds were everywhere ; There was a feeling of suspense In nature, a mysterious sense Of terror in the air. And all on board the Valdemar Was still as still could be, Save when the dismal ship-bell tolled, As ever and anon she rolled. And lurched into the sea. The captain up and down the deck Went striding to and fro ; Now watched the compass at the wheel. Now lifted up his hand to feel Which way the wind might blow. And now he looked up at the sails, And now upon the deep ; In every fibre of his frame He felt the storm before it came. He had no thought of sleep. Eight bells ! and suddenly abaft. With a great rush of rain. Making the ocean white with spume, In darkness like the day of doom. On came the hurricane. The lightning flashed from cloud to cloud. And tore the dark in two ; A jagged flame, a single jet Of white fire, like a bayonet, That pierced his eyeballs through. Then all around was dark again, And blacker than before ; But in that single flash of light The captain saw a fearfid sight, And thought of the oath he swore. For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead, The ghostly Carmilhan ! Her masts were stripped, her yards were bare, And on her bowsprit, poised in air, Sat the Klaboterman. Her crew of ghosts was all on deck. Or clambering up the shrouds ; The boatswain's whistle, the captain's hail, Were like the piping of the gale. And thunder in the clouds. And close behind the Carmilhan There rose up from the sea, As from a foundered ship of stone, Three bare and splintered masts alone ; They were the Chimneys Three ! And onward dashed the Valdemar, And leaped into the dark ; A denser mist, a colder blast, A little shudder and she had passed Right through the Phantom Barque I MY FARE. She cleft in twain the shadowy hulk, But cleft it unaware ; As when, careering to her nest, The sea-gull severs with her breast The unresisting air. Again the lightning flashed ; again They saw the Carniilhan, Whole as before in hull and spar ; But now on board of the Vcddeinar Stood the Klaboterman. And they all knew their doom was sealed ; They knew that death was near ; Some prayed who never prayed before ; And some they wept, and some they swore. And some were mute with fear. Then suddenly there came a shock. And louder than wind or sea A cry burst from the crew on deck, As she dashed and crashed, a hopeless wreck. Upon the Chimneys Three The storm and night were passed, the light To streak the east began ; The cabin-boy, picked up at sea, Survived the wreck, and only he, To tell of the Carmilhan. MY FAEE. [By Geo. Manville Fenk.] '""■'~*"'g ON'T you make a mistake now, and i on to my box. p think I'm not a working-man ; because I am. Don't you run away with the idea that because I go of a morning and t^^ find my horse and cab waiting ready cleaned for me, and 1 jumps up and drives off, as I don't work as hard as any mechanic; because I do ; and I used to woi'k harder, for it used to be Sunday and week-days, till the missus and me laid our heads together, and said if we couldn't live on six days' work a week at cabbing, we'd try something else ; so now I am only a slk days' man — Hansom cab, V.R., licensed to carry two persons. None o' your poor, broken-kneed knackers for me. I takes my money in to the governor regular, and told him flat that if I couldn't have a decent horse I wouldn't drive ; and I spoke a bit sharp, having worked for him ten years. " Take your chice, Steve Wilkins," he says ; and I took it, and drove Kangaroo, the wall-eyed horse with a rat tail. I had a call one day off the stand by the Found- ling, and has to go into New Ormond Street, close by ; and I takes up an old widow lady and her daughter — as beautiful a girl of seventeen or eighteen as ever I set eyes on, but so weak that I had to go and help her down to the cab, when she thanked me so sweetly that I couldn't help looking again and again, for it was a thing I wasn't used to. " Drive out towards the country, cabman, the nearest way," says the old lady; "and when we want to turn back, I'll speak." "Poor gal!" I says, "she's an invalid. She's just such a one as my Fan would have been if she'd lived;" and I says this to myself as I gets feeling quite soft ; for though I knew my gal wouldn't have been handsome, what did that matter *? I didn't like to lose her. " Let's see," I says again, " she wants fresh air. AVe'll go up the hill, and through Hampstead ; " and I touches Kangaroo on the flank, and away we goes, and I picks out all the nicest bits I could, and when I comes across a pretty bit of view I pulls up, and pretends as there's a strap wanted tightening, or a hoof picking, or a fresh knot at the end of the whip, and so on. Then I goes pretty quickly along the streety bits, and walks very slowly along the green lanes ; and so we goes on for a good hour, when the old lady pushes the lid open with her parasol, and tells me to turn back. "All right, mum," I says; and takes 'em back another way, allers following the same plan ; and at last pulls up at the house where I supposed they was lodgers, for that's a rare place for lodgings about there. I has the young lady leaning on my arm when she gets out, and when she was at the door she says, " Thank you ! " again, so sweetly and sadly that it almost upset me. But the old lady directly after asked me the fare, and I tells her, and she gives me sixpence too much, and though I wanted to pocket it, I wouldn't, but hands it back. " Thank you, cabman," she says, "that's for being so kind and attentive to my poor child." " God bless her, mum," I says, " I don't want paying for that." Then she smiles quite pleasant, and asks me if it would be worth my while to call again the next aftsrnoon if it was fine, and I says it would ; and next day, just in the same way, I goes right oh" 56 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. past Primrose Hill, and seeing as what they wanted was the fresh air, 1 makes the best o' my way right out, and then, when we was amongst the green trees. Kangaroo and me takes it easy, and just saunters along. Going up hill I walks by his head, and picks at the hedges, while them two, seeing as I took no notice of 'em, took no notice o' me. I mean, you know, treated me as if we was old friends, and asked me questions about the different places we passed, and so on. Bimeby I drives 'em back, and the old lady again wanted to give me something extra for what she called my kind consideration ; but " No, Stevey," I says to myself; "if you can't do a bit o' kindness without being paid for it, you'd better put up the her poor mother a standing there with the tears in her eyes, I had to hurry her in, and get up on to my seat as quick as I could, to keep from breaking down myself. Poor gal ! always so loving and kind to all about her — always thanking one so sweetly, and looking all the while so much like what one would think an angel would look — it did seem so pitiful to feel her get lighter and lighter week by week — so feeble, that at last I used to go upstairs to fetch her, and always carried her down like a child. Then she used to laugh, and say " Don't let me fall, Stephen" — for they got to call me by my name, and to know the missus, by her coming in to help a bit ; for the old lady asked me to recom- 'A STRAP WANTED TIGHTENING." shutters, and take to some other trade." So I wouldn't have it, and the old lady thought I was offended ; but I laughed, and told her as the young lady had paid me ; and so she had with one of her sad smiles, and I said I'd be there again nex' day if it was fine. And so I was ; and so we went on day after day, and week after week ; and I could see that, though the sight of the country and the fresh air brightened the poor girl up a bit, yet she was getting weaker and weaker, so that at last I half carried her to the cab and back again after the ride. One day while I was waiting, the servant tells me that they wouldn't stay in town, only on account of a great doctor, as they went to see at first, but who came to them now ; and last of all, when I went to the house I used always to be in a fidget for fear the poor gal should be too ill to come out. But no ; month after month she kep' on ; and when I helped her, used to smile so sweetly and talk so about the trouble she gave me, that one day, feeling a bit tow, I turned quite silly ; and happening to look at mend 'em an honest woman, and I knowed none honester than my wife. And so it was with every- body—it didn't matter who it was — they all loved the poor gal ; and I've had the wife come home and sit and talk about her, and about our Fanny as died, till she's been that upset she's cried terribly. Autumn came in werry wet and cold, and there was an end to my jobs there. Winter was werry severe, but I kep' on hearing from the missus how the poor gal was — sometimes better, sometimes worse : and the missus alius shook her head werry sadly when she talked about her. Jennywerry and Feberwerry went by terribly cold, and then March came in quite warm and fine, so that things got so forrard you could buy radishes wonderful cheap in April ; and one night the wife comes home and tells me that if it was as fine nex' day as it had been, I was to call and take the old lady and her daughter out. Nex' day was splendid. It was as fine a spring day as ever I did see, and I sticks a daffydown- dilly in on each side of Kangaroo's head, and then MY FARE. 57 spends twopence in a couple o' bunches o' wilets, and pins 'em in on the side where the poor gal used to sit, puts clean straw in the bottom, and then drives to the place with the top lid open, so as to sweeten the inside, because swells had been smoking there that morning. "Jest run yer sponge and leather over the apron a bit, Buddy," I says to our waterman, afore I left the stand. " Got a wedding on 1 " he says, seeing how per- tickler I was. " There, look alive ! " I says, quite snappish, for I didn't feel in a humour to joke ; and then, when I'd got all as I thought right, I drives up, keeping the Hd open, as I said afore. When I draws up I puts the nose-bag on the old horse, for him to amuse himself with, and so as I could leave him, for he wouldn't stir an inch with that bag on to please all the pleacemen in London. Then I rings, and waits, and at last gets my orders to go and help the young lady down. I takes off my hat, wipes my shoes well, and goes up, and there she was waiting, and smiled so pleasantly again, and held out her hand to me, as though I'd been a friend, instead of a rough, weather-battered street cabman. And do you know what I did, as I went in there, with my eyes all dim at seeing her so, so changed '? Why, I felt as if I ought to do it, and I bent down and took her beautiful white hand in mine, and kissed it, and left a big tear on it ; for something seemed to say so plainly that she'd soon be where I hoped my own poor gal was, whom I always say we lost, but my wife says, " No, not lost, for she is ours still." She was so light now that I carried her down in a minute ; and when she was in the cab and saw the wilets, she took 'em down, and held 'em in her hand, and nodded and smiled again at me, as though she thanked me for them. "Go the same way as you went first time, Stephen," she says. Well, I picked out all the quieter bits, and took her away beyond Hampstead ; and there, in the greenest and prettiest spot I could find, I pulls up, and sits there listening to the soft whispers of her voice, and feeling somehow that it was for the last time. After a bit I goes gently on again, more and more towards the country, where the hedges were turning beautiful and green, and all looked so bright and gay. Bimeby I stops again, for there was a pretty view, and you could see miles away. Of course I didn't look at them if I could help it, for the real secret of people enjoying a ride is being with a driver who seems no more to 'em than the horse — a man, you see, who knows his place. -But I couldn't help just stealing one or two looks at the inside where that poor gal lay back in the corner looking out at the bright spring-time, and holding them two bunches of wilets close to her face. I was walking backwards and forwards then, patting the horse and straightening his harness, when I just catches the old lady's eye, and saw she looked rather frightened, and she leans over to her daughter and calls her by name quickly ; but the poor girl did not move, only stared straight out at the blue sky, and smiled so softly and sweetly. I didn't want no telling what to do, for I was in my seat and the old horse flying a'most before you could have counted ten ; and away we went, full pace, till I come up to a doctor's, dragged at the bell, and had him up to the cab in no time ; and then he rode on the footboard, in front of the apron, with the shutters let down ; and he whis- pered to me to drive back softly, and I did. The old lady has lodged with us ever since, for I took a better place on purpose, and my missus always attends on her. She's werry fond o' talking with my wife about their two gals who have gone before ; but though I often take her for a drive over the old spots, she never says a word to me about such things ; while soon after the funeral she told Sarah to tell me as the wilets were not taken from the poor gal's hand, same time sending me a fi-pun note to buy a suit o' mourning. Of course I couldn't wear that every day, but there was a bit o' rusty crape on my old shiny hat not such a werry long time ago ; and I never buy wilets now, for as they lie in the baskets in spring- time, sprinkled with the drops o' bright water, they seem to me to have tears upon 'em, and make me feel sad and upset, for they start me off thinking about "My Fare." f)8 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS, w TEN MINUTES WITH PUCK. [From " Puck on Pegasus."* By H. CHOLHO.N-DELEi-PEKlfELL.] HO has not heard of fairy Puck ? That merry sprite, immortalised by Shakespeare, who was wont to — "Jest to Oberon, and make him smile, Wlien I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly foal ; And sometimes lurk I in a gossiji's bowl, In very likeness of a roasted crab, And when she drinks, against her lips I bob," lias very often in his modern representative shown that he can be quite serious, and look at life from life's real aspect ; but for the most part he is ready to bob crab-like fruits of fancy against the lipS of those who read his little collection of fanciful verses. Here is his account of the daily trials of a dyspeptic— one of those unfortunates who goes about the world talking about his digestion, when lie has none at all, or scarcely any. Fancy, please, for a few moments the yellow, bilious-looking gentleman going into a London eating-house and summoning the attendant, who answers in the pert, cock-sparrow-like fashion of London eating-house waiters. "Lunch, sir? yes-ser, pickled salmon, Cutlets, kidneys, greens, and " — "Gammon ! Have you got no wholesome meat, sir ? Flesh or fowl that one can eat, sir ? " "Eat, sir? yes-ser, on the dresser. "Pork, sir?" "Pork, sir, I detest, sir." "Lobsters?" "Ai-e to rne unblest, sir." ' ' Ducks and peas ? '' "I can't digest, sir. " "Puff, sir?" "StuflF, sir!" "Fish, sir?" "Pish, sir !" ' ' Sausage ? " " Sooner eat the dish, sir ! " "Shrimps, sir? prawns, sir? crawfish? winkle? Scallops ready in a twinkle ? "Whelks and cockles, crabs to follow ! " " Heav'ns, nothing I can swallow ! " ""Waiter!" " Yes-sar." "Bread for twenty — I shall starve in midst of plenty ! " •Eat, sib? tes-ser." Poor m."in, he is to be pitied, especially as he is self-condemned to bread, and most probably water ; but Puck is harder upon the man who stammers, and is accosted by a wa3'farer, who asks to be directed to Waterloo Place, and is thus answered : — ""Wuw — "Wuw — "VYuw — "Wuw — "Wuw — AVuw — AV — AVaterloo Place? yes, you T — take the first tut— tut — tut — turning that faces you, Lul — left, and then Irak — kuk— kuk — kuk — kuk — kidi — keep up PaU Mall till you See the AVuw — AV^uw — AVuw — AA''uw — Zounds, sir, you'll get there before I can tell it you !" It is, perhaps, in bad taste to make fun of an affliction; but Puck was one who only looked at the comic side of things, and his jests were so light and merry, so free from cruel malice, that those against whom they are directed might very well join the band of those who laugh. And really there are some afflictions that are naturally so droll that it is impossible to avoid a smile. Think, for instance, of the gentleman who, through carelessness perhaps, or maybe solely through the ailment being epidemic, catches that terrible sneezing, nose-swelling, eye-Avatering kind of cold, known as the influenza. Puck paints one such, writing a poem or lay full of lamentations about his lost, lost love, and he sighs for her, speaking through his " dose," as follows : — " O doe, doe ! I shall dever see her bore ! Dever bore our feet shall run The beadows as of yore ! Dever bore with byrtld boughs Her tresses shall I twide — Dever bore her bellow voice Bake belody with bide ! Dever shall we lidger bore Abid the flowers at dood. Dever shall we gaze at dight "Upon the tedtder bood ! Ohatto and Wind us. TEN MINUTES WITH FUCK. 59 Ho, doe, doe ! . Those berry tibes have flowd, Ad I shall dever see her bore, By beautiful ! by owd ! " Ho, doe, doe ! I shall dever see her bore ; She will forget be id a bonth (Bost probably before). She will forget the byrtle boughs, The flowers we i)lucked at dood, Our beetings by the tedtder stars. Our gazings od the bood ; Ad I shall dever see agaid The Lily ad the Rose, The dabask cheek ! the sdowy brow ! The perfect bouth ad dose ! Ho, doe, doe ! Those berry tibes have flowd, Ad I shall dever see her bore, By beautiful ! by owd ! " But, as was said at the commencement of this Ten Minutes with Puck, he has his serious moods, as when in verse he describes the departure of the night mail from Euston Square Station for the North, with the hurry and bustle of the passengers, the closing of' the gates just as the red-coated mail guards are handing in the last leather bag of letters, and the driver and stoker stand on their hissing engine, waiting for the whistle to chirrup and the platform inspector's signal to start. It is a case of moments now, the engine pants hard, the last shovel of coal has made the steam fly screaming through the safety-valve, when a stentorian voice seems to echo along beneath the great glazed roof of the terminus, shoutings ' ' Now, then, take your seats ! for Glasgow and the North ; Chester ! — Carlisle ! — Holyhead, — and the v/ild Frith of Forth : Clap on the steam, and sharp's the word. You men in scarlet cloth," '* Are there any more pas— sengers, For the Night— Mail— to the North ? Are there any more passengers ? " Yes, three — but they can't get in — Too late, too late ! How they bellow and knock, They might as well try to soften a rock As the heart of that fellow in green. For the Night Mail Noi-th ? what ho ! (No use to struggle, you can't get thro'). My young and lusty one Whither away from the gorgeous to"\vn ? For the lake, and the stream, and the heather brown, ** And the double-barrelled gun ! " For the Night Mail North, I say ?— You with the eager eyes — You with the haggard face and i^ale ! — From a ruined hearth and a starving brood, *' A crime and a felon's gaol ! " For the Night Mail North, old man? Old statue of despair— "Why tug and strain at the iron gate ? " My daughter! " Ha ! too late, too late ! She is gone, you may safely swear ; She has given you the slip, d'you hear ? She has left you alone in your wrath. And she's off and away, with a glorious start, To the home of her choice, with the man of her heart, By the Night Mail North ! Wh— ish, K— ush, AVh— ish, E— ush— "What's all that hullabaloo ? Keep fast the gates there — who is this That insists on biirsting thro' ? " A desperate man whom none may withstand ; For, look, there is something clenched in his hand, Tho' the bearer is ready to drop. He waves it wildly to and fro. And hark ! how the crowd are shouting below "Back!" And back the oi>posing bamers go. "^ reprieve for the Canongatc murderer, ho I In the Queeii's name — Stop. Another has confessed the ci'ime.'^ Whish — rush — whish — rush— The guard has caught the flutt'ring sheet, Now forward and northward ! fierce and fleet, Thro' the mist, and the dark, and the driving sleet As if life and death were in it : 'Tis a splendid race ! a race against time, And a thousand to one we win it : Look at those flitting ghosts — The white-armed finger-posts — If we're moving the eighth of an inch, I say, We're going a mile a minute ! A mile a minute — for life or death — Away, away ! though it catches one's breath. The man shall not die in his wrath. The quivering carriages rock and reel — Hurrah ! for the rush of the grinding steel ! The thundering crank, and the mighty wheel! Aie there any more x>as— sengers For the Night— Mail— to the North ? " Br THE Night Mail North 60 GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. [Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare."] iATHARINE, the Shrew, was the eldest daughter of Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. She was a lady Iffi^W of such an ungovernable spirit and ^i^^^ fiery temper, such a loud-tongued scold, that she was known in Padua by no other name than Katharine the Shrew. It seemed very unlikely, indeed impossible, that any gentleman would ever be found who would venture to marry this lady, and therefore Baptista was much blamed for deferring his consent to many excellent offers that were made to her gentle sister Bianca, putting off all Bianca's suitors with this excuse, that when the eldest sister was fairly off his hands, they should have free leave to address young Bianca. It happened, however, that a gentleman, named Petrucio, came to Padua purposely to look out for a wife, who, nothing discouraged by these reports of Katharine's temper, and hearing she was rich and handsome, resolved upon marrying this famous termagant, and taming her into a meek and manageable wife. And truly none was so fit to set about this herculean labour as Petrucio, whose spirit was as high as Katharine's, and ho was a witty and most happy-tempered humourist, and withal so wise, and of such a true judgment, that he well knew how to feign a passionate and furious deportment, when his spirits were so calm that himself could have laughed merrily at his own angry feigning ; for his natural temper was careless and easy ; the boisterous air he assumed when he became the husband of Katharine being but in sport, or, more properly speaking, affected by his excellent discernment as the only means to overcome, in her own way, the passionate ways of the furious Katharine. A- courting then Petrucio went to Katharine the Shrew ; and first of all he applied to Baptista, her father, for leave to woo his gentle daughter Katha- rine, as Petrucio called her, saying, archly, that having heard of her bashful modesty and mild behaviour, he had come from Verona to solicit her love. Her father, though he wished her married, was forced to confess Katharine would ill answer this character, it being soon apparent of what manner of gentleness she was composed, for her music- master rushed into the room to complain that the gentle Katharine, his pupil, had broken his head with her lute, for presuming to find faidt with her performance ; which when Petrucio heard, he said, " It is a brave wench ; I love her more than ever, and long to have some chat wth her ;" and hurry- ing the old gentleman for a positive answer, he said, " My business is in haste, Signior Baptista ; I cannot come every day to woo. You knew my father : he is dead, and has left me heir to all his lands and goods. Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love, what dowry you will give with her." Baptista thought his manner was rather blunt for a lover ; but being glad to get Katharine married, he answered that he would give her twenty thousand crowns for her dowry, and half his estate at his death : so this odd match was quickly agreed on, and Baptista went to apprise his shrewish daughter of her lover's addresses, and sent her in to Petrucio to listen to his suit. In the meantime Petrucio was settling with himself the mode of courtship he should pursue ; and he said, "I will woo her with some spirit when she comes. If she rails at me, why then I mU tell her she sings as sweetly as a nightingale ; and if she frowns, I will say she looks as clear as roses newly washed with dew. If she will not speak a word, I will praise the eloquence of her language; and if she bids me leave her, I will give her thanks as if she bid me stay with her a week." Now the stately Katharine entered, and Petrucio first addressed her with, " Good morrow, Kate ; for that is your name, I hear." Katharine, not liking this plain salutation, said disdainfully, " They call me Katharine who do speak to me." "You lie," replied the lover ; "for you are called plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and some- times Kate the Shrew; but, Kate, you are the prettiest Kate in Christendom, and therefore, Kate, hearing your mildness praised in every town, I am come to woo you for my wife." A strange courtship they made of it ; she in loud and angry terms showing him how justly she had gained the name of Shrew, while he stiU praised her sweet and courteous words, till at length, hearing her father coming, he said (in- tending to make as quick a wooing as possible), " Sweet Katharine, let us set this idle chat aside, for your father has consented that you shall be my wife, your dowry is agreed on, and whether you will or no, I will marry you." And now Baptista entering, Petrucio told him his daughter had received him kindly, and that she had promised to be married the next Sunday. This Katharine denied, saying she would rather see him hanged on Sunday, and reproached her father for wishing to wed her to such a mad-cap ruffian as Petrucio. Petrucio desired her father not to regard her angry words, for they had agreed she should seem reluctant before him, but that when they were alone he had found her very fond and loving : and he said to her, " Give me your hand, Kate ; I will go to Venice to buy you fine THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 61 apparel against our wedding-day. Provide the feast, father, and bid the wedding guests. I will be sure to bring rings, fine array, and rich clothes, that my Katharine may be fine : and kiss me, Kate, for we will be married on Sunday." On the Sunday all the wedding guests were assembled, but they waited long before Petrucio ^^ame, and Katharine wept for vexation to think that Petrucio had only been making a jest of her. At last, however, he appeared, but he brought none of the bridal finery he had promised Katharine, nor was he dressed himself like a bride- groom, but in strange disordered attire, as if he meant to make a sport of the serious business he sop which was at the bottom of the glass full in the sexton's face, giving no other reason for this strange act than that the sexton's beard grew thin and hungerly, and seemed to ask the sop as he was drinking. Never sure was there such a mad marriage : but Petrucio did but put this wildness on, the better to succeed in the plot he had formed to tame his shrewish wife. Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage feast ; but, when they returned from church, Petrucio, taking hold of Katharine, declared his intention of carrying his wife home instantly ; and no remonstrance of his father-in-law, or angry words of the enraged Katharine, could make him change his purpose ; he claimed a husband's right 'Threw the meat abotjt the flooh/' (Drawuhy A. Laby.) came about ; and his servant, and the very horses on which they rode, were in like manner in mean and fantastic fashion habited. Petrucio could not be persuaded to change his dress ; he said Katharine was to be married to him, and not to his clothes ; and finding it was in vain to argue with him, to the church they went ; he still behaving in the same mad way, for when the priest asked Petrucio if Katharine should be his wife, he swore so loud that she should, that, all amazed, the priest let fall his book, and as he stooped to take it up, this mad-brained bridegroom gave him such a ens' that down fell the priest and his book again. And aU the while they were being married he stamped and swore so that the high-spirited Katharine trembled and shook with fear. After the ceremony was over, while they were yet in the church, he called for wine, and drank a loud health to the company, and threw a to dispose of his wife as he pleased, and away he hurried Katharine oS : he seeming so daring and resolute that no one dared attempt to stop him. Petrucio mounted his wife upon a miserable horse, lean and lank, which he had picked out for the purpose, and himself and his servant no better mounted ; they journeyed on through rough and miry ways, and ever when this horse of Katharine's stumbled, he would storm and swear at the poor jaded beast, who could scarce crawl under his burden, as if he were the most passionate man alive. At length, after a weary journey, during which Katharine had heard nothing but the wild ravings of Petrucio at the servant and the horses, they arrived at his house. Petrucio welcomed her kindly to her home ; but he resolved she should have neither rest nor food that night. The tables were spread, and supper soon served ; but Petrucio, 62 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. pretending to find favdt -with every dish, threw the meat about the floor, and ordered the servants to remove it avi^ay : and all this he did, as he said, in love for his Katharine, that she might not eat meat that was not well dressed. And when Katharine, weary and supperless, retired to rest, he found the same fault with the bed, throwing the pillows and bed-clothes about the room, so that she was forced to sit down in a chair, where, if she chanced to drop asleep, she was presently awakened by the loud voice of her husband, storm- ing at the servants for the ill-making of his wife's bridal-bed. The next day Petrucio pursued the same course, still speaking kind words to Katharine, but when she attempted to eat, finding fault with every- thing that was set before her, throwing the break- fast on the floor as he had done the supper ; and Katharine, the haughty Katharine, was fain to beg the servants would bring her secretly a morsel of food ; but they being instructed by Petrucio, replied, they dare not give her anything unknown to their master. " Ah," said she, " did he marry me to famish me ? Beggars that come to my father's door have food given them ; but I, who never knew what it was to entreat for anything, am starved for want of food, giddy for want of sleep, with oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed ; and that which vexes me more than all, he does it under the name of perfect love, pretending that if I sleep or eat, it were present death to me." Here her solilocjuy was interrupted by the entrance of Petrucio : he, not meaning she should be quite starved, had brought her a small portion of meat, and he said to her, " How fares my sweet Kate ! Here, love, you see how diligent I am, I have dressed your meat myself. I am sure this kindness merits thanks. What, not a word? Nay, then, you love not the meat, and all the pains I have taken is to no purpose." He then ordered the servant to take the dish away. Extreme hunger, which had abated the pride of Katharine, made her say, though angered to the heart, " I pray you let it stand." But this was not all Petrucio intended to bring her to, and he replied, "The poorest service is repaid with thanks, and so shall mine, before you touch the meat." On this Katharine brought out a reluctant " I thank you, sir." And now he suff'ered her to make a slender meal, saying, " Much good may it do your gentle heart, Kate ; eat apace ! And now, my honey love, we will return to your father's house, and revel it as bravely as the best, with silken coats and caps and golden rings, with rufi's and scarfs and fans and double change of finery ;" and to make her believe he really intended to give her these gay things, he called in a tailor and a haber- dasher, who brought some new clothes he had ordered for her, and then giving her plate to the servant to take away before she had half satisfied her hunger, he said, "What, have you dined?" The haberdasher presented a cap, saying, " Here is the cap your worship bespoke;" on which Petrucio began to storm afresh, saying, the cap was moulded on a porringer, and that it was no bigger than a cockle or walnut shell, desiring the haberdasher to take it away and make a bigger. Katherine said, "I wiU have this; all gentlewomen wear such caps as these." " When you are gentle," replied Petrucio, " you shall have one too, and not till then." The meat Katharine had eaten had a little revived her fallen spirits, and she said, "Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak, and speak I will : I am no child, no babe; your betters have endured to hear me say my mind ; and if you cannot, you had better stop your ears." Petrucio would not hear these angry words, for he had happily discovered a better way of managing- his wife than keeping up a jangling argument with her ; therefore his answer was, " Why, you say true ; it is a paltry cap, and I love you for not liking it." "Love me, or love me not," said Katharine, "I like the cap, and I will have this cap or none." "You say you wish to see the gown," said Petrucio, still affecting to misunder- stand her. The tailor then came forward, and showed her a fine gown he had made for her. Petrucio, whose intent was that she should have neither cap nor gown, found as much fault with that. " O mercy. Heaven ! " said he, "what stuff i& here ! What, do you call this a sleeve ? it is like a demi-cannon, carved up and down like an apple tart." The tailor said, " You bid me make it according to the fashion of the times ; " and Katharine said she never saw a better fashioned gown. This was enough for Petrucio, and privately desiring these people might be paid for their goods, and excuses made to them for the seemingly strange treatment he bestowed upon them, he with fierce words and furious gestures drove the tailor and the haberdasher out of the room ; and then, turning to Katharine, he said, " Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father's even in these mean garments we now wear." And then he ordered his horses, aflarming they should reach Baptista's house by dinner-time, for that it was but seven o'clock. Now it was not early morning, but the very middle of the day, when he spoke this ; therefore Katharine ventured to say, though modestly, being almost overcome by the vehemence of his manner, " I dare assure you, sir, it is two : o'clock, and will be supper-time before we get I there." But Petrucio meant that she should be so ' completely subdued, that she should assent to j everything he said, before he carried her to her father ; and therefore, as if he were lord even of the sun, and could command the hours, he said it should be what time he pleased to have it, before THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. G3 he set forward ; " For," said he, " whatever I say or do, you still are crossing it. I will not go to- day, and when I go it shall be what o'clock I say it is." Another day Katharine was forced to practise her newly-fonnd obedience ; and not till he had brought her proud spirit to such a perfect subjection that she dared not remember there was such a word as contradiction, would Petrucio allow her to go to her father's house ; and even while they were upon their journey thither, she was in danger of being turned back again, only because she happened to hint it was the sun, when he affirmed the • moon shone brightly at noonday. ''Now, by my mother's son," said he, "and that is myself, lit shall be the moon, or stars, or what I list, before I journey to your father's house." He then made as if he were going back again ; but Katharine, no longer Katharine the Shrew, but the obedient wife, said, " Let us go forward, I pray, now we have come so far, and it shall be the sun, or moon, or what you please ; and if you please to call it a rush candle henceforth, I vow it shall be so for me." This he was resolved to prove, therefore he said again, "I say. It is the moon." ■"I know it is the moon," replied Katharine. ■"You lie, it is the blessed sun," said Petrucio. " Then it is the blessed sun," replied Katharine ; ■" but sun it is not, when you say it is not. What you will have it named, even so it is, and so it ever shall be for Katharine." Now then he suffered her to proceed on her journey, but further to try if this yielding humour woidd last, he addressed an old gentleman they met on the road as if he had been a young woman, sajdng to him, ■" Good morrow, gentle mistress ; " and asked Katharine if she had ever beheld a fairer gentle- woman, praising the red and white of the old man's cheeks, and comparing his eyes to two bright stars ; and again he addressed him, saying, "Fair lovely maid, once more good day to you ! " and said to his wife, " Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake." The now completely vanquished Katharine quickly adopted her husband's opinion, and made her speech in like sort to the old gentle- man, saying to him, " Young budding virgin, you are fair, and fresh, and sweet : whither are you going, and where is your dwelling 1 Happy are the parents of so fair a child." "Why, how now, Kate 1 " said Petrucio, " I hope you are not mad. This is a man, old and wrinkled, faded and ■withered, and not a maiden, as you say he is." On this Katharine said, " Pardon me, old gentleman, the sun has so dazzled my eyes, that everything I look on seemeth green. Now I perceive you are a reverend father : I hope you will pardon me for my sad mistake." "Do, good old grandsire," said Petrucio, " and tell us which way you are travel- ling. We shall be glad of your good company, if you are going our way." The old gentleman replied, "Fair sir, and you, my merry mistress, your strange encounter has much amazed me. My name is Vincentio, and I am going to visit a son of mine who lives at Padua." Then Petrucio knew the old gentleman to be the father of Lucentio, a young gentleman who was to be married to Baptista's younger daughter, Bianca, and he made Vincentio very happy by telling him the rich marriage his son was about to make ; and they all journeyed on pleasantly together till they came to Baptista's house, where there was a large company assembled to celebrate the wedding of Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista having willingly consented to the marriage of Bianca when he had got Katharine oif his hands. When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to the wedding feast, and there was present also another newly-married pair. Lucentio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, the other new-married man, could not forbear sly jests, which seemed to hint at the shrewish disposition of Petrucio's wife, and these fond bridegrooms seemed highly pleased with the, mild tempers of the ladies they had chosen, laughing at Petrucio for his less fortunate choice. Petrucio took little notice of their jokes till the ladies were retired after dinner, and then . he perceived Baptista himself joined in the laugh against him : for when Petrucio affirmed tliat his wife would prove more obedient than theirs, the father of Katharine said, " Now, in good sadness, son Petrucio, I fear yon have got the veriest shrew of all." "Well," said Petrucio, " I say no, and therefore for assurance that I speak the truth, let us each one send for his wife, and he whose wife is most obedient to come at first when she is sent for, shall win a wager which we wUl propose." To this the other two husbands willingly consented, for they were quite confident that their gentle wives would prove more obedient than the headstrong Katharine ; and they proposed a wager of twenty crowns, but Petrucio merrily said, he would lay as much as that upon his hawk or hound, but twenty times as much upon his wife. Lucentio and Hortensio raised the wager to a hundred crowns, and Lucentio first sent his servant to desire Bianca would come to him. But the servant returned and said, " Sir, my mistress sends yon word she is busy and cannot come." "How," said Petrucio, "does she say she is busy and cannot cornel Is that an answer for a wife?" Then they laughed at him, and said, it would be well if Katharine did not send him a worse answer. And now it was Hortensio's turn to send for his wife ; and he said to his servant, " Go, and entreat my wife to come to me." "Oh, ho! entreat her!" said Petrucio. " Nay, then, she needs must come." "I am afraid, sir," said Hortensio, "your wife will not be entreated." But presently this civil husband 64 CLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. looked a little blank when the servant returned without his mistress ; and he said to him, " How now! Where is my wife?" "Sir," said the servant, " my mistress says you have some goodly jest in hand, and therefore she will not come. She bids you come to her." " Worse and worse ! " said Petrucio ; and then he sent his servant, saying, " Sirrah, go to your mistress, and tell her I com- mand her to come to me." The company had scarcely time to think she would not obey this summons, when Baptista, all in amaze, exclaimed, " Now, by my hollidam, here comes Katharine ! " and she entered, saying meekly to Petrucio, " What is your will, sir, that you send for me 1 " " Where is your sister and Hortensio's wife 1 " said he. Katharine replied, " They sit conferring by the parlour fire." " Go, fetch them hither ! " said Petrucio. Away went Katharine, without reply, to perform her husband's command. " Here is a wonder," said Lucentio, "if you talk of a wonder." "And so it is," said Hortensio ; " I marvel what it bodes." "Marry, peace it bodes," said Petrucio, " and love, and c[uiet life, and right supremacy ; and to be short, everything that is sweet and happy." Katharine's father, overjoyed to see this reformation in his daughter, said, " Now, fair befall thee, son Petrucio ! you have won the wager, and I will add another twenty thousand crowns to her dowry, as if she were another daughter, for she is changed as if she had never been." "Nay," said Petrucio, "I will win the wager better yet, and show more signs of her new-built virtue and obedience." Katharine now entering with the two ladies, he continued, " See where she comes and brings your froward wives as prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Katharine, that cap of yours does not become you ; off with that bauble, and throw it under foot." Katharine instantly, took off her cap, and threw it down. " Lord ! " said Hortensio's wife, " may I never have a cause to sigh till I am brought to such a silly pass ! " And Bianca, she too said, " Fie, what foolish duty call you this 1 " On this Bianca's husband said to her, " I wish your duty were as foolish too ! The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, has cost me a hundred crowns since dinner-time." "The more fool you," said Bianca, "for laying on my duty." "Katharine," said Petrucio, "I charge you tell these headstrong women what duty they owe their lords and husbands." And to the wonder of all present, the reformed shrewish lady spoke as eloquently in praise of the wifelike duty of obedience, as she had practised it implicitly in a ready submission to Petrucio's will. And Katharine once more became famous in Padua, not as heretofore as Katharine the Shrew, but as Katharine the most obedient and duteous wife in Padua. TWO CLEVER SAILOES. [By Heeaclitos Gbet.] ^N a small old town built on the sea- shore, there used to live two sailors UbK named Jack and Joe. They were great JmU friends, and had one boat between them, and went out fishing together. They were both strong and brave, and sun- burnt. They both liked rum, and both wore loose trousers. And so they could never make out which was the most clever. " I know the best way to cook mackerel and herring, and sole," said Jack. " So do I. And I know the best way to sell them," said Joe. " So do I," answered Jack. " And I know the best way to catch them." '■ So do I," answered Joe ; " but what is the use of all this when we have not got any ropes for our nets?" " If we had time, we could make some," said Jack. " If we had money, we could buy some," said Joe. "If we knew where, we could borrow some,' said Jack. " If we knew where, we could steal some," said Joe. Just then the bells of the church on the hill began tolling for evening prayer. ATTACKED BY PIRATES. 65 " They ring those bells with roijes," said Jack. " And the ropes are very good," said Joe. Jack began to smile. Joe began to laugh. "Shall we go to church, mate, to-night <" asked Jack. "And shall we .stay there till last V asked Joe. Up the hill went the two sailors. They stopped in church tiU the prayers were all over, and every- body had gone home. " Now is our time," said Jack. " It is our turn now," said Joe. Ofl'they went to the tower where the bells were hung. Here they found two long, strong, thick ropes. " One for me," cried Jack. " And one for me," cried Joe. Up the ropes climbed the two clever sailor.s, like a couple of monkeys. " I'm up at the top," said .Jack. " And so am I," said Joe. Jack pulled out a knife from his pocket. So dil Joe Lick ! slick ! went Jack's knife. He cut through the rope over his head, and down he fell, and broke his pate on the stones at the bottom. "Oh, crikee !" groaned Jack, at the bottom ; ■' who could have thought of that ]" " What a stupid-head you were," cried Joe at the top. " You should have done as I do." With these words he cut his rope close under his feet. Down it fell, and left him hanging by his two hands at the top. "Oh, crikee!" cried Joe, at the top; "who could have thought of_that 1 " " What a stupid-head you were," groaned Jack. " You will have to hang there till morning." And so he did, and made his arms so stiff that he could not move them for a week. It was a sad night for the two clever sailors. They cried, and groaned, and prayed, and said bad words till morning. Then Jack was taken off to the hospital, and Joe was taken off to prison. ATTACKED BY PIEATES. [By Charles Eeade. From " Hard Cash," published by Messrs. Ward, Look, and Co.] I' HE way the pirate dropped the mask, showed his black teeth, and bore up in chase, was terrible : so dilates and bounds the sudden tiger on his unwary prey. There were stout hearts among the officers of the peaceable Agi-a ; but danger in a new form shakes the brave ; and this was their first pirate : their dismay broke out in ejaculations not loud but deep. " Clearing the lee guns," said a middy, off his guard. Colonel Kenealy pricked up his ears, drew his cigar from his mouth, and smelt powder. " What, for action 1 " said he, briskly. "Where's the enemy ] " Fullalove made him a signal, and they went below. But now the captain came bustling on deck, eyed the Joftier sails, saw they were drawing well, appointed four midshipmen a staff to convey his orders ; gave Bayliss charge of the carronades. Grey of the cutlasses, and directed Mr. Tickell to break the bad news gently to Mrs. Beresford, and to take her below to the orlop deck ; ordered the purser to serve out beef, biscuit, and grog to all hands, saying, "Men can't work on an empty stomach : and fighting is hard work ; " then beckoned the officers to come round him. " Gen- tlemen," said he, confidentially, "in crowding sail on this ship I had no hope of escaping that fellow on this tack, but I was, and am, most anxious to gain the open sea, where I can square my yards and mn for it, if I see a chance. At 63 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. present I shall carry on till he comes up within range : and then, to keep the Company's canvas from being shot to rags, I shall shorten sail ; and to save ship and cargo and all our lives, I shall fight while a plank of her swims. Better be killed in hot blood than walk the plank in cold." The officers cheered faintly ; the captain's dogged resolution stirred up theirs. The pirate had gained another quarter of a mile and more. The ship's crew were hard at their beef and grog, and agreed among themselves it was a comfortable ship ; they gTiessed what was coming, and woe to the ship in that hour if the captain had not won their respect. Strange to say, there were two gentlemen in the Agra to whom the pirate's approach was not altogether unwelcome. Colonel Kenealy and Mr. Fullalove were rival sportsmen ; and rival theorists. Kenealy stood out for a smooth bore, and a four-ounce ball ; Fullalove for a rifle of his own construction. Many a doughty argument they had, and many a bragging match ; neither could convert the other. At last Fullalove hinted that by going ashore at the Cape, and getting each behind a tree at one hundred yards, and popping at one another, one or other would be convinced. "Well, but," said Kenealy, "if he is dead, he will be no wiser ; besides, to a fellow like me, who has had the luxury of popping at his enemies, popping at a friend is poor insipid work." "That is true," said the other, regretfully. "But I reckon we shall never settle it by argu- ment." Theorists are amazing creatures : and it was plain, by the alacrity with which these good creatures loaded the rival instruments, that to them the pirate came not so much as a pirate as a solution. Indeed, Kenealy, in the act of charg- ing his piece, was heard to mutter, " Now, this is lucky." Sail was no sooner shortened, and the crew ranged, than the captain came briskly on deck, saluted, jumped on a carronade, and stood erect. He was not the man to show the crew his fore- bodings. (Pipe.) " Silence fore and aft." "My men, the schooner coming up on our weather quarter is a Portuguese pirate. His character is known ; he scuttles all the ships he boards, dishonours the women, and murders the crew. We cracked on to get out of the narrows, and now we have shortened sail to fight this blackguard, and teach him to molest a British ship. I promise, in the Company's name, twenty pounds prize money to every man before the mast if we beat him off or outmanoeuvre him ; thirty if we sink him ; and forty if we tow him asterii into a friendly port. Eight guns are clear below, three on the weather side, five on the lee ; for, if he- knows his business, he will come up on the lee quarter ; if he doesn't, that is no fault of yours or mine. The muskets are all loaded, the cutlasses- ground like razors " " Hurrah 1" " We have got women to defend " "Hurrah!" " A good ship under our feet, the God of justice overhead, British hearts in our bosoms, and British colours flying — run 'em up ! — over our heads." (The ship's colours flew up to the fore,, and the Union Jack to the mizen peak.) " Now, ' lads, I mean to fight this .ship while a plank of her (stamping on the deck) swims beneath my foot,, and — AVHAT DO you say t " The reply was a fierce " hurrah ! " from a hundred throats, so loud, so deep, so full of volume, it made the ship vibrate, and rang in the creeping-on pirate's ears. Fierce, but cunning, he saw mischief in those shortened sails, and that Union Jack, the terror of his tribe, rising to a British cheer ; he lowered his mainsail, and crawled up on the weather quarter. Arrived within a cable's length, he double reefed his fore- sail to reduce his rate of sailing nearly to that of the ship ; and the next moment a tongue of flame,, and then a g-ush of smoke, issued from his lee bow, and the ball flew screaming like a seagull over the Agra's mizen top. He then put his helm up, and fired his other bow-chaser, and sent the shot hissing and skipping on the water past the ship. This prologue made the novices- wince. Bayliss wanted to reply with a carronade ; but Dodd forbade him sternly, saying, "If we keep- him aloof we are done for." The pirate drew nearer, and fired both guns in succession, hulled the Agi-a amidships, and sent an eighteen - pound ball through her foresail. Most of the faces were pale on the quarter-deck ;, it was very trying to be shot at, and hit, and make no return. The next double discharge sent- one shot smash through the stern cabin window, and splintered the bulwark with another, wound- ing a seaman slightly. " Lie down foewaed ! " shouted Dodd, through his trumpet. "Bayliss, give him a shot." The carronade was fired with a tremendous- report, but no visible eff'ect. The pirate crept nearer, steering in and out like a snake to avoid the carronades, and firing those two heavy guns- alternately into the devoted ship. He hulled the Agra now nearly every shot. The two available carronades replied noisily, and jumped, as usual ; they sent one thirty-two- pound shot clean through the schooner's deck and side ; but that was literally all they did worth speaking of " Curse them ! " cried Dodd ; " load them with ATTACKED BY PIRATES. 67 .grape ! they are not to be trusted with ball. And all my eighteen-pounders dumb ! The coward won't come alongside and give them a chance." At the next discharge the pirate chipped the mizen mast, and knocked a sailor into dead pieces on the forecastle. Dodd put his helm down ere the smoke cleared, and got three carronades to bear, heavily laden with grape. Several pirates fell, dead or wounded, on the crowded deck, and some holes appeared in the foresail ; this one inter- change was quite in favour of the ship. But the lesson made the enemy more cautious ; he crept nearer, but steered so adroitly, now right astern, now on the quarter, that the ship could seldom bring more than one carronade to bear, while he raked her fore and aft with grape and ball. In this alarming situation, Dodd kept as many •of the men below as possible ; but, for all he could do, four were killed and seven wounded. At last, when the ship was cloved with shot, .and peppered with grape, the channel opened : in five minutes more he could put her dead before the wind. No. The pirate, on whose side luck had been from the first, got half a broadside to bear at long musket shot, killed a midshipman by Dodd's side, -cut away two of the Agra's mizen shrouds, wounded the gaff : and cut the jib-stay ; down fell that powerful sail into the water, and dragged across the ship's forefoot, stopping her way to the open sea she panted for ; the mates groaned ; the ■crew cheered stoutly, as British Tars do in any .great disaster ; the pirates yelled with ferocious triumph. But most human events, even calamities, have two sides. The Agra being brought almost to a .standstill, the pirate forged ahead against his will, and the combat took a new and terrible form. The elephant gun popped, and the rifle cracked, in the Ag7-a's mizen top, and the man at the pirate's helm jumped into the air and fell dead : both Theorists claimed him. Then the three ■carronades peppered him hotly ; and he hurled an iron shower back with fatal effect. Then at last "the long 18-pounders on the gun-deck got a word in. The old Niler was not the man to miss a vessel alongside in a quiet sea ; he sent two round shot clean through him ; the third splintered his bidwark, and swept across his deck. " His masts ! fire at his masts ! " roared Dodd to Monk, through his trumpet ; he then got the .jib clear, and made what sail he could without taking all the hands from the guns. The pirate, bold as he was, got sick of fair fight- ing first ; he hoisted his mainsail and drew rapidly ahead, with a slight bearing to windward, and dis- mounted a carronade and stove in the ship's quarter- iDoat, by way of a parting kick. The men hurled a contemptuous cheer after him ; they thought they had beaten him off. But Dodd knew better. He was but retiring a little way to make a more deadly attack than ever : he would soon wear, and cross the Agra's defenceless bows, to rake her fore and aft at pistol-shot dis- tance ; or grapple, and board the enfeebled ship two hundred strong. Dodd flew to the helm, and with his own hands put it hard a weather, to give the deck guns one more chance, the last, of sinking or disabling the Destroyer. As the ship obeyed, and a deck gun bellowed below him, he saw a vessel running out from Long Island, and coming swiftly up on his lee quarter. It was a schooner. Was she coming to his aid 1 Horror ! A black flag floated from her foremast head. While Dodd's eyes were staring almost out of his head at this death-blow to hope. Monk fired again ; and just then a pale face came close to Dodd's, and a solemn voice whispered in his ear : " Our ammunition is nearly done I " It was the first mate. Dodd seized his hand convulsively, and pointed to the pirate's consort coming up to finish them ; and said, with the calm of a brave man's despair, " Cutlasses ! and die hard ! " At that moment the master gunner fired his last gTin. It sent a chain shot on board the retiring pirate, took off a Portuguese head and spun it clean into the sea ever so far to windward, and cut the schooner's foremast so nearly through that it trembled and nodded, and presently snapped with a loud crack, and came down like a broken tree, with the yard and sail ; the latter overlapping the deck and burying itself, black flag and all, in the sea ; and there, in one moment, lay the Destroyer buffeting and wriggling— like a heron on the water with his long wing broken — an utter cripple. The victorious crew raised a stunning cheer. " Silence ! " roared Dodd, with his trumpet. " All hands make sail ! " He set his courses, bent a new jib, and stood out to windward close hauled, in hopes to make a good oiling, and then put his ship dead before the wind, which was now rising to a stiff breeze. In doing this he crossed the crippled pirate's stern, within eighty yards ; and sore was the temptation to rake him ; but his ammunition being short, and his danger being imminent from the other pirate, he had the self-command to resist the great tempta- tion. The pirates, though in great confusion, and expecting a broadside, trained a gun dead aft. Dodd saw, and hailed the mizen top : " Can you two hinder them from firing that gun 1. " " I rattha- think we can," said Fullalove, " eh, colonel 1 " and tapped his long rifle. The ship's bows no sooner crossed the schooner's 68 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. stern than a Malay ran aft with a linstock. Pop went the colonel's ready carbine, and the Malay fell over dead, and the linstock ilew out of his hand. A tall Portuguese, with a movement of rage, snatched it up, and darted to the gun : the Yankee rifle cracked, but a moment too late. Bang ! went the pirate's gun, and crashed into the Agra's side, and passed nearly through her. " Ye missed him ! Ye missed him ! " cried the rival Theorist, joyfully. He was mistaken : the smoke cleared, and there was the pirate captain leaning wounded against the mainmast with a Yankee bullet in his shoulder, and his crew utter- ing yells of dismay and vengeance. They jumped, and raged, and brandished their knives, and made horrid gesticulations of revenge ; and the white eyeballs of the Malays and Papuans glittered fiendishly ; and the wounded captain raised his sound arm and had a signal hoisted to his consort, and she bore up in chase, and jamming her fore latine flat as a board, lay far nearer the wind than the Agra could, and sailed three feet to her two besides. On this superiority being made clear, the situation of the merchant vessel, thoiigh not so utterly desperate as before Monk fired his lucky shot, became pitiable enough. If she ran before the wind, the fresh pirate would cut her oft': if she lay to windward, she might postpone the inevitable and fatal collision with a foe as strong as that she had only escaped by a rare piece of luck ; but this would give the crippled pirate time to refit and unite to destroy her. Add to this the failing ammunition, and the thinned ci-ew ! Dodd cast his eyes all round the horizon for help. The sea was blank. The bright sun was hidden now ; drops of rain fell, and the wind was beginning to sing ; and the sea to rise a little. " Gentlemen," said he, " let us kneel down and pray for wisdom, in this sore strait." He and his officers kneeled on the quarter- deck. When they rose, Dodd stood rapt about a minute; his great thoughtful eye saw no more the enemy, the sea, nor anything external ; it was turned inward. His officers looked at him in silence. " Sharpe," said he, at last, " there must be a way out of them, with such a breeze as this is now ; if we could but see it." "Ay, if" groaned Sharpe. Dodd mused again. " About ship ! " said he, softly, like an absent man. " Ay, ay, sir." " Steer due north ! " said he, still like one whose mind was elsewhere. When they were distant about a cable's length. the fresh pirate, to meet the ship's change of tactics, changed his own, put his helm up a little, and gave the ship a broadside, well aimed but not destructive, the guns being loaded with ball. Dodd, instead of replying, as was expected, took, advantage of the smoke and put his ship before the wind. By this unexpected stroke the vessels engaged ran swiftly at right angles towards one point, and the pirate saw himself menaced with, two serious perils ; a collision which might send, him to the bottom of the sea in a minute, or a broadside delivered at pistol-shot distance, and mth no possibility of his making a return. He must eithei' put his helm up or down. He chose the bolder course, put his helm hard a lee, and stood ready to give broadside for broadside. But ere he could bring his lee g-uns to bear, he must offer his bow for one moment to the ship's broad- side ; and in that moment, which Dodd had pro- vided for. Monk and his mates raked him fore and aft at short distance with all the five guns- that were clear on that side ; the carronades fol- lowed and mowed him slantwise with grape and canister; the almost simultaneous discharge of eight guns made the ship tremble, and enveloped, her in thick smoke ; loud shrieks and groans were heard from the schooner : the smoke cleared ; the pirate's mainsail hung on deck, his jib-boom was cut off like a carrot and the sail struggling ; his foresail looked lace, lanes of dead and wounded lay still or writhing on his deck, and his lee scuppers ran blood into the sea. The ship rushed down the wind, leaving the schooner staggered and all abroad. But not for- long; the pirate fired his broadside after all, at the now flying Agra, split one of the carronades in two, and killed a Lascar, and made a hole i]i the fore- sail ; this done, he hoisted his mainsail again in a trice, sent his wounded below, flung his dead over- board, to the horror of their foes, and came after the flying ship, yawing and firing his bow chasers. The ship was silent. She had no shot to throw away. Not only did she take these blows like a coward, but all signs of life disappeared on her, except two men at the wheel, and the captain on. the main gangway. Suddenly the yells of the pirates on both sides- ceased, and there was a moment of dead silence on the sea. Yet nothing fresh had happened. Yes, this had happened ; the pirates to wind- ward, and the pirates to leeward, of the Agra, had. found out, at one and the same moment, that the merchant captain they had lashed, and bullied, and tortured, was a patient but tremendous man. It was not only to rake the fresh schooner he had put his ship before the wind, but also by a double, daring; ATTACKED BY PIRATES. 69 masterstroke to hurl liis monster ship bodily on the other. Without a foresail she could never get out of his way. After that solemn silence came a storm of cries and curses, as their seamen went to work to fit the yard and raise the sail ; while their fighting men seized their matchlocks and trained the guns. They were well commanded by an heroic able villain. Astern the consort thundered ; but the Afjras response was a dead silence more awful than broadsides. sent a mischievous shot, and knocked one of the men to atoms at the helm. Dodd waved his hand without a word, and another man rose from the deck, and took his place in silence, and laid his uushaking hand on the wheel stained with that man's warm blood whose place he took. The high ship was now scarce sixty yards distant ; she seemed to know : she reared her lofty figure-head with great awful shoots into the air. For then was seen with what majesty the en- during Anglo-Saxon fights. One of that indomitable race on the gangway, one at the foremast, two at the wheel, conned and steered the gTeat ship down on a hundred match- locks and a grinning broadside, just as they would have conned and steered her into a British har- bour. " Starboard ! " said Dodd, in a deep calm voice, with a motion of his hand. " Starboard it is." The pirate wriggled ahead a little. The man forward made a silent signal to Dodd. " Port ! " said Dodd, quietly. " Port it is." But at this critical moment the pirate astern Agra " running i own the Pirate. (Drawn iij W. H. Oecroii.) But now the panting pirates got their new foie'5ail hoisted with a joyful shout ; it drew, the schooner gathered way, and their furious consort close on the Agra's heels just then scourged her deck with grape. " Port ! " said Dodd, calmly. " Port it is." The giant prow darted at the escaping pirate. That acre of coming canvas took the wind out of the swift schooner's foresail ; it flapped : oh, then she was doomed ! That awful moment parted the races on board her ; the Papuans and Sooloos, their black faces livid and blue with horror, leaped yelling into the sea, or crouched and whimpered ; the yellow Malays and brown Portuguese, though blanched to one colour now, turned on death like dying panthers, fired two cannon slap into the ship's bows, and snapped their muskets and match- locks at their solitary executioner on the ship's^ 70 GLEANINGS PROM POPULAR AUTHORS. gangway, and out flew their knives like crushed -wasp stings. Crash ! the Indiamau's cut-water in thick smoke beat in the schooner's broadside : down went her masts to leeward, like fishing-rods -whipping the water ; there was a horrible shrieking yell ; wild forms leaped off on the Agra, and were Jiacked to pieces almost ere they reached the deck — a surge, a chasm in the sea, filled with an instant rush of engulphing waves, a long, awful, grating, grinding noise, never to be forgotten in this world, all along under the -ship's keel — and the fearful majestic monster passed on over the blank she had made, with a pale crew standing silent and awe- struck on her deck. THE PEISONER OF CHILLON. [By Lord Btkon.] Y hair is grey, but not "with years, Nor grew it white In a single night. As men's have grown from sudden fears ; My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil. But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are bann'd, and barr'cl — forbidden fare ; But this was for my father's faith I suffer 'd chains and courted death ; That father perish'd at the stake For tenets he would not forsake ; And for the same his lineal race In darkness found a dwelling-place ; We were seven — who now are one. Six in youth, and one in age, Finish'd as they had begun. Proud of persecution's rage ; One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have seal'd ; Dying as their father died. For the God their foes denied ; Three were in a dungeon cast, ■Of whom this wreck is left the last. There are seven pillars of Gothic mould. In Chillon's dungeons deep and old ; 'There are seven columns, massy and grey, Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, A sunbeam which hath lost its way. And through the crevice and the cleft Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 'Creeping o'er the floor so damp, Like a marsh's meteor lamp : And in each pillar there is a ring. And in each ring there is a chain ; That iron is a cankering thing. For in these limbs its teeth remain, 'With marks that will not wear away, Till I have done with this new day. Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years — I cannot count them o'er, I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother droop'd and died. And I lay living by his side. They chain'd us each to a column stone. And we were three — yet, each alone : We could not move a single pace, We could not see each other's face. But with that pale and livid light , That made us strangers in our sight : And thus together — yet apart, Fetter'd in hand, but joined in heart, 'Twas still some solace, in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hearken to each other's speech, And each turn comforter to each With some new hope, or legend old. Or song heroically bold ; But even these at length grew cold. Our voices took a dreary tone. An echo of the dungeon-stone, A grating sound — not full and free As they of yore were wont to be : It might be fancy — but to me They never sounded like our own. I was the eldest of the three. And to uphold and cheer the rest I ought to do — and did my best — And each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved. Because our mother's brow was given To him — with eyes as blue as heaven. For him my soul was sorely moved : And truly might it be distress'd To see such bird in such a nest ; For he was beautiful as day — (When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles, being free) — A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone. Its sleepless summer of long light, The snow-clad offspring of the sun ! And thus he was as pure and bright. THE PRISONER OF CHILLOK 71 And in his natural spirit gay, With tears for nought but others' Uls, And then they flow'd like mountain rills, Unless he could assuage the woe Which he abhorr'd to view below. The other was as pure of mind. But form'd to combat with his kind ; Strong in his frame, and of a mood Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, And perish'd in the foremost rank With joy : — but not in chains to pine : His spirit wither'd with their clank, I saw it silently decline — And so perchance in sooth did mine : But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relica of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hUls, Had follow'd there the deer and wolf ; To him this dungeon was a gulf, And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow ; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon's snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave enthralls ; A double dungeon wall and wave Have made — and like a living grave Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay, We heard it ripple night and day ; Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were high And wanton in the happy sky ; And then the very rock hath rock'd, And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, Because I could have smil'd to see The death that would have set me free. I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined. He loathed and put away his food ; It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter's fare. And for the like had little care : The milk drawn from the mountain goat Was changed for water from the moat, Our bread was such as captives' tears Have moisten'd many a thousand years, Since man first pent his fellow-men Like brutes within an iron den : But v^hat were these to us or him "i These wasted not his heart or limb ; My brother's soul was of that mould Which in a palace had grown cold. Had his free breathing been denied The range of the steep mountain's side ; But why delay the truth 1 — he died. I saw, and could not hold his head, Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead — Though hard I strove, but strove in vain,. To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. He died — and they unlock'd his chain, And scoop'd for him a shallow grave Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine — it was a foolish thought. But then within my brain it wrought. That even in death his freeborn breast In such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer — They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there t The flat and turfless earth above The being we so much did love ; His empty chain above it leant, Such murder's fitting monument ! But he, the favourite and the flower. Most cherish'd since his natal hour, His mother's image in fair face. The infant love of all his race. His martyr'd father's dearest thought. My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be Less wretched now, and one day free ;, He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspired — ■ He, too, was struck, and day by day Was wither'd on the stalk away. Oh God ! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood : I've seen it rushing forth in blood, I've seen it on the breaking ocean Strive with a swoln convulsive motion. I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of sin delirious with its dread : But these were horrors — this was woe UnmrK'd with such — but sure and slow r He faded, and so calm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak. So tearless, yet so tender — kind. And grieved for those he left behind ; With all the while a cheek whose bloom Was as a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray — An eye of most transparent light, That almost made the dungeon bright. And not a word of murmur — not A groan o'er his untimely lot, — A little talk of better days, A little hope my own to raise, 72 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. For I was sunk in silence— lost In this last loss, of all the most ; And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness, More slowly drawn, grew less and less : I listen'd, but I could not hear — I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished ; I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rush'd to him ; — I found him not, / only stirr'd in this black spot, / only lived — / only drew The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; The last — the sole — the dearest link I had no thought, no feeling — none — Among the stones I stood a stone, And was, scarce conscious what I wist. As shrubless crags within the mist ; For all was blank, and bleak, and grey ; It was not night — it was not day ; It was not even the dungeon-light, So hateful to my heavy sight, But vacancy absorbing space. And fixedness — without a place : There were no stars — no earth — no time — No check — no change — no good — no crime- But silence, and a stirless breath Which neither was of life nor death ; A sea of stagnant idleness, Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! The Interiok of the Dungeon at Chillon. Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my failing race, Was broken in this fatal place. One on the earth, and one beneath- My brothers — both had ceased to breathe ■ I took that hand which lay so still, Alas ! my own was full as chill ; I had not strength to stir, or strive, But felt that I was still alive — A frantic feeling, when we know That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die, I had no earthly hope but faith, And that forbade a selfish death. What next befell me then and there I know not well — I never knew— First came the loss of light, and air, And then of darkness too : A light broke in upon my brain, — It was the carol of a bird ; It ceased, and then it came again. The sweetest song ear ever heard. And mine was thankful till my eyes Ran over with the glad surprise. And they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery ; But then by dull degrees came back My senses to their wonted track ; I saw the dungeon walls and floor Close slowly round me as before, I saw the glimmer of the sun Creeping as it before had done. But through the crevice where it came That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, -\nd tamer than upon the tree ; A lovely bird, with azure wings, And song that said a thousand things. And seem'd to say them all for me ! ' I HAD NOT STRENGTH TO STIE OE STRIVE.' "TUB PRISONER OP C/TfLLOX" {p. 12). THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 73 I never saw its like before, I ne'er shall see its likeness more : It seem'd like me to want a mate, But was not half so desolate. And it was come to love me when None lived to love me so again, And cheering from my dungeon's brink, Had brought me back to feel and think. I know not if it late were free, Or broke its cage to perch on mine. But knowing well captivity. Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! Or if it were, in winged guise, A visitant from Paradise ; For— Heaven forgive that thought ! the while Wliich made me both to weep and smile ; Along my cell from side to side. And up and down, and then athwart. And tread it over every part ; And round the pillars one by one, Returning where my walk begun. Avoiding only, as 1 trod, My brothers' graves without a sod ; For if I thought with heedless tread My step profaned their lowly bed. My breath came gaspingly and thick. And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick I made a footing in the wall. It was not therefrom to escape. For I had buried one and all Who loved me in a human shape ; \IEW OF ChILLOK. I sometimes deem'd that it might be My brother's soul come down to me ; But then at last away it flew, And then 'twas mortal well I knew. For he would never thus have flown, And left me twice so doubly lone, — Lone — as the corse within its shroud. Lone — as a solitary cloud, A single cloud on a sunny day, While all the rest of heaven is clear, A frown upon the atmosphere. That hath no business to appear When skies are blue, and earth is gay. A kind of change came in my fate, My keepers grew compassionate ; I know not what had made them so, They were inured to sights of woe, But so it was : — my broken chain With links unfasten'd did remain, And it was liberty to stride J 41 And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me : No child — no sire — no kin had I, No partner in my misery ; I thought of this, and I was glad, For thought of them had made me mad ; But I was curious to ascend To my barr'd windows, and to bend Once more, upon the mountains high. The quiet of a loving eye. I saw them— and they were the same. They were not changed like me in frame ; I saw their thousand years of snow On high — their wide long lake below And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; I heard the torrents leap and gush O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; I saw the white-wall'd distant town. And whiter sails go skimming down : And then there was a little isle, Which in ray very face did smile, 7i GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Tlie only one in view ; A small green isle, it seem'd no more, Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, But in it tliere were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. And by it there were waters flowing. And on it there were young flowers growing, Of gentle breath and hue. The fish swam by the castle wall. And they seem'd joyous each and all ; The eagle rode the rising blast, Methought he never flew so fast As then to me he seem'd to fly. And then new tears came in my eye, And I felt troubled— and would fain I had not left my recent chain ; And when I did descend again. The darkness of my dim abode Fell on me as a heavy load ; It was as is a new -dug grave, Closing o'er one we sought to save, — And yet my glance, too much oppress 'd, Had almost need of such a rest. It might be months, or years, or days, I kept no count — I took no note. I had no hope my eyes to raise. And clear them of their dreary mote ; At last men came to set me free, I ask'd not whj', and reck'd not where. It was at length the same to me, Fetter'd or fetterless to be, I learn'd to love despair. And thus when they appear'd at last, And all my bonds aside were cast. These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage — and all my own I And half I felt as they were come To tear me from a second home : With spiders I had friendship made, And watch'd them in their sullen trade. Had seen the mice by moonlight play, And why should I feel less than they ? We were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill — yet, sti'ange to tell I In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are : — even I Eegain'd my freedom with a sigh. CHECK TO A BUEGLAE. [Bj- George Maktille Fenn.] Slir^^ii' ND they took away all the plate at the JRfjB Mf omithers , dear. Il^fe^ " Only electro, my dear," I said. 5^ fe'S' ' " But it is so dreadful, love. Only think if they were to come here next." iZ" " Ah, to be sure," I said. " They might I steal the baby." " How can you be so cruel 1 " " I wonder how much a baby is worth to people of that class." " I declare, Fred, if you keep on talking such .stufi', I won't stop in the studio." " Do you know what they do with them ?" " No. With what ? " " Stolen babies." " No. Of course not ! How can you talk such nonsense ! " " Let them out for hire : a woman has a couple in arms, two more a size or so larger cling to her skirts, and two more support her beloved husband, who scrapes a psalm tune on an old fiddle." " Do you msh to make me cry, Fred ? " " My dear, tears improve you ; but all the same, you are already so near perfection that I do not wish to see you improved. Still, if baby were stolen, what cpiiet nights we should have." Silence in the studio for a while, broken only by the click, click of a busy needle, and the- creaking of my easel as I shift its position. Then, my wfey goes on — " I think, dear, we really ought to move." "Why, my dear 1" " Why 1 Because it's dreadful to live in a place with such horrible robberies always going on." "And leave King Henry's Eoad? Why, what place could be a better one for wives 1 " " I see it's of no use to talk to you, to-day, Fred," says little wifey ; " you have one of your teasing fits on, so I may as well hold my tongue." "No, my dear, pray proceed— 'tis like the silver murmur of the brook upon mine ear, and sweetens- the task I have in hand." " Stuff ! " I That is little wifey's exclamation, in a very snatchy, pettish tone ; but she likes it all the same, and every now and then the little head will turn in my direction. At the end of a minute the burglars break in once more, and she continues — "There have been no less than ten robberies since Christmas, Fred." CHECK TO A BURGLAR. 75 " Indeed, my dear ! Then I shall start a Bur- glary Insurance Company. Why not 1 "' " Did you hear how they cleared out the Lemaines — those French people 1 " " No, my dear, I did not." " Oh, but it was dreadful ! They took every- tliing — even to the table linen." " Well, my dear, if they come here — bless 'em — what will they get? Nothing wortTi having; for our poverty is a sweet blessing in disguise, which frees us from the sad anxieties of those who suffer from a plethora of plate, a weight of watches, or a generosity of gems. We have our tables and our chairs — I my paints and brushes, you your needle- work and — and, well, your good looks, which Time alone can steal. The only mutual property, it seems to me, that we could lose by the burglarious burgling of burglars is the baby, and him you homoeopathically preserve. " I did chat the matter over sagely enough while we had our walk, and the little wife agreed that it would not be wise to run away from a danger that might never come — in fact, we might be running into its very teeth. But, all the same, it was a terrible nuisance, this constant recurrence of petty robberies— keeping, as it did, the hearts of all the hens and chickens of the neighbourhood in a constant state of flutter lest the next visit of the fox should be to their particular roost. I, for one, had spoken to the inspector of poUce after the upset at our friends', the Wilkins's, and he had very sensibly remarked that they (the police) ■could not be everywhere at once. "You see, sir," he said, "it's just this. They plant a robbery, and work according. By a little watching they get to know our times for being in ■ every street — for we can't work at random, we must liave our regular beats, so as to check the men. Well, sir, they see a man out of such and such a street, and they know how long it will be before he comes back, and go to work in the meantime." A fortnight slipped by, during which I worked hard at the " Bhie Belles " — and the burglars rested, for we heard no more of their depredations ; when one day our studio was entered by a brigand — a swarthy-looking, black-bearded fellow, in olive velvet, very much worn, and a soft sombrero. He looked a regular burglar of the order of the long knife ; but it was only Tom Norris, who had -come straight to us from Spain, after a six months' stay. And a treat it was, I can tell you, to look through his portfolio of sketches a la Phillip- such dark-eyed girls, such muleteers, such naked ■children tumbling about amongst melons and .grapes. Then there were fat friars and lean nuns ; Moorish gateways, and bits of sun-scorched rock ; and we were just in the midst of our ecstasies over a Spanish inn amongst the mountains, when a thought struck me, and I said — " I say, Tom, where are you going to sleep ? " " Oh, somewhere in Charlotte Street," he said. " I haven't thought about it yet." Milly and I exchanged glances. " Ours is only a Kttle iron bedstead, Tom, and a scrap of carpet on the floor ; but — " " My dear fellow," he exclaimed, " a clean railway rug and a floor where you can say that insects of a virulent disposition do not hold carnival would be a place where I should sleep in bliss." So it was settled that Tom should stay. As the soft spring evening closed in, we had a grand debauch, ililly brought out the great glass jug, into which was emptied a shilling bottle of claret, and a bottle of soda water ; while after throwing up the great, heavy plate-glass sash of the studio window, we sat and smoked the Spanish cigarettes, of which Tom had brought a store. There was so much picture lore to canvass, that it was twelve o'clock before we were all snug in our rooms. Then I said my catechism, and we went to bed. By the way, I may as well explain that my catechism is repeated to Milly every night ; and the questions are somewhat of this kind :— " Are you sure the kitchen fire is quite out ? " Did you turn off the gas 1 " Was the studio window secured 1 " Has Mary put out her light ? " Et cetera, et cetera. Then I put out our own, and sleep fell upon our humble roof. I was just busy paying the Spanish woman for the great, luscious water-melon she had sold me under the walls of the old palace, when a fierce brigand fellow presented a formidable, bell- mouthed trabuco at my head, and bade me give up my cash. I closed with him in a fierce struggle, but it was all in vain ; he shook me and tossed me as he liked, and all the while he kept on saying — " Fred !— Fred ! Oh, pray do wake up." " Eh i What's the matter 1 " " I'm sure there's somebody breaking in ! " " Bother ! " I was drawing the clothes up over my ears, when Milly began to sob. " Oh, pray believe me, dear. There is indeed some one getting in." " Didn't you send me downstairs a month ago because the wind rattled the front door 1 " I growled. " Yes, yes, my dear ; but I'm .sure this time." "So you were when it was only Jane snoring upstairs." " But listen, dear, yourself, " " So I did when the sweeps came next door at six o'clock." 76 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " But I heard it as plain as possible — a heavy, dull noise, and then a sharp snap, like a window- fastening forced back. I'm sure it's thieves." " My dear," I said, quietly, " you've got burglars on the brain. I shan't get up so that's flat. Go to sleep ; no one will come here," " Then let me get up and get a light — I'll go, dear." " Madam, my manhood's honour " Bang! There was a thud which shook our window, and a strange, gurgling noise succeeded it, but smothered and muffled, as if some one was being suffocated. "There! " exclaimed Milly, pitifuUjr, "we shall all be murdered. Pray, give me the baby, dear." " It's only Tom Norris dreaming about bull-fights in Spain," I said, hastily drawing on some clothes ; but though I spoke in tones of credence, and could hear some one moving upstairs, I was far from satisfied. Lastly, I struck a light, and opened the door, just as one was opened overhead. " Anything the matter, old fellow '? " " Anything the matter, old fellow 1 " These two questions crossed on the way up and down. - " I thought you were queer ! " " I thought you were queer ! " These I'emarks, too, crossed ; and then we took counsel for a moment and listened, for all was perfectly still. " Well, I'll go down and see," I said ; for that was absolutely necessary, though I confess I did not like the task. I had hardly uttered the words before there 3ame up, evidently from the studio, a sound as of the window being rattled furiously, then a hand was beating at it evidently, and before we could reach the door, the whole house was filled with a most dismal howl that sounded hardly human. And again, in an instant — " Help, hely ! Oh, pray, help ! " " This is a rum start," said Tom Norris, as I unlocked the door and threw it open ; when we entered together, and I held up the light above my head. I have seen strange sights, but that was one of the most strange ; for there, half strangled and with starting eyes, was the head of a man appa- rently being gaiillotined by the window sash, which had fallen right across his neck, holding him securely there, so that it was impossible to move. I could read at a glance how it happened, for the broken sash-lines hung down into the room. The fallow had forced back the catch, and thrown up the window to get in ; when, in a most inop- portune moment for him, the lines had snapped, letting the heavy, one-paned sash fall — fortunately for the scoundrel — upon his shoulders, or it must have been his death. As it was, he had wriggled and struggled hard, striving in vain to free him- self, till the sash rested upon his neck, where it glided down more tightly ; and, as his efforts grew weaker and his hands impotent to hold it up, he hung there securely trapped, with nothing left for- him to do but howl for help. " Well, you're a pretty sort of a scoundrel, you are," said Tom, coolly. " For Heaven's sake, sir, let me go. Oh, pray, . sir, let me out, and I'll never do so any more. I .shall be dead directly." " And a precious good job too," said Tom. " We could get on very well without burglars." " But, please, sir," said the poor wretch, in stifled tones, " I aint took nothin'." " How many pals have you got out there 1 " " Oh, sir, 'strue as goodness, sir, only two, sir ;. and the cowards cut, sir, as soon as they saw me here — hooked it like a pair o' sneaks, sir; but only let me get out, sir, please, sir, and I'll blow on 'em both, sir. 0-h-h-h ! " Here the poor wretch uttered such a howl, that I ran to the window. "No, no, let him be," said Tom, coolly. "He wont hurt. I'll see to him. You go and teR them upstairs that we've caught the scoundrel, and, they need not be afraid." I ran and performed the task, and came back, to find Tom arranging the light so that it fell upon- the hm-glar's face. " Hadn't we better drag him in, and tie Mm- hand and foot ? " I said. " Yes, presently," said Tom coolly ; " but L haven't done with him yet." " Oh ! " groaned the burglar in a faint voice. " Now, look here, young fellow," said Tom,,, giving him a sharp cuft' on the ear, " stop that row,, please." " But I can't breathe, governor ; 'strue as good- ness, I can't." " 'Tis rather tight," said Tom, putting his hand- to the fellow's neck. "What do you say?" he continued, turning to me. " Shall we press the sash down hard, and put him out of his misery? " The poor wretch half screwed his head round to- gaze at the speaker. " What ! " he shrieked hoarsely, " you cowards : ' murder me, would youP and you call your- selves " " Pow ! " The speech was cut short by Tom dabbing a. gi-eat oily painter's cloth, gag-like, against the= fellow's mouth. "Now, look here," said Tom. "You make another sound, or so much as move, and I squeeze : your throat with that sash. Here, stick this book, under edgewise, so as to ease his neck a little.. CHECK TO A BURGLAR. n There, that will do. Now, hold on, my lad, and be quiet." The fellow clung convulsively with his hands on the sill, his eyes rolling horribly as they followed Tom Norris's movements, my curiosity being moved to the utmost. " What are you going to do ? " " To do? " said Tom, catching up a board, brush, and some Indian ink — " take him, of course. What model could ever do that so naturally % Make your hay, my boy, while the sun shines." the same moment the burglar groaned, faintly^ " I can't stand this much longer, guv'nor— pray let me go." And a heavy knock came at the front door. I opened to the police, who had been summoned, by Milly from the front window, and when two men entered my studio, their satisfied, grim ex- pression was so telling, that Tom wanted to make another sketch. However, that was not done, and he was satis- fied with that which he had made, helping merrily ' Tom painted away." " But that disto.ted face ! Oh, come, Tom, let's have in the police, and hand him over." " No, my boy — not if I know it. Too great veneration for my art." And he went on painting away. " But of what good 1 " " What good 1 Why, my dear boy, where are your eyes 1 A Spanish malefactor in the garotte ! Titus Oates in the pillory ! Splendid subjects, both of them. You keep him quiet, and if I get a good sketch, I could almost forgive him, and let him go." I kept the poor wretch quiet, though he groaned heavily, and must, I am sure, have suffered no light punishment. Then Tom painted away with the rapidity of a finished hand ; but at one and to drag in our prisoner, while I held up the heavy sash. " Well, sir, all I can say is," said the sergeant, as he fitted on the handcuffs to the shivering wretch's wrists, " if you set that there trap to ketch burglars, it was very clever ; only," he continued rather contemptuously, as he glanced i-ound the bare studio, " I don't see no bait." I think I need say no more than that her Majesty is to provide for our captive for some years to come ; and that Tom Norris made a really telling Spanish picture. As for the burglars, their gang was broken up,, for our friend did turn Queen's evidence ; and. our pleasant district has since enjoyed a domestia peace which I trust may last. 78 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. ME. AJSTD MES. TIBBS AT VAUXHALL. fBy Oliver Goldsmith.])' *TP^ HE people of London are as fond of walking "JK' as our friends at Pekin of riding ; one of -^ the principal entertainments of the citizens liere in summer is to repair about nightfall to a S'arden not far from town, where they walk about, show their best clothes and best faces, and listen to a concert provided for the occasion. I accepted an invitation a few evenings ago from my old friend, the man in black, to be one of a party that was to sup there ; and at the appointed hour waited upon him at his lodgings. There I found the company assembled and expecting my arrival. Our party consisted of my friend, in superlative finery, his stockings rolled, a black velvet waistcoat which was formerly new, and a grey wig combed down in imitation of hair ; a ])awnbroker's widow, of whom, by-the-by, my friend was a professed admirer, dressed out in .green damask, with three gold rings on every finger ; Mr. Tibbs, the second-rate beau I have formerly described, together with his lady, in flimsy silk, dirty gauze instead of linen, and a hat .as big as an umbrella. Our first difficulty was in settling how we should set out. Mrs. Tibbs had a natural aversion to the water, and the widow being a little in flesh, as warmly protested against walking ; a coach was therefore agreed upon, which being too small to carry five, Mr. Tibbs consented to sit in his wife's lap. In this manner, therefore, we set forward, being entertained by the way with the bodings of Mr. Tibbs, who assured us, he did not expect to see a single creature for the evening above the degree of a cheesemonger ; that this was the last night of the gardens, and that consequently we should be pestered with the nobility and gentry from Thames Street and Crooked Lane, with several other pro- phetic ejaculations, probably inspired by the un- -easiness of his situation. We were called to a consultation by Mr. Tibbs .and the rest of the company to know in what manner we were to lay out the evening to the greatest advantage. Mrs. Tibbs was for keeping the genteel walk of the garden, where she observed there was always the very best company ; the widow, on the contrary, who came but once a season, was for securing a good standing-place to see the water-works, which she assured us would begin in less than an hour at farthest ; a dispute therefore began, and as it was managed between 4wo of very opposite characters, it threatened to grow more bitter at eveiy reply. Mrs. Tibbs wondered how people could pretend to know the polite world who had received all their rudiments of breeding behind a counter ; to which the other replied, that though some people sat behind counters, yet they could sit at the head of their own tables too, and carve three good dishes of hot meat whenever they thought proper, which was more than some people could say for themselves, that hardly knew a rabbit and onions from a green goose and gooseberries. It is hard to say where this might have ended, had not the husband, who probably knew the impetuosity of his wife's disposition, proposed to end the dispute by adjourning to a box, and try if there was anything to be had for supper that was supportable. To this we all consented, but here a new distress arose ; Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs would sit in none but a genteel box, a box where they might see and be seen ; one, as they expressed it, in the very focus of public view : but such a box was not easy to be obtained, for though we were perfectly convinced of our own gentUity, and the gentility of our appearance, yet we found it a difficult matter to persuade the keepers of the boxes to be of our opinion ; they chose to reserve genteel boxes for what they judged more genteel company. At last, however, we were fixed, though some- what obscurely, and supplied with the usual enter- tainment of the place. The widow found the supper excellent, but Mrs. Tibbs thought every- thing detestable. " Come, come, my dear," cries the husband, by way of consolation, " to be sure we can't find such dressing here as we have at lord Crump's or lady Crimp's ; but for Vauxhall dressing it is pretty good ; it is not their victuals indeed I find fault with, but their wine ; their wine," cries he, drinking off a glass, " indeed, is most abominable." By this last contradiction the widow was fairly conquered in point of politeness. She perceived now that she had no pretensions in the world to taste, her very senses were vulgar, since she had praised detestable custard, and smacked at wretched wine ; she was therefore content to yield the victory, and for the rest of the night to listen and improve. It is true, she would now and then forget herself, and confess she was pleased, but they soon brought her back again to miserable refinement. She once praised the painting of the box in which we were sitting, but was soon convinced that such paltry pieces ought rather to excite horror than satisfaction ; she MK. AND MRS. TIBBS AT VAUXHALL. 7» ventured again to commend one of the singers, but Mrs. Tibbs soon let her know, in the style of a connoisseur, that the singer in question had neither ear, voice, nor judgment. Mr. Tibbs, no'w willing to prove that his wife's pretensions to music were just, intreated her to favour the company with a song ; but to this she gave a positive denial, "for you know very well,my dear," says she, "that I am not in voice to-day, and when one's voice is not equal to one's judg- ment, what signifies singing 1 besides, as there is no accompaniment, it would be but spoiling music." All these excuses, however, were over- ruled by the rest of the company, who, though one would think they already had music enough, joined in the intreaty. But particularly the widow, now willing to convince the company of her breeding, pressed so warmly, that she seemed determined to take no refusal. At iast then the lady complied, and after humming for some minutes, began with such a voice, and such aifec- tation, as I could perceive gave but little satisfac- tion to any except her husband. He sat with rapture in his eye, and beat time with his hand on the table. You must observe, my friend, that it is the custom of this country, when a lady or gentleman happens to sing, for the company to sit as mute and motionless as statues. Every feature, every limb, must seem to correspond in fixed attention, and while the song continues, they are to remain in a state of universal petrifaction. In this mortifying situation we had continued for some time, listening to the song, and looking with tran- quiUity, when the master of the box came to inform us that the water-works were going to- begin. At this information I could instantly per- ceive the widow bounce from her seat ; but correcting herself, she sat down again, repressed by motives of good breeding. Mrs. Tibbs, who had seen the water-works a hundred times, resolving not to be interrupted, continued her song without any share of mercy, nor had the smallest pity on our impatience. The widow's face, I own, gave me high entertainment ; in it I could plainly read the struggle she felt between good breeding and curiosity ; she talked of the water-works the whole evening before, and seemed to have come merely in order to see them ; but then she could not bounce out in the very middle of a song, for that would be forfeiting all preten- sions to high life, or high-lived company, ever after. Mrs. Tibbs therefore kept on singing, and we continued to listen, till at last, when the song was just concluded, the waiter came to inform us that the water-works were over. " The water-works over ! " cried the widow t " the water-works over already 1 that's impossible, they can't be over so soon ! " " It is not my business," replied the feUow, "to contradict your ladyship, I'U run again and see ; " he went, and soon returned with a confirmation of the dismal tidings. No ceremony could now bind my friend's- disappointed mistress, she testified her displeasure in the openest manner ; in short, she now began to find fault in turn, and at last, insisted upon going home, just at the time that Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs assured the company that the polite hovirs were going to begin, and that the ladies would instantaneously be entertained with the horns. THE TIGER. [By WiLT.iiai BI.4KE.] ' Tiger, Tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry 'f In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes 1 On what wings dare he aspire ] What the hand dare seize the fire ? And what shoulder, and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart 1 And where thy heart began to beat. What dread hand, and what dread feet ! What the hammer 1 What the chain ? In what furnace was thy brain 1 What the anvil 1 What dread .grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? When the stars threw do^vn their spears^ And water'd heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see 1 Did He who made the lamb make thee ? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry l 80 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. THE DEEAM OF EUGENE AEAM. [By Thomas Hood.] .VAS in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school. There were some that ran and some that leapt, Like troutleta in a pool. Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouched by sin ; To a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in : Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn. Like sportive deer they coursed about, And shouted as they ran, — Turning to m'rth all things of earth, As only boyhood can ; But the usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man ! His hat was off, his vest apart. To catch heaven's blessed breeze. For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease : So he lean'd his head o i his hands, and read The book between his knees ! Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er. Nor ever glanced aside ; For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide : Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed. At last he .shut the ponderous tome, With a fast and fervent grasp He strain 'd the dusky covers close. And fix'd the brazen hasp : " Oh God, could I so close my mind. And clasp it with a clasp ! " Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took, — Now up the mead, then down the mead. And past a .shady nook, — And lo ! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book ! • My gentle lad, what is't you read — Romance or fairy fable ? Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable ? " The young boy gave an upward glance, — " It is ' The Death of Abel.' " The usher took six hasty strides. As smit with sudden pain, — Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again ; And down he sat beside the lad, And talk'd with him of Cain ; And long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves ; Of lonely folk cut off unseen. And hid in sudden graves ; Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves ; And how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod, — Aye, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod ; And unknown facts of guilty acts Are seen in dreams from God ! He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain, — With crimson clouds before their eyes. And flames about their brain : For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain ! " And well," quoth he, " I know, for truth, Their pangs must be extreme, — Woe, woe, unutterable woe — Who spill life's sacred stream ! For why 1 Methought, last night, I wrought A murder in a dream ! " One that had never done me wrong — A feeble man, and old : I led him to a lonely field. The moon .shone clear and cold. Now here, said I, this man shall die. And I will have his gold I " Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, And one with a heavy stone. One hurried gash with a hasty knife, — And then the deed was done : There was nothing lying at my foot But lifeless flesh and bone ! " Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me ill ; And yet I feared him all the more, For lying there so still : There was a manhood in his look. That murder could not kill I THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 81 " And lo ! the universal air Seem'd lit with ghastly flame, — Ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame : I took the dead man by the hand, And called upon his name ! •' O God, it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain ! But when I touched the lifeless clay. The blood gushed out amain ! For every clot a burning spot Was scorching in my brain ! " Down went the corse with a hoUow plunge. And vanished in the pool ; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands. And washed my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young, That evening in the school ! " Oh heaven, to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim ! I could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in evening hymn : Like a devil of the pit I seem'd. Mid holy cherubim ! Down hl s^^t beside the lad " My head was like an ardent coal. My heart as solid ice ; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew. Was at the devil's price : A dozen times I -groaned ; the dead Had never groaned but twice ! "And now, from forth the frowning sky From the heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice — the awful voice Of the Blood-Avenging Sprite : — ' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead. And hide it from my sight ! ' •' I took the dreary body up, And cast it in a stream — ■ A sluggish water, black as ink, The depth was so extreme : — My gentle boy, remember this Is nothing but a dream ! — • " And peace went with them, one and all, And each calm pillow spread ; But Guilt was my grim chamberlain That lighted me to bed ; And drew my midnight curtains round With fingers bloody red ! " All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep ; My fever'd eyes I dared not close. But stared aghast at Sleep : For Sin had render'd unto her The keys of hell to keep ! " All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime ; With one besetting horrid hint. That racked me all the time, — A mighty yielding, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime ! 82 GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. " One stern tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave ; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave, — Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave ! " Heavily I rose up, as soon As hglit was in the sky. And sought the bleak accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye ; And I saw the dead in the river-bed. For the faithless stream was dry ! •' Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dewdrop from its wing ; But I never niark'd its morning flight, I never heard it sing : For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing. " With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran, — There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began : In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves I hid the murdered man ! " And all that day I read in school. But my thought was other-where ; As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there : And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare ! " Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep, For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep ; Or land, or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep ! " So wills the fierce Avenging Sprite, Till blood for blood atones ! Ay, thoiigh he's buried in a cave. And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh — The world shall see his bones ! " Oh God, that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake ! Again — again, with a dizzy brain. The human life I take ; And my red right hand grows raging hot Like Cranmer's at the stake. " And still no peace for the restless clay Will wave or mould allow ; The horrid thing pursues my soul, — It stands before me now ! " — The fearful boy looked u.p, and saw Huge drops upon his brow ! That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kiss'd. Two stern-faced men set out from LynUj Through the cold and heavy mist ; And Eugene Aram walked between. With gyves upon his wrist. BAEON TEENCK. m EEDERIC BARON TRENCK, born '^^•^^ at Konigsberg in 1726, was the son of a superior officer in the Prussian army, and cousin-german of the famous Trenck, colonel of the Pan- dours in the service of Maria Theresa. At the age of eighteen he became an officer in the body-guard of Frederic II., and he was high in the favour of that prince. But the intelligence, the bravery, and the brilliant exploits to which he owed that favour had also procured him many enemies who knew how to take advan- tage of the indiscretions of a high-spirited young man. Trenck was presumptuous enough to aspire to the regard of the Princess Amelia, sister of the king; and this was imdoubtedly the main cause of his disgrace, though not the only one. An imprudent correspondence with his cousin, the Austrian colonel, was made the pretext of his earliest imprisonment in the castle of Glatz. Trenck, who could not conceive that a man of his rank and distinction should remain long in duress, wrote a somewhat bold letter to the king, demanding to be tried by a military tribunal. Frederick did not respond, and Trenck, seeing- that his place in the royal body-guard had been given to another, after peace had been concluded,, began to meditate upon escape. His first attempt ended quickly in mortifying failure. He had won over many of the guards of the castle by a liberal use of money, with which he was abundantly supplied. Two of them agreed to aid him and accompany him in his flight, but the three most imprudently desired to carry off with them an officer who had been condemned to- ten years' imprisonment in the same fortress. When all their preparations had been made, this scoundrel, whom Trenck had loaded with. BARON TRENCK. 83 "favours, betrayed tliem, and received his pardon as the price of his perfidy. One of the officers was warned in time to save himself, and the other .got off with a year's confinement, by dint of Trenck's money. As for the baron himself, from this day forward .he was more narrowly guarded. But years afterwards the villain who had sold them, meeting Trenck at Warsaw, received the ■chastisement he deserved, and, desiring satisfaction with weapons, was left dead on the spot. The king was greatly incensed at this attempted •escape, the more so as he had already promised, at the earnest entreaty of Trenck's mother, to release him in a year. But Trenck had, unfor- tunately, been kept in ignorance of this latter ■circumstance. He was not long, however, before he made another desperate effort to recover his liberty — one which covered him at once with mud and ridicule. The baron was confined in a tower looking out Tipon the town. By making a saw of a pocket-knife he was enabled to cut through three bars of his window-grating. An ofiicer then procured him a file, with which he severed five more. Then, with a rope made of strips of leather cut from his portmanteau and of the coverlet of his bed, he slid do-v\Ti without accident to the ground. The night was dark and rainy, and all things favoured the fugitive. But an unexpected difficulty pre- sented itself in a sewer, which he was compelled to cross in order to reach the town, and there the luckless baron floundered, being neither able to advance nor to retire, and was at last fain to call upon the sentinel to extricate him. Eight days only had elapsed after this most absurd and unfortunate adventure, when Trenck, with unparalleled audacity, had nearly gained his liberty in a way wholly unpremeditated. The ■commandant of the ca-stle made him a visit of inspection, and improved the opportunity of giving this desperate young fellow a lecture on his fre- ■quent attempts at escape, by which he said his •crime had been seriously aggravated in the king's •estimation. The baron fired up at the word "crime," and •demanded to know for how long a term he had been consigned to the fortress. The commandant replied that an ofiicer who had been detected in a treasonable correspondence with the enemies of his country could never expect the pardon of the king. The hilt of the commandant's sword was within easy and tempting grasp ; there were only a sentinel and an officer of the guard in attendance ; it seemed a golden moment ; Trenck seized it, in seizing the sword, rushing rapidly from the room, hurling the sentinel and the officer down the stairs, and cutting his way out of the building. He leaped the first rampart and fell upon his feet in the fosse ; he leaped the second rampart, a yet more daring and perilous venture, and again fell upon his feet, without so much as losing hold of the major's sword. There was not time for the garrison to load a piece, and no one was disposed to pursue the baron along the steep way he had chosen. It was a considerable detour from the interior of the castle to the outer rampart, and Trenck would have had a good half -hour's start of his pursuers had fortune, so far propitious, con- tinued to favour him. A sentry with a fixed bayonet opposed him in a narrow passage ; the baron cut him down. Another sentry ran after him ; Trenck attempted to jump over a palisade, but caught his foot between two of the timbers beyond all hope of extrication, seeing that the unreasonable sentry held on to it with dogged persistence until aid arrived, and then the baron was carried back to the castle once more and put under stricter sur- veillance than ever. A lieutenant, whose name was Bach, a Dane, mounted guard every fourth day, and was the terror of the whole garrison ; for being a perfect master of arms, he was incessantly involved in quarrels, and generally left his marks behind him. He had served in two regiments, neither of which would associate Avith him for this reason, and lie had been sent to the garrison regiment at Glatz as a punishment. Bach, one day sitting beside Trenck, related how the evening before he had wounded a lieu- tenant, of the name of Schell, in the arm. Trench replied, laughing, " Had I my liberty, I believe you would find some trouble in wounding me, for I have some skUl in the sword." The blood instantly flew into Bach's face. They split off a kind of a pair of foils from an old door, which had served as a table, and at the first lunge Trenck hit him on the breast. Bach's rage at once became ungovernable, and he left the prison. To the great astonishment of Trenck, he returned, a moment later, with two soldiers' swords, which he had concealed undei his coat. " Now then, boaster, prove," said he, giving one of them to the baron, " what thou art able to do." Trenck endeavoured to pacify his opponent, by representing the danger ; but in- effectually. Bach attacked him with the utmost fury, and was speedily wounded in the arm. Throwing his sword down. Bach fell upon Trenck's neck, kissed him, and wept. At length, after some convulsive emotions of pleasure, he said, " Friend, thou art my master, and thou must, thou shalt, by my aid, obtain thy liberty, as certain as my name is Bach." Talking the matter over with him afterwards, he told the baron that it would be impossible for him to get away safely unless the officer of the guard went with him ; that for himself he was 84 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Teenck escaping with Lieutenant Schell. ready to make any sacrifice for liim sliort of his honour, and that to desert, being on guard, would be dishonourable. But he promised him every assistance, and the next day he brought to him Lieutenant Schell, saying, " Here's your man." Schell vowed perfect devotion, and the two imme- diately began to concert measures for getting off. Their project was precipitated in consequence of Schell's having discovered that he had been betrayed to the commandant. A fellow-officer. Lieutenant Schroeder, gave him the intelligence in full time for him to have saved himself, and even offered to accompany him ; but Schell, faith- ful to Trenck, refused to abandon him. Unfiling to risk an arrest by delay, however, he went at once to Trenck's room, carrying him a sabre, and said to him : " My friend, we are betrayed ; follow me, and do not permit my enemies to take me alive." Trenck tried to speak, but he seized his hand, i-epeating, " Follow me, we have not a moment to lose." There was a sentinel close at hand, but Schell boldly led Trenck towards him, saying, "Remain here ; I am to take the prisoner to the officers' quarters." In this direction Schell quietly marched his companion, but soon after turned off in a contrary course, making for the passage below the arsenal, from whence he hoped to reach the outer works of the fortress, and climb over the palisades. The plan was well made, but frustrate:! by their encountering a couple of officers, to avoid whom they made for the parapet which at this point was not very high. Wifliout hesitation they leaped down, Trenck escaping with a slight scratch, but his less fortunate companion sprained his ankle. By making strenuous efforts they reached the open country, but in a sad plight. It was the depth of winter, with the snow-covered ground hard frozen, and a dense fog around. They could hear the alarm guns from the castle ; Schell's ankle gave him great pain, and they knew that their pursuers must be on their track. But Trenck was indomitable ; partly carrying, partly dragging, he got his friend to the river Neiss, and in spite of the gathering ice swam with him across in the parts where it was not fordable. Then perishing nearly from cold, weariness, and hunger, they struggled onward till morning, hesitating what they should next do. The only plan that offered itself was to apply at the nearest house for food and help. Trenck, whose hands Schell tied behind him, and who had smeared his face with blood, posed as a culprit whom Schell desired to take without delay to the nearest justice. He had killed Schell's horse, so the lieutenant's fiction ran, and caused him to sprain his ankle, notwithstanding which Schell- had given him some sabre cuts, disabling him, and had succeeded in pinioning him, and now what he wanted was a vehicle to convey them to town. This story Schell told with great gravity to JACK GOODWIN'S JOKE. 85 two peasants at the door of their house, when the elder of them, a man advanced in years, called the lieutenant by name, informing him that they were well known for deserters, as an officer, the evening previous, had been at the house of a farmer near by, and had given their names and a description of the clothes they wore, narrating, at the same time, all the circumstances of their flight. But the old peasant, who had known Schell from having seen him often at the village when he was there in garrison, and who besides had a son in the lieutenant's company, had no thought of informing upon them, and though he begged hard for his horses, he yet permitted the runaways to take two from the stable. Thus furnished they mounted their bare-backed steeds, and hatless and dishevelled, with their whole appearance betraying what they were, they tore through the country, passing village after village, whose inhabitants, fortunately for the fugitives, were keeping a festival, and so for the most part they escaped without notice. Their route took them straight for the frontier, which they had nearly reached when, to their dismay, they found themselves in the near neigh- bom'hood of a body of cavalry, and their capture seemed certain, but to Schell's great delight fortune favoured them, the officer in command proving to be an old friend, who warned the fugitives to take another road. Pursuing this, the rest of their adventures were trifling, and their courage and perseverance were rewarded by their finding the way across the frontier open to them, and at last Trenck was free. But, says a chronicler of his adventures, " the baron was far from being a happy man. Pursued by the vengeance of Frederick, and sorely beset by Prussian spies, who tried to kidnap him, he wandered miserably about for many months, and subsequently took service in the Austrian army. Finally, after many wonderful adventures, he was basely given up by the governor and authorities of the town of Dantzig to the Prussian king. This sad mischance completely demoralised Trenck. Though many opportunities were afforded him to get away from the escort that convoyed him to Prussia, he had not the spirit to do so. Again he was consigned to prison. This time they took him to Magdeburg and locked him up in the citadel. " His subsequent life in the fortress of Magdeburg was but a repetition of liis previous unremitting efforts at escape ; but he never again left the prison until he was released by order of the king- He lived many years after his liberation, and was guillotined at Paris in the Revolution, at the same time with Andre Chenier." JACK GOODWIN'S JOKE. I- ACK GOODWIN ought to have known better : he was old enough — close on five-and-twenty — when he did it, and he ought to have been wiser. What sum it cost him was known only to his %F publisher. It must have been something ',•* considerable, for paper and printing are expensive luxuries in the colonies. " Posies culled from Fancy's Bower " was the preposterous title of his production. It was a small octavo volume of two hundred pages, bound in green cloth, and, I have reason to know, it was contem- plated by Jack with much inward satisfaction. Jack was clerk in a store in the thriving town- ship of Maplewood, in the Ovens district, about a hundred and eighty miles from Melbourne. Maple- wood supported two newspapers — the Ovens Banner and the Ovens Herald, to each of which he had sent a copy of his little book. From the latter paper he received a very flattering notice. " ' Posies culled from Fancy's Bower,' " wrote the editor of that periodical, " is a volume of poetry written by our talented townsman, Mr. John Goodwin, and deserves from us something more than a passing notice. In this utilitarian age. when the thirst for gain engrosses all the nobler sympathies of our nature, we are too apt to forget those higher and better aims which refine and elevate humanity above the level of the sordid, mercenary crowd." This notice was highly satisfactory to Jack. It confirmed him in his already high opinion of his poetic bantling ; and he looked eagerly for the next issue of the Banner, which he hoped would contain a notice of his book equally flattering. But in this he was disappointed. The two newspapers were fiercely antagonistic. Conse- quently, on the morning following the HerahVs notice of Jack's book, the Banner contained the following : — " We have been favoured with a volume of verses, entitled 'Posies culled from Fancy's Bower,' written by a well-known and highly respected young gentleman residing in our midst, whose name, from motives of delicacy, we refrain from mentioning. We regret that an otherwise estimable GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. and promising young man should have been so ill-advised as to publish this crude and immature production. We will not deny that the volume before us contains what may prove the germs of future excellence. But the voice that now claims our attention is to real poetry what the first wailing of a mewling infant is to the impassioned utterances of a Demosthenes or our own Fitz- Jenkins." The QuaHerlij which killed Keats, and the Edinbargh reviewer who provoked the ire of Byron, hardly inflicted greater torture upon their victims than did this article in the Banner on the sensitive spirit of our friend Jack Goodwin. Like Byron, his first thoughts were of vengeance. But how ? He might write a satire after the style of " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," which he had no doubt the Herald would gladly print. But he had doubts as to it having any great effect on the not over-sensitive nature of the editor of the Banner. He had thoughts of interviewing him with a big stick, but then he reflected that the editor owned another big stick — a stick which might be described as a " knobby " big stick ; and that, moreover, he stood six feet two without his boots. So that idea was abandoned. In his rage .Jack caught up the offending journal, with the intention of consigning it to the flames, when a paragraph caught his attention. He read it over twice with breathless interest. A gleam of triumph irradiated his countenance. " Hurrah ! " he exclaimed. " My enemy is delivered into my hands." This was the paragraph which Jack read : — "Forthcoming Visit of the Duke op Edin- burgh. — In view of the expected visit of our much-beloved Prince to the Australian continent, the proprietors of the Ovens Banner hereby offer the sum of five pounds sterling to the author of the best ode welcoming his arrival. The ode to be the property of the proprietors, and to appear in the Banner as soon as the award is made public. Each poem must bear a motto, and be accompanied by a sealed envelope bearing the same motto, and containing inside the name and address of the writer. The competition will be open till the 15th instant." ''That will allow me three days," said Jack. "Yes, I will do it." Jack competed for the prize offered by the Banner, and was successful. The Banner thus remarked upon the circumstance : — " We confess that it is with more than ordinary pleasure that we announce the name of the author of the successful poem on the visit of the Duke of Edinburgh, which appears in our columns to-day. We are thus pleased because it shows that the young author took in good part, and has profited by, the somewhat severe remarks which, in our journalistic capacity, we lately felt it our duty to make on one of his productions." Jack's delight when he read this notice was un- bounded. His friends could scarcely understand it. No doubt it was a pleasant thing to write a successful copy of verses, and to be paid five pounds for doing so ; but Jack's triumph seemed to be out of all proportion to the occasion. He had formerly been rather a modest sort of fellow, but now he went chuckling all over the town with a copy of the Banner in his hand, calling every- body's attention to the verses, and asking them if they did not think them first-rate. Most people thought the verses commonplace enough ; but Jack laughed, and declared that they were the finest verses that had ever been written. .Jack, as I said before, had hitherto been always extremely modest and diffident regarding his own merits, and people thought he was going mad. In the afternoon Jack went into the Hercdd office. His friend, the editor, was at home. " Have you read my verses in the Banner this morning '? " he asked. " Yes — sad nonsense, I'm sorry to say ; but I was glad to hear you got the money. " " Hang the money ! You say the verses are nonsense. Do you know they are beyond all comparison the finest verses I ever wrote ? " " I must beg leave to differ from you there." " Look here, old fellow — I don't believe you saw half the beauty of the verses. Allow me to read them to you." The editor rose with an alarmed look. "I have a most particular engagement," he began. But Jack pushed him back into his chair, and taking a copy of the Banner from his pocket, read as follows : — " The golden chambers of the East throw ope their portals wide ; Her outstretched hand Australia gives to him, Britamiia's pride. Eager the people crowd around, their loyalty to evince — Earnest and true, and full of love for their young Sailor Prince. Delighted crowds shall gather to the sound of fife and drum, In ecstasy rejoicing to know that he is come. The fairest of our maidens round his brows will garlands twine — Oh, happy she on whom the light of his fond glance shall shine. Right royally we'll welcome him — e'en the black vault of night On his arrival 'svill blaze forth with artificial light. JACK GOODWIN'S JOKE. 87 Prom north and east, from south and west, admir- ing crowds will swarm — The reception that we give him will not be cool, but warm. High in the air shall rockets fly, and big guns will be fired, Enabling him at once to see how much he is admired. On lovely plains the shepherd hut will wake with voice of song. Vivid and loud the squatter's lodge will the glad strains prolong. E'en diggers in their creeks wUl shout vrith lusty, wUd halloo, Nor mute shall be the welcome of the frugal cockatoo. Swagsmen will pause upon their way to wipe away a tear. By gladness gathered in their eye, to think that he is here. A welcome such as this to man, on fair Australia's shore. Nor prince nor peasant heard of, or ever saw before. Nor shall choice gifts be wanting, our foes shall never say. Ever, with empty hand, our Prince beloved we sent away. Right gladly of our gold we'll give, and he shall taste our wine. In sheoak he will revel — that drink almost divine. Speeches shall not be wanting to promote his happiness, And every corporation will present him an ad- dress. Now, muse, thy task is ended : for a while, at least, thy lute, Anticipating matters, shall slumber and be mute ; Soon, soon again to waken, when to meet him we all mu-ster, Slumber, then, lyre, till then — but then be ready with a buster." The editor of the Herald yawned. " Not up to your usual standard. Jack," he said. "And you see nothing in the lines to admire." " Can't say I do." "Why, don't you see they are written in the form of an acrostic 1 " "Eh? let me see," said the editor, taking the paper from Jack's hand. "'T H E, the. The editor — the editor of the Ovens Banner is an ass.' Why, you don't mean to say you've actually made the fellow write himself down an ass in his own paper 1 " "But I do so," said Jack, laughing. "Isn't it capital 'I Ha ! ha ! ha ! " "Capital? Why, it's one of the best things I ever heard of — ha ! ha ! ha ! " " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed Jack. " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed the etiitor. "Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!" they both laughed in chorus. " And does the Banner fellow know of this % " "Not yet," said Jack; "but I look to you to enlighten him in to-morrow's paper." The editor of the Herald folded Jack in his arms, and silently pressed his hand. His emotion was too deep for words. The following morning the Herald contained a copy of Jack's verses, with this note appended to it — " It is seldom indeed that we find anything in the columns of our contemporary worth the trouble of a re-perusal ; but the accompanying clever acrostic, in which the editor of the Banner so ingenuously admits himself to be an ass, is such a remarkable and unprecedented instance of candour, that we gladly give it the benefit of our circulation." Before the morning was over, the joke was all over the town, and caused great amusement. But it promised to be rather serious for Jack. A big man with a big stick — a knobby stick — was said to be anxiously inquiring for him. However, Jack kept out of the way ; and the editor of the Banner, being a good-natured fellow, soon forgot his annoyance ; and on hearing that Jack had sent the five pounds he had got for the poem to the hospital, he declared that Jack was a good fellow, and that the joke was not half a bad one, though it was against himself. GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. THE GRAVE OE MACLEOD OF DARE. [By William Black.] ' ^S'^^^^^'^ y°^ know what Hamisli says ?" lie '■ '^' cried, — "that the night is quite fine ! And Hamish has heard our talking of seeing the cathedral at lona by moonlight ; and he says the moon will be up by ten. And what do you say to running over now? You know we cannot take you in the yacht, for there is no good anchorage at lona ; but we can take you in a very good and safe boat ; and it will be an adventure to go out in the night time." It was an adventure that neither Mr. White nor his daughter seemed too eager to undertake ; but the urgent vehemence of the young man — who had discovered that it was a fine and clear starlit night — soon overcame their doubts ; and there was a general hurry of preparation. The desolation of the day, he eagerly thought, would be forgotten in the romance of this night excursion. And surely she would be charmed by the beauty of the starlit sky, and the loneliness of the voyage, and their wandering over the ruins in the solemn moonlight 1 Thick boots and waterproofs : these were his peremptory instructions. And then he led the way down the slippery path ; and he had a tight hold of her arm ; and if he talked to her in a low voice so that none should overhear — it is the way of lovers under the silence of the stars. They reached the pier, and the wet stone steps ; and here, despite the stars, it was so dark that perforce she had to permit him to lift her off the lowest step and place her in security in what seemed to her a great hole of some kind or other. She 'I'lew, however, that she was in a boat; for th:v • a' is a swaying hither and thither even in this f- . ■- ''ed corner. She saw other figures arrive — ^ . ..oi. be- tween her and the sky — and she heard her father's voice above. Then he, too, got into the boat ; the two men forward hauled up the huge lug sail ; and presently there was a rippling line of sparkling white stars on each side of the boat, burning for a second or two on the surface of the black water. " I don't know who is responsible for this mad- ness," Mr. White said — and the voice from inside the great waterproof coat sounded as if it meant to be jocular — " but really, Gerty, to be on the open Atlantic, in the middle of the night, in an open boat " " My dear sir," Macleod said, laughing, " you are as safe as if you were in bed. But I am responsible in the meantime, for I have the tiller. Oh, we shall be over in plenty of time to be clear of the banks." " What did you say f " Well," Macleod admitted, " there are some banks, you know, in the Sound of lona ; and on a dark night they are a little awkward when the tide is low — but I am not going to frighten you ' " I hope we shall have nothing much worse than this," said Mr. White, seriously. For indeed the sea, after the squally morning, was running pretty high ; and occasionally a cloud of spray came rattling over the bows, causing Macleod's guests to pull their waterproofs stilt more tightly round their necks. But what mattered the creaking of the cordage, and the plunging of the boat, and the rushing of the seas, so long as that beautiful clear sky shone overhead 1 " Gertrude," said he in a low voice, " do you see the phosphorus-stars on the waves l I never saw them burn more brightly." " They are very beautiful," said she. " When do we get to land, Keith V " Oh, pretty soon," said he. " You are not anxious to get to land f " It is stormier than I expected." " Oh, this is nothing," said he. " I thought you would enjoy it." However, that summer night's sail was like to prove a tougher business than Keith Macleod had bargained for. They had been out scarcely twenty minutes when Miss White heard the man at the bow call out something, which she could not un- derstand, to Macleod. She saw him crane his neck forward, as if looking ahead ; and she her- self, looking in that direction, could perceive that from the horizon almost to the zenith the stars had become invisible. " It may be a little bit squally," he said to her, " but we shall soon be under the lee of lona. Per- haps you had better hold on to something." The advice was not ill-timed ; for almost as he spoke the first gust of the squall struck the boat, and there was a sound as if everything had been torn asunder and sent overboard. Then, as she righted just in time to meet the crash of the next wave, it seemed as though the world had grown perfectly black around them. The terrified woman seated there could no longer make out Macleod's figure ; it was impossible to speak amid this roar ; it almost seemed to her that she was alone with those howling mnds and heaving waves — at night on the open sea. The wind rose, and the sea too ; she heard the men call out and JIacleod answer ; and all the time the boat was creaking and groan- ing as she w'as flung high on the mighty waves, THE GRAVE OF MACLEOD OF DARE. 89 only to go staggering down into the awful trouglis behind, " Oh, Keith," she cried — and involuntarily she seized his arm — " are we in danger 1 " He could not hear what she said ; but he un- derstood the mute appeal. Quickly disengaging his arm — for it was the arm that was working the tiller — he called to her — ■ "We are all right. If you are afraid, get to the bottom of the boat !" But unhappily she did not hear this ; for as he " Where is papa ? " she cried. "I am here — I am all right, Gerty," was the answer — which came from the bottom of the boat, into which Mr. White had very prudently slipped. And then, as they got under the lee of the island, they found themselves in smoother water, though from time to time squalls came over that threatened to flatten the great lug-sail right on to the waves. " Come now, Gertrude," said Macleod, " we shall ' They entered, all dhipp.ng and unrecognisable.* called to her a heavy sea struck the bows, sprung high in the air, and then fell over them in a deluge which nearly choked her. She understood, though, his throwing away her hand. It was the triumph of brute selfishness in the moment o" danger. They were drowning ; and he would not let her come near him ! And so she shrieked aloud for her father. Hearing those shrieks, Macleod called to one of the two men, who came stumbling along in the dark and got hold of the tiller. There was a slight lull in the storm ; and he caught her two hands and held her. " Gertrude, what is the matter 1 You are per- fectly safe ; and so is your father. For Heaven's sake keep still : if you get up, you will be knocked overboard ! " be ashore in a few minutes ; and you are nut frightened of a squall t " He had his arm round her ; and he held her tight ; but she did not answer. At last she saw a light — a small, glimmering orange thing that quivered apparently a hundred miles off. " See ! " he said. " We are close by. And it may clear up to-uiglit after all." Then he shouted to one of the men : " Sandy, we will not try the quay the night : we will go into the Martyr's Bay." "Ay, ay, sir." It was about a quarter of an hour afterwards that — almost benumbed with fear — she discovered that the boat was in smooth water ; and then there was a loud clatter of the sail coming down ; and she heard the two sailors calling to each other, 90 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. and one of them seemed to have got overboard. There was absohitely nothing visible — not even a distant light ; but it was raining heavily. Then she knew that Macleod had moved away from her ; and she thought she heard a splash in the water ; and then a voice beside her said — " Gertrude, will you get up 1 You must let me carry you ashore." And she found herself in his arms, carried as lightly as though she had been a young lamb or a fawn from the hills ; but she knew from the slow way of his walking that he was going through the sea. Then he set her on the shore. " Take my hand," said he. " But where is papa 1 " " Just behind us," said he, " on Sand/s shoulders. Sandy will bring him along. Come, darling." " But where are we going ? " " There is a little inn near the Cathedral. And perhaps it will clear up to-night ; and we will have a fine sail back again to Dare." She shuddered. Not for ten thousand worlds would she pass through once more that seething pit of howling sounds and raging seas. He held her arm firmly ; and she stumbled along through the darkness, not knowing whether she was walking through seaweed, or pools of water, or wet corn. And at last they came to a door ; and the door was opened ; and there was a blaze of orange light ; and they entered — all dripping and unrecognisable — the warm, snug little place, to the astonishment of a handsome young lady who proved to be their hostess. " Dear me, Sir Keith," said she at length, " is it you indeed ! And yoa will not be going back to Dare to-night." In fact, when Mr. White arrived, it was soon made evident that going back to Dare that night was out of the question ; for somehow or other the old gentleman, despite his waterproofs, had managed to get soaked through ; and he was determined to go to bed at once, so as to have his clothes dried. And so the hospitalities of the little inn were requisitioned to the utmost ; and as there was no whisky to be had, they had to content themselves with hot tea ; and then they all retired to rest for the night, con^^nced that the moonlight visitation of the ruins had to be postponed. But next day — such are the rapid changes in the Highlands — broke blue and fair and shining ; and Miss Gertrude White was amazed to find that the awful Sound she had come along on the previous night was now brilliant in the most beaiitiful colours— for the tide was low, and the yellow sand-banks were shining through the blue waters of the sea. And would she not, seeing that the boat was lying down at the quay now, saU round the island, and see the splendid sight of the Atlantic breaking on the wild coast on the western side ? She hesitated ; and then, when it was suggested that she might walk across the island, .she eagerly accepted that alternative. They set out, on this hot, bright, beautiful day. But where he, eager to please her and show the beauties of the Highlands, saw lovely white sands, and smiling plains of verdure, and far views of the sunny sea, she only saw loneliness, and desolation, and a constant threatening of death from the fierce Atlantic. Could anything have been more beautiful — he said to himself — than this mag- nificent scene that lay all around her when they reached a far point on the western shore 1 — in face of them the wildly-rushing seas, coming thundering on to the rocks, and springing so high into the air that the snow-white foam showed black against the glare of the sky ; the nearer islands gleaming with a touch of brown on their sunward side ; the Dutchman's Cap, with its long brim and conical centre, and Lunga, also like a cap, but with a shorter brim and a high peak in front, becoming a trifle blue ; then Coll and Tiree lying like a pale stripe on the horizon ; while far away in the north the mountains of Hum and Skye were faint and spectral in the haze of the sunlight. Then the wild coast around them ; with its splendid masses of granite ; and its spare grass a brown-green in the warm sun ; and its bays of silver sand ; and its sea-birds whiter than the white clouds that came sailing over the blue. She recognised only the awfulness and the loneliness of that wild shore ; with its suggestions of crashing storms in the night-time and the cries of drowning men dashed helplessly on the cruel rocks. She was very silent all the way back ; though he told her stories of the fairies that used to inhabit those sandy and grassy plains. And could anything have been more magical than the beauty of that evening, after the storm had altogether died away 1 The red sunset sank behind the dark olive green of the hills ; a pale, clear twilight took its place, and shone over those mystic ruins that were the object of many a thought and many a pilgrimage in the far past and for- gotten years.; and then the stars began to glimmer as the distant shores and the sea grew dark ; and then, still later on, a wonderful radiance rose behind the low hills of Mull, and across the waters of the Sound came a belt of quivering light as the white moon sailed slowly up into the sky. Would they venture out now, into the silence? There was an odour of new-mown hay in the night air. Far away they could hear the murmuring of the waves around the rocks. They did uot speak a word as they walked along to those solemn ruins overlooking the sea, that were now a mass of mysterious shadow, except where the (3astern walls and the tower were touched by the silvr ry light that had just come into the heavens. THE GRAVE OF MACLEOD OF DARE. 91 And in silence they entered the still churchyard too ; and passed the graves. The buildings seemed to rise above them in a darkened majesty ; before them was a portal through which a glimpse of the moonlit sky was visible. Would they enter, then? " I am almost afraid," she said, in a low voice to her companion, and the hand on his arm trembled. But no sooner had she spoken than there was a sudden sound in the night that caused her heart to jump. All over them and around them, as it seemed, there was a wild uproar of wings ; and the clear sky above them was darkened by a cloud of objects wheeling this way and that, until at length they swept by overhead as if blown by a whirlwind, and crossed the clear moonlight in a dense body. She had quickly clung to him in her fear. " It is only the jackdaws — there are hundreds of them," he said to her ; but even his voice sounded strange in this hollow building. For they had now entered by the open door- way ; and all around them were the tall and crumbling pillars, and the arched vsdndows, and ruined walls, here and there catching the sharp light of the moonlight, here and there showing soft and grey with a reflected light, with spaces of black shadow which led to unknown recesses. And always overhead the clear sky with its pale stars ; and always, far away, the melancholy sound of the sea. " Do you know where you are standing now 1 " said he, almost sadly. " You are standing on the grave of Macleod of Macleod." She started aside with a slight exclamation. " I do not think they bury any one in here now," said he gently. And then he added, "Do you know that I have chosen the place for my grave 1 It is away out at one of the Treshnish islands ; it is a bay looking to the west ; there is no one living on that island. It is only a fancy of mine — to rest for ever and ever with no sound around you but the sea and the winds — no step coming near you, and no voice but the waves." " Oh, Keith, you should not say such things : you frighten me," she said in a trembling voice. Another voice broke in upon them, harsh and pragmatical. "Do you know. Sir Keith," said Mr. White briskly, " that the moonlight is clear enough to let you make out this plan 'i But I can't get the building to correspond. This is the chancel, ] believe ; but where are the cloisters?" " I will show you," Macleod said ; and he led his companion through the silent and solemn place, her father following. In the darkness they passed tlirough an archway, and were about to .step out on to a piece of grass, when suddenly Miss White uttered a wild scream of terror and sank help ■ lessly to the ground. She had slipped from his arm, but in an instant he had caught her again and had raised her on his bended knee, and was calling to her with kindly words. " Gertrude, Gertrude," he said, " what is the matter 1 Won't you speak to me '] " And just as she was pulling herself together the innocent cause of this commotion was discovered. It was a black lamb that had come up in the most friendly manner, and had rubbed its head against her hand to attract her notice. " Gertrude, see — it is only a lamb ! It comes up to me every time I visit the ruins ; look ! " And, indeed, she was mightily ashamed of herself ; and pretended to be vastly interested in the ruins ; and was quite charmed with the view of the Sound in the moonlight, with the low hiUs beyond now grown quite black ; but all the same she was very silent as they walked back to the inn. And she was pale and thoughtful, too, while they were having their frugal supper of bread and mUk ; and very soon pleading fatigue, she retired. ■ But all the same, when Mr. White went up-stairs, some time after, he had been but a short while in his room when he heard a tapping at the door. He said, " Come in," and his daughter entered. He was surprised by the curious look of her face — a sort of piteous look, as of one ill at ease, and yet ashamed to speak. " What is it, child ? " said he. She regarded him for a second with that piteous look ; and then tears slowly gathered in her eyes. " Papa," said she, in a sort of half -hysterical way, " I want you to take me away from here. It frightens me. I don't know what it is. He was talking to me about graves " And here she burst out crying, and sobbed bitterly. " Oh, nonsense, child," her father said ; " your nervous system must have been shaken last night by that storm. I have seen a strange look about your face all day. It was certainly a mistake our coming here ; you are not fitted for this savage life." She grew more composed. She sat down for a few minutes ; and her father, taking out a small flask which had been filled from a bottle of brandy sent over during the day from Castle Dare, poured out a Uttle of the spirits, added some water, and made her drink the dose as a sleeping- draught. " Ah well, you know, pappy," said she, as she rose to leave — and she bestowed a very pretty smile on him — " it is all in the way of experience, isn't it 1 and an artist should experience every- thing. But there is just a little too much about graves and ghosts in these parts for me. And J suppose we shall go to-moriow to see some cave or 93 GLEANIZSTGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. other where two or three hundred men,, women, and children were murdered ! " " I hope in going back we shall not be as near our own grave as we were last night," her father observed. "And Keith Macleod laughs at it," she said, ''and says it was unfortunate we got a wetting 1 " And so she went to bed ; and the sea-air had dealt well with her ; and she had no dreams at all of shipwrecks, or of black familiars in moonlit shrines. Why should her sleep be disturbed because that night she had put her foot on the grave of the chief of the Macleods ? NOTHING TO WEAE. [By William Allan Butlee,] ^ISS FLORA M'FLIMSEY, of Ma- dison Square, IS$J* Has made three separate jour- neys to Paris ; And her father assures me, each time she was there. That she and her friend Mrs. Harris (Not the lady whose name is so famous in history. But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery), Spent six consecutive weeks, without stopping, In one continuous round of shopping ; Shopping alone, and shopping together. At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather; For all manner of things that a woman can put On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot. Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist. Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow, In front or behind — above or below : For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls. Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls ; Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ; Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ; Dresses in which to do nothing at all ; Dresses for winter, spring, summer, or fall ; All of them different in colour and pattern — Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin ; Brocade and broadcloth, and other material, Quite as expensive, and much more ethereal ; In short, for all things that could ever be thought of, Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of. From ten-thousand-francs robes to twenty-sous frills ; In all quarters of Paris, and at every store, While M'Flimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore ; They footed the streets, and he footed the bills. The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Arago Formed, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo ; Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest. Which did not appear on the ship's manifest. But for which the ladies themselves manifested Such particular interest, that they invested Their own proper persons in layers and rows Of muslins, embroideries, worked underclothes. Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those. Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties. Gave GOOD-BYE. to the ship, and go-bye to the duties^ NOTHING TO WEAK 93 Her relations at home all marvell'd, no doubt, iliss Flora had grown so enormously stout For an actual belle and a possible bride ; But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out, And the truth came to light, and the dry goods beside. Which, in spite of collector, and custom-house sentry, Had enter'd the port without any entry. And yet, though scarce three months had pass'd since the day This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broad- way, I had just been selected as he who should throw all The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections, Of those fossil remains which she called " her affections," And that rather decayed but well-known work of art Which Miss Flora persisted in styling "her heart." So we were engaged. Our troth had been _ plighted. Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain, or grove, But in a front parlour, most brilliantly lighted. Beneath the gas fixtures we whispered our love, ' The end of the hose was portentously tipped up.* This same Miss M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, The last time we met, was in utter despair. Because she had nothing whatever to wear ! Nothing to wear ! Now, as this is a true ditty, I do not assert — this, you know, is between us — That she's in a state of absolute nudity. Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus ; But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare. When, at the same moment, she had on a dress Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less. And jewellery worth ten times more, I should guess, That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear ! I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's Two hundred and fifty or si.xty adorers, Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs, Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes ! Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions ; It was one of the quietest business transactions, With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any. And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany. On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, She exclaim'd, as a sort of parenthesis, And by way of putting me quite at my ease, " You know I'm to polka as much as I please. And flirt when I like — now stop, don't you speak — And you must not come here more than twice iji the week. Or talk to me either at party or ball, But always be ready to come when I call ; So don't prose to me about duty and stuff; If we don't break this Q% there will be time enough 94 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. For that sort of thing ; but the bargain must be That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free ; For this is a sort of engagement, you see, Which is binding on you, but not binding on me." Well, having thus woo'd Miss M'Flimsey and gain'd her, With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that con- tained her, I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder At least in the property, and the best right To appear as its escort by day and by night : And it being the week of the Stuckups' grand ball— Their cards had been out a fortnight or so. And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe — I considered it only my duty to call, And see if Miss Flora intended to go. I found her — as ladies are apt to be found, When the time intervening between the first sound Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter Than usual — I found ; I won't say I caught her — Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. She turned as I entered — "Why, Harry, you sinner, I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner ! " "So I did," I replied, "but the dinner is swallowed, And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more ; So being relieved from that duty, I followed Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. And now will your ladyship so condescend As just to inform me if you intend Your duty and grace and presence to lend (All which, when I own, I hope no one wiU borrow) To the Stuckups', whose party, you know, is to- morrow 1 " The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air. And answered quite promptly, " Why, Harry, 7non cher, I should like above all things to go with you there ; But really and truly — I've nothing to wear ! " " Nothing to wear ! Go just as you are ; Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, I engage, the most bright and particular star On the Stuckup horizon." I stopp'd, for her eye, Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, Open'd on me at once a most terrible battery Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply. But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose (That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say. " How absurd that any sane man should suppose That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, No matter how fine, that she wears every day ! " So I ventured again — " Wear your crimson bro- cade " (Second turn up of nose) — " That's too dark by a shade." " Your blue silk " — " That's too heavy." " Your pink" — '' That's too light." " Wear tulle over satin " — " I can't endure white." " Your rose-coloured, then, the best of the batch" — " I haven't a thread of point-lace to match." " Your brown moir6 antique " — " Yes, and look like a Quaker." " The pearl coloured " — " I would, but that plaguy dressmaker Has had it a week." " Then that exquisite lilac, In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock" (Here the nose took again the same elevation)^ " I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." " Why not 1 It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it As more comme ilfaut — " " Yes, but, dear me ! that lean Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen." " Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine ; That superb point d'aiguOle, that imperial green, That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich grenadine " — " Not one of all which is fit to be seen," Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. " Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crush'd Opposition, " that gorgeous toilette which you sported In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation. When you quite turn'd the head of the head of the nation ; And by all the grand court were so very much courted." The end of the nose was portentously tipped up And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation, As she burst upon me with the fierce exclama- tion, "I have worn it three times, at the least calcula- tion. And that and the most of my dresses are ripped up ! " Here I ripp'd out something, perhaps rather rash. Quite innocent though ; but to use an ex- pression More striking than classic, it " settled my hash," And proved very soon the last act of our session. "Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling Doesn't fall down and crush you. Oh,, you men have no feeling ! NOTHING TO WEAR. 95 You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures ! Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers. Your silly pretence — why, what "a mere guess it is ! Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities ^ I have told you and shown you I have nothing to wear, And 'tis perfectly plain you not only don't care. But you do not believe me " (here the nose went still higher). " I suppose if you dared you would call me a liar. Our engagement is ended, sir — yes, on the spot ; You're a brute, and a monster, and I don't know what." I mildly suggested the words Hottentot, Pickpocket and cannibal, Tartar and thief. As gentle expletives which might give relief. But this only proved as spark to the powder, And the storm I had raised came faster and louder ; It blew and it rain'd, thunder'd, lighten'd, and hail'd Interjections, verbs, pronouns, tiU language quite faU'd To express the abusive ; and then its arrears Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears ; And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs. WeU, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too ; Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo. In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say. Then, without going through the form of a bow. Found myself in the entry — I hardly knew how — On door-step and side walk, past lamp-post and square, At home and up-stairs, in my own easy-chair ; Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze, And said to myself, as I Ut my cigar, Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar Of the Eussias to boot, for the rest of his days. On the whole, do you think he would have much to spare If he married a woman with nothing to wear 1 Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruited Abroad in society, I've instituted A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough. On this vital subject ; and find, to my horror. That the fair Flora's case is by no means sur- prising, But that there exists the greate.st distress In our female community, solely arising From this unsupplied destitution of dress, Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air With the ijitiful wail of " Nothing to wear ! " Researches in some of the " Upper Ten " districts Reveal the most painful and startling statistics, Of which let me mention only a few : In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue, Three young ladies were found, aU below twenty two. Who have been three whole weeks without any- thing new In the way of flounced silks ; and, thus left in the lurch, Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church. In another large mansion, nc j: the same place, Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case Of entire destitution of Brussels point lace. In a neighbouring block there was found, in three calls. Total want, long-continued, of camels'-hair shawls ; And a suffering family, whose case exhibits The most pressing need of real ermine tippets ; One deserving young lady almost unable To survive for the want of a new Russian sable ; Another confined to the house, when it's windier Than usual, because her shawl isn't India. Still another, whose tortures have been most terrific Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific ; In which were engulfed, not friend or relation (For whose fate she perhaps might have found consolation, Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation). But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and collars Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars ; And all, as to style, most rech?rche and rare. The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear, And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic, That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic ; For she touching'y says that this sort of grief Cannot find in religion the slightest relief. And philosophy has not a maxim to spare For the victims of such overwhelming despair. But the saddest by far of aU these sad features Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatures By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Timons, Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamonds By their vpives and their daughters, and leave them for days Unsupplied with new jewellery, fans, or bouquets; Even laugh at their miseries whenever they hav^ a chance, And deride their demands as useless extravagance. One case of a bride was brought to my view, Too sad for belief, but, alas ! 'twas too true. Whose husbaiid refused, as savage as Charon, To permit lier to take more than ten trunks to Sharon. The consequence was, that when she got there. At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear ; 96 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. And when she proposed to finish the season At Newport, the monster refused out and out, For his infamous conduct alleging no reason Except that the waters were good for his gout. Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course, And proceedings are now going on for divorce. But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain From tliese scenes of woe ? Enough, it is certain, Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity Of every benevolent heart in the city, And spur up humanity into a canter To rush and relieve these sad cases instariter. Won't somebody, moved by this touching de- scription, Come forward to-morrow and head a subscrip- tion] Won't some kind philan- thropist, seeing that aid is So needed at once by these indigent ladies, Take charge of the matter ; or won't Peter Cooper The corner-stone lay of some splendid super- Structure, like that which to-day links his name In the Union unending of honour and fame ; And found a new charity just for the care Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear ; Which, in view of the cash which would daily be claim 'd, The Laying-out Hospital well might be named ; Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods im- porters. Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters ? Or, to furnish the cash to supply those distresses, And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and dresses. Ere the want of them makes it much rougher and thornier, Won't some one discover a new California'? Oh, ladies, dear ladies ! the next sunny day Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, And the temples of Trade which tower on each side, In my own east-chair.' To the alleys and lanes, ivhere Misfortune and Guilt Their children have gather'd, their city have built ; Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey, Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair; Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broider'd skirt, Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt. Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, Half-starved and half- naked, lie crouch'd from the cold. See those skeleton limbs, those frost- bitten feet. All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street ; . Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor ; Hear the curses that somid like the echoes of hell. As you sicken and shudder, and fly from the door ! Then home to your wardrobes, and say — if you dare — Spoil'd children of Fashion, you've nothing to wear ! And oh, if perchance there should be a sphere Where all is made right which so puzzles us here, Where the glare and the glitter, and tinsel of Time Fade and die in the light of that region .sublime. Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, LTnscreen'd by its trappings, and shows, and pre- tence. Must be clothed for the life and the service abovs With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love — Oh, daughters of Earth ! foolish virgins ! beware. Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear ! THE SOAP AND WATHER. 97 THE SOAP AND WATHEE* [From " Handy Andy." By Samuel Lover.] HEN Andy grew up to be what in country parlance is called " a brave lump of a boy," his mother thought he was old enough to do something for himself ; so she took him one day along with her to the squire's, and waited outside the door, loitering up and down the yard behind the house, a crowd of beggars and great lazy dogs, " Troth, an' your honour that's just it — if your honour would be plazed." " What can he do ? " " Anything, your honour." " That means nothing, I suppose," said the squire. "Oh, no, sir. Everythiug, I mane, that you would desire him to do." To every one of these assurances on his mother's part, Andy made a bow and a scrape. that were thrusting their heads into every iron pot that stood outside the kitchen door, until chance might give her '' a sight o' the squire afore he wint out, or afore he wint in ; " and after spending her entire day in this idle way, at last the squire made his appearance, and Judy pre- sented her son, who kept scraping his foot, and pulling his forelock, that stuck out like a piece of ragged thatch from his forehead, making his obeisance to the squire, while his mother was sounding his praises for being the "handiest eraythur alive — and so willin' — nothin' comes wrong to him." " I suppose the English of all this is, you want me to take him 1 " said the squire. " Can he take care of horses 1 " " The best of care, sir," said the mother ; while the miller, who was standing behind the squire waiting for orders, made a grimace at Andy, who was obliged to cram his face into his hat to hide the laugh, which he could hardly smother from being heard, as well as seen. " Let him come, then, and help in the stables, and we'll see what we can do." " May the Lord—" " That'll do — there, now go." " Oh, sure, but I'll pray for you, and — " " Will you go 1 " " And may the angels make your honour's bed this blessed night, I pray." ♦ By permission of Messrs. George Eoutlerlge and Sons. 98 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " If you don't go, your son shan't come." Judy and her hopeful boy turned to the right- about in double-quick time, and hurried down the avenue. The next day Andy was duly installed into his office of stable-helper ; and, as he was a good rider, he was soon made whipper-in to the hounds, for there was a want of such a functionary in the establishment ; and Andy's boldness in this capacity soon made him a favourite with the squire, who was one of those rollicking boys on the pattern of the old school, who scorned the attentions of a regular valet, and let any one that chance threw in his way bring him his boots, or his hot water for shaving, or his coat, wlienever it VMS brushed. One morning, Andy, who was very often the attendant on such occasions, came to his room with hot water. He tapped at the door. " Who's that 1 " said the squire, who had just risen, and did not know but it might be one of the woman servants. "It's me, sir." " Oh — Andy ! Come in." " Here's the hot water, sir," said Andy, bearing an enormous tin can. " Why, what brings that enormous tin can here 1 You may as well bring the stable bucket." '■ I beg your pardon, sir," said Andy, retreating. In two minutes more Andy came back, and, tapping at the door, put in his head cautiously, and said, '' The maids in the kitchen, your honour, says there's not so much hot water ready." " Did I not see it a moment since in your hand?" " Yes, sir ; but that's not nigh the full o' the stable bucket." " Go along, you stupid thief ! and get me some hot water directly." " Will the can do, sir ? " " Ay, anything, so you make haste." Off posted Andy, and back he came with the can. "Where'UIput it, sir?" ■' Throw this out," said the squire, handing Andy a jug containing some cold water, meaning the jug to be replenished with the hot. Andy took the jug, and the window of the room being open, he very deliberately threw the jug out. The squire stared with wonder, and at last said — " What did you do that for ? " " Sure you towM me to throw it out, sir." " Go out of this, you thick-headed villain ! " said the squire, throwing his boots at Andy's head, along with some very neat curses. Andy retreated, and thought himself a very ill-used person. Though Andy's regular business was " whipper- in," yet he was liable to be called on for the performance of various other duties ; he some- times attended at table when the number of guests required that all the subs should be put in requisition, or rode on some distant errand for the "mistress," or drove out the nurse and children on the jaunting-car ; and many were the mistakes, delays, or accidents, arising from Handy Andy's interference in such matters ; — but as they were seldom serious, and generally laughable, they never cost him the loss of his place, or the squire's favour, who rather enjoyed Andy's blunders. The first time Andy was admitted into the mysteries of the dining-room, great was his wonder. The butler took him in to give him some previous instructions, and Andy was so lost in admiration at the sight of the assembled glass and plate, that he stood with his mouth and eyes wide open, and scarcely heard a word that was said to him. After the head man had been dinning his instructions into him for some time, he said he might go, until his attendance was reciuired. But Andy moved not ; he stood with his eyes fixed by a sort of fascination on some object that seemed to rivet them with the same unaccountable influence which the rattlesnake exercises over its victims. " What are you looking at 1 " said the butler. " Them things, sir," said Andy, pointing to some silver forks. " Is it the forks 1 " said the butler. " Oh, no, sir ! I know what forks is very well ; but I never seen them things afore." " What things do you mean 1 " " These things, sir," said Andy, taking up one of the silver forks, and turning it rormd and round in his hand in utter astonishment, while the butler grinned at his ignorance, and enjoyed his own superior knowledge. " Well ! " said Andy, after a long pause, " the devil be from me if ever I seen a silver spoon split thpt way before !" The butler gave a horse laugh, and made a standing joke of Andy's split spoon ; but time and experience made Andy less impressed with wonder at the show of plate and glass, and the split spoons became famUiar as " household words" to him ; yet still there were things in the duties of table attendance beyond Andy's com- prehension—he used to hand cold plates for fish, and hot plates for jelly, &c. But "one day," he was thrown off his centre in a remarkable degree by a bottle of soda-water. It was when that combustible was first intro- duced into Ireland as a dinner beverage that the occurrence took place, and Andy had the luck to be the person to whom a gentleman applied for some soda-water. " Sir? "said Andy. "Soda-water," said the g-uest, in that subdued tone in which people are apt to name their wants at a dinner-table. THE SLAVE-SHIP. 39 Andy went to the butler. " Mr. Morgan, there's a gintleman — " " Let me alone, will yon 1 " said Mr. Morgan. Andy manoeuvred round him a little longer, and again essayed to be heard. " Mr. Morgan ! " " Don't you see I'm as busy as I can be 1 Can't you do it yourself t " " I dunna what he wants." " Well, go and ax him," said Mr. Morgan. Andy went oflf as he was bidden, and came behind the thirsty gentleman's chair, with " I beg your pardon, sir." " Well 1 " said the gentleman. " I beg your pardon, sir ; but what's this you axed me for ? " "Soda-water." " What, sir 1 " " Soda-water ; but, perhaps you have not any." " Oh, there's plenty in the house, sir ! Would you like it hot, sir "? " The gentleman laughed, and, supposing the new fashion was not understood in the present company, said, " Never mind." But Andy was too anxious to please to be so satisfied, and again applied to Mr. Morgan. " Sir ! " said he. " Bad luck to you ! — can't you let me alone 1 " "There's a gentleman wants some soap and wather." " Some what 1 " " Soap and wather, sir." "Divil sweep you! — Soda-wather you mane. You'll get it under the side-board." " Is it in the can, sir V " The ciuse o' Crum'U on you ! in the bottles." " Is this it, sir'? " said Andy, producing a bottle of ale. " No, bad cess to you ! — the little bottles." " Is it the little bottles with no bottoms, sir 1 " " I wish yoic wor in the bottom o' the say ! " said Mr. Morgan, who was fuming and puffing, and rubbing down his face with a napkin, as he was hurrying to all quarters of the room, or, as Andy said, in praising his activity, that he was like bad luck — everywhere. " There they are," said Mr. Morgan at last. " Oh, them bottles that won't stand," said Andy ; " siu-e them's what I said, with no bottoms to them. How'll I open it 1 — it's tied down." " Cut the cord, you fool ! " Andy did as he was desired ; and he happened at the time to hold the bottle of soda-water on a level with the candles that shed light over the festive board from a large silver branch, and the moment he made the incision, bang went the bottle of soda, knocking out two of the lights with the projecting cork, which, performing its para- bola the length of the room, struck the squire himself in the eye at the foot of the table : while the hostess at the head had a cold bath down her back. Andy, when he saw the soda-water jumping out of the bottle, held it from him at arm's length ; every fizz it made, exclaiming, " Ow ! — ow ! " and, at last, when the bottle was empty, he roared out, " Oh, Lord ! — it's all gone ! " Great was the commotion ; — few could resist laughter except the ladies, who all looked at their gowns, not liking the mixture of satin and soda- water. The extinguished candles were re-lighted — the squire got his eye open again — and the next time he perceived the butler sufficiently near to speak to him, he said in a low and hurried tone of deep anger, while he knit his brow, " Send that fellow out of the room ! " but, mthin the same instant, resumed his former smile, that beamed on all around as if nothing had happened. Andy was expelled the salle d, manger in disgrace, and for days kept out of the master's and mistress' way : in the meantime the butler made a good story of the thing in the servants' hall ; and, when he held up Andy's ignorance to ridicule, by telling how he asked for " soap and water," Andy was given the name of " Suds," and was called by no other for mouths after. THE SLAVE-SHIP. [By J. G. Whittier.] gether beyond HE French ship Le Rodeiir, with a crew of twenty-two men, and with one hundred and sixty negTO slaves, sailed from Bonny, in Africa, April, 1819. On approaching the line, a terrible malady broke out — an obstinate disease of the eyes — contagious, and alto- the resources of medicine. It was aggravated by the scarcity of water among the slaves (only half a wineglass per day being allowed to an individual), and by the extreme im- purity of the air in which they breathed. By the advice of the physician they were brought upon deck occasionally ; but some of the poor wretches, locking themselves in each other's arms, leaped overboard, in the hope, which so universally pre- vails among them, of being swiftly transpoited to their own homes in Africa. To check this, the 100 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. captain ordered several, who were stopped in the attempt, to be shot, or hanged, before their com- panions. The disease extended to the crew, and one after another were smitten with it, until only- one remained unaffected. Yet even this dreadful condition did not preclude calculation ; to save the expense of supporting slaves rendered unsale- able, and to obtain grounds for a claim against the underwriters, thirty-six of the negroes, havmg he- come hlind, tvere thrown into the sea and di'owned ! In the midst of their dreadful fears, lest the solitary individual whose sight remained unaffected should also be seized with the malady, a sail was discovered — it was the Spanish slaver Leon ; the same disease had been there, and, horrible to tell, aU the crew had become blind ! Unable to assist each other, the vessels parted. The Spanish ship has never since been heard of ; the BMeur reached Guadaloupe on the 21st of June ; the only man who had escaped the disease, and had thus been enabled to steer the slaver into port, caught it three days after its arrival. "*-^^?. ^^j J«H,C-^|^ .''i.Sfif?'" "A SOLITAUT EYE GAZED FROM THE BURDENED SLAVER'S DECK." (I>ran;n by IT^ H. Overend..) " All ready 1 " cried the captain ; " Ay, ay," the seamen said ; " Heave up the worthless lubbers, — The dying and the dead." Up from the slave-ship's prison Fierce, bearded heads were thrust ; " Now let the sharks look to it — Toss up the dead ones first ! " Corpse after corpse came up,^ Death had been busy there ; Where every blow is mercy, Why should the Spoiler spare 1 Corpse after corpse they cast Sullenly from the ship. Yet bloody with the traces Of fetter- link and whip. Gloomily stood the captain With his arms upon his breast — With his cold brow sternly knotted, And his iron lip compressed ; " Are all the dead dogs over 1 " Growled through that matted lip ; " The blind ones are no better. Let's lighten the good ship." Hark ! from the ship's dark bosom, The very sounds of Hell ! The ringing clank of iron — The maniac's short, sharp yell ! The hoarse, low curse, throat-stifled, The starving infant's moan— The horror of a breaking heart Poured through a mother's groan. Up from that loathsome prison The stricken blind ones came ; Below had all been darkness — Above was still the same ; Yet the holy breath of Heaven Was sweetly breathing there, And the heated brow of fever Cooled in the soft sea air. THE SLAVE-SHIP. 101 'Overboard witli them, shipmates !" " Ho ! for the love of mercy. Cutlass and dirk were plied ; We're perishing and blind ! " Fettered and blind, one after one. A wail of utter agony Plunged down the vessel's side. Came back upon the wind. The sabre smote above, Beneath, the lean shark lay. " Help tcs ! for we are stricken Waiting, with wide and bloody jaw, With blindness, every one ; His quick and human prey. Ten days we've floated fearfully, Unnoting star or sun. God of the earth ! what cries Our ship's the slaver Leon, Eang upward unto Thee ! We've but a score on board ; Voices of agony and blood Our slaves are all gone over, From ship-deck and from sea. Help, for the love of God !" The last dull plunge was heard, The last wave caught its stain, On livid brows of agony And the unsated shark looked up The broad red lightning shone, For human hearts in vain. But the roar of wind and thunder * * * # * Stifled the answering groan ; Eed glowed the western waters ; Wailed from the broken waters The setting sun was there, A last despairing cry, Scattering alike on wave and cloud As, kindling in the stormy light. His fiery mesh of hair : The stranger ship went by. Amidst a group in blindness. ***** A solitary eye In the sunny Guadaloupe Gazed from the burdened slaver's deck A dark-huU'd vessel lay. Into that burning sky. With a crew who noted never The nightfall or the day. " A storm," spoke out the gazer. The blossom of the orange " Is gathering, and at hand ; Was white by every stream. Curse on't ! I 'd give my other eye And tropic leaf, and flower, and bird For one firm rood of land." Were in the warm sunbeam. And then he laughed— but only His echoed laugh replied — And the sky was bright as ever, For the blinded and the suffering And the moonlight slept as well, Alone were at his side. On the palm-trees by the hiU-side, And the streamlet of the deU ; Night settled on the waters. And the glances of the Creole And on a stormy Heaven, Were still as archly deep. While swiftly on that lone ship's track And her smiles as full as ever The thunder-gust was driven. Of passion and of sleep. " A sail ! thank God, a sail ! " And as the hehnsman spoke, But vain were bird and blossom. Up through the stormy murmur The green earth and the sky. A shout of gladness broke. And the smile of human faces. To the ever-darkened eye ; Down came the stranger vessel. For, amidst a world of beauty. Unheeding, on her way. The slaver went abroad. So near, that on the slaver's deck With his ghastly visage written Fell off her driven spray. By the awful curse of God ! il^S^^T^W^^^^^^Z^W^^S^^S^^^W^^T^ZT^ZT^^ 102 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. THE BACHELOR'S THERMOMETEE. [By James Smith.] JYptTATIS 30. Looked back tlirougli a vista jP^^ of ten years. Remembered that at twenty I looked upon a man of thirty as a middle- aged man ; wondered at my error, and protracted the middle age to forty. Said to myself, " Forty is the age of wisdom." Reflected generally upon past life ; wished myself twenty again; and ex- claimed, " If I were but twenty, what a scholar I would be by thirty ! but it's too late now." Looked in the glass ; still youthful, but getting rather fat. Young says, " A fool at forty is a fool indeed ; " forty, therefore must be the age of wisdom. 31. Read in the Morning Chronicle that a wat:h maker in Paris, aged thirty-one, had shot himself for love. More fool the watchmaker ! Agreed that nobody fell in love after twenty. Quoted Sterne, " The expression fall in love, evidently shows love to be beneath a man." Went to Drury Lane : saw Miss Crotch in Rosetta, and fell in love with her. Received her ultimatum ; none but matrimonians need apply. Was three months making up my mind (a long time for making up such a little parcel), when Kitty Crotch eloped with Lord Buskin. Pretended to be very glad. Took three turns up and down library, and looked in glass. Getting rather fat and florid. Met a friend in Gray's Inn, who said I was evi- dently in 7'wde health. Thought the compliment ruder than the health. 32. Passion for dancing rather on the decline. Voted sitting out play and farce one of the im- possibilities. Still in stage-box three nights per week. Sympathised with the public in vexation occasioned by non-attendance the other three : can't please everybody. Began to wonder at the pleasure of kicking one's heels on a chalked floor till four in the morning. Sold bay mare, who reared at three carriages, and shook me out of the saddle. Thought saddle-making rather worse than formerly. Hair growing thin. Bought a bottle of Tricosian fluid. Mem. — "a flattering unction." 33. Hair thinner. Serious thoughts of a wig. Met Colonel Buckhorse, who wears one. Devil in a bush. Serious thoughts of letting it alone. Met a fellow Etonian in the Green Park who told me I wore well : wondered what he could mean. Gave up cricket-club, on account of the bad air about Paddington : could not run in it without being out of breath. 34. Measured for a new coat. Tailor proposed fresh measure, hinting something about bulk. Old measure too short : parchment shrinks. Shortened my morning ride to Hampstead and Highgate, and wondered what people could see at Hendon. Determined not to marry : means expensive, end dubious. Counted eighteen bald heads in the pit at the Opera. So much the better ; the more the merrier. 35. Tried on an old greatcoat, and found it an old little one ; cloth shrinks as weU as parchment. Red face in putting on shoes. Bought a shoe- horn. Remember cjuizzing my uncle George for using one : then young and foolish. Hunting- belts for gentlemen hung up in glover's windows. Longed to buy one, but two women in shop cheapening mittens. Three grey hairs in left eyebrow. 36. Several grey hairs in whiskers : all owing- to carelessness in manufactory of shaving soap. Remember thinking my father an old man at thirty-si-x. Settled the point ! Men grew old sooner in former days. Laid the blame upon flapped waistcoats and tie-wigs. Skated on the Serpentine. Gout. Very foolish exercise, only fit for boys. Gave skates to Charles' eldest son. 37. Fell in love again. Rather pleased to find myself not too old for the passion. Emma only nineteen. What then 1 Women require protectors ; day settled ; very frightened ; too late to get off. Luckily jilted. Emma married George Parker one day before me. Again determined never to marry. Turned off old tailor, and took to new one in Bond Street. Some of those fellows make a man look ten years younger. Not that that was the reason. 38. Stuck rather more to dinner parties. Gave up country-dancing. Money-musk certainly more fatiguing than formerly. Fiddlers play it too quick. Quadrilles stealing hither over the Channel. Thought of adding to number of grave gentlemen who learn to dance. Dick Dapper dubbed me one of the ovCT'-growns. Very impertinent and utterly untrue. 39. Quadrilles rising. Wondered sober mis- tresses of families would allow their carpets to be beat after that fashion. Dinner-parties increasing. Found myself gradually Tontineinr/ it towards top of table. Dreaded Ultima Thide of hostess's elbow. Good places for cutting turkeys ; bad for cutting- jokes. Wondered why I was always desired to walk up. Met two school-fellows at Pimlico; both fat and red-faced. Used to say at school that they were both of my age ; what lies boys tell ! 40. Look back ten years. Remember at thirty thinking forty a middle-aged man. Must have meant fifty. Fifty certainly the age of wisdom. Determined to be wise in ten years. Wished to- learn music and Italian. Tried Logier. 'Twould not d(\ No defect of capacity, but those things, should be learned in childhood. BEIARY VILLAS. 103 41. New furnished chambers. Looked in new glass : one chin too much. Looked in other new glass ; chin still double. Art of glass-making on the decline. Sold my horse, and wondered people could find any pleasure in being bumped. What were legs made for 1 42. Gout again : that disease certainly attacks young people more than formerly. Caught myself at a rubber of whist, and blushed. Tried my hand at original composition, and found a hanker- ing after epigram and satire. Wondered I could ever write love-sonnets. Imitated Horace's ode ■" Ne sit ancilla." Did not mean anything serious, though Susan certainly civil and attentive. 43. Bought a hunting-belt. Braced myself up till ready to burst. Intestines not to be trifled with : threw it aside. Young men now-a-days much too small in the waist. Read in Morning Fost an advertisement " Pills to prevent Cor- pulency : " bought a box. Never the slimmer, though much the sicker. 44. Met Fanny Stapleton, now Mrs. Meadows, at Bullock's Museum. Twenty-five years ago wanted to marry her. What an escape ! Women certainly age much sooner than men. Charles' eldest boy began to think himself a man. Starched ■cravat and a cane. What presumption ! At his age I was a child. 45. A few wrinkles about the eyes, commonly called crow's feet. Must have caught cold. Began to talk politics, and shirk the drawing- room. Eulogised Garrick ; saw nothing in Kean. Talked of Lord North. Wondered at the licentious- ness of the modern press. Why can't people be civil, like Junius and John Wilkes, in the good old times 1 46. Rather on the decline, but still handsome, and interesting. Growing dislike to the company of young men : all of them talk too much or too little. Began to call chambermaids at inns " My dear." Listened to a howl from Capt. Querulous about family expenses, price of bread and butcher's meat. Did not care a jot if bread was a shilling a roll, and butcher's meat fifty pounds a calf. Hugged myself in "single blessedness." 47. Top of head quite bald. Pleaded Lord Grey in justification. Shook it, on reflecting that I was but three years removed from the "Age of Wis- dom." Teeth sound, but not so white as hereto- fore. Something the matter with the dentifrice. Began to be cautious in chronology. Bad thing to remember too far back. Had serious thoughts of not remembering Miss Farren. 48. Quite settled not to remember Miss Farren. Told Laura WiUis that Palmer, who died when I was nineteen, certainly did not look forty- eight. 49. Resolved never to marry for anything but money or rank. 50. Age of vrisdom. Married my cook. BEIAEY VILLAS. .'M number one : Vidler is number two, Briaiy Villas, Pimliville. Nice houses, both of them, and I wish the builder was barred in one, and the house-agent in the other, for say seven, fourteen, or twenty-one years, as they have it in the lease. Lease. Yes, by the way, I'll sell tiie lease of number one to anybody. No, I will not ; I'll give it, and a ten-pound note, to any one to-morrow who will take the place ofi' my hands. It was Binny's doing — Binny is my wife Berenice — she took a fancy to the little squatty X)laces, because she said they were so low, and easy to escape from in case of fire, which is true, for you could get out of the top bedroom window on to the bay, and jump down without hurting anything but the shrubs. Vidler was not there then, or before I would have signed that lease I'd have emigrated any- where. But Vidler came and took next door at the end of a week, and we became neighbours. Now, I am not a violent man, and I never make use of bad language, but I must say something when I mention Vidler's name, if it's only " boil Vidler." It eases my mind, and my niincl needs easing, for of all the insults and annoyances that man has heaped upon poor little Binny and myself, nothing approaching the total could be imagined. We were just settling down when he arrived, and the very first night his servant came and knocked at our door with " master's compliments, and he had left his last house on account of the organs, and would we leave ofi' playing the py banner and whistle." "Silver threads amongst the gold," set for fiute and piano in E flat with variations ; and we were only just practising it so as to be ready when we had our housewarming the next week. That was a sample, for every day there was something the nasty little fat, round, bald-headed old bachelor or his pea-like sister who kept his house had to complain about. One might have borne that alone, but there were the troubles of the house as well, for there was always something wrong ; the bell-wire at the 104 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. gate broke; the pipe in the scullery burst; the ball-cock in the cistern — there, I believe that ball- cock was a kind of demoniacal water-kelpie of a glutinous nature ! — would stick, and the waste- pipe was not big enough to carry off the water, or else was stopped up, and the consequence was that we had four times over a kind of fancy salmon ladder on the staircase with no salmon to go up to the gratification of Frank Buckland or Henry Lee, only your humble servant to put up his umbrella afterwards and cHmb up the steps and set the ball- cock free. The last time I did that I was in such a rage that I wrung the ball-cock off, and then had to send for the plumber, for the water came faster than ever, and I could not stop it with a i " Come in — no, stop a moment, I'U come," said Binny, as there was a knock at the bedroom door, and unclosing it, she found " our Emma " there, our parlour-and-house-maid. Cook always calls- her " our Emma," to distinguish her, I sup- pose, from the next-door servant, whose name is Jane. " Well, Emma ? " said my wife. " Oh, if you please, mum, wiU you come down^ please ? " " Is anything the matter, Emma 1 " " No, mum, there's nothink the matter, but I made up a good tire as you told me, in the dining- room, and it vnll keep on a-roaring so." " Why, you've set the chimney on fire ! " L shouted, banging down the brushes. ^~^ . f (J^^ 'POUHED IT DOWN THE SMOKING CHIMNEY," cork. But the plumber did not come till two hours after the water had been turned off at the main. That, too, is only a sample of the troubles we had at Briary Villas. There was something every day as regular as clockwork, till at last the troubles culminated one cold Februaiy evening, when I had returned from town ; and that trouble cost me fifty pounds, and made Vidler my sworn enemy for Ufe. I was just having a comfortable wash and enjoying the smeU of the dinner being dished up in the kitchen, while Binny was sitting by the toilet-table looking at the purchase I had made. All was rosy, when suddenly I sniffed. Then Binny sniffed. Then we both sniffed together. " What a smell of soot ! " I exclaimed. " Its that odious old Vidler's chimney smoking," said Binny. " Oh, Charley, do let's move ; they are such disagreeable people. The old woman actually made faces at m.e to-day as I sat by the window." " WeU, sir, that's what cook sez ; but I don't think it is." I ran down-stairs in my dressing-gown, to find that not only was the fire roaring away, but great pats of burning soot were tumbKng down the chimney, and I knew that if something were not quickly done we should be having the fire-engines, and five pounds to pay, if the house itself were not burned to the ground. But Vidler would be burned out as well — and I paused with a. kind of demoniacal joy pervading my breast. But, by nature magnanimous, I drove away the thought, seized the salt-cellars, and emptied them on the fire, and sent " our Emma " to the kitchen for the salt-box, which I emptied on the fire in turn. That seemed no good, so, calling to the maids to bring a couple of pails, I had them fiUed and carried upstairs, climbed the little ladder, opened the trap-door, and got on to the roof, reaching down afterwards and lifting up a pail of water. " It will make a horrible mess," I thought as I BEIARY VILLAS. 105 looked at the smoke pouring up from the long, narrow chimney-stack, which, like everything else belonging to Briary Villas, was squatty. "Yes, a horrible mess," I thought, "but 'our Emma' must clean it aU up. Better a dirty fender," I continued aloud, "than five pounds for a fire-engine." "Joy!" I ejaculated; "there are no sparks now, the salt is working : chlorine gas evolved from chloride of sodium by heat destroys combustion. Behold the finishing stroke." As I spoke I raised the pail of water, and poured it down the smoking chimney, darted back to avoid the steam and suffocating vapours, and, setting down the empty pail, took a full can from Emma, whose head appeared upon the scene. Going to the door then, I opened it cautiously, but only to be driven in and followed by a hideous little object in the shape of Vidler — round, fierce, blackened with soot, drenched with water, and foaming at the mouth. I was not afraid of him, but of the dirt, as he chased me into the dining-room, where, keeping him at bay, with the legs of a chair, I had to hsten, while Binny, cook and " our Emma " huddled together in a corner. " You atrocious scoundrel ! " he panted, from the midst of his strangely blackened face, as he tore with sooty hand at his wet black shirt-front and white kerseymere waistcoat. " You villain ! this is one of your cursed practical jokes ; but I'll have an action — I'll have an action." ■ Keeping him at bay.' "No fire-engines to-night!" I said with a gleef id chuckle ; and as a rumbling gurgling noise came up the chimney, I poured down the second pailful and descended. " Shall you want any more water, sir 1 " said " our Emma," as I reached the foot of the steps. "No, Emma," I repUed, "I think not. How is the dining-room, Binny dear 1 " " It's left off roaring, dear," she replied ; and on going in, to my surprise I found the fire burning brightly, while the roaring noise had ceased, and all was beautiful and clean. " ^Vhy, my dear Binny " I exclaimed ; and then the roaring noise began again; but not in the chimney this time, but at the front door, which somebody seemed determined to batter do-^vn. " I'll go, Emma," I exclaimed, hastily : " it's the engine ; " and I determined to manfully drive back any fireman who tried to force an entrance. " Perhaps, sir, as plaintifi^, you will explain upon what grounds," I said, blandly. " Grounds, sir ! grounds ! you smooth-tongued, insulting blackguard ! Why, sir, ten minutes — five minutes ago, I was standing, as is my custom, reading my paper and warming my back, when an avalanche — a cataract — a dirty abominable Fall of Niagara, sir, came rushing down my chimney, sir, deluging me, my Turkey carpet, my hearthrug, spoiling my fire-irons and fender, and putting out my fire. As soon as I could recover from my astonishment, sir, I thrust my head up the chimney, sir, and roared out to you to cease, when, sir, a- second avalanche came down, and — and — hang it all, sir, just look at me ! " I looked, and lie certainly was a guy. " Now, sir," he roared savagely, " what does this mean 1 " "Mean, sir," I replied — "well, I'm afraid I poured the water down the wrong chimney.'' 106 GjuEAnings from popular authors. HOME AGAIN, [By WiLLiAH Sawyer.] jTuT OME again ! spared the perils of years, "fJij. Spared of rougli seas and roiiglier lands, "■ And I look in your glad eyes briglit with tears, Hear your voices and grasp your hands ! Not changed the least, not a single face Aged a day as it seems to me ! The same dear smiles, and the same dear place — All the same as it used to be ! Ah ! here is the garden ! Here the glint Of the limes in sunset green and gold, And the level lawn with the pattern in't Where the grass has been newly roU'd. And here come the rabbits lumping along. No ! that's never the same white doe With the pinky lops and the munching mouth ; Yet 'tis like her as snow to snow. And here's Nep in his old heraldic style. Erect, chain-tightening all he can, With Topsy wagging that inch of tail, — What, you know me again, old man 1 The pond where the lilies float and sun Their cups ; the gold fish just the same, Too plump to stir in the cool, — yes, one Shoots, and gleams, and goes out like flame ! And still in the meadow, daisy-white, Its whistling flight the arrow wings, And the fallen target's central light Glitters — a planet with its rings ! And yonder's the tree with the giant's face. Sharp nose and chin against the blue, And where the elm -boughs interlace Our famous swing between the two. No change ! nay, it only seems last night I blurted back your fond good-byes, As I heard the rain drip from the eaves And felt its moisture in my eyes. Last night that we throng'd the porch about Each choking words we could not say. And poor little Jim's white face peep'd out, Dimly seen while I stole away. Poor little Jim ! in this hour of glee ■ His wee, white face our hearts recall. And I miss a hand and a voice, and see The little chair beside the wall. So all life's sunsliine is fleck'd and brief, So all delight is touched with pain. So tears of gladness and tears of grief Welcome the wanderer home again ! THE LEADEN WEIGHT. the corner F there had not been another church in Eng- land, we could not have been prouder of ours at Drainton. It r was very old, very ugly, very big, and very dilapidated. Damp ran riot "Within its mouldering walls, so that either the organ pipes ■nould not speak, or else, A\hen once persuaded to utter sound, they would never leave off till the mnd- chest was empty. Mildew ajjpeared in great foul patches all over the plaster, sjjotted the parson's gown, speckled of prayer-book and Bible, and com- pletely spoiled the new purple cushions in the head linendraper's pew. But we were very proud of our church for all that ; and if, through its being badly lit, ventilated — though draughty —and cold as a cellar nine months of the year, half the congregation suffered from rheumatism, why, what then 1 Diseases are antagonistic, and the possession of one keeps oft' others. You see it was the biggest church in a circle of ten miles' radius ; and even if the great family vault of the Bigglesons did— what with marble cushions, reclining figures, slabs, pediment, and iron railings — half fill the chancel, why the more honour and glory to the Bigglesons, who were yet wide awake, and came, two strong, for about one month every year, to sit in the huge mildewed pew — large enough to have held twenty, but held sacred to vacuity for the other eleven months. If you feel disposed to say anything spiteful, you need not ; for that vault and that empty pew THE LEADEN WEIGHT. 107 were institutions our way, and there was always plenty of room in Drainton Church. And, besides, we were very proud of the Bigglesons, about whose wealth I could tell you a great deal, only I want to get on to something else. Some people — not Drainton folk, of course — used to say that if you kicked one man you kicked the whole town, which was a gross exaggeration ; for though many of them, even of the same name, wouldn't own it, the extent to which relationship ran was rather startling — for they liad gone on, in an exclusive fashion, intermarrying for hundreds of years, till the Hodgebys, the Muggsons, and tlie Smiths were all cousins of some degree or another. But, as I said before, you could not expect Thomas Hodgeby, the great draper and churchwarden, to own Tipsy Tom — our " Saxon," as he was called — for a cousin, any more than the Eev. Samuel Smith, the rector, could be supposed to know ex-officio Hephzibah Smith, the pew-opener, and treat her as a relative. There happened to be, once upon a time, a great deal of unpleasantry in connection with our church — something more than unpleasantry, for it was sacrilege. Things disappeared out of the place in a most unaccountable way ; and though people winked, and nodded, and shook their heads at one another, as much as to say, " I know," nothing in the shape of a prosecution followed. Prayer-books, church services, Bibles — so sure as they possessed a good binding, and happened to be left in their owners' pew — were certain to be gone before the next Sunday. In fact, a much- prized volume belonging to the writer was left by him one morning after service, but the omission was remembered on reaching home ; so, hurrying back he was just in time to reach the church as the doors were being locked by Tom Hodgeby, the " Saxon." " You — you've come after your big prayer-book," he exclaimed. " I — I saw it and brought it away ; for you — you know there's such big thieves about, sir, I can't even keep a spade or maddick for them." Shortly after, it was discovered by the town upholsterer, upon his receiving orders to re-cover the cushions in the Bigglesons' pew, that the horsehair stuffing had been entirely removed, and its place filled with hay. This prompted further examinations, and outcries of a similar nature were heard from other pews — Tom holding up his hands, and declaring it to be " the vsnist " scandal he ever heard of. A month after, several hassocks were missing, which were afterwards found in possession of the various shoemakers and cobblers of the place, making them excellent v^orking seats, purchased from the annexer at prices varying from a pint of beer to two pots, according to quality. Then not ' a grave could be dug for want of tools : Tom going I to churchwarden and vicar, with tears in his eyes, to tell of his losses — spade after spade, mattock after mattock, disappearing in the most mysterious way from the bone-house ; when, as a matter of course, new ones had to be supplied. People winked and nodded, and shook their heads again, saying at divers times that it was a fine thing to have a relative the vicar's church- warden, even if he would not recognise you in public ; and that if the matter lay in some hands the thief would soon have been punished. And it really was strange that Tommy always had a spare spade or mattock that he could sell to a labouring friend, and that his old wife should have a horsehair mattress that was the envy of all ^ her neighbours. People even went so far as to say that Tommy was a sad rogue ; but then he was a servant of the church, a fact which spread such a cloak of respectability around Tommy's ' shoulders, that people who said he was a rogue always made the assertion in a whisper. Some even went so far as to say that the communion plate would go next. But that was not likely, as ^ it was always kept at the churchwarden's house, and cleaned up once a month, with coarse, gritty whiting before it was brought to the church, to be always taken carefully back directly after use. The whispers and murmurs, though, at last began to grow louder ; for one Bob Wilkins, the ringer of the tenor in the peal, who was the only man who cared for the job of climbing up to the top of the tower — a hundred and twenty feet above the churchyard — to oil the weathercock — a cock,, indeed, which obstinately persisted in pointing the windy quarter with its arched plumaged tail — Bob Wilkins, who had been up one day, after complaints had been made about the crowing, or rather groaning, of the said cock, came down to say that some one had stripped the whole of the lead off the top of the tower, and that one great strip had also been taken off the roof. " Oh! this won't do," said one. " This must be put a stop to," said another. And the public of Drainton having now thoroughly taken the alarm, an extemporised meeting was held, with closed doors, at Bink the barber's, where it was unanimously declared that Tommy Hodgeby, our " Saxon," was the culprit, and that he had stolen the lead, melted it down, and drunk it — of course after a chemical process by which it became beer and gin. His position and relationship to the great churchwarden were not to act as screens ; and a deputation having been formed, it was arranged that they should next morning wait upon the vicar. Some were of opinion that they might go at once ; but " Do nothing rashly " was taken to be a most valuable maxim. So, after determining to 108 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. meet at nine the next day, inspect the damage, and then go to the vicarage, the gentlemen who had formed the meeting separated. It was not more than half -past nine — or say, a quarter to ten — the next morning, when the depu- tation proceeded in a body to the church, after obtaining the warden's keys ; when, after a great deal of puffing, they ascended the corkscrew stair- case, gazed upon the demolished tower top, which was quite denuded, and then descended to the little door which opened upon the roof of the body of the church, where it was plain enough to .see that three goodly strips had been cut, rolled up, and taken away. Some debated, some measured the extent of the damage, and some calculated the value of the lead ; after which the party walked to the vicarage, the matter was talked over, and at last, in com- pany with the parish constable, a shoemaker, who rose from a very suspicious-looking hassock, the whole party proceeded to our " Saxon's " residence, to be answered by the information that Tommy was not at home. " That meeting of ours yesterday frightened him," said one of the deputation. "He's gone, gentlemen, and we shall never see him any more, depend upon it." " Gently, my dear sir, gently," said the vicar. " We must not condemn the man unheard ; and, indeed, I sincerely hope that yoii are mistaken." The former speaker screwed up his mouth, and shook his head ; and as there seemed to be nothing more to do, the matter was left in the hands of the constable. The party separated, and the matter remained as it was, in spite of the heavy rain which soaked through, and made another great patch upon the church ceiling. Dozens of people went up the corkscrew staircase to see the damage ; and then, probably from a sense of humour, some wag or another would hang back to sound one of the beUs, while his companions were passing through the chamber, to their deafening and to the rousing of the indignation of church- warden Hodgeby, who, at the seventh offence, sent and insisted upon the tower door being locked, and carried the great key in his coat pocket for the rest of the day. There were no more visits paid by the curious, for the warden was stern, and the other key was always carried by the absent Tommy ; and as he did not turn up either on Saturday, the lead lay less heavy on people's minds, save and ex- cepting that of the plumber, painter, and glazier, who set to and prepared an estimate for the repair of the damages, and heartily wished Tommy had taken off another strip or two while he was about it. Sunday came, and the bells were rung " no how," as people said ; for Tommy was not there to superintend them, and the jobbing gardener, who hoped to succeed to the vacancy, excused his first attempt at bell-ringing on the plea that he didn't understand music. They did not make such a very great muddle, only that they would keep ringing imtil the vicar had been fully five minutes in the desk, and had had to send a message twice for them to be stojjped. Silence, though, at last, and the first sentence was being read, when as the vicar came to " wickedness he hath committed," there was a deep groan, apparently proceeding from the chancel, followed in a few moments by a feeble cry as for help. Heads were turned ; one whispered to another to ask who was ill, and then the vicar commenced again ; but only to be interrupted by another faint cry, when people began to leave their pews and to cluster round the railings of the great vault in the chancel, the slab at the back of which was found to be open ; and now, unmistakably, a groan rose from below. " What does this mean ■? " exclaimed the church- warden, in a loud whisper. " Mrs. Smith, do you know anything about it? " " No, sir, please. I only got into the church this morning, for you had the key with you when you went out yes'day, sir ; and Tommy, sir, he carry the other key, so that I couldn't dust." The mystery was not impenetrable ; for, after a little hesitation, a couple of the tradesmen climbed the rails, through not perceiving that the gate would open, and, a light being procured from the vestry. Tommy was found lying at the bottom of the vault steps, with his thigh-bone broken, and a heavy roU of lead lying right across him — two more rough rolls being hard by, in one of the niches left vacant for the coffin of a Biggleson to come. It was plain enough that this had been turned by Tommy into a storehouse for his plunder, and in heaving down a heavy roll he had slipped, to lie there in helpless agony until found as described. The church roof did not take long repairing, but it was otherwise with poor old Tommy's leg, which never supported him properly again during the five years after that he limped about the town — Tipsy Tommy to the day of his death, though he rarely now, for reasons allied to the pocket, ex- ceeded the bounds of propriety. Vicar, church- warden, all, were very lenient with, him, on account of his punishment partly, and because we were used to do things in a very easy-going, ponderous way in Drainton. Tommy was even allowed to remain " Saxon," performing his work by deputy, and sharing the proceeds ; but at last when the big tenor, which Tommy had so often tolled for others, tolled for him in his turn, the gardener's hand was at the rope. BROKEN HEARTS. 109 BROKEN HEARTS, [From "EoDin Gray." By Chakles Gibbon.) ■HE guidman of Cairnieford was up to early on tlie dark December morning which succeeded the night of James Falcon's return. He was bound for a distant market, where he proposed to buy a lot of sheep, and expected to get a bar- -eain. The "uid ' i I' ' i 1 1 . ' 1 ■ 1 fast, fastened since she had been married ; and she looked now a sonsy, good-tempered, and happy wife. She was about to return to the house when she heard some of the hens cackling proudly in the little thicket of firs and beeches at the back of the steading ; and like a thrifty farmer's wife she started immediately in search of the eggs, which He snatched the hands between his own, and kissed them frenziedlt" (p. 111). liis plaid across his shoulders, and gave him iindly counsel to be careful of the road coming home, if it happened to be dark before he started. Robin promised obedience, though he declared at the same time he had ridden the road " hunners o' times in a' kinds o' weathers and never met in wi' onything waur nor himsel'." Jeanie watched him ride away in the hazy .morning Hght, and disappear at the end of the by- road. Her cheeks had recovered some of their former bloom, and her form much of its plumpness were prized all the more because of their scarcity at this season. She entered the thicket and began her search at a pile of fir branches which had been hewn down for winter firewood, and the numerous recesses in which presented favourable-looking hiding-places for wily hens to deposit their eggs. Jeanie heard the crisp earth and the dead frosted bits of branches which were thickly strewn about crackling under the footsteps of somebody ap- proaching. As she passed round the high pile of 110 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. firewood, bending low to examine the nooks, she noticed a man coming towards her. She thought from the cursory glimpse she had obtained that he was one of the men belonging to the place, and continued her inspection unheeding. She passed round the pile of wood slowly to the side from which she had observed the man, and there he stood before her. Pale, haggard, with touzled hair, ruffled clothes, and a general appearance of wild disorder, the man stood watching her. She gazed at him a moment, and then she flung up her hands with a shriek that echoed throughout the thicket and sank moaning to the ground. He lifted her up. She was not unconscious, and she shuddered at his touch. He seemed sensible of her repulsion, and he placed her on a heap of the fir branches, drawing back a pace to look at her. She covered her eyes with her hands, as if to hide him from her sight. " Jeanie, I hae come back," he said presently in a hard cold tone. She made no answer, but she rocked her body to and fro, sobbing wildly. He spoke again slowly. "I hae come back, Jeanie, to find that ye shudder at my touch — that ye canna bear to look me in the face. And yet it was you that no so very lang syne clasped your arms around my neck, and told me that I might leave you without fear of change, for that you would bide my coming faith- fully. Hae ye kept your word 1 " He bent close to her, hissing the question in her ear. She seemed to writhe under his reproach, and still with her hands on her eyes she swayed to and fro, moaning. " They tauld me ye were drooned," she cried in anguish. " They tauld me ye were drooned, and oh my heart was sair to think it. But ye made nae sign that ye were living, and a' body spoke as though there was nee doot — as though there could be nane. There wasna ane to whisper a breath o' hope, and what could I do — what could I do but believe when the proof was so strong 1 " "Ye could hae waited a wee for confirmation o' the news. Oh, woman, I would hae waited a hundred years before I would hae cast you so utterly from my breast as to take another in my arms." "And I would hae waited for ever, had I been my lane. But they pressed me sair on a' hands. I was wae, wae, and heart-broken ; I didna care what cam' o' me ; but I tliocht it was a sin to turn awa' frae the wark that was set fornenst me ; and I thocht that you, looking at me frae the ither world, would ken what feelings moved me, and would say I had done weel. That was why I married, though my heart was wi' you." The violence of her distress, the sad sincerity of her voice, exerted a powerful influence upon him. He seemed to waken suddenly from a fever, in which all things had been distorted in his mind, to the conscioiisness that she had been true to him in heart — that she had loved him — that she still loved him. He dropped down beside her, and threw liis arms round her. " Jeanie, Jeanie ! " he cried, passionately, " ye are mine yet, ye shall be mine in spite o' a' the marriages on earth. What power — what richt has a minister's prayer to part our lives — to fill the years that are before us wi' lingering misery ? It shall hae none. Ye are mine, Jeanie, my ain, and nobody else has a richt to claim you. Rise up then, and come awa' from this place, and in another country we'll find a home and happiness." With a stifled cry of horror she wrenched her- self from his arms, and sprang to her feet. Her hands were withdrawn from her eyes now, and she regarded him with wild alarm, whilst her cheeks- which a moment before had been pallid and cold, became crimson. " Awa', man, awa' ! " she exclaimed with look and voice of horror ; " that's no Jeames Falcon wha has risen from the dead — for he would hae pitied me and tried to strengthen me for the cruel duty I maim do. It's the evil ane himsel' in my puir lad's body that's come to tempt me to my shame." He bowed his head before her indignation, and for the moment could not meet her gaze. " Lord help me. Lord help me," he groaned ; " I believe I'm crazed. Ye are richt, it was a mad thought — a villainous thought. I'll try to ,put it away from me. I shall put it away ; only give me a little while to master myself. Last nicht I came back, and last nicht I learned you were married. My head's been in a creel ever since, and I scarcely ken what I do, or say, or think." " Oh, why did you no come liame sooner — why did ye send nae word that ye were livin' 1 " " I couldna win hame, but I sent a letter, and that ye never got, I suppose." "Never, or I wouldna hae been here the day." He pressed his head tightly between his hands, as if by that means to subdue its violent throb- bing, and so obtain a calmer view of the position. "Ay, ay, it's been a' bad luck that has come between us and parted us for ever," he went on, hoarsely and hopelessly ; " but I'm no the villain you might think me from what I hae said. I didna come here thinking o' that. I came just to speak wi' you once again — to look at ye — and gang awa'." Her indignation and her fear of him had quite disappeared now. Above the storm of different emotions which was raging in her breast, pity for him rose strongest of all. She approached him, BROKEN HEARTS. Ill him slowly, and placed her hands on his head soothingly. He snatched the hands between his own, and kissed them frenziedly. " Dinna do that," she sobbed, trembling as with intense cold. " Ah, dinna do that, for it frichtens me, and minds me o' what you were saying enoo. I canna thole to think o' that, because it would make the sorrow I hae to bear a' the sairer if I had to think o' ye as ane that would do a wrang ^ct." "iSTo man shall ever say I wranged him," said Falcon, proudly, and releasing her hands. " I believe that. I'll never doubt it again. Ye're speaking like yoursel' noo, and it comforts me to hear ye. But, Jeamie, we may do wrang in thocht to oursel's and others, and there's only ae way that we can ever hope to win peace o' mind by." " And that way 1 " " Is to part noo, and never — never meet again in this world." Her hands were clasped. She gazed appealingly at him, but he did not raise his head or speak for a long time. When he did look up, his face was white and his lips were quivering. " Ay, that's a' we can do now. It's cowardly to sob and greet like a ween when the road lies before me, dreary though it be." "Ye'll forget a' this, and I'll pray day and nicht that Heaven will send ye happy days." "I'll no forget, but maybe I may obtain dis- traction in hard work and new scenes. Folk say ■that time cures a' Uls, and I could maist believe that, seeing that you looked so content before you saw me " (bitterly). " Jeamie, let me tell ye a' that's passed since ye ^aed awa," she said, quietly, although smarting Tinder the sting of his reproach ; " and when ye hae heard ye'll be better able to judge how far I am to blame for what pain ye are suffering." She told him everything simply as it occurred, and he listened in moody silence. But when she had finished he rose to his feet. " Thank you, Jeanie," he said, in a calmer tone than he had yet spoken; "what you hae said proves to me that nae blame can rest on you. I would hae thought that anyway if I had only had time to think the matter fairly out. But there's one to whose villain's work you and I both owe what iU has happened us, and I'll bring him to the gallows for't." " Wha do ye mean ? " " Ivan Carrach, who was skipper o' the Colin." And he briefly explained to her how the brig had been burned, how he had escaped, and what had been the cause of his long absence. " I'll no -trouble yon again, Jeanie," he said in conchision ; " this is the last time I'll ever look on your dear face. Dinna shrink frae me or fear me because I call it dear. My anger and my frenzy are by now, and I'm calm. But your face will aye be dear to me although I may never look on it again. I'll never come back here : as soon as I hae got hand o' Carrach, I'll leave the country, and ye can think o' me as though I had been dead and had never come here to disturb the peace o' your hame wi' memories o' days that were very pleasant to us." His voice quivered as he spoke, and burning tears started to his eyes. She allowed him to clasp her hands now without hesitation, and her haK- stiiled sobs declared how violently her heart was agitated since the moment of parting had arrived. It was a sad parting, for it was lightened by no gleam of hope : it was like the parting which death makes. They had spoken much, but they had thought and felt far more than their words indi- cated during the little time they had been together. The bitter experience of a life was concentrated in that brief space, and the issue was a noble one. The suppressed love she had borne the man had been suddenly roused into new existence, and had fought hard with her sense of wifely duty and gratitude to the absent husband. The contest had closed in the stern recognition of the true path before her ; and whatever agony it might cost her she was ready to tear from her breast the love that had once been her happiness, but was now a sin. He had passed through the frenzy of his shat- tered hopes, the storm of angry passions, and had reached the light wherein he saw how much he had wronged her by his thoughts of the past night, and how much he owed her now. It seemed to him as if he heard the voice of his dead love loudly bidding him depart from her and leave her to what peace she might obtain from the know- ledge that he was never to cross her path any more. Yet they lingered with a fatal fascination over the love they were burying in this separation. Their hearts might ache and yearn ; but they were never again to find voice for the pain or hope, never again to reach the light of lovers' sympathy. " It maun be, it maun be," she cried at last ; " a' that I am suffering the noo, a' the weary pain that's tugging at my heart in the thocht o' parting wi' ye but tells me the stronger that we maun never meet on this earth mair. Oh I lo'ed ye, Jeamie, very dearly. I lo'e ye yet — the Lord aboon forgive me — but I am Robin Gray's wife, and I maun be faithful to him wha's been guid and true to me. Help me, help me, Jeamie, and gang awa'." " God keep ye, Jeanie," he gasped, with un- utterable misery and compassion choking his voice. " I see noo that I haena the warst to bear. 112 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. I wish, in my soul that I had never come hams again, or that we had never loved as we hae done. God keep ye, and bless ye, and gie ye strength, for we hae little in oursel's. But ye shall never be troubled wi' the sicht o' me again, and if I could I would bury my very name in the bottomless pit that ye might never mair be startled even by the sound o't. A' that man can do to help ye to be a true wife I'll do for the sake o' the love I bear ye. I canna say ony mair." With an uncontrollable impulse he folded his arms round her and kissed her passionately, whilst scalding tears were on their faces. "Gae'wa, gae'wa," she cried, wildly, tearing herseK from his arms ; " and Heaven guide ye tO' happiness, if there be ony in this warld." She turned from him, blind with anguish, and tottered away toward the house. He stood dumbly gazing after her ; and as she disappeared round the corner of a shed, without having dared to look back once, his whole heart seemed to burst in one great sob. " God bless ye, Jeanie," he faltered, and the words yearningly followed her. He gazed vacantly for a long time at the place where he had caught the last glimpse of her re- treating form, and then, with a dull, hopeless face, he turned slowly away. NIAGARA IN WINTEE. [By George Augustus Sala.] was just the grey of the winter's day when our French-Canadian valet entered my state-room. "No boots to-day," 1 said, " I will wear moccasins." "It vas not de boots," he made answer ; " you are dere." "Where?" I asked, sleepily and querulously. "At Niagara, sare." I sprang from my cot, and made a toilette so svrift that the circus-rider who becomes in the space of five minutes a belted knight, a kilted Highlander, a buy-a-brooni girl, General Washington, and William in " Black-eyed Susan," all the while careering madly on one bare-backed steed, might have envied my celerity. I was at Niagara. Where were the Falls 1 About a mile and a half distant. I was enabled to secure a little ramshackle " one- horse shay " of a curricle, with a horse not much bigger than an Exmoor pony, and such a very tall and stout Irishman for a driver, that I expected every moment, with my superabundant weight, that the springs would break, and the entire con- cern go to irremediable "pi." The Irish driver was jocular and loquacious, but appeared .some- what disgusted with the world in general, and Niagara in particular. To every remark he made he added the observation that it was " a divil of a place." I asked if there were any tourists here just now. " Begorra, there's nobody," he re- plied. I asked which was the best hotel. " Be- gorra, there's none," he responded ; " they're all shut up. It's a divil of a place." I was somewhat disconsolate at the receipt of this information, so I asked him if he knew where we could get some breakfa.st. " Divil a bit of breakfast is there for love or money. It's a divil of a place ; " but he added, with a glance of that sly humour for which his countrymen are unrivalled, " the Falls are in illigant condition, and you may see them all the year round for nothing." He was driving me along the brink of a steep and abrupt precipice — a mere ledge of read like the commencement of the Cornice at Genoa. On the near side arose, not mormtains, but rows of naked larch and stunted pollard. Beyond them were the ice-bound fields, with here and there clumps of the black funereal pine, standing like mutes at the door of one who had died in mid- winter. The snow was all around in lumps and nuggets — in festoons, as though old Father Christmas had hung his trees with bundles of store-canliles — in great sheets, deep and compact, with the thin layer of last night's frosty glaze upon them. The sky looked thick and soft — a very -blanket-covering of snow that was to fall soon and envelop us. The stark saplings came up rigid and spiky through the ghastly mantle, like the beard from the cheek of a dead man. There was an evil wind blowing about a few leaves, so brown and withered that they must have belonged to the autumn before last. The declivity of the precipice looked horrilile, and hundreds of feet down, so it seemed, rushed along a black, swollen, and sullen river. The road made a slight curve. "Begorra, there they are!" cried the driver, pointing with his whip. I strained my eyes, looked down, and saw, so close upon me that I thought I could have leaped into their midst, but they were at least a mile dis- tant — the Falls of Niagara, How it was that the ramshackle shay, the little horse, and the big driver utterly vanished from my view and remembrance, I shall probably never be able to realise. I suppose I must have got out of the chaise somehow, and given the man a dollar ; but how it all came about I have not the dimmest NIAGARA. IN WINTER. 113 TecoUection. I found myself standing on the very •edge of the precipice, straining with a dull stare of absorption at the two Falls — the American and the Horseshoe — which were within my view. I saw •over against me the Niagara river running between .-steep and precipitous banks, very much resembling those of Clifton Heights in England ; and over the bank opposite to me there was rushing with American Fall, with much more foam at the bottom, and casting up not a cloud, but a column of spray — a column like a water-spout — like Lot's wife — like the Pillar that went before the Israelites by day and night — and rising many scores of feet above the level of the cataract. This was the great Fall, the Canadian Fall, the Horseshoe Fall. This forms the half-circle from Goat Island to the Niagara in Winter : a Tree crushed by Frozen Spkat. almost mathematical exactitude an enormous stream of water. At the base a great cloud of foam and spray arose. This was the American FaU. Then the bank stretched away, and I coidd see some large and small houses, and an island thickly wooded, at whose head was a lighthouse- looking tower, approached by a causeway. This was Goat Island and Terrapin Tower. Then the lower bed of the river became a ad de sac, a blind alley, its finial being curved in a great wall of rock, and over this was precipitated from the upper bed a much more enormous stream of water, its edges raggeder than those of the Canadian side of the river. Three parts of it belong incontestably to Great Britain, and it can only be seen to advantage from the British side ; but our cousins are very angry that it should be called the Canadian Fall, and claim more than half of it as their own. These then were the famous Falls I had come so far to see ; — 144 rods wide, 1.58 feet high, 1,500 millions of cubic feet of water tumbling over a wall of rock every minute, a column of spray 200 — some say 300 — feet in altitude . Well, I confess that as I stood staring, there came over me a sensation of bitter disappointment. And was thia 114 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. aU? You who have seen the field of Waterloo, who have seen the Pyramids, who have seen St. Peter'o, bear with me. Was this all ? There was a great deal of water, a great deal of foam, a great deal of spray, and a thundering noise. This loas all, abating the snow where I stood and the black river beneath. These were the Falls of Niagara. They looked comparatively small, and the tvater looked dingy. Where was the grand eifect — the light and shade 1 There was, it is true, a considerable amount of effervescence ; but the foaminess of the Falls, together with the tinge of tawny yellow in the troubled waters, only reminded me of so much unattainable soda and sherry, and made me feel thirstier than ever. I found a wretched little place open, half tavern and half Indian curiosity shop, but on the roof it . had a belvedere. 1 was permitted to ascend this, and a civil negro serving man volunteered to ac- company me. There was a good view from the belvedere, and 1 remained staring at the Falls for another half -hour, the negro remaining silent by my side. I asked him, almost mechanically, whether the water was continually rushing over at that rate. I had spoken like a fool, and he answered me according to my folly. " I 'spect, massa," he said, "they goes on for ebber and ebber." Re- marks as absurd and incongruous as mine, have become historical among the ana of Niagara. A : Swiss watchmaker observed that he was very glad :"de beautiful ting was going." He looked upon ■ it as some kind of clockwork arrangement, which would run down and be wound up again. Every- body knows the story of the 'cute Yankee who called it "an almighty water privilege." It is one, and would turn all the mill-wheels in the world. Being on the American side, we crossed a smaller suspension bridge to Goat Island. We wandered around its half-snowed-up lanes, and then, so slippery was the ice, crawled on our hands and knees along a stone causeway to Terrapin Tower, and from its summit looked upon the Falls. Then we went to see the Rapids by the Cataract House, which appeared to me a mass of intolerable suds, and put me in mind of nothing half so much as a gigantic washing-day. There was no colour, no light and shade : nothing but water and foam, water and spray, water and noise. And every- thing dingy. We were lowered down an inclined plane in a species of horse-box on the American side, and there found a ferry-boat to convey us across the Niagara river to Canada. From the river there was a much better view of both Falls. They looked considerably taller, but they were still dingy. The boatman was a most savage-looking person ; cursed us when we paid him in paper instead of silver, and I thought when we landed that he would have dismissed us with a clout of his oar, as Charon does in Gustave Doric's picture" of the souls crossing the Styx, in the "Inferno." Then we scrambled over stones, rimy with ice, and slipped down glassy declivities, a la Montagtie Russe, and creeping close to the base of the fall, right under the lee of Table Rock, peeped at the masses of frozen spray and great blocks and boulders of ice piled one atop of another — a cold eruption of the Glacial Pariod. We thus wandered about, talking very little, until early in the afternoon, when my friend sug- gested lunch. We had ascended to the river bank on the Canada side by this time, and in the high- way, close to Table Rock, found, to our great joy, that Mr. Sol Davis's well-known establishment, was open. Mr. Sol Davis sells Indian curiosities, and Lowther Arcade and Ramsgate Bazaar nick- nacks of every description ; and a very stiff pricL' does Mr. Sol Davis charge for those objects of vertti. Mr. Sol Davis likewise sells cigars, and stereoscopic slides of the Falls ; and Mr. Sol Davis has, to sum up his wealth of accommodation for tourists, a bar in the rear of his premises where exciseable articles are retailed. Mrs. Sol Davis is a very comely and affable matron, with a shar]> eye to business ; and Miss Sol Davis is very beautiful, but haughty. Mr. Sol Davis, junior, the fourth in this worthy quartette, is a character. Said he to me, when he became better acquainted with me : " WhsX might be your business, now 1 'i Wishing to keep within the limits of the truth, and at the same time not to be too communicative, I replied that paper-staining was my business. " Ah ! paper-staining. Do pretty well at it 1 " continued Mr. Sol Davis, junior. I said that I did do pretty well, considering. " Ah ! " pursued my interlocutor, " you should go in for felt hats. My brother-in-law went out to San Francisco, a year and seven months ago, and he's made a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, all out of felt hats. Think of that ! " I did think that, in case the paper-staining business came to grief, I would follow the friendly advice of Mr. Sol Davis, junior, and go in for felt hats. We lunched at Mr. Sol Davis's, in a very cosy little back parlour, and an admirable roast fowl and a capital bottle of Medoc we had. Then my friend took a nap, and then, feeling somewhat reKeved, with a fragrant " planter " from Mr. Sol Davis's private box between my lips, I strolled out to have another view of the Falls. It was now about three o'clock in the afternoon. I stood on the brink of Table Rock and gazed once more on the great, dreary, colourless expanse of water, foam, and spray. And this was Niagara, and there was nothing more. Nothing? With a burst like the sound of a THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 115 trumpet, the sudden Sun came out. God bless him ! there he was ; and there, too, in the midst of the foaming waters, was set the Everlasting- Bow. The rainbow shone out upon the cataract ; the sky turned blue ; the bright clarion had .served to call all Nature to arms ; the very birds that had been flapping dully over the spray throughout the morning began to sing ; and look- ing around me I saw that the whole scene had be- come glorified. There was light and colour every- where. The river ran a stream of liquid gold. The dark hiUs glistened. The boulders of ice sparkled like gems. The snow was all bathed in iris tints — crimson, and yellow, and blue, and green, and orange, and violet. The white houses and belvederes started up against the azure like the mosques and minarets of Stamboul, and, soaring high behind the Bow, was the great pillar of spray, glancing and flashing like an obelisk of diamonds. And it was then I began, as many men have begun, perchance, to wonder at and to love Niagara. NiAaAEi IN Summer. THE SONG OF THE SHIET.* [By Thomas Hood.) ITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, ^ A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 'p Plying her needle and thread — '' Stitch — stitch — stitch ! In poverty, hunger and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the " Song of the Shirt ! " "Work— work — work! , While the cock is crowing aloof ; And work — work — work. Till the stars shine through the roof ! It's O ! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work ! " Work — work — work Till the brain begins to swim ; Work — work — work Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! Seam, and gusset, and band,^ Band, and gusset, and seam. Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on i7i a dream ! '' ! men with Sisters dear ! O ! men with Mothers and Wives ! It is not linen you're wearing out. But human creatures' lives ! Stitch — stitch — stitch. In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread A Shroud as well as a Shirt. " But why do I talk of Death ? That phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape. It seems so like my own — It seems so hke my own. Because of the fasts I keep. Oh ! God ! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap I * By permission of Messrs. "Word, I.ocTi, and Co. 116 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " Work — work — work ! My labour never flags ; And what are its wages'? A bed of straw, A crust of bread — and rags. That shattered roof, — and this naked floor,— A table, — a broken chair, — And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there. " Work — work — work ! From weary chime to chime, Work — work — work — As prisoners work for crime ! " Oh ! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — ■ With the sky above my head. And the grass beneath my feet, For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal ! " Oh ! but for one short hour ! A respite, however brief ! No blessed leisure for Love or Hopeij But only time for Grief ! "Work— WOKE -WOKE ! ' Band, and gusset, and seam. Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. " Work — work — work. In the dull December light, And work — work — work, AVhen the weather is warm and bright- While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the Spring. A little weeping would ease my hearty. But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread ! " With fingers weary and worn. With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch — stitch — stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — Would that its tone could reach the rich t She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " AT MRS. JELLYBY'S. 117 AT MES. JELLYBY'S* [From " Bleak House." By Charles Dickens.] ^HERE is 'there,' Mr. Guppy'? " said Richard, as we went down stairs. " No distance," said Mr. Guppy ; "round in Tha vies' Inn, you know." We all three laughed, and chatted about our inexperience, and the strangeness of London, until we turned up under an archway, to our destination : a narrow street of high houses, like an oblong cistern to hold the fog. There was a confused little crowd of people, principally children, gathered about the house at which we stopped, which had a tarnished brass plate on the door, with the inscription Jellyby. " Don't be frightened ! " said Mr. Guppy, look- ing in at the coach- window. " One of the young JeUybys been and got his head through the area railings ! " "O poor child," said I, "let me out, if you please ! " " Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young •Jellybys are always up to something," said Mr. Guppy. I made my way to the poor chUd, who was one of the dirtiest little unfortunates I ever saw, and found him very hot and frightened, and crying loudly, fixed by the neck between two iron rail- ings, while a milkman and a beadle, with the kindest intentions possible, were endeavouring to drag him back by the legs, under a general impression that his skull was compressible by those means. As I found (after pacifying him), that he was a little boy with a naturally large head, I thought that, perhaps, where his head could go his body could follow, and mentioned that the best mode of extrication might be to push him forward. This was so favourably received by the milkman and beadle, that he would immediately have been pushed into the area, if I had not held his pinafore, while Richard and Mr. Guppy ran down through the kitchen, to catch him when he should be released. At last he was happily got down without any accident, and then he began to beat Mr. Guppy with a hoop-stick in quite a frantic mannei-. Nobody had appeared belonging to the house, except a person in pattens, who had been poking at the chUd from below with a broom ; 1 don't know with what object, and I don't think she did. I therefore supposed that Mrs. Jellyby was not at home ; and was quite surprised when the person appeared in the passage without the pattens, and going up to the back room on the first floor, before Ada and me, announced us as. " Them two young ladies, Missis Jellyby ! " We passed several more children on our way up, whom it was difficult to avoid treading on in the dark ; and as we came into Mrs. Jellyby 's- presence, one of the poor little things fell down- stairs — down a whole flight (as it sounded to me),, with a great noise. Mrs. Jellyby, whose face reflected none of the uneasiness which we could not help showing in- our own faces, as the dear child's head recorded its passage with a bmnp on every stair — Richard afterwards said he counted seven, besides one for the landing — received us with perfect equanimity. She was a jjretty, very diminutive, plump woman,, of from forty to fifty, with handsome eyes, though they had a curious habit of seeming to look a long way ofi". As if — I am quoting Richard again — they could see nothing further than Africa! " I am very glad indeed," said Mrs. Jellyby, in an agreeable voice, "to have the pleasure of receiving you. I have a great respect for Mr.. Jarndyce ; and no one in whom he is interested- can be an object of indifference to me." We expressed our acknowledgments, and sat down behind the door where there was a lame invalid of a sofa. Mrs Jellyby had very good hair, but was too much occupied with her African duties to brush it. The shawl in which she had been loosely mufiled dropped on to her chair when she advanced to us ; and as she turned to resume her seat, we could not help noticing that her dress didn't nearly meet up the back, and that the open space was railed across with a lattice- work of stay-lace — like a summer-house. The room, which was strewed with papers and' nearly filled with a great writing-table covered with similar litter, was, I must say, not only very untidy, but very dirty. We were obliged to take notice of that with our sense of sight, even while, with our sense of hearing, we followed the poor child who had tumbled down stairs : I think into the back kitchen, where somebody seemed to stifle him. But what principally struck us was a jaded, and unhealthy-looking, though by no means plain girl, at the writing-table, who sat biting the feather of her pen, and staring at us. I suppose nobody ever was in such a state of ink. And, from her tumbled hair to her pretty feet, which were disfigured with frayed and broken satin slippers trodden down at heel, she really seemed to have no article of dress- upon her, from a pin upwards, that was in its proper condition or its right place. " You find me, my dears," said Mrs. Jellyby, * By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall (Limited). 118 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAE AUTHORS. snuffing the two great office candles in tin candle- sticks which made the room taste strongly of hot tallow (the fire had gone out, and there was nothing in the grate but ashes, a bundle of wood, and a poker), "you find me, my dears, as usual, very busy; but that you will excuse. The African project at present employs my whole time. It involves me in correspondence with public bodies, and with private individuals anxious for the welfare of their species all over the country. I am happy to say it is advancing. We hope by this time next year to have from a hundred and fifty to two hundred healthy families cultivating cofifee and educating the natives of Borrioboola- Gha, on the left bank of the Niger." As Ada said nothing, but looked at me, I said it must be very gratifying. "It is gratifying," said Mrs. Jellyby. "It involves the devotion of all my energies, such as they are ; but that is nothing, so that it succeeds ; and I am more confident of success every day. Do you know. Miss Summerson, I almost wonder that you never turned your thoughts to Africa 1 " This application of the subject was really so unexpected to me, that I was quite at a loss how to receive it. I hinted that the climate " The finest climate in the world ! " said Mrs. Jellyby. "Indeed, ma'am 1 " " Ce. tainly. With precaution," said Mrs. Jellyby. " You may go into Holborn, without precaution, and be run over. You may go into Holborn, with precaution and never be run over. Just so with Africa." I said, "No doubt." — I meant as to Holborn. "If you would like," said Mrs. Jellyby, putting a number of papers towards us, "to look over some remarks on that head, and on the general subject (which have been extensively circulated), while I finish a letter I am now dictating — to my eldest daughter, who is my amanuensis " The girl at the table left off biting her pen, and made a return to our recognition, which was half bashful and half sulky. "—I shall then have finished for the present," proceeded Mrs. Jellyby, with a sweet smile ; " though my work is never done. Where are you, Caddy « " " ' Presents her compliments to Mr. Swallow, and begs ' " said Caddy. " ' — And begs,' " said Mrs. Jellyby, dictating, " ' to inform him, in reference to his letter of inquiry on the African project.' — No, Peepy ! Not on any account ! " Peepy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child •who had fallen down stairs, who now interrupted the correspondence by presenting himself, with a strip of plaster on his forehead, to exhibit his ■wounded knees, in which Ada and I did not know which to pity most — the bruises or the dirt. Mrs. Jellyby merely added, with the serene composure with which she said everything, " Go along, you naughty Peepy ! " and fixed her fine eyes on Africa again. However, as she at once proceeded with her dictation, and as I interrupted nothing by doing it, I ventured quietly to stop poor Peepy as he was going out, and to take him up to nurse. He looked very much astonished at it, and at Ada's kissing him ; but soon fell fast asleep in my arms, sobbing at longer and longer intervals, until he was quiet. I was so occupied with Peepy that I lost the letter in detail, though I derived such a general impression from it of the momentous importance of Africa and the utter insignificance of all other places and things, that I felt quite ashamed to have thought so little about it. " Six o'clock ! " said Mrs. Jellyby. " And our dinner hour is nominally (for we dine at all hours) five ! Caddy, show Miss Clare and Miss Summer- son their rooms. You would like to make some change, perhaps? You will excuse me, I know, being so much occupied. O, that very bad child ! Pray put him down. Miss Summerson ! " I begged permission to retain him, truly saying that he was not at all troublesome ; and carried him upstairs and laid him on my bed. Ada and I had two upper rooms, with a door of com- munication between. They were excessively bare and disorderly, and the curtain to my window was fastened up with a fork. " You would like some hot water, wouldn't you ? " said Miss Jellyby, looking round for a jug with a handle to it, but looking in vain. " If it is not being troublesome," said we. " O, it's not the trouble," returned Jliss Jellyby ; " the question is, if there is any." The evening was so very cold, and the rooms had such a marshy smell, that I must confess it was a little miserable ; and Ada was half crying. We soon laughed, however, and were busily unpacking, when Miss Jellyby came back to say, that she was sorry there was no hot water ; but they couldn't find the kettle, and the boiler was out of order. We begged her not to mention it, and made all the haste we could to get down to the fire again. But all the little children had come up to the landing outside, to look at the phenomenon of Peepy lying on my bed ; and our attention was dis- tracted by the constant apparition of noses and fingers, in situations of danger between the hinges of the doors. It was impossible to shut the door of either room ; for my lock, with no knob to it, looked as if it wanted to be wound up ; and though the handle of Ada's went round and round with the greatest smoothness, it was attended with no effect whatever on the door. Therefore I BEN BLOWER'S STOEY. 119 proposed to the children that they shoxild come in and be very good at my table, and I would teU them the story of little Red Riding Hood while I dressed; which they did, and were as quiet as mice, including Peepy, who awoke opportunely before the appearance of the wolf. When we went down stairs we found a mug, with " A Present from Tunbridge Wells " on it, lighted up in the staircase window with a floating wick ; and a young woman, with a swelled face bound up in a flannel bandage, blowing the fire of the drawing-room (now connected by an open door with Mrs. Jellyby's room), and choking dreadfully. It smoked to that degree in short, that we aU sat coughing and crying with the windows open for half an hour ; during which Mrs. Jellyby, with the same sweetness of temper, directed letters about Africa. Her being so employed was, I must say, a great relief to me ; for Richard told us that he had washed his hands in a pie-dish, and that they had found the kettle on his dressing-table ; and he made Ada laugh so, that they made me laugh in the most ridiculous manner. BEN BLOWER'S STORY. [By Charles F. Hoffman.) *RE you sure that's the Flame over by I the shore 1 " " C&cting, manny ! I could tell her pipes acrost the Mazoura."* " And you will overhaul her ? " " Won't we, though ! I tell ye, strannger, so sm-e as my name's Ben Blower, that last tar-bar'l I hove in the furnace has put jist the smart chance of go-ahead into us to cut ofi' the Flame from yonder pint, or send our boat to kingdom come." '■ The dickens ! " exclaimed a bystander who, intensely interested in the race, was leaning the while against the partitions of the boiler-room. " I've chosen a nice place to see the fun, near this powder-barrel." " Not so bad as if you were in it," coolly ob- served Ben, as the other walked rapidly away. " As if he were in it ! in what ? in the boiler 1 " " Cert-ingli/. Don't folks sometimes go into bilers, manny ? " " I should think there'd be other parts of the boat more comfortable." " That's right ; poking fun at me at once't ; but wait till we get through this brush with the old Flame, and I'U tell ye of a regular fixin scrape that a man may get into. It's true, too, every word of it, as sure as my name's Ben Blower." " You have seen the Flame then afore, strannger 1 Six year ago, when new upon the river, she was a raal out and outer, I tell ye. I was at that time a hand aboard of her. Yes, I belonged to her at the time of her great race with the Go-liar. You've heem, mahap, of the blow-up by which we lost it. They made a great fuss about it ; but it was nothing but a mere fiz of hot water after aU. Only ♦ The name " Missouri " is thus generally pronounced upon tte western waters. the springing of a few rivets, which loosened a biler-plate or two, and let out a thin spirting upon some niggers that hadn't sense enough to get out of the way. Well, the Go-liar took ofi' our passengers, and we ran into Smasher's Landing to repair damages, and bury them that were killed. Here we laid for a matter of thirty hours or so, and got things to rights on board for a bran new start. There was some carpenters' work yet to be done, but the captain said that that might be fixed off jist as well when we were under weigh — we had worked hard — the weather was sour, and we needn't do anything more jist now — we might take that afternoon to ourselves, but the next morning he'd get up steam bright and airly, and we'd all come out neic. There was no temperance society at Smasher's Landing, and I went ashort upon a lark with some of the hands." I omit the worthy Benjamin's adventures upon land, and, despairing of fully conveying his language in its original Doric force, will not hesitate to give the rest of his singular narrative in my own words, save where, in a few instances, I can recall his precise phraseology, which the reader will easily recognise. " The night was raw and sleety when I regained the deck of our boat. The officers, instead of leaving a watch above, had closed up everything, and shut themselves in the cabin. The fire-room only was open. The boards dashed from the out- side by the explosion had not been yet replaced. The floor of the room was wet, and there was scarcely a corner which afforded a shelter from the driving storm. I was about leaving the room, resigned to sleep in the open air, and now bent only upon getting under the lee of some bulkhead that would protect me against the wind. In passing out I kept my arms stretched forward to feel my way in the dark, but my feet came in contact with a heavy iron lid ; I stumbled, and, as I fell, struck 120 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. one of my hands into the ' man-hole,' (I think this was the name he gave to the oval-shaped opening in the head of the boiler), through which the smith had entered to make his repairs. I fell with my arm thrust so far into the aperture that I received a pretty smart blow in the face as it came in contact with the head of the boiler, and I did mot hesitate to drag my body after it the moment I recovered from this stunning eifect, and ascer- tained my whereabouts. In a word, I crept into ■.the boiler, resolved to pass the rest of the night there. The place was dry and sheltered. Had my bed been softer I would have had all that man ■could desire ; as it was, I slept, and slept :soundly." " I should mention though, that, before closing "my eyes, I several times shifted my position. I had gone first to the farthest end of the boiler, then again I had crawled back to the man-hole, to put my hand out to feel that it was really still ■open. The warmest place was at the farther end, where I finally established myself, and that I knew from the first. It was foolish in me to think that the opening through which I had just entered could be closed vsdthout my hearing it, and that, too, when no one was astir but myself ; but the blow on the side of my face made me a little nervous perhaps ; besides, I never could bear to be shut up in any place — it always gives a wild-like feeling about the head. You may laugh, stranger, but I believe I should .suffocate in an empty church if I once felt that I was so shut up in it that I could not get out. I have met men afore now, just like me, or worse rather, much worse — men that it made sort of furious, to be tied down to anything, yet so soft-like and contradictory in their natures that you might lead them anywhere so long as they didn't feel the string. Stranger, it takes all sorts of people to make a world ; and we may have a good many of the worst kind of white men here out west. But I have seen folks upon this river — quiet-looking chaps, too, as ever you see — who were so tetotally carankteranhterous that they'd shoot the doctor who'd tell them they couldn't live when ailing, and make a die of it, just out of spite, when told they mvM get well. Yes, fellows as fond of the good things of earth as you and I, yet who'd rush like mad right over the gang-plank of life if once brought to believe that they had to stay in this world whether they wanted to leave it or not. Thunder and bees ! if such a fellow as that had heard the cocks crow as I did — awakened to find darkness about him — darkness so thick you might cut it with a knife — heard other sounds, too, to tell that it was morning, and scrambling to fumble for that manhole, found it, too, black — closed — black — and even as the rest of that iron coffin around him, closed, with not a rivet-hole to let light and air in — why — why — he'd a swounded right down on the spot, as I did, and I ain't ashamed to own it to no white man." The big drops actually stood upon the poor fellow's brow, as he now paused for a moment in the recital of his terrible story. He passed his hand over his rough feature.^, and resumed it with less agitation of manner. " How long I may have remained there sense, less I don't know. The doctors have since told me it must have been a sort of fit — more like an apoplexy than a swoon, for the attack finally passed ofi' in sleep. Yes, I slept ; I know that, for I dreamed — dreamed a heap o' things afore 1 awoke ; there is but one dream, however, that I have ever been able to recall distinctly, and that must have come on shortly before I recovered my consciousness. My resting-place through the night had been, as I have told you, at the far end of the boiler. Well, I now dreamed that the manhole was still open, and, what seems curious, rather than laughable, if you take it in connection with other things, I fancied that my legs had been so stretched in the long walk I had taken the evening before that they now reached the whole length of the boiler, and extended through the opening. " At first (in my dreaming reflections), it was a comfortable thought, that no one could now shut up the manhole without awakening me. But soon it seemed as if my feet, which were on the outside, were becoming drenched in the storm which had originally driven me to seek this shelter. I felt the chilling rain upon my extremities. They grew colder and colder, and their numbness gradually extended upward to other parts of my body. It seemed, however, that it was only the under side of my person that was thus strangely visited. I lay upon my back, and it must have been a species of nightmare that afflicted me, for I knew at last that I was dreaming, yet felt it impossible to rouse myself. A violent fit of coughing restored at last my powers of volition. The water, which had been slowly rising around me, had rushed into my mouth ; I awoke to hear the rapid strokes of the pump which was driving it into the boiler ! " My whole condition — no — not all of it — not yet — raj 2^resent condition flashed with new horror upon me. But I did not again swoon. The choking sensation which had made me faint when I first discovered how I was entombed gave way to a livelier though less overpowering emotion. I shrieked even as I started from my slumber. The previous discovery of the closed aperture, with the instant oblivion that followed, seemed only a part of my dream, and I threw my arms about and looked eagerly for the opening by which I had entered the horrid place — yes, looked for it, and felt for it, though it was the terrible conviction BEN BLOWER'S STORY. 121 that it was closed — a second time brought home to me — which prompted my frenzied cry. Every sense seemed to have tenfold acuteness, yet not one to act in miison with another. I shrieked again and again — imploringly — desperately — savagely. I filled the hollow chamber with my cries, till its iron walls seemed to tingle around me. The dull strokes of the accm'sed pump seemed only to mock at, while they deadened, my screams. " At last I gave myself up. It is the struggle against our fate which frenzies the mind. We cease to fear when we cease to hope. I gave my- self up, and then I grew calm ! " I was resigned to die — resigned even to my jnode of death. It was not, I thought, so very new after all, as to awaken unwonted horror in a man. Thousands have been sunk to the bottom of the ocean shut up in the holds of vessels — beating themselves against the battened hatches — dragged down from the upper world shrieking, not for life, but for death only beneath the eye and amid the breath of heaven. Thousands have endured that appalling kind of suffocation. I would die only as many a better man had died before me. I could meet such a death. I said so — I thought so — I felt so — felt so, I mean, for a minute — or more ; ten minutes it may have been — or but an instant of time. I know not, nor does it matter il I could compute it. There ivas a time, then, when I was resigned to my fate. But, Heaven ! was I resigned to it in the shape in which next it came to appal? Stranger, I felt that water growing hot about my limbs, though it was yet mid-leg deep. I felt it, and in the «ame moment heard the roar of the furnace that was to turn it into steam before it could get deep enough to drown one ! " You shudder. It was hideous. But did I shrink and shrivel, and crumble down upon that iron floor, and lose my senses in that horrid agony of fear ? No ! though my brain swam and the life- blood that curdled at my heart seemed about to stagnate there for ever, still / hieiv ! I was too hoarse — too hopeless — from my previous efforts, to cry out more. But I struck — feebly at first, and then strongly — frantically with my clenched fi.st against the sides of the boiler. There were people moving near who 7nust hear my blows ! Could not I hear the grating of chains, the shufliing of feet, the very rustic of a rope — hear them all, within a few inches of me 1 I did ; but the gurgling water that was growing hotter and hotter around my ex- tremities made more noise within the steaming caul- dron than did nvy frenzied blows against its sides. " Latterly I had hardly changed my position, but now the growing heat of the water made me plash to and fro ; lifting myself wholly out of it was impossible, but I could not remain quiet. I stumbled upon something; it was a mallet, a chance tool the smith had left there by accident. With what wUd joy did 1 seize it — with what eager confidence did I now deal my first blows with it against the walls of my prison! But scarce had I intermitted them for a moment when I heard the clang of the iron door as the fireman flimg it wide to feed the flames that were to torture me. My knocking was unheard, though I could hear him toss the sticks into the furnace beneath me, and drive to the door when his oven was fully crammed. " Had I yet a hope 1 I had ; but it rose in my mind side by side with the fear that I might now become the agent of preparing myself a more frightful death. Yes ; when I thought of that furnace with its fresh-fed flames curling beneath the iron upon which I stood — a more frightful death even than that of being boiled alive I Had I discovered that mallet but a short time sooner —but no matter, I would by its aid resort to the only expedient now left. " It was this. I remembered having a marline spike in my pocket, and in less time than I have taken in hinting at the consequences of thus using it, I had made an impression upon the sides of the boiler, and soon succeeded in driving it through. The water gushed through the aperture —would they see it 1 No ; the jet could only play against a wooden partition which must hide the stream from view ; it must trickle down upon the decks before the leakage would be discovered. Should I drive another hole to make that leakage greater 1 Why, the water within seemed already to be sensibly diminished, so hot had become that which remained ; should more escape, would I not hear it bubble and hiss upon the fiery plates of iron that were already scorching the soles of my feet ? " Ah ! there is a movement — voices — I hear them calling for a crowbar. The bulkhead cracks as they pry off the planking. They have seen the leak— they are trying to get at it ! Good God ! why do they not first dampen the fire 1 why do they call for the — the — " Stranger, look at that finger : it can never regain its natural size ; but it has already done all the service that man could expect from so humble a member. Sir, that hole icould have been plugged lip on the instant unless / had jammed my finger through ! "I heard the cry of horror as they saw it without— the shout to drown the fire— the first stroke of the cold-water pump. They say, too, that I was conscious when they took me out— but I— I remember nothing more till they brought a julep to my bedside arterwards, And thai julep!— " " Cooling, was it 1, " " SlEAyNGEP, ! ! ! " Ben turned away his head and wept— He could say no more. 122 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. A EEALLY GOOD DAY'S riSHESTG. [By James Payn.] HAVE a most un- feigned admiration of good old Izaak Walton, and all fishermen ; I like to think of them as contemplative men, who might have been anything they chose — states- men, divines, i^oets — only that they preferred being fishermen — lovers of their kind, lovers of scenery, lovers of all living things, and possessing some good and miquestionable proof that the worm, which they thread alive upon their pitiless hook, and which, to the ordinary eye certainly seems not to hke it, does not in reality suffer in the . least. I con- fess I have been many times upon the verge of calling Piscator, my uncle, from whom I have expectations which such an appellation would ruin, a cruel and cold-blooded old villain for the quiet way in which he will torture his live bait — never taking the poor creature off until it has wriggled its last, and then instantly impaling a fresh victim — or selecting a lively minnow out of his green water-box, and throvping him into the pleasant river, his wished-for home, with a hook that he does not know of at iirst, poor thing, in his under-jaw. When he has done his duty even ever so well, and given warning of the approach of prey in the most sagacious manner by pulling at the float, and has been rescued alive, Jonah-like, from the interior of some enormous fish, Piscator will not yet suffer him to depart, but, confessing that he is a very good bait— as if that compliment could atone for these many indignities and pains — drops him again delicately into the stream ; con- duct only to be equalled by that of the widow lady in the legend, whose late husband's body is discovered by her lover in the garden fish-pond, a receptacle for eels ; upon which, " Poor dear Sir Thomas," said the lady, "put him in again, ptrhapB he'll catch us some more." Worse than aU, to my taste, looks my revered uncle, when he is running after a May-fly, in order to impale that : one can bear to see a boy in pursuit of a butterfly, because it is not so much cruelty that actuates him as curiosity ; but an old gentleman, bald, pursy — which epithet reminds me that I must not let Piscator peruse these remarks — and perspiring, striving to catch and put to death, imder circumstances of peculiar atrocity, a happy and inoffensive insect, is a shameful sight. No ; I confess I like to see fisher- men use artificial flies ; the mere hooking of the fish — which, after all, are meant to be eaten — through those horny, bloodless lips of theirs I don't believe is verj^ painful ; and I regard these baits with a clear conscience. A good fisherman's book is a museum of unnatural science, and I like to examine it gratis upon some river-bank, with a cigar in my mouth, while Piscator fishes. He sets about this new creation about October, and by April has finished quite a pocket-full of these additions to nature. This scarlet fly, almost as big as a bird of paradise, must have taken him a good long time. " It is a military insect, and a most tremendous bait for the female," says my vincle, who, I am thankful to say, is a confirmed old bachelor ; "there is nothing in that fine creature whatever except a little wood and wire ; but he kills. Bob — he kills." Why, by-the-bye, do pursy old fellows, after fifty, almost without exception, repeat then- words 1 " It IS a fine day," observes Piscator, when I salute him in the morning — "a very fine day — a very fine day, indeed. Bob," as though there was. somebody contradicting that assertion. " And your mother is well, is she. Bob I Your mother is well ] Good, Bob, good — very good." I think they have some idea that this makes an ordinary- sentence remarkable, and they wish, perhaps, to give you an opportunity or two of setting it down in your note-book. " What is this huge black and white fly, uncle," I inquire, " like an excellent imitation of a death's- head moth 1 " " Death's-head fiddlestick ! " cries Piscator, in a fury, " it's nothing of the kind, Bob — nothing of the kind. I call it the Popular Preacher^ and it is also a good bait for the female — the serious female, that is. I have killed a number of chub with that fly. Sir — a number of stout chub." There is a sort of box, also, attached to Piscator's book which contains even still more wonderful efiigies ; spinning minnows, tvrice as large as any in real hfe, and furnished with Archimedean screws; mice with machinery inside instead of intestines^ and composite animals — half toad, half gargoyle — of which pike are supposed to become readily enamoured. What a glorious amusement must indeed be that of the fly-fisher, climbing, up in his huge waterproof boots the bed of some rock-strewn stream, amid the music of a hundred falls, and A REALLY GOOD DAY'S FISHING. 123 tinder the branching shelter of the oak and moun- tain ash, through which the sunbeams weave such faiiy patterns upon his watery path ! I never could throw a fly myself by reason of those same branches ; I left my uncle's favourite killer — brown, with a yellow stripe — at the top of an inaccessible alder, on our very last expedition together, just after we had taken a great deal of trouble, too, in its extrication from the right calf of Piscator, where I had inadvertently hitched it. I am too clumsy and near-sighted, and indeed much too impatient for the higher flights of fish- ing. Piscator starts in the dusk, in order to be up at some mountain-tarn by dayhght, and comes back in the evening with half-a-dozen fine trout, well satisfied ; now I would much rather have half-an-hour's fishing for bleak in a ditch with a landing-net. However, at the end of this last summer, I had one really good day's fishing, killing with my single rod, carp and trout of such magnitude and number as Piscator himself would have been proud to tell of ; and it came to pass in this way. The Marquis of B , whom I call " B." in •conversation with strangers — is a good friend of mine, who has known me for many years. If he met me in the market place of our borough, his lordship would, I am sure, say : " How d'ye do 1 " or, " How are you 1 " and thank me, per- haps, for the pains I took about the return of his second son. I have dined more than once at the Hall, during election time, and his lordship has not failed to observe to me : "A glass of wine with you 1 " or, " Will you join us, my dear Sir 1 " ■quite confidentially upon each occasion ; the words may be nothing indeed, but his lordship's manner is such that I protest that when he speaks to me I feel as if / had had the ivine. Well, only a month ago, he sent me a card, permitting me to have one day's fishing in his home preserves. Piscator tried to persuade me to give up it to him, but I said " No," because he can catch fish anywhere and I do not possess that faculty ; so he gave me the most minute directions overnight, and lent me his famous book of flies, and his best rod. How beautiful looked the grand old park upon that August morning! The deer — " In copse and fern, Twinkled the iunumerable ear and tail," — cropping with reverted glance the short rich herbage, or bounding across the carriage drives in herds ; the mighty oak-trees, shadowing half-an- acre each ; the sedgy pools, with water-fowl rising from their rims with sudden cry ; and the wind- ing brooks, where shot the frequent trout from side to side. Now from their right banks I fished — now from their left ; and now, regretful that I •did not borrow Piscator's boots, I strode, with turned-up trousers, in the very bed of the stream ; still I could not touch a fin. I begau to think that my uncle had given me, out of envy, wrong directions, and provided me with impossible flies. At last I came upon a large brown pool with a tumbling fall; and " Now," cried I aloud, "for a tremendous trout, or never ! " " Never," cried a hoarse voice, with provincial accent ; " I'm dang'd if thee isn't a cool hand, anyway." This was the keeper. I saw how the case stood at once, and determined to have a little sport of some kind, at all events. " Hush, my good man," I whispered, " don't make a noise ; I have reason to believe that there are fish here." " Woot thee coom out of t' stream (it was up to my waist), or maun I coom in and fetch thee 1 " "No," said I blandly, don't come in on any account, the least splash would be fatal : stay just where you are, and I daresay you will see me catch one in this very spot. It's beautiful weather." I got out upon one bank, as the giant, speechless with rage, slipped in from the other. When he had waded half-way across — " Do you think I am poaching, my good man 1 " inquired I innocently. " I knaws thee is't," quoth the keeper, adding a violent expletive. " Well, I have a card here from my friend B.," said I, " which I should have thought was quite sufficient." " Thy friend B. ! " roared the other sarcastically, " let me get at thee." " Yes," said I, " old B. of the Hall ; don't you know him 1 — the marquis." The dripping savage was obliged to confess that my ticket of permission was genuine. 124 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " But liow do I knaw as thee beest the right man as is named here "? " urged he, obstinatelj^ A cold sweat began to bedew me, for I had not thought it necessary to bring out my visiting cards. " Right man ! " cried I indignantly ; " of course I am, why not 1 " " Of eoorse, why of coorse," sneered the brutal ruffian, "thee must coom along with me." A bright thought suddenly flashed across me ; " Look here, my good man ; look at my pocket handkerchief ; J. P. ; aint those the right initials ? I'll tell B. of you as sure as you live." At which the giant, convinced against his will, left me in peace. I fished until dewy eve, and still caught nothing. At last, in the near neighbourhood of the Hall itself, I came upon a little pond environed by trees ; the fish were so numerous in it, that they absolutely darkened the water. I had only just lodged my fly on the surface, and behold ! I caught and easily landed a magnificent carp ; again, and a trout of at least six pounds rewarded me ; a third time, and I hooked another carp ; and so on. I was intoxicated with my success. In the couple of hours of daylight which yet remained to me, I filled not only Piscator's large.st fishing-basket, but my pockets also. " What will my uncle say to this ^ " thought I. He did not know what to say. We dined, we supped, we breakfasted off the very finest ; we spent the next morning in despatching the next best in baskets to distant friends. I was the hero of the family for four-and twenty hours, although Piscator tried to make out that it was all owing to the excellence of his flies. At four o'clock on the following afternoon, however, arrived my friend the keeper, taller than ever, pale with passion, more inimical- looking than on the day before. " Well, thee hast about been and done it with thy ticket and thy friend B.," c[Uoth he. " Yes," said I cheerfully, " you're right : I rather flatter myself I have. Sixty-seven pounds of fish, my man " (triumphantly). " Sixty-seven pounds ! " said he, with a ghastly grin. " Ay," said I, " not an ounce less : thirty pounds of carp, twenty pounds of trout, and seventeen pounds of — I'm hanged if I know what fish." "Thirty pounds of carp, twenty pounds of trout, and seventeen pounds of he's hanged if he knows what fish," repeated the keeper, as if he was going to cry. " Yes," added I ; " and all out of one little bit of a pond." " Pond ! " cried Piscator, entering the room at this juncture, " you never told me anything about a pond. Bob." " Well — no," said I, blushing a little. " I con- fess I thought it better to say stream. I did catch them in the pond close by the Hall." " Why, you've been fishing in the marquis's pri- vate stew, Bob ! " cried my uncle, horror-struck. "Yes," cried the keeper, blowing into his fists, as if preparing for a murderous assault upon my countenance ; " he's been a fishing in the stew- pond, in his friend B.'s private stew." And this was the only really good day's fishing I ever had. LOED ULLIN'S DAUGHTEE. [By Thomas Campbell.] CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound. Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! And I '11 give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry." Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water 1" " Oh ! I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle, And this, Lord UUin's daughter. "And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together ; For, should he find us in the glen. My blood would stain the heather. " His horsemen hard behind us ride ; Should they our steps discover. Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover ? " Out spoke the hardy island wight, " I '11 go, my chief — I 'm ready : It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady. " And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ; So, though the waves are raging white, I '11 row you o'er the ferry." By this the storm grew loud apace, The water wraith was shrieking ; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still, as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men — Their trampling sounded nearer. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 125 " Oil ! haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, " Though tempests round us gather ; I '11 meet tlie raging of the skies. But not an angry father." For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade His child he did discover : One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was vnund her lover. At the Ferrt. {Drawn by ^f. Small.) The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her ; When, oh ! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her. And stUl they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing ; Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing. " Come back ! come back ! " he cried in grief, " Across this stormy water ; And I '11 forgive your Highland chief. My daughter — oh ! my daughter ! " 'Twas vain : the loud waves lashed the shore., Return or aid preventing ; The waters wild went o'er his chUd, And he was left lamentLag. 126 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. MY UNCLE EOLAND'S TALE* [By LOBD Lytion.] was in Spain, no matter where or how, that it was my fortune to take prisoner a French officer of the same rank that I then held — a lieutenant ; and there was so much similarity in our sentiments, that we became intimate friends — the most intimate friend I ever had, sister, out of this dear circle. He was a rough soldier, whom the world had not well treated ; but he never railed at the world, and maintained that he had had his deserts. Honour was his idol, and the sense of honour paid him for the loss of all else. "We were both at that time vokmteers in a foreign service — in that worst of service, civil war, — he on one side, I on the other, — both, perhaps, disappointed in the cause we had severally espovised. There was something similar, too, in our domestic relationships. He had a son — a boy — who was all in life to him, next to his country and his duty. I, too, had then such a son, though of fewer years." (The Captain paused an instant : we exchanged glances, and a stifling sensation of pain and suspense was felt by all his listeners.) " We were accustomed, brother, to talk; of these children — to picture their future, to compare our hopes and dreams. We hoped and dreamed alike. A short time sufficed to estabhsh this confidence. My prisoner was sent, to head- quarters, and soon afterwards exchanged. "We met no more till last year. Being then at Paris, I inquired for my old friend, and learned that he was living at R , a few miles from the capital. I went to visit him. I found his house empty and deserted. That very day he had been led to prison, charged with a terrible crime. I saw him in that prison, and from his own lips learned his story. His son had been brought up, as he fondly believed, in the habits and principles of honourable men ; and, having finished his education, came to reside with him at R . The young man was accustomed to go frequently to Paris. A young Frenchman loves pleasure, sister; and pleasure is found at Paris. The father thought it natural, and stripped his age of some comforts to supply luxuries to the son's youth. "Shortly after the young man's arrival, my friend perceived that he was robbed. Moneys kept in his bureau were abstracted he knew not how, nor could guess by whom. It must be done in the night. He concealed himself, and watched. He saw a stealthy figure glide in, he saw a false key applied to the lock — he started forward, seized the felon, and recognised his son. What should the father have done 1 1 do not ask pou, sister ! I ask these men, son and father, I ask you." " Expelled him the house," cried I. " Done his duty, and reformed the unhappy wretch," said my father. " Nemo rejyenie tur- 2nssiimis semper fuit — No man is wholly bad all at once." " The father did as you would have advised, brother. He kept the youth ; he remonstrated with him ; he did more — he gave him the key of the bureau. 'Take what I have to give,' said he : ' I would rather be a beggar than know my son a thief.' " " Right : and the youth repented, and became a good man % " exclaimed my father. Captain Roland shook his head. " The youth promised amendment, and seemed penitent. He spoke of the temptations of Paris, the gaming- table, and what not. He gave up his daily visits to the capital. He seemed to apply to study. Shortly after this, the neighbourhood was alarmed by reports of night robberies on the road. Men masked and armed, plundered travellers, and even broke into houses. " The police were on the alert. One night an old brother officer knocked at my friend's door. It was late : the veteran (he was a cripple, by the way, like myself — strange coincidence ! ) was in bed. He came down in haste, when his servant woke and told him that his old friend, wounded and bleeding, sought an asylum under his roof. The wound, however, was slight. The guest had been attacked and robbed on the road. The next morning the proper authority of the town was sent for. The plundered man described bis loss — some hillets of five hundred francs in a pocket- book, on which was embroidered his name and coronet (he was a vicomte). The guest stayed to dinner. Late in the forenoon, the son looked in. The guest started to see him : my friend noticed his paleness. Shortly after, on pretence of faint- ness, the guest retired to his room, and sent for his host. ' My friend,' said he, ' can you do me a favour % — go to the magistrate and recall the evidence I have given.' " ' Impossible,' said the host. 'What crotchet is this % " By permission of Messrs. George Eoutledge and Sons. MY UNCLE ROLAND'S TALE. 127 " The guest shuddered. Teste ! ' said he : ' I do not wish in my old age to be hard on others. Who knows how the robber may have been tempted, and who knows what relations he may have — honest men, whom his crime would degrade for ever ! Good heavens ! if detected it is the galleys, the galleys ! ' " ' And what then 1 — the robber knew what he braved.' "'But did his father know if?' cried the guest. " A light broke upon my unhappy comrade in arms : he caught his friend by the hand — ' You turned pale at my son's sight — where did you ever see him before "? ' Speak ! ' " ' Last night, on the road to Paris. The mask slipped aside. Call back my evidence ! ' " ' You are mistaken,' said my friend calmly. ' I saw my son in his bed, and blessed him, before I went to my own.' " ' I will believe you,' said the g-uest ; ' and never shall my hasty suspicion pass my lips — but call back the evidence.' " The guest returned to Paris before dusk. The father conversed with his son on the subject of his studies ; he followed him to his room, waited till he was in bed, and was then about to retire, ' when the youth said, ' Father, you have forgotten your blessing.' " The father went back, laid his hand on the boy's head and prayed. He was credulous — fathers are so ! He was persuaded that his friend had been deceived. He retired to rest, and fell asleep. He woke suddenly in the middle of the night, and felt (I here quote his words) — ' I felt,' said he, ' as if a voice had awakened me — a voice that said "Rise and search." I rose at once, struck a light, and went to my son's room. The door was locked. I knocked once, twice, thrice, — no answer. I dared not call aloud, lest I should rouse the servants. I went down the stairs — I opened the back-door — I passed to the stables. My own horse was there, 7iot my son's. My horse neighed ; it was old, like myself — my old charger at Mont St. Jean. I stole back, I crept into the shadow of the wall by my son's door, and ex- tinguished my light. I felt as if I were a thief myself." " Brother," interrupted my mother under her breath, " speak in your own words, not in this vn-etched father's. I know not why, but it would shock me less." The Captain nodded. " Before daybreak, my friend heard the back- door open gently ; a foot ascended the stair — a key grated in the door of the room close at hand —the father glided through the dark into that chamber behind his unseen son. " He heard the clink of the tinder-box ; a light was struck ; it spread over the room, but he had time to place himseK behind the window-curtain which was close at hand. The figure before him stood a moment or so motionless, and seemed to listen, for it turned to the right, to the left, its visage covered with the black hideous mask which is worn in carnivals. Slowly the mask was removed ; could that be his son's face f the son of a brave man^ — it was pale and ghastly "with scoundrel fears ; the base drops stood on the brow ; the eye was haggard and bloodshot. He looked as a coward looks when death stands before him. " The youth walked, or rather skulked, to the secretaire, unlocked it, opened a secret drawer ; placed within it the contents of his pockets and his frightful mask : the father approached softly, looked over his shoulder, and saw in the drawer the pocket-book embroidered with his friend's name. Meanwhile, the son took out his pistols, uncocked them cautiously, and was about also to secrete them when his . father arrested his arm. 'Robber, the use of these is yet to come ! ' " The son's knees knocked together, an exclama- tion for mercy burst from his lips ; but when, recovering the mere shock of his dastard nerves, he perceived it was not the grip of some hireling of the law, but a father's hand that had clutched his arm, the vile audacity which knows fear only from a bodily cause, none from the awe of shame, returned to him. " ' Tush, sir,' he said, ' waste not time iu reproaches, for, I fear, the c/eiis-d'armes are on my track. It is well that you are here ; you can swear that I . have spent the night at home. Unhand me, old man — I have these witnesses still to secrete,' and he pointed to the garments wet and bedabbled with the mud of the roads. He had scarcely spoken when the walls shook ; there was the heavy clatter of hoofs on the ringing pave- ment without. '"They come!' cried the son. 'Off, dotard! save your son from the galleys.' " ' The galleys, the galleys ! ' said the father, staggering back ; 'it is true '■ — he said — ' the galleys.' " " There was a loud knocking at the gate. The gens-d'armes surrounded the house. ' Open, in the name of the law.' No answer came, no door was opened. Some of the gens-d'armes rode to the rear of the house, in which was placed the stable- yard. From the window of the son's room, the father saw the sudden blaze of torches, the shadowy form of the men-hunters. He heard the clatter of arms as they swung themselves from their horses. He heard a voice cry, ' Yes,' this is the robber's grey horse — see, it still reeks with sweat ! ' And behind and in front, at either dooi; 128 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. again came tlie knocking, and again the shout, ' Open, in the name of the law.' " Then lights began to gleam from the casements of the neighbouring houses ; then the space filled rapidly with curious wonderers startled from their sleep ; the world was astir, and the crowd came round to know what crime or what shame had entered the old soldier's home. " Suddenly, within, there was heard the re- port of a fire-arm ; and a minute or so after- wards the front door was opened, and the soldier .ip|.i.,.in.il. the deep scar on his visage, and the cross of the Legion of Honour on his breast ; and when he had told his tale, he ended with these words — ' I have saved the son whom I reared for France from a doom that would have spared the life to brand it mth disgrace. Is this a crime 1 I give you my life in exchange for my son's dis- grace. Does my country need a victim 1 I have lived for my country's glory, and I can die contented to satisfy its laws ; sure that, if you blame me,- you will not despise ; sure that the hands that give me to the headsman wiU ' The father approached soptlt." (Draaji b-j W. H. Overend. "'Enter,' he said to the gens-cVarraes : 'what would you 1 ' " ' We seek a robber who is within your walls.' " ' I know it ; mount and find him : I will lead the way.' " He ascended the stairs, he threw open_his son's voom ; the oflicers of justice poured in, and on the tioor lay the robber's corpse. "They looked at each other in amazement. 'Take what is left you,' said the father. 'Take the dead man rescued from the galleys ; take the living man on whose hands rests the dead man's blood ! ' " I was present at my friend's trial. The facts had become known beforehand. He stood there with his grey hair, and his mutilated limbs, and scatter flowers over my grave. Thus I confess all. I, a soldier, look round among a nation of soldiers ; and in the name of the star which gHtters on my breast, I dare the Fathers of France to condemn me ! ' " They acquitted the soldier — at least thej' gave a verdict answering to what in our courts is called 'justifiable homicide.' A shout rose in the court which no ceremonial voice could still ; the crowd would have borne him in triumph to his house, but his look repelled such vanities. To his hoiTse he returned indeed, and the day after- wards they found him dead, beside the cradle in which his first prayer had been breathed over his sinless child. Now, father and son, I ask you, do you condemn that man ? " THE TRIAJi. (Brawn by W. H. Overend.) •Mr UNCLE ROLANDS TALE" {p. 128). BEVIS AT HOME 129 BEVIS AT HOME. [Frum "Wood Maaic." By Eichaud Jeffeeies.] O sooner was Bevis released from the dinner- table, than he was down on his knees at his own particular corner cupboard, the one that had been set apart for his toys and things ever since he could walk. It was but a small cupboard, made across the angle of two walls, and with one shelf only, yet it was bottomless, and always con- tained something new. There were the last fragments of the great box of wooden bricks, cut and chipped, and notched and splintered by that treasure, his pocket-knife. There was the tin box for the paste, or the worms in moss, when he went fishing. There was the wheel of his old wheelbarrow, long since smashed and numbered -ndth the Noah's arks that have gone the usual way. There was the brazen cylinder of a miniature steam-engine bent out of all shape. There was the hammer-head made specially for him by the blacksmith down in the village, without a handle, for people were tired of putting new handles to it, he broke them so quickly. There was a horse-shoe, and the iron catch of a gate, and besides these a boxwood top, which he could not spin, but which he had paid away half the savings in his money-box for, because he had seen it split the other boys' tops in the road. In one corner was a brass cannon, the touch-hole blackened by the explosion of gunpowder, and by it the lock of an ancient pistol — the lock only, and neither barrel nor handle. An old hunting crop, some feathers from pheasants' tails, part of a mole-trap, an old brazen bugle, much bat- tered, a wooden fig-box full of rusty nails, several scraps of deal board, and stumps of cedar pencil were heaped together in confusion. But these were not all, nor could any written inventory exhaust the contents, and give a perfect list of all that cupboard held. There was always something new in it : Bevis never went there, but he found something. With the hunting crop he followed the harriers and chased the doubling hare : with the cannon he fought battles, such as he saw in the pictures ; the bugle, too, sounded the charge (the Bailiff some- times blew it in the garden to please him, and the hollow " who-oo ! " it made echoed over the fields) ; with the deal boards and the rusty nails, and the hammer-head, he built houses, and even cities. The jagged and splintered wooden bricks, six inches long, were not bricks, but great beams and baulks of timber ; the wheel of the wheelbarrow was the centre of many curious pieces of mecha- nism. He could see these things easily. So he sat down at his cupboard and forgot the lecture instantly ; the pout disappeared from his lips as he plunged his hand into the inexhaustible cup- board. "Bevis, dear," he heard presently, "you may have an apple." Instantly, and without staying to shut the door on his treasures, he darted up stairs — up two flights, with a clatter and a bang, burst open the door, and was in the apple-room. It was a large garret or attic, running half the length of the house, and there, in the autumn, the best apples from the orchard were carried, and put on a thin layer of hay, each apple apart from its fellow (for they ought not to touch), and each particular sort, the Blenheim Oranges and the King Pippins, the Creepers and the Grindstone Pippins (which grew nowhere else), divided from the next sort by a little fence of hay. The most of them were gone now, only a few of the keeping apples remained, and from these Bevis, with great deliberation, chose the biggest, measuring them by the eye and weighing them in his hand. Then down-stairs again with a clatter and a bang, dovni the second stairs this time, past the gun-room, where the tools were kept, and a carpenter's bench ; then through the whole length of the ground floor from the kitchen to the parlour, slamming every door behind him, and kicking over the chairs in front of him. There he stayed half a minute to look at the hornet's nest under the glass case on the mantel- piece. The comb was built round a central pillar or column, three storeys one above the other, and it had been taken from the wiUow tree by the brook, the huge hollow willow which he had twice tried to chop down, that he might make a boat of it. Then out of doors and up the yard, and past the cart-house, when something moved in the long grass under the wall. It was a Weasel, caught in agin. The trap had been set by the side of a drain for 130 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. rats, and the Weasel coming out, or perhaps frightened by footsteps, and hastening carelessly, had been trapped. Bevis, biting his apple, looked at the Weasel, and the Weasel said, " Sir Bevis, please let me out, this gin hurts me so ; the teeth are very sharp and the spring is very strong, and the tar-cord is very stout, so that I cannot break it. See how the iron has skinned my leg and taken off the fur ; and I am in such pain. Do please let me go, before the ploughboy comes, or he will hit me with a stick, or smash me with a stone, or put his iron-shod heel on me ; and I have been a very good weasel, Bevis. ' I have been catching the horrid rats that eat the barley- meal put for the pigs. Oh, let me out, the gin hurts me so ! " Bevis put his foot on the spring, and was pressing it down, and the Weasel thought he was already free, and looked across at the wood pile under which he meant to hide, when Bevis heard a little squeak close to his head, and looked up and saw a Mouse under the eaves of the cart- house, peeping forth from a tiny crevice, where the mortar had fallen from between the stones of the wall. " Bevis, Bevis ! " said the Mouse, " don't you do it— don't you let that Weasel go ! He is a most dreadful wicked weasel, and his teeth are ever so much sharper than that gin. He does not kill the rats, because he is afraid of them (unless he can assassinate one in his sleep), but he murdered my wife and sucked her blood, and her body, all dry and withered, is up in the beam there, if you will get a ladder and look. And he killed all my little mouses, and made me very unhappy, and I shall never be able to get another wife to live with me in this cart-house while he is about. There is no way we can get away from him. If we go out into the field he follows us there, and if we go into the sheds he comes after us there, and he is a cruel beast, that wicked weasel. You know you ate the partridge's eggs," added the Mouse, speaking to the Weasel. " It is all false," said the Weasel. " But it is true that you ate the wheat out of the ears in the wheat-rick, and you know what was the conse- quence. If that little bit of wheat you ate had been threshed, and ground, and baked, and made into bread, then that poor girl would have had a crust to eat, and would not have jumped into the river, and she would have had a son, and he would have been a great man and fought battles, just as Bevis does with his brazen cannon, and won great victories, and been the pride of all the nation. But you ate those particular grains of wheat that were meant to do all this, you wicked little mouse. Besides which, you ran across the bed one night, and frightened Bevis's mother." " But I did not mean to," said the Mouse ; " and you did mean to kill my wife, and you ate the par- tridge's eggs." " And a very good thing I did," said the Weasel. " Do you know what would have happened, if I had not taken them ? I did it aU for good, and with the best intentions. For if I had left the eggs one more day, there was a man who meant to have stolen them all but one, which he meant to have left to deceive the keeper. If he had stolen them, he would have been caught, for the keeper was watching for him all the time, and he would have been put to prison, and his children would have been hungry. So I ate the eggs, and especially I ate every bit of the one the man meant to have left." "And why were you ;_o particular about eating that egg 1 " asked Bevis. "Because," said the Weasel, "if that egg had come to a partridge chick, and the chick had lived till the shooting-time came, then the sportsman and his brother, when they came I'ormd, would have started it out of the stubble, and the shot from the gun of the younger would have acci- dentally killed the elder, and people would have thought it was done to murder him for the sake of the inheritance." " Now, is this true ? " said Bevis. " Yes, that it is ; and I killed the mouse's wife also for the best of reasons." " You horrid wretch ! " cried the Mouse. " Oh, you needn't call me a wretch," said the Weasel ; " I am sure you ought to be grateful to me, for your wife was very jealous because you paid so much attention to the Miss Mouse you want to marry now, and in the night she meant to have gnawn your throat." " And you frightened my mother," said Bevis. "by running across her bed in the night;" and he began to press on the spiing of the gin. " Yes, that he did," .said the Weasel, overjoyed ; " and he made a hole in the boards of the floor, and it was down that hole that the half-sovereign rolled and was lost, and the poor maid-servant sent away becau.se they thought she had stolen it." " What do you say to that 1 " asked Bevis. But the Mouse was quite aghast and dumb- founded, and began to think that it was he after all who was in the wrong, so that for the moment he could not speak. Just then Bevis caught sight of the colt that had ccme up beside his mother, the cart mare, to the fence ; and thinking that he would go and try and stroke the pretty creature, Bevis started forward, forgetting all about the Weasel and the Mouse. As he started, he pressed the spring down, and in an instant the Weasel was out, and had hobbled across to the wood pile. When the Mouse saw this, he gave a little squeak of terror, and ran back to his hiding-place. POOR MISS FINCH. 131 POOR MISS FINCH. [By WiLKiE Collins.] WELL-FED boy, witli yellow Saxon Lair ; a little shabby green chaise ; and a rough brown pony — these objects confronted me at the Lewes Station. I ,^[~ said to the boy, " Areyoii Reverend Finch's it servant?" And the boy answered, "I be' he." "We drove through the town — a hilly town of desolate clean houses. No living creatures visible behind the jealously-shut windows. No living- creatures entering or departing through the sad- coloiu'ed closed doors. No theatre ; no place of amusement except an empty town-hall, vrith a sad policeman meditating on its spruce white steps. No customers in the shops, and nobody to serve them behind the counter, even if they had turned up. Here and there on the pavements, an inhabi- tant with a capacity for staring, and (apparently) a capacity for nothing else. I said to Reverend Finch's boy, " Is this a rich place '? " Reverend Finch's boy brightened and answered, " That it be ! " Good. At any rate, they don't enjoy them- selves here, the infamous rich ! Leaving this town of unamused citizens immured in domestic tombs, we got on a fine high road — still ascending — with a spacious open country on either side of it. A spacious open country is a country soon ex- hausted by a sight-seer's eye. I have learnt from my poor Pratolungo the habit of searching for the political convictions of my feUow-creatures, when I find myself in contact with them in strange places. Having nothing else to do, I searched Finch's boy. His political programme, I found to be : — As much meat and beer as I can contain, and as little work to do for it as possible. In return for this, to touch my hat when I meet the Squire, and to be content with the station to which it has pleased God to call me. Miserable Finch's boy ! We reached the highest point of the road. On our right hand, the ground sloped away gently into a fertile valley, with a village and a church in it ; and beyond, an abominable privileged enclosure of grass and trees torn from the community by a tyrant, and called a Park ; with the palace in which this enemy of mankind caroused and fattened, standing in the midst. On our left ! hand spread the open country — a magnificent prospect of grand grassy hills, rolling away to the horizon, bounded only by the sky. To my sur- prise Finch's boy descended ; took the pony by the head ; and deliberately led him ofl^ the high road, and on to the v/ilderness of grassy hills, on which not so much as a footpath was discernible anywhere, far or near. The chaise began to heave and roll like a ship on the sea. It became necessary to hold with both hands to keep my place. I thought first of my luggage — then of myself. " How much is there of this 1 " I asked. " Three mile on't," answered Finch's boy. I insisted on stopping the ship— I mean the chaise — and on getting out. We tied my luggage fast with a rope; and then we went on again, the boy at the pony's head and I after them on foot. Ah, what a walk it was ! What air over my head ; what grass under mj- feet ! The sweetness of the inner land, and the crisp saltuess of the distant sea, were mixed in that delicious breeze. The short turf, fragrant -n-ith odorous herbs, rose and fell elastic, imderfoot. The mountain-piles of white cloud moved in sublime procession along the blue field of heaven overhead. The wild growth of prickly bushes, spread in great patches over the grass, was in a glory of yellow bloom. On we went _: now up, now down ; now bending to the right, and now turning to the left. I looked about me. No house ; no road ; no paths, fences, hedges, walls ; no land-marks of any sort. All round us, turn which way we might, nothing was to be seen but the majestic solitude of the hiUs. No living creatures appeared but the white dots of sheep scattered over the soft green distance, and the skylark singing Ms hjonn of happiness, a speck above my head. Truly a wonderful place ! Distant not more than a morning's drive from noisy and populous Brighton — a stranger to this neighbourhood could only have found his way by the compass, exactly as if he had been sailing on the sea ! The farther we penetrated on our land voyage, the more wild and the more beautiful the solitary landscape grew. The boy picked his way as he chose — there were no barriers here. Plod- ding behind, I saw nothing, at one time, but the back of the chaise, tilted up in the air, both pony and boy being invisibly buried in the steep descent of the hiU. At other times, the pitch was all the contrary way ; the whole interior of the ascending chaise was disclosed to my view, and above the chaise the pony, and above the pony the boy — and, ah, my luggage swaying and rocking in the frail embraces of the rope that held it. Twenty times did I confidently expect to see baggage, chaise, pony, boy, all rolling down into the bottom of a valley together. But no ! Not the least little accident happened to spoil my enjoyment of 132 GLEANmGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. the day. Politically contemptible, Finch's boy had his merit — he was master of his subject as guide and pony-leader among the South Down Hills. Arrived at the top of (as it seemed to me) our fiftieth grassy summit, I began to look about for signs of the village. Behind me, rolled back the long undulations of the hills, with the cloud-shadows moving over the solitudes that we had left. Before me, at a break in the purple distance, I saw the soft white line of the sea. Beneath me, at my feet, opened the deepest valley I had noticed yet— with one first sign of the presence of Man scored hideously on the face of Nature, in the shape of a square brown patch of cleared and ploughed land on the grassy slope. I asked if we were getting near the village now. Finch's boy winked, and answered " Yes, we be." Astonishing Finch's boy ! Ask him what ques- tions I might, the resources of his vocabulary remained invariably the same. Still this youthful Oracle answered always in three monosyllabic words ! We plunged into the valley. Arrived at the bottom, I discovered another sign of Man. Behold the first road I had seen yet — a rough waggon-road ploughed deep in the chalky soil ! We crossed this, and turned a corner of a hill. More signs of human life. Two small boys started up out of a dry ditch — apparently set as scouts to give notice of our approach. They yelled, and set off running before us, by some short cut, known only to themselves We turned again, round another winding of the valley, and crossed a brook. I considered it my duty to make myself acquainted with the local names. What was the brook called? It was called "The Cockshoot?" And the great hill, here, on my right 1 " It was called " The Overblow! " Five minutes more, and we saw our first house — lonely and little — buUt of mortar and flint from the hills. A name to this also 1 Certainly ! Name of " Browndown." Another ten minutes of walking involving us more and more deeply in the mysterious green windings of the valley — and the greatest event of the day happened at last. Finch's boy pointed before him with his whip, and said (even, at this supreme moment, still in three monosyllabic words) : — " Here we be ! " So this is Dimchurch ! I shake out the chalk- dust from the skirts of my dress. I long (quite vainly) for the least bit of looking-glass to see myself in. Here is the population (to the number of at least five or six), gathered together, informed by the scouts — and it is my woman's business to produce the best impression of myself that I can. We advance along the little road. I smile upon the population. The population stares at me in return. On one side, I remark three or four cottages, and a bit of open ground ; also au inn named " The Cross-Hands," and a bit more of open ground ; also a tiny, tiny butcher's-shop, with sanguinary insides of sheep on one blue pie- dish in the window, and no other meat than that, and nothing to see beyond, but again the open ground, and again the hills ; indicating the end of the village on this side. On the other side there appears, for some distance, nothing but a long flint wall guarding the outhouses of a farm. Be- yond this, comes another little group of cottages, with the seal of civilisation set on them, in the form of a post-ofiice. The post-office deals in general commodities — in boots and bacon, biscuits and flannel, crinoline petticoats and religious tracts. Farther on, behold another flint wall, a garden, and a private dwelling-house, proclaiming itself as the rectory. Farther yet, on rising ground, a little desolate church, with a tiny white circular steeple, topped by an extinguisher in red tiles. Beyond this, the hills and the heavens once more. And there is Dimchurch ! As for the inhabitants — what am I to say 1 I suppose I must tell the truth. I remarked one born gentleman among the inhabitants, and he was a sheep-dog. He alone did the honours of the place. He had a stump of a tail which he wagged at me with extreme difficulty, and a good honest white and black face which he poked companionably into my hartd. " Welcome, Madame Pratolungo, to Dimchurch ; and excuse these male and female labourers who stand and stare at you. The good God who makes us all has made them too, but has not succeeded so well as with you and me." I happen to be one of the few people who can read dogs' language as written in dogs' faces. I correctly report the language of tlie gentleman-sheep-dog on this occasion. We opened the gate of the rectory, and passed in. So my Land-voyage over the South Down Hills came prosperously to its end. The rectory resembled, in one respect, this narra- tive that I am now writing. It was in Two Parts. Part the First, in front, composed of the everlast- ing flint and mortar of the neighbourhood, failed to interest me. Part the Second, running back at a right angle, asserted itself as ancient. It had been in its time, as I afterwards heard, a convent of nuns. Here, were snug little Gothic windows, and dark ivy-covered walls of venerable stone ; repaired in places, at some past period, with quaint red bricks. I had hoped that I should enter the house by this side of it. But no. The boy — after appearing to be at a loss what to do with me — led the way to a door on the modern side of the building, and rang the bell. A slovenly young maid-servant admitted me to the house. POOR MISS FINCH. 133 Possibly, tliis person was new to the duty of receiving visitors. Possibly, she was bewildered by a sudden invasion of children in dirty frocks, darting out on us in the hall, and then darting back again into invisible back regions, screeching at the sight of a stranger. At any rate, she too appeared to be at a loss what to do with me. After staring hard at my foreign face, she suddenly opened a door in the wall of the passage, and ad- mitted me into a small room. Two more children in dirty frocks darted, screaming, out of the up the stairs— one of them in possession of my card, and waving it in triumph on the first landing. We penetrated to the other end of the passage. Again a door was opened. Unannounced, I en- tered another and a larger room. What did I see 1 Fortune had favoured me at last. My lucky star had led me to the mistress of the house. I made my best curtsey, and found myself con- fronting a large, light-haired, languid, lymphatic lady, who had evidently been amusing herself by walking up and down the room at the moment "New to the duty of receiving visiTor.s. asylum thus offered to me. I mentioned my name, as soon as I could make myself heard. The maid appeared to be terrified at the length of it. I gave her my card. The maid took it between a dirty finger and thumb — looked at it as if it was some extraordinary natural curiosity — turned it round, exhibiting correct black impressions in various parts of it of her finger and thumb— gave up un- derstanding it in despair, and left the room. She was stopped outside (as I gathered from the sounds) by a returning invasion of children in the hall. There was whispering; there was giggling; there was, every now and then, a loud thump on the door. Prompted by the children, as I suppose— pushed in by them certainly— the maid suddenly reappeared with a jerk. " Oh, if you please, come this way," she said. The invasion of children retreated again when I appeared. If there can be such a thing as a dam}) woman — this was one. There was a humid shine on her colourless white face, and an overflow of water in her pale blue eyes. Her hair was not dressed ; and her lace cap was all on one side. The upper part of her was clothed in a loose jacket of blue merino ; the lower part was robed in a dimity dressing-gown of doubtful white. In one hand she held a dirty dog's-eared book, which I at once detected to be a Circulating- Library novel. Her other hand supported a baby enveloped in flannel, sucking at her breast. Such was my first experience of Keverend Finch's Wife — destined to be also the experience of ail after-time. Never completely dressed ; never completely dry ; always with a baby in one hand and a novel in the other — such was Finch's wife ! 134 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. "Oil? Madame Pratolungo ? Yes. I hope some- body has told Miss Finch you are here. She has her own establishment, and manages everything herself. Have you had a pleasant journey ^ " (These words were spoken vacantly, as if her mind was occupied with something else. My first impression of her suggested that she was a weak, good-natured woman, and that she must have originally occupied a station in the humbler ranks of life.) " Thank you, Mrs. Finch," I said. " I have enjoyed most heartily my journey among your beautiful hills." " Oh 1 you like the hills 1 Excuse my dress. I was half an hour late this morning. When you lose half an hour in this house, you never can pick it up again, try how you may." (I soon discovered that Mrs. Finch was always losing half an hour out of her day, and that she never, by any chance, succeeded in finding it again, as she had just told me.) " I understand, madam. The cares of a niunerous family " "Ah! that's just where it is." (This was a favourite phrase of ilrs. Finch.) " There's Finch, he gets up in the morning and goes and works in the garden. Then there's the washing of the children ; and the dreadful waste that goes on in the kitchen. And Fincli, he comes in without any notice, and wants his breakfast. And of course I can't leave the baby. And half an hour does slip away so easily, that how to overtake it again, I do assure you I really don't know." Here the baby began to exhibit .symptoms of having taken more maternal nourishment than his infant stomach could comfortably contain. I held the novel while Mrs. Finch searched for her handkerchief — first in her bedgown pocket : secondly, here, there, and everywhere in the room. At this interesting moment there was a knock at the door. An elderly woman appeared, who offered a most refreshing contrast to the members of the household with whom I had made ac- quaintance thus far. She was neatly dressed ; and she saluted me with the polite composure of a civilised being. " I beg your pardon, ma'am, my young lady has only this moment heard of your arrival. Will you be so kind as to follow me ? " I turned to Mrs. Finch. She had found her handkerchief, and had put her overflowing baby to rights again. I respectfully handed back the novel. " Thank you," said Mrs. Finch. " I find novels compose my mind. Do you read novels too? Eemind me — and I'll lend you this one to- morrow." I expressed my acknowledgments, and withdrew. At the door, I looked round, saluting the lady of the house. Mrs. Finch was pro- menading the room, with the baby in one hand and the novel in the other, and the dimity bed- gown trailing behind her. We ascended the stairs, and entered a bare white-washed passage, with drab-coloured doors in it, leading, as I presumed, into the sleeping chambers of the house. Every door opened as we passed ; children peeped out at me, screamed at me, and banged the door to again. " What family has the present Mrs. Finch?" I asked. The decent elderly woman was obliged to stop and consider. " Including the baby, ma'am, and two sets of twins, and one seven months' child of deficient intellect — fourteen in all." Hearing this, I began — though I consider priests, kings, and capitalists to be the enemies of the human race — to feel a certain exceptional interest in Reverend Finch. Did he never wish that he had been a priest of the Romaii Catholic Church, mercifully forbidden to iiYrirry at all ? While the question passed through my mind, my guide took out a key, and opened a heavy oaken door at the further end of the passage. " We are obliged to keep the door locked, ma'am," she exclaimed, " or the children would be in and out of our part of the house all day long." After my experience of the children, I own I looked at the oaken door with mingled sentiments of gratitude and respect. We turned a corner, and found ourselves in the vaulted corridor of the ancient portion of the house. The casement windows, on one side — sunk deeji in recesses — looked into the garden. Each rec;ss was filled vsdth groups of flowers in pots. On the other side, the old wall was gaily decorated with hangings of bright chintz. The doors were coloured of a creamy white, with gilt mouldings. The brightty ornamented matting under our feet I at once recognised as of South American origin. The ceiling above was de: orated in delicate pale blue, with borderings of flowers. Nowhere down the whole extent of the place was so much as a single morsel of dark colour to be seen anyvi'here. At the lower end of the corridor, a solitary figure in a pure white robe was bending over the flowers in the window. This was the blind girl whose dark hours I had come to cheer. In the scattered villages of the South Downs, the simple people added their word of pity to her name, and called her compassionately "Poor Miss FincL" As for me, I can only think of her by her pretty Christian name. She is " LuciUa " when my memory dwells on her. Let me call her " LuciUa " here. When my eyes first rested on her, she was picking off the dead leaves from her flowers. Her delicate ear detected the st)und of my strange footstep long before I reached the place at v/hich she was standing. She lifted her head — and POUR MISS FINCH. 135 advanced quickly to meet me with a faint flush ou lier face which came and died away again in a moment. I happened to have visited the picture gallery at Dresden in former years. As she ai)proached me, nearer and nearer, I was irre- sistibly reminded of the gem of that superb collection — the matchless virgin of Kaphael, called " The iladonna di San Sisto." The fair broad forehead ; the peculiar fulness of the flesh between the eyebrow and the eyelid ; the delicate outline of the lower face ; the tender; sensitive lips ; the colour of the complexion and the hair — all reflected, with a startling fidelity, the lovely creature of the Dresden picture. The one fatal point at which the resemblance ceased was in the eyes. The divinely-beautiful eyes of Raphael's Virgin were lost in the living likeness of her that confronted me now. There was no deformity, there was nothing to recoil from, in my blind Lucilla. The poor, dim, sightless eyes had a faded, changele.ss, inexpressive look — and that was all. Above them, below them, round them to the very edges of her eyelids, there was beauty, movement, life. In them— death ! A more charming creature — with that one sad drawback — I never saw. There was no other personal defect in her. She had the line height, the well-balanced figure, and the length of the lower limbs, which make all a woman's movements graceful of them- selves. Her voice was delicious — clear, cheerful, .-iympathetic. This, and her smile — which added a charm of its own to the beauty of her mouth — won my heart, before she had got close enough to me to put her hand in mine. " Ah, my dear ! " I .said, in my headlong way, " I am so glad to see you !" The instant the words passed my lips, I could have cut my tongue out for reminding her in that brutal manner that she was blind. To my relief, she showed no sign of feeling it as I did. " May I see you in niij way % " she asked gently — and held up her pretty white hand. " May I touch your face '? " I sat down at once on the window-seat. The .soft rosy tips of her fingers seemed to cover my whole face in an instant. Three separate times .she passed her hand rapidly over me, her own face absorbed all the while in breathless attention to what she was about. " Speak again ! " she said .suddenly, holding her hand over me, in suspense. I said a few words. She stopped me by a kiss. " No more ! " she exclaimed joyously. " Your voice says to my ears what your face says to my fingers. I know I shall like you. Come in, and -see the rooms we a-e going to live in together." As I rose, she put her arm round my waist — then instantly drew it away again, and shook her fingers impatiently as if something had hurt them. "ApinV' I asked. " No ! no ! What coloured dress have you got on?" " Puride." " Ah ! I knew it ! Pray don't wear dark colours. I have my own blind horror of anything that is dark. Dear Madame Pratolungo, wear pretty bright colours, to please me ! " She put her arm caressingly round me again— round my neck, how- ever, this time, where her hand could rest on my linen collar. " You will change your dress before dinner— won't youl" she whi.spered. "Let me unpack for you, and choose which dress I like." The brilliant decorations of the corridor were explained to me now ! We entered the rooms ; her bed-room, my bed- room, and our sitting-room between the two. I was prepared to find them — what they proved to be — as bright as looking-glasses, and gilding, and gaily-coloured ornaments, and cheerful knick- knacks of all sorts could make them. They were more like rooms in my lively native country than rooms in sober colourless England. The onf thing which, I own, did still astonish me, was thai all this sparkling beauty of adornment in Lucilla's habitation should have been provided for the express gratification •{ a young lady who could not see. Experience was yet to show me that the blind can live in their imaginations, and have their favourite fancies and illusions like the rest of us. To satisfy Lucilla by changing my dark purple dress, it was necessary that I should first have my boxes. So far as I knew, Finch's boy had taken my luggage, along with the pony, to the stables. Before Lucilla could ring the bell to make inciuiries, my elderly guide (who had silently left us while we were talking together in the corridor) reappeared, followed by a boy and a groom, carrying my things. These servants also brought with them certain parcels for their young mistress, purchased in the town, together with a bottle, wrapped in fair white paper, which looked like a bottle of medicine — and which had a part of its own to play in our proceedings later in the day. " This is my old nurse," said Lucilla, presenting her attendant to me. '' Zillah can do a little of everything — cooking included. She has had lessons at a London Club. You must like Zillah, Madame Pratolungo, for my sake. Aie your boxes open 1 " She went down on her knees before the boxes ' as she asked the question. No girl with the fuU use of her eyes could have enjoyed more thoroughly than she did the trivial amusement of unpacking my clothes. This time, however, her wonderful delicacy of touch proved to be at fault. Of two dresses of mine which happened to be exactly the same in texture, though widely different in colour, she picked out the dark dress as being the lighf 136 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. one. I saw that I disappointed liei- sadly when I told her of her mistake. The next guess she made, however, restored the tips of her fingers to their place in her estimation : she discovered the stripes in a smart pair of stockings of mine, and brightened up directly. " Don't be long dressing," she said, on leavijig me. " We shall have dinner in half an hour. French dishes, in honour of your arrival. I like a nice dinner — I am what you call in your country gourmande. See the sad consequence ! " She put one finger to her pretty chin. " I am getting fat ; I am threatened with a double chin — at two-and twenty. Shocking ! shocking ! " So she left me. And such was the first impres- sion produced on my mind by "Poor Miss Finch." CAPTAIN EEECB. [By W. S. Gilbert.] ^F all the ships upon the blue. No ship contained a better crew ^^■^*^^^Tlian that of worthy Captain Reece, Commanding of The Mantelpiece. He was adored by all his men, For worthy Captain Reece, R.N., Did aU that lay within him to Promote the comfort of his crew. If ever they were dull or sad Their captain danced to them like mad, Or told, to make the time pass by. Droll legends of his infancy. A feather bed had every man. Warm slippers and hot-water can, Brown Windsor from the captain's store, A valet, too, to every four. Then currant wine and ginger pops. Stood handily on all the "tops," And also, with amusement rife, A " Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life." New volumes came across the sea From Jlister Mudie's libraree ; The Times and Satvrday Revieio Beguiled the leisure of the crew. Kind-hearted Captain Reece, R.N. Was quite devoted to his men ; In point of fact, good Captain Reece, Beatified The Mantelpiece. One summer eve, at half-past ten. He said (addressing all his men) : " Come, tell me, please, what I can do To please and gratify my crew. 'Their captain danced to them like mad." ij)v^v:'ii\)\i W. RahUt<'.) Did they with thirst in summer burn ? Lo, seltzogenes at every turn, And on all very sultry days Cream ices handed round on trays. " By any reasonable plan I'll make you happy, if I can ; My own convenience count as It is my duty, and I will." 7itl ; CAPTAIN REECE. 137 Then up and answered William Lee, (The kindly captain's coxswain he, A nervous, shy, low-spoken man) He cleared his throat and thus began : But what are dukes and viscounts to The happiness of all my crew 'i The word I gave you I'll fulfil : It is my duty, and I will. ' The captain saw the dame that eat." (Draun hij W. Rohtov.) "You have a daughter. Captain Reece, Ten female cousins and a niece, A ma, if what I'm told is true, Six sisters, and an aunt or two.* " Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, More friendly-like we all should be, If you united of 'em to Unmarried members of the crew. " If you'd ameliorate our life. Let each select from them a wife ; And as for nervous me, old pal. Give me your own enchanting gal ! " Good Captain Reece, that worthy man, Debated on his coxswain's plan : " I quite agree," he said, " Bill : It is my duty, and I will. " My daughter, that enchanting gurl, Has just been promised to an earl. And all my other familee, To peers of various degree. * There seems little doubt that this poem, first published many years ago, provided the author with his scheme for the opera entitled H.M.S. Pinafore. The similarity of the incidents mil strike all who have seen Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan's joint production. " As you desire it shall befall, I'll settle thousands on you all. And I shall be, despite my hoard, The only bachelor on board. ' The boatswain of The Manteljriece, He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece : " I beg your honour's leave," he said, " If you would wish to go and wed, " I have a widowed mother who Would be the very thing for you — She long has loved you from afar, She washes for you. Captain R." The captain saw the dame that day — Addressed her in his playful way — " And did it want a wedding ring'? It was a tempting ickle sing ! " Well, well, the chaplain I wiU seek, We'll all be manied this day week — At yonder church upon the hill • It is my duty, and I will ! " The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, And widowed ma of Captain Reece Attended there as they were bid ; It was their duty, and they did. 138 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. THE TOWEE OF LONDON. [By William Hepworth Dixon.] I^S/ ALF-A-MILE below London Bridge, on l^^jtr ground which was once a bluff, com- ^^1^ manding the Thames from St. Saviour's j^ Creek to St. Olave's Wharf, .stands the l& group of building.? known in our common T speech as the Tower of London, in official 1 phrase as Her ^Majesty's Tower ; a mass of ' ramparts, walls, and gates ; the most ancient and most poetic pile in Europe. Seen from the hill outside, the Tower appears to be white with age and wrinkled by remorse. The home of our stoutest kings, the grave of our noblest knights, the scene of our gayest revels, the field of our darkest crimes, that edifice speaks at once to the eye and to the soul. Grey keep, green tree, black gate, and frowning battlement, stand out, apart from all objects far and near them, menacing, picturesque, enchaining ; working on the senses like a spell ; and calhng us away from our daily mood into a woi-ld of romance, like that which we find painted in light and shadow on Shakespeare's page. Looking at the Tower as either a prison, a palace, or a court,— picture, poetry, and drama crowd upon the mind; and if the fancy dwells most frequently on the state prison, this is because the soul is more readily kindled by a human interest than fired by an archaic and official fact. For one man who would care to see the room in which a council met or a court was held, a hundred men would like to see the chamber in which Lady .Jane Grey was lodged, the cell in which Sir Walter Pialeigh wrote, the tower from which Sir John Oklcastle escaped. Who would not like to stand for a moment by those steps on which Ann Boleyn knelt ; pause by that slit in the wall through which Ai-thur De la Pole gazed ; and linger, if he could, in that room in which Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley searched the New Testament together 1 ****** Standing on Tower Hill, looking down on the dark lines of wall— picking out keep and turret, bastion and ballium, chapel and belfry— the jewel- house, the armoury, the mounts, the casements, the open leads— the Bye-ward Gate, the Belfry, the Bloody Tower — the whole edifice seems alive with story ; the story of a nation's highest splendour, its deepest misery, and its darkest shame. The soil beneath your feet is richer in blood than many a great battle-field ; for out upon this sod has been poured, from generation to- generation, a stream of the noblest life in our land. Should you have come to this spot alone, in the early day, when the Tower is noisy with martial doings, you may haply catch, in the hum which rises from the ditch and issues from the wall below you — broken by roll of drum, by blast of bugle, by tramp of soldiers — some echoes, as it were, of a far-off time ; some hints of a j\Iay-day revel ; of a state execution ; of a royal entry. You may catch some sound which recalls the thrum of a queen's virginal, the cry of a victim on the rack, the laughter of a bridal feast. For all these sights and sounds — the dance of love and the dance of death — are part of that gay and tragic memory which clings around the Tower. From the reign of Stephen down to that of Henry of Richmond, Caesar's Tower (the great Norman keep, now called the White Tower) was a main part of the royal palace ; and for that large interval of time the story of the White Tower is in some sort that of our English society as well as of our English kings. Here were kept the royal wardrobe and the royal jewels ; and hither came with their goodly wares, the tiremen, the goldsmiths, the chasers and embroiderers, from Flanders, Italy, and Almaigne. Close by were the Mint, the lions' dens, the old archery-grounds, the Court of King's Bench, the Court of Common Pleas, the queen's gardens, the royal banqueting hall ; so that art and trade, science and manners, literature and law, sport and politics, find them- selves equally at home. Two great architects designed the main parts of the Tower : Gundulf the Weeper and Henry the Builder ; one a poor Norman monk, the other a great English king. Gundulf, a Benedictine friar, had, for that age, seen a great deal of the world ; for he had not only lived in Rouen and Caen, but had travelled in the East. Familiar with the glories of Saracenic art, no less than with the Norman simplicities of Bee, St. Guen, and St. Etienne ; a pupil of Lanfranc, a friend of Anselm ; he had been employed in the monastery of Bee to marshal, with the eye of an artist, all the pictorial ceremonies of his church. But he was chiefly known in that convent as a weeper. No monk at Bee could cry so often and so much as Gundulf. He could weep with those who wept ; nay, he could weep with those who sported ; for his tears welled forth from what seemed to be an unfailing source. As the price of his exile from Bee, Gundulf received the crozier of Rochester, in which city he rebuilt the cathedral, and perhaps designed the castle, since the great keep on the Medvvay THE TOWER OF LONDON. 139 lias a sister's likeness to the great keep on tlie Thames. His works in London were — the White Tower ; the iirst St. Peter's Church ; and the old barbican, afterwards known as the Hall Tower, and now used as the jewel-house. The cost of these works was great ; the discon- tent caused by them was sore. Ralph, Bishop of Durham, the able and rapacious minister who had to raise the money, was hated and reviled by the Commons with peculiar bitterness of heart and phrase. He was called Flambard, or Firebrand. He was represented as a devouring lion. Still the great edifice grew up ; and GunduK, who Uved to the age of fourscore, saw his great keep completed from basement to battlement. Henry the Third, a prince of epical fancies, as Corife, Conway, Beaumaris, and many other fine poems in stone attest, not only spent much of his time in the Tower, but much of his money in adding to its strength and beauty. Adam de Lamburn was his master mason ; but Henry was his own chief clerk of the works. The Water Gate, the embanked wharf, the Cradle Tower, the Lantern, which he made his bedroom and private closet, the Galleyman Tower, and the first wall, appear to have been his gifts. But the prince who did so much for Westminster Abbey, not content with giving stone and piles to the home in which he dwelt, enriched the chambers with frescoes and sculpture, the chapels with carving and glass ; making St. John's Chapel in the White Tower splendid with saints, St. Peter's Church on the Tower Green musical with bells. In the Hall Tower, from which a passage led through the great hall into the king's bedroom in the Lantern, he built a tiny chapel for his private use — a chapel which served for the devotion of his successors until Henry the Sixth was stabbed to death before the cross. Sparing neither skill nor gold to make the great fortress worthy of his art, he sent to Purbeck for marble, and to Caen for stone. The dabs of lime, the spawls of flint, the layers of brick, which deface the walls and towers in too many places, are of either earlier or later times. The marble shafts, the noble groins, the delicate traceries, are Henry's work. Traitor's Gate, one of the noblest arches in the world, was built by him ; in short, nearly all that is purest in art is traceable to his reign. Edward the First may be added, at a distance, to the list of builders. In his reign the original church of St. Peter fell into ruin ; the wrecks were carted away, and the present edifice was built. The bill of costs for clearing the ground is still extant in Fetter Lane. Twelve men, who were paid twopence a day wages,, were employed on the work for twenty days. The cost of pulling down the old chapel was forty-six shillings and eightpence ; that of digging foundations for the new chapel forty shillings. . That chapel has suffered from wardens and lieutenants ; yet the shell is of very fine Norman work. From the days of Henry the Builder* down to those of Henry of Richmond, the Tower, as the strongest place in the south of England, was by turns the magnificent home and the miserable jail of all our princes. Here Richard the Second held his court, and gave up his crown. Here Henry the Sixth was murdered. Here the Duke of Clarence was drowned in wine. Here King Edward and the Duke of York were slain by the command of Richard. Here Margaret o\ Salisbury was hacked into pieces on the block. Henry of Richmond kept his royal state in the Tower, receiving his ambassadors, counting his angels, making presents to his bride, Elizabeth of York. Among other gifts to that lady on her nuptial day was a royal book of verse, composed by a prisoner in the keep. Turning through a sally-port in the Bye-ward Gate, you cross the south arm of the ditch, and come out on the wharf, — a strip of strand in front of the fortress won from the river, and kept in its place by masonry and piles. This wharf, the work of Hemy the Builder, is one of the wonders of his reign ; for the whole strip of earth had to be seized from the Thames, and covered from the daily ravage of its tides. At this bend of the river the scour is hard, the roll enormous. Piles had to be driven into the mud and silt ; rubble had to be thrown in between these piles : and then the whole mass united with fronts and bars of stone. AH Adam de Lamburn's skill was taxed to resist the weight of water, yet keep the sluices open by which he fed the ditch. Most of all was this the case when the king began to build a new barbican athwart the sluice. Thii- work, of which the proper name was for many ages the Water Gate, commands the only outlet from the Tower into the Thames ; spanning the ditch and sweeping the wharf, both to the left and right. So soon as the wharf was taken from the river-bed, this work became essential to the defen- sive line. London folk felt none of the king's pride in the construction of this great wharf and barbican. In fact, these works were in the last degree unpopular, and on news of any mishap occurring to them the Commons went almost mad with joy. Once they sent to the king a formal complaint against these works. Henry assured his people that the wharf and Water Gate would not harm their city. Still the citizens felt sore. Then, on St. George's night, 1240, while the people were at prayer, the Water Gate and wall fell down, no man knew why. No doubt the tides were high • Henry tlie Third. uo GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. that spring, and the soft silt of the river gave way beneath the wash. Anyhow they fell. Henry, too great a builder to despair, began again ; this time with a better plan ; yet on the self-same night of the ensuing year his barbican crashed down into the river, one mass of stones. A monk of St. Albans, who tells the tale, assei-ts that a priest who was passing near the fortress saw the spirit of an archbishop, dressed in his robes, holding a cross, and attended by the spirit of a clerk, gazing sternly on these new works. As the priest came up, the figure spake to the masons, " Why build ye these t " As he spoke, he struck the walls sharply with the holy cross, on which they reeled and sank into the river, leaving a wreath of smoke behind. The priest was too much scared to accost the more potent spirit ; but ne turned to the humble clerk, and asked him the aichbishop's name "St Thomas the Martyr," said the shade. The priest, growing bolder, asked him why the Martyr had done this deed 1 " St. Thomas," said the spirit, " by birth a citizen, dislikes these works, because they are raised in scorn and against the public right. For this cause he has thrown them down beyond the tyrant's power to restore them." But the shade was not strong enough to scare the king. Twelve thousand marks had been spent on that heap of ruins ; yet the barbican being necessary to his wharf, the Builder, on the morrow of his second mishap, was again at work, clearing away the rubbish, driving in the piles, and laying in a deeper bed the foundation-stones. This time his work was done so well that the walls of his gateway have never shrunk, and are as firm to- day as the earth on which they stand. The ghost informed the priest that the two most popular saints in our calendar, the Con- fessor and the Martyr, had undertaken to make war upon these walls. " Had they been built," said the shade, " for the defence of London, and in order to find food for masons and joiners, they THE TOWEB, OF LONDON. 141 might have been borne ; but they are built against | the poor citizens ; and if St. Thomas had not destroyed them, the Confessor would have swept them away." The names of these popular saints still cling to the Water Gate. One of the rooms, fitted up as an oratory, and having a piscina stUl perfect, is called the Confessor's Chapel ; and the barbican itself, instead of bearing its official name of Water Gate, is only known as St. Thomas's Tower. The whole wharf, twelve hundred feet in length, lay open to the Thames, except a patch of ground at the lower end, near the Iron Gate, leading towards the hospital of St. Catharine the Virgin, where a few sheds and magazines were built at an early date. Except these sheds, the wharf was clear. When cannon came into use, they were laid along the ground, as well as trained on the walls and the mural towers. Three ascents marked, as it were, the river front — the Queen's Stair, the Water Way, and the Galleyman Stair. The Queen's Stair, the landing- place of royal princes, and of such great jiersons as came to the Tower on state affairs, lay beneath the Bye-ward Gate and the Belfry, having a passage into the fortress by a bridge and postern, through the Bye-ward Tower into Water Lane. The Water Way was that cutting through ,the bank which passed vmder St. Thomas's Tower to the flight of steps in Water Lane ; the entrance popularly known as Traitor's Gate. The Galley- man Stair lay under the Cradle Tower, by which there was a private entrance into the royal quarter. This stair was not much used, except when the services of Traitor's Gate were out of order. Then prisoners who could not enter by the approach of honour were landed at the Galleyman Stair. Lying open to the liver and to the streets, the wharf was a promenade, a place of tiafho and of recreation, to which folk resoited on high days and fair days Men w ho loved sights were pretty sure to fand something worth seeing at either the Queen's Stair or Traitor's Gate. All personages coming to the Tower in hen .ur were landed at the Queen's Stair ; all per- sonages coming in disgrace were pushed through the Traitor's Gate. Now a royal barge, with a queen on board, was going forth in her bravery of gold and pennons ; now a lieutenant's boat, returning with a culprit in the stern, a headsman standing at his side, holding in his hand the fatal axe. Stmding on the bank, now busy vsdth a new life, these pictures of an old time start into being like a mystic writing on the wall. Two of these scenes come back with warm rich colouring to the inner eye. Now : — it is London in the reign of that Henry the Builder, who loved to adorn the fortress in which he dwelt. Whose barge is moored at yon stair, with the royal arms 1 What men are those with tabard and clarion ? Who is that proud and beautiful woman, her fair face fired with rage, who steps into her galley, but whose foot appears to scorn the plank on which it treads 1 She is the queen ; wife of the great builder ; Elinor of Provence, called by her minstrels Elinor la Belle. A poetess, a friend of singers, a lover of music, she is said to have brought song and art into the English court from her native land. The first of our laureates came in her train. She has flushed the palace with jest and joust, with tinkle of citherns, with clang of horns. But the queen has faults, for which her gracious talent and her peerless beauty fail to atone. Her greed is high, her anger ruthless. Her court is filled with an outcry of merchants who have been mulcted of queen-geld, a wrangle of friars who have been robbed by her kith and kin, a roar of firemen and jewellers clamorous for their debts, a mm-iiuir Aih BoLElh AT THE QlEm s SfAlR (V)amlyM L Gow ) 142 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. of knights and barons protesting against her loans, a clatter of poor Jews objecting to be spoiled. Despite her gifts of birth and wit, Elinor la Belle is the most unpopular princess in the world. She has been living at the Tower, which her husband loves ; but she feels that her palace is a kind of jail ; she wishes to get away, and she has sent for her barge and watermen, hoping to escape from her people and to breathe the free air of her Windsor home. Will the Commons let her go ^ Proudly her barge puts off. The tabards bend and the clarions blare. But the Commons, who wait her coming on London Bridge, dispute her passage, and drive her back with curses, crying, " Drown the witch ! Drown the witch ! " LTnable to pass the bridge, Elinor has to turn her keel, and, with passionate rage in her heart, to find her way back. Her son, the young and fiery Edward, never forgets this insult to his mother ; by-and-by he will seek revenge for it on Lewes field ; and by mad pursuit of his revenge he will lose the great fight and imperil his father's crown. Again : — it is London in the reign of bluff King Hal— the husband of two fair wives. The river is alive with boats ; the air is white with smoke ; the sun overhead is burning with golden j\Iay. Thousands on thousands of spectators dot the banks ; for to-day a bride is coming home to the king, the beauty of whose face sets old men's fancies and young men's eyes agog. On the wharf, near the Queen's Stair, stands a burly figure, tall beyond common men ; broad in chest and strong in limb ; dressed in a doublet of gold and crimson, a cap and plume, shoes with rosettes and diamonds, a hanger by his side, a George upon his breast. It is the king, surrounded by dukes and earls, awaiting the arrival of a barge, in the midst of blaring trumpets and exploding sakers. A procession sweeps along; stealing up from Greenwich, with plashing oars and merry strains, fifty great boats, with a host of wherries on their flanks ; a vessel firing guns in front, and a long arrear of craft behind. From the first barge lands the lord mayor ; from the second trips the bride ; from the rest stream out the picturesque city companies. Cannons roar, and bells fling out a welcome to the queen ; for this is not simply a great day in the story of one lovely woman ; but a great day in the story of English life. Now is the morning time of a new era ; for on this bright May — " The gospel light first shines from Boleyii's eyes," and men go mad with hope of things which are yet to come. The king catches that fair young bride in his arms, kisses her soft cheek, and bears her in through the Bye-ward Tower. The picture fades from view, and presently reappears. Is it the same 1 The queen — the stair — the barge — the crowd of men — all these are here. Yet the picture is not the same. No burly Henry stands by the stair ; no guns disturb the sky ; no blast of trumpets greets the royal barge ; no train of aldermen and masters waits upon the queen. The lovely face looks older by a dozen years ; yet scarcely three have passed since that fair form was clasped in the king's arms, kissed, and carried by the bridge. This time she is a prisoner, charged with having done such things as pen cannot write ; things which would be treason, not to her lord only, but to her womanhood, and to the King of kings. When she alights on the Queen's Stair, she turns to Sir William Kingston, Constable of the Tower, and asks, " Must I go into a dungeon 1 " " No, madam," says the constable ; " you will lie in the same room which you occupied before." She falls on her knees. "It is too good for me," she cries ; and then weeps for a long time, lying on the cold stones, with all the people standing by in tears. She begs to have a sacra- ment in her own room, that she may pray -ndth a pure heart ; sayin.o-. she is free from sin, and that she is, and has always been, the king's true wedded wife. " Shall I die without justice ? " she inquires. "Madam," says Kingston, "the poorest subject would have justice." The lady only laughs a feeble laugh. Other, and not less tragic, scenes drew crowds to the Water Way from the Thames. Beneath this arch has moved a long procession of our proudest peers, our fairest women, our bravest soldiers, our wittiest poets — Buckingham and Strafford ; Lady Jane Grey, the Princess Elizabeth ; William Wallace, David Bruce ; Surrey, Raleigh — names in which the splendour, poetry, and sentiment of our national story are embalmed. Most of them left it high in rank and rich in life, to return, by the same dark passage, in a few brief hours poorer than the beggars who stood shivering on the bank ; in the eyes of the law, and in the words of their fellows, already dead. From this gateway went the barge of that Duke of B'dckingham, the rival of Wolsey, the last permanent High-constable of England. Buck- ingham had not dreamed that an offence so slight as his could bring into the dust so proud a head ; for his offence was nothing ; some silly words which he had bandied lightly in the Rose, a city tavern, about the young king's journey into France. He could not see that his head was struck because it moved so high ; nay, his proud boast that if his enemies sent him to the Tower, ten thousand friends would storm the walls to set LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS. 143 him free, was perhaps the occasion of his fall. Wh,2n sentence of death was given, he marched back to his barge, where Sir Thomas Lovel, then constable, stood ready to hand him to the seat of honom-. " Nay," said the duke to Lovel, " not so now. When I came to Westminster I was Lord High-constable and Duke of Buckingham ; now I am but poor Edward Stafford." Landed at the Temple Stair, he was marched along Fleet Street, through St. Paul's Churchyard, and by way of Cheap to the Tow;r; the axe borne before him all the way ; Sir WiUiam Sandys holding him by the right arm. Sir Nicholas Vaux by the left. A band of Augustine friars stood praying round the block ; and when his head had fallen into the dust they bore his remains to St. Austin's Church. On these steps, too, beneath this Water Gate, Elizabeth, then a fair young girl, with gentle feminine face and golden hair, was landed by her jealous sister's servants. The day was Sunday — Palm Sunday— with a cold March rain coming down, and splashing the stones witli mud. She could not land without soiling her feet and clothes, and for a moment she refused to leave her barge. Sir John Gage, the constable, and hia guards, stood by to receive her. "Are all these harnessed men for me 1 " she asked. " No, madam," said Sir .John. " Yea," she replied, " I know it is so." Then she stood up in her boat and leaped on shore. As she set foot on the stone steps, she exclaimed, in a spirit prouder than her looks — for in her youth she had none of that leonine beauty of her later years — "Here landeth as true a subject, being a prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs ; and before thee, God, I speak it." Perhaps she was thinking of her mother, who had landed on the neighbouring wharf. Anne had fallen on her knees on these cold stones, and here had called on God to help her, as she was not guilty of the things of which she stood accused. In those two attitudes of appeal one reads the nature of these two proud and gentle women, each calling Heaven to witness her innocence of crime — Elizabeth defiant, erect ; Anne suppliant, on her knees. LEEDLE YAWCOB STEAUSS.* [By Charles F. Adams.] I HAP von funny leedle poy, Vot gomes schust to mine knee ; Der queerest schap, der createst rogue, As efer you dit see. He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings In all barts of der house : But vot off dot 1 he vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. He get der measles und der mumbs, Und eferyding dot's oudt ; He spills mine glass of lager bier. Boots schnuflf indo mine kraut. He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese, — Dot vas der roughest chouse : I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss. He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo. To make der schticks to beat it mit, — Mine gracious, dot vos drue ! I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart He kicks oup soo;h a touse : But never mind ; der poys vas few Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. . He asks me ciuestions sooch as dese ; Who baints mine nose so red 1 Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt ■ Vrom der hair ubon mine hed ? Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp Vene'er der glim I douse. How gan I all dose dings eggsblain To dot sohmall Yawcob Strauss 1 I somedimes dink I schall go vild Mit sooch a grazy poy, LTnd vish vonce more I gould haf rest, Und beaceful dimes enshoy ; But ven he vash ashleep in ped, So guiet as a mouse, I prays der Lord, " Dake anyding. But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." By permission of Mersrs. George Eoutledfre and Sons. U4 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. HAPPY THOUGHTS. [By r. C. BUENAKD.1 I HAVE now hit upon a very happy thought. Being in need of quiet, in order to commence my great work on "Typical Develop- ments," I have found a charming retreat on the banks of the Thames, somewher-e about Twickenham, or Teddington, or Richmond, or Kingston, and all that part. Capital fishing here. In punts, with a man, and worms ; average sport, one tittlebat in ten hours. First Happy Day. Cliarming ; perfect quiet. See a man in punt, fishing. A.sk him how long he had been there 1 He says, "Three houris." Caught anything? "Nothing." He is quite cheerful. Full of happy thoughts, and commence my Typical Devdopmwnts. In the evening catch an earwig ; not a bit frightened of him. The pincers in an eanvig's tail don't hite. To bed early. Leave the man fishing ; his man with the bait asleep. Been there all day 1 " Yes." Caught anything 1 " Nothing." Quite contented. Second Happiy Day. LTp early. Same man in punt, still fishing ; new man with bait. Ask him how long he has been there % "All night." Caught anything'? "Nothing." Not at all irritable. . . . Kill two earwigs in my bath. Sit in my parlour to write. Before me is my little lawn : at the foot of the lawn runs the river. 9 A.M. I commence my Typiical Developments, note the fact, keeping by me this journal of observation in case anything turns irp. Something has turned up : an earwig. Distracting for a moment, but now defunct. All is peace. I walk down the lawn. Caught anything % " Nothing." His voice is, I fancy, getting weaker. I am meditating, and my soul is rising to sublime heights A Barge is passing slowly, towed by horses against a strong stream, while the happy bargeman trudges cheerily along ; and other happy bargemen with their wive.s and children loll lazily on the deck. (The fishing punt has suddenly disappeared. ) Ah ! how easily may we float against the stream of life, if we are towed. How sweet it is to a Barge has stuck on the shallow.*. Scientific Note. — How distinctly water conveys sound. I can hear every word that happy barge- man on the opposite shore says, as if I were at his elbow. He is using language of a fearful descrip- tion to his horses. The other bargeman has lifted himself up (he was on his back kicking his legs in the air on deck) to remonstrate. His remon- strances are couched in still stronger language, and include the man and the beasts. Woman (his wife I should say) interferes with a view to peacemaking. Her soothing word.'> are more forcible than those of the two men, and include them both with the beasts. The children have also joined in, and are abusing the bargeman (their father, as I gather) on shore. My gardener tells me they'll probably stick here till the tide turns. I ask him if it often happens ? He tells me " Oh ! it's a great place for barges." My sister and two ladies in the drawing- room (also facing the lawn) have closed their win- dows. Typical De-oelopments shall have a chapter on the " Ideal Bargeman." To write is unpossible at present. A request has been forwarded to me from the drawing-room to the effect that I would step in and kill an earwig or two. I step in and kill five. Ladies in hysterics. The punt has re- appeared : he only put in for more bait. Caught anything % " Nothing." Had a bite 1 " Once, I tliink." He is calm, but not in any way trium- phant. Evening. — Tide turned. Barge gone. They swore till the last moment. From my lawn I attempted to reason with them. I called them I " my good men," and tried to cajole them. Their immediate reply was of an evasive character. I I again attempted to reason with them. Out of I their next reply I distinguished only one word HAPPY THOUGHTS. 145 which was not positively an oath. Even as it stood apart from its context, it wasn't a nice word, and my negotiations came to an end. Went back to my parlour and killed earwigs. Night. — Man in punt still fishing. He informs ifle that he doesn't think this a very good place for sport. Caught anything ? " Nothing." He is going somewhere else. I find that I can write at night. No noise. I discover for the first time that I've got a neighbour who looks at the Moon .and Jupiter every night through a large telescope. He asks me would I like to step in and see Jupiter ?....! have stepyied in and seen Jupiter (who gave us some difiiculty in getting himself into a focus) until my head aches. He has a machine for stopping the earth's motion while we look at .Jupiter. It is very convenient, as you can't get a good look at Jupiter while the earth is going round, Happy Tliotiyht. — To call my astronomical acquaintance "Joshua." I do. He doesn't like it. No writing to-night. During my absence, five moths, attracted by the gas-light, and at least a hundred small green flies, have perished misera- bly on my MS. paper and books. . . Screams from the ladies' bed-room. Off. .... Maid servant up ! ! ! Lights ! ! Would I mind stepping in and killing an earwig." Bed. I open my window and gaze on the placid stream. Wliy, there's a punt ; and a man in it : fishing. He is returned. Caught anything ? " Nothing." Good night. " Good night." Third Happy Day. — Five earwigs in bath, drowned. Fine day for Typical Developments. Man and punt gone ; at least I don't see them. Commenced Chapter 1st. . . . Dear me ! MiLsic on the water. A large barge with a pleasure party. They're dancing the Lancers. The gardener says, in reply to my question about the frequent cecurrence of these merry-makings, " Oh, yes, it's a great place for pleasure parties and moosic. They comes up in smnmer about three or four at a time all a playin' of different toons. Quite gay like. The Maria Jane brings up parties every day with a band." The Maria Jane is the name of the pleasure barge. Bah ! I will overcome this nervousness. I wiU abstract myself from passing barges and music, and concentrate myself upon — tiddledy tidcUedy rum ti tum — that's the bowing figure in the Lancers — hang the bowing figure ! — Let me concentrate myself upon — with a tiddledy tiddledy rum ti tum. It's diifioult to remember the Lancers. The barge has passed. Now for Typical Developments. — Message from my aunt, " Would I step in and kill an earwig in the work-box." ... A steamer! I didn't know steamers were allowed here. "Oh, yes," the gardener says, " it's a great place for steamers. They brings up school children for feasts." They do with a vengeance ; the children are shouting and holloaing, their masters and mistresses are issuing orders for landing ; thank goodness, on the opposite bank. They've got a band, too. " No," the gardener explains, "it's not their band I hear, that belongs to the Benefit Societies' Club, as has just come up in the other steamer behind." The other steamer ! They're dancing the Lancers, too. I must concentrate myself ; let me see, where was I ? Typical Developments. Chap. I. Tiddledy tiddledy rum ti tum. With my tidcUedy tiddledy rum tum tum. And my tiddledy tiddledy. That's the bowing figure. Now they're bowing, and finish, yes, tiddledy tiddledy rum ti tum. The Lancers is rather fun. . . Goodness ! I find myself unconsciously practising steps and doing a figure. I must concentrate myself. Afternoon. — Barges and swearing. Pleasure boat with band, and party dancing Lancers, for the fourth time. Eeturn of all the boats, steamers, and barges ; they stop opposite, out of a mistaken complimentary feeling on their part, and play (for a change) the Lancers, Tiddledy tiddledy rum ti tum. Becoming a little wild, I dance by myself on the lawn. The maid comes out. " Would I .step in and kill an earwig 1 " With pleasure — bowing figure — and niy tiddledy iddledy rum ti tum. Night. — The turmoil has all passed. I walk clown the lawn and gaze on the calmly flowing river. Is it possible ? There is the punt and the man, fishing. He'd been a little higher up. Caught anything'? "Nothing." Gardener informs me that people often come out for a week's fishing. I suppose he's come out for a week's fishing. Neigh- bour over the hedge" asks me, " Would I like to have a look at Jupiter 1" I say I won't trouble him. He says no trouble, just get the focus, stop the earth's motion, and there you are. He does get the focus, stops the earth's motion with his in- strument, and, consequently, there I am. I leave 146 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. my Typical Developments, Chap. I. . . . Look- ing tlirougli the telescope makes one's head ache. We did have some brandy-and-water. Shan't stop up so late again. Cocks begin to crow here at midnight. It's quite light at midnight : I can't con- centrate myself like the man in the punt. Caught anything 1 "Nothing." Good night. ''Good night." Fourth and Fifth Happy Days. — Typical Developments, Chap. I. Man in punt disappeared. Lancers, tiddledy iddledy rum ti turn, from 11 a.m. till 2 p.m. School feasts 2 till 5. Earwigs to be killed every other half-hour. Cheering from Odd Fellows and Mutual Benevolent Societies. Barges at all hours and strong language. Festive people on opposite shore howling and fighting up till past midnight. Gardener says, " Oh ! yes, it's a great place for all that sort of thing." Disturbed in the evening by Jupiter, Saturn, and the Moon, which have got something remarkable the matter with them. Accounted for, perhaps, by the machine for checking the earth's motion being a little out ot order. Happy Thought. — I have found a more charm- ing " Retreat" on the banks of the Thames, i.e., to retreat altogether. Have heard of an old Feudal Castle to be let. Shall go there. Shan't take my mother, nor my aunt, and, of course, not Miss- Jinsey. Ha2:>py Thought. — To be alone. Moat and re- mote ; put that into Typical Developments,. Chap. I. We have packed up everything. I open my note-book of memoranda to see if I've left anything behind. I walk down the lawn to see if I've left anything behind there. Yes ! there he is. The man in the punt, still fishing. He- says he's been a little lovrer down. Any sport % " None." Caught anything here % " Nothing." Good bye. "Good bye." And so I go away and leave him behind. -S^s^^ll THE VALUE OF THOUGHT. [From -' The Stones of Venice." By John Ritsein.] HE modern English mind has this much in common with that of the Greek, that it in- tensely desires, in all things, the utmost completion or per- fection compatible with their nature. This is a noble cha- racter in the abstract, bvit be- comes ignoble when it causes us to forget the relative dignities of that nature itself, and to prefer the perfectness of the lower nature to the imperfection of the higher ; not con- sidering that as, judged by such a rule, all the brute animals would be preferable to man, because more perfect in their functions and kind, and yet are always held inferior to him, so also in the works of man, those which are more perfect in their kind are always inferior to those which are, in their nature, liable to more faults and shortcomings. For the finer the nature, the more flaws it will show through the clearness of it ; and it is a law of this universe, that the best things shall be seldomest seen in their best form. The wild grass grows well and strongly, one year with another ; but the wheat is, according to the greater nobleness of its nature, liable to the bitterer blight. And, therefore, while in all things that we see, or do, we are to desire perfec- tion, and strive for it, we are nevertheless not to set the meaner thing, in its narrow accomplish- ment, above the nobler thing, in its mighty progress ; not to esteem smooth minuteness above shattered majesty ; not to prefer mean victory tO' honourable defeat ; not to lower the level of our aim, that we may the more surely enjoy the com- placency of success. But, above all, in our dealings with the souls of other men, we are to take care how we check, by severe requirement or narrow caution, efforts which might otherwise lead to a noble issue ; and, still more, how we withhold our admiration from great excellences, because they are minglod with rough faults. Now, in the make and nature of every man, however rude or simple, whom we employ in manual labour, there are some powers for better things : some tardy imagination, torpid capacity of emotion, tottering steps of thought, there are, even at the worst ; and in most cases it is all our own fault that they are tardy or torpid. But they cannot be strengthened, unless we are content to take them in their feebleness, and unless we prize and honour them in their im- perfection above the best and most pei'lect manual skill. And this is what we have to do with all our labourers ; to look for the thoughtful part of them, and get that out of them, whatever we lose for it, whatever faults and errors we are obliged to THE VALUE OF THOUGHT. 147 -take -with it. For tlie best that is in tliem cannot manifest itself, but in company with much error. Understand this clearly : You can teach a man to draw a straight line, and to cut one ; to strike a curved line, and to carve it ; and to copy and carve any number of given lines or forms, with admirable speed and perfect precision ; and you find his work perfect of its kind : but if you ask him to think about any of those forms, to consider if he cannot find any better in his own head, he stops ; his execution becomes hesitating ; he thinks, and ten to one he thinks wrong ; ten to ■ one lie makes a mistake in the first touch he gives to his work as a tliinking being. But you have made a man of him for all that. He was only a machine before, an animated tool. And observe, you are put to stern choice in this matter. You must either make a tool of the creature, or a man of him. You cannot make both. Men were not intended to work with the accuracy of tools, to be precise and perfect in all their actions. If you will have that precision out ■of them, and make their fingers measure degrees like cog-wheels, and their arms strike curves like •compasses, you must unhumanise them. All the energy of their spirits must be given to make cogs and compasses of themselves. All their attention and strength must go to the accomplishment of the mean act. The eye of the soul must be bent upon the finger-point, and the soul's force must fill all the invisible nerves that guide it, ten hours a day, that it may not err from its steely precision, and so soul and sight be worn away, and the whole human being be lost at last — a heap of sawdust, so far as its intellectual work in this world is concerned; saved only by its Heart, which cannot go into the form of cogs and compasses, but expands, after the ten hours are over, into fireside humanity. On the other hand, if you will make a man of the working creature, you cannot make a tool Let him but begin to imagine, to think, to try to do anything worth doing ; and the engine-turned precision is lost at once. Out come all his rough- ness, all his dulness, all his incapability ; shame upon shame, failure upon failure, pause after pause : but out comes the whole majesty of him also ; and we know the height of it only when we see the clouds settling upon him. And, whether the clouds be bright or dark, there wUl be trans- figuration behind and within them. '^'-^a ¥^:r- RUPEET'S MAECK. [Fro.ri ■• Historical and Legendary Ballads." By Walter THOEHEnET.J I- ./i-RABINE slung, stirrup well hung, "y Flagon at saddle-bow merrUy swung ; Toss up the ale, — for our flag, like a sail. Struggles and swells in the July gale. Colours fling out, and then give them a shout ; We are the gallants to put them to rout. :Flash all your swords, like Tartarian hordes, And scare the prim ladies of Puritan lords ; •Our steel caps shall blaze through the long summer days. As we galloping sing our mad Cavalier lays. 'Then, banners, advance ! by the lilies of France, "We are the gallants to lead them a dance ! Hing the bells back, though the sexton look black, Defiance to knaves who are hot on our track. ■" Murder and fire ! " shout louder and higher ; Eemember Edge Hill and the red-dabbled mire, "When our steeds we shall stall in the Parliament hall. And shake the old nest till the roof-tree shall fall. IV. Froth it up, girl, till it splash every curl, October's the liquor for trooper and earl ; Bubble it up, merry gold in the cup, We never may taste of to-morrow night's sup (Those red ribbons glow on thy bosom below Like apple-tree bloom on a hillock of snow). V. No, by my word, there never shook sword Better than this in the clutch of a lord. The blue streaks that run are as bright in the sun As the veins on the brow of that loveliest one ; No deep light of the sky, when the twilight is nigh, Glitters more bright than this blade to the eye. TI. Well, whatever may hap, this rusty steel cap Will keep out fuU many a pestilent rap ; This buff, though it's old, and not larded with gold. Will guard me from rapier as well as from cold ; This scarf, rent and torn, though its colour is worn, Shone gay as a page's but yesterday morn. 148 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. ' Red grew the tide.'* {Dravm &y W, Small.) Here is a dint from the jag of a flint Thrown by a Puritan, just as a hint ; But this stab through the buff was a warning more rough, WTien Coventry city arose in a huff ; And I met with this gash, as we rode with a crash Into Noll's pikes on the banks of the Ash. VIII. No jockey or groom wears so draggled a plume As this, that's just drenched in the swift flowing Froom, Red grew the tide ere we reached the steep side And steaming the hair of old Barbary's hide ; But for branch of that oak, that saved me a stroke- I had sunk there like herring in pickle to scale. IX. Pistolet crack flashed bright on our track, And even the foam of the water turned black. They were twenty to one, our poor rapier to gun, But we charged up the bank, and we lost only one^ So I sa.-ed the old flag, though it was but a rag, And the sword in my hand was snapped off to a jag. RUPERT'S MARCH. 140 .The water was cliurnecl as we wheeled and we turned, And the dry brake, to scare out the vermin, we burned ; We gave our halloo, and our trumpet we blew ; Of aU their stout fifty we left them but two ; With a mock and a laugh, won their banner and staff, And trod down the cornets as threshers do chaff. XI. Saddle my roan, his back is a throne, Better than velvet or gold, you wall own. Look to your match, for some harm you may catch, For treason has always some mischief to hatch. And OHver's out with aU Haslerigg's rout, So I'm told by this shivering, white-livered scout. XII. We came o'er the downs, through vUlage and towns. In spite of the sneers, and the curses, and frowns, Drowning their psalms and stilUng their qualms, With a clatter and rattle of scabbards and arms, Down the long street, with a trample of feet, For the echo of hoofs to a Cavalier's sweet. See, black on each roof, at the sound of our hoof, The Puritans gather, but keep them aloof ; Their muskets are long and they aim at a throng. But woe to the weak when they challenge the strong ! Butt-end to the door — one Iiammer more. Our pike-men rush in and the struggle is o'er. Storm through the gate, batter the plate, Cram the red crucible into the grate. Saddle-bags fill, Bob, Jenkin, and Will, And spice the staved wine that runs out like a rill; That maiden shall ride all to-day by my side, Those ribbons are fitting a Cavalier's bride. Does Baxter say right, that a bodice laced tight Should never be seen by the sun or the light ? Like stars from a wood, shine under that hood Eyes that are sparkling, though pious and good. Surely this waist was by Providence placed, By a true lover's arm to be often embraced. XVI. Doivn on your knees, you villains in frieze ; A draught to King Charles, or a swing from those trees. Blow off this stiff look, for 'tis useless to knock, The ladies will pardon the noise and the shock ; From this bright dewy cheek, might I venture to speak, I coidd kiss off the tears, though she wept for a week. XVII. Now loop me this scarf round the broken pike- staff, 'Twill do for a flag, though the Cropheads may laugh. Who was it blew ? Give a halloo, And hang out the pennon of crimson and blue. A volley of shot is welcoming hot — It cannot be troop of the murdering Scot. XVIII.' Fire the old mill on the brow of the hill ; Break down the plank that runs over the rill : Bar the town gate— if the burghers debate, Shoot some to death— for the villains must wait. Rip up the lead from the roofing o'erhead. And melt it for buUets, or we shall be sped. Now look to your buff, for steel is the stuff To slash your brown jerkins with crimson enough. There burst a flash : I heard their drums crash — To horse ! Now for race over moorland and plash. Ere the stars glimmer out we will wake with a shout The true men of York, who will welcome our rout. We'll shake their red roofs with our echoing hoofs. And flutter the dust from their tapestry woofs ; Their old minster shall ring with our " God save the King!" And our horses shall drink at St. Christopher's spring ; We shaU welcome the meat oh ! the wine will taste sweet. When oiir boots are flung off and as brothers we greet. 6>„^ 150 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. MR. EABBIT AND ME. FOX.* [From " Uncle Eemus : Legends of the Old Plantation." By J. C. Hahkis.] ^^ip IDN'T the fox never catch the rabbit, IJ^ Uncle Remus? " asked the little boy, r^^g, "He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho's 111®;- you bawn — Brer Fox did. One day jns, atter Brer Rabbit fool 'im wid dat calamus -*• root. Brer Fox went ter "vvuk en got 'im some 1 tar, en mix it wid some turkentime, en fix up a contrapshun what he called a Tar-Baby, en he tuck dish yer Tar-Baby en he sot 'er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer ter see wat de news wuz gwineter be. En he didn't -hatter wait long, nudder, kaze bimeby here come Brer Rabbit pacin' down de road — lippity-cUppity, ■clippity-lippity — dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer Fox, he lay low. Brer Rabbit come prancin' 'long twel he spy de Tar-Baby, en den he fotch up on his behime legs like lie wuz 'stonished. De Tar- Baby, she sot dar, she did, en Brer Fox, he lay low. " ' Mawnin' ! ' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee — ' nice wedder dis mawnin',' sezee. " Tar-Baby ain't sayin' nuthin', en Brer Fox, he lay low. " ' How duz yo' sym'tunis, seem ter segashu- ate 1 ' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. " Brer Fox, he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin'. " ' How you come on, den 1 Is you deaf 1 ' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. ' Kaze if you is, I kin holler louder,' sezee. "Tar-baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low. "' Youer stuck up, dat's w'at you is,' says Brer ' Hl fotch up on his behime legs. dat's Rabbit, sezee, ' en I'm gwineter kyore you, w'at I'm a gwineter do,' sezee. " Brer Fox, he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, he did, but Tar-Baby aint sayin' nuthin " ' I'm gwineter larn 'specttubble fokes ef hit's de las' ack,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. ' Ef you don't take off dat hat en tell me howdy, I'm gwineter bus' you wide open,' sezee. " Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low. 'He tuck 'ek side er de head.' Brer Rabbit keep on axin' 'im, en de Tar- she keep on sayin, nuthin', twel present 'y Brer Rabbit draw back wid his fis', he did, en blip he tuck 'er side er de head. Right dar's whar he broke his merlasses jug. His tis' stuck, en he can't pull loose. De tar hilt 'im. But Tar- Baby, she stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low. " ' Ef you don't lemme loose, I'll knock yon agin,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, en wid dat he fotch 'er a wipe wid de udder han', en dat stuck. Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin', en Brer Fox, he lay low. " ' Tu'n me loose, fo' I kick de stuffin' outen you,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, but de Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin'. She des hilt on, en den Brer Rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same way. Brer Fox, he lay low. Den Brer Babbit squall out dat ef de Tar-Baby don't tu'n 'im loose he butt 'er cranksided. En den he butted, en his head got stuck. Den Brer Fox, he sa'ntered fort', lookin' des ez innercent ez wunner yo' mammy's mockin'-birds. ' " ' Howdy, Brer Rabbit,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. ' You look sorter stuck up dis mawnin',' sezee, en den he rolled on de groun', en laft en laft twel he couldn't laff no mo'. ' I speck you'll take dinner wid me dis time. Brer Rabbit. I done laid in some calamus root, en I ain't gwineter take no skuse,' sez Brer Fox, sezee." " Wen Brer Fox fine Brer Babbit mixt up wid de Tar-Baby, he feel mighty good, en he roU on you liowter talk ter I de groun' en latf. Bimeby, he up'n say, sezee : • By permission of Messrs. George Eoutledge and Sous. MR. RABBIT AND MR, FOX 151 " ' Well, I speck I got you dis time, Brer Babbit,' sezee ; ' maybe I ain't, but I speck I is. You been runnin' roun' here sassin' atter me a mighty long time, but I speck you done come ter de een' er de row. You bin cuttin' up yo' capers en bouncin' 'roun' in dis naberliood ontwel you come ter b'leeve yo'se'f de boss er de whole gang. En den youer allers some'rs whar you got no bizuess,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. ' Who ax you fer ter come en strike up a 'quaintence wid dish yer Tar-Baby l En who stuck you up dar whar you iz^ Nobody in de roun' worril. You des tuck en jam yo'se'f on dat Tar-Baby widout waitin' fer enny invite,' sez Brer Fox, sezee, ' en dar you is, en dar you'll stay twell I fixes up a bresh-pile and fires her up, kaze I'm gwineter bobbycue you dis day, slio,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. " Den Brer Rabbit talk mighty 'umble. " ' I don't keer w'at you do wid me. Brer Fox,' sezee, ' so you don't fling me in dat brier-patch. Roas' me. Brer Fox,' sezee, ' but don't fling me in dat brier-patch,' sezee. '' ' Hit's so much trouble fer ter kindle a fier,' sez Brer Fox, sezee, ' dat I speck I'll hatter hang you,' sezee. '"Hang me des ez high as you please. Brer Fox,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ' but don't fling me in dat brier-patch,' sezee. " ' I ain't got no string,' sez Brer Fox, sezee, ' en now I speck I'll hatter drown you,' sezee. " ' Drown me des ez deep ez you please. Brer Fox,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ' but do don't fling me in dat brier-patch,' sezee. " ' Dey ain't no water nigh,' sez Brer Fox, sezee, ' en now I speck I'll hatter skin you,' sezee. ' " Skin me. Brer Fox,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, snatch out my eyeballs, t'ar out my years by de roots, en cut off my legs,' sezee, ' but do please, Dar wuz a considerbul flutter whar Brer Babbit struck de bushes, en Brer Fox sorter hand 'rouu' for ter see w'at wuz gwineter happen. Bimeby he hear somebody caU 'im, en way up de hill he see " He COTCH 'iil BY DE BEHIME LEGS." Brer Fox, don't fling me in dat brier-patch,' sezee. " Co'se Brer Fox wanter hurt Brer Rabbit bad ez he kin, so he cotcli 'im by de behime legs en slung 'im right in de middle er de brier-patch. "He see Brer Rabbit sittjn' cross-iegged." Brer Rabbit settin' cross-legged on a chinkapin log koamin' de pitch outen his har wid a chip. Den Brer Fox know dat he bin swop off mighty bad. Brer Babbit wuz bleedzed for ter fling back some er his sass, en he holler out : " ' Bred en bawn in a brier-patch, Brer Fox — bred en bawn in a brier-patch ! ' en wid dat he skip out des ez lively ez a cricket in de embers. " Brer Fox feel so bad, en he get so mad 'bout Brer Rabbit, dat he dunno w'at ter do, en he look mighty down-hearted. Bimeby, one day wiles he v.'uz gwine 'long de road, ole Brer WoK come up wid 'im. W'en dey done howdyin' en axin' atter one nudder's fambly kunnexshun. Brer Wolf, he 'low, he did, dat der wuz sump'n wrong wid Brer Fox, en Brer Fox, he 'low'd der wern't, en he went on en laff en make great ter-do kaze Brer Wolf look like he spisliun sump'n. But Brer Wolf, he got mighty long head, en he sorter broach 'bout Brer Rabbit's kyar'ns on, kaze de way dat Brer Rabbit 'ceive Brer Fox done got ter be de talk er de naberhood. Den Brer Fox and Brer Wolf dey sorter palavered on, dey did, twel bimeby Brer Wolf he up'n say dat he done got plan fix fer ter trap Brer Rabbit. Den Brer Fox say how. Den Brer Wolf up'n tell 'im dat de way fer ter git de drap on Brer Babbit wuz ter git 'im in Brer Fox house. Brer Fox dun know Brer Babbit uv ole, en he know dat sorter game done wo' ter a frazzle, but Brer Wolf, he talk mighty 'swadin'. " ' How you gwine git 'im dar ? ' sez Brer Fox, sezee. " ' Fool 'im dar,' sez Brer Wolf, sezee. " ' Who gwine do de foolin' 1 ' sez Brer Fox, sezee. " ' I'll do de foolin',' sez Brer Wolf, sezee, ' ef you'll do de gamin',' sezee. '"How you gwine do it"? ' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 152 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " ' You run long home, en git on de bed, en make like you dead, en don't you say nuthin' twel Brer Rabbit come en put his han's outer you,' sez Brer Wolf, sezee, ' en ef we don't git 'm fer supper, Joe's dead en Sal's a widder,' sezee. " Dis look like mighty nice game, en Brer Fox 'greed. So den he amble off home, en Brer Wolf, he march off ter Bier Rabbit house. Wen he got dar, hit look like m body at home, but Brer Wolf He walk up en knock on de do . he walk up en knock on de do' — blam ! blam ! Nobody come. Den he lam aloose en knock 'gin — blim ! blim ! " ' Who dar 1 ' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. " ' Fr'en',' sez Brer Wolf. " ' Too menny fr'en's spiles de dinner,' sez Brer Rabbit,' sezee ; ' w'ch un's dis ? ' sezee. " ' I fetch bad news, Brer Rabbit,' sez Brer Wolf, sezee. " ' Bad news is soon tole,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. " ' By dis time Brer Rabbit done come ter de do', wid his head tied up in a red hankcher. " ' Brer Fox died dis mawnin',' sez Brer Wolf, sezee. " ' Whar yo' mo'nin' gown, Brer Wolf 1 ' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. " ' Gwine atter it now,' sez Brer Wolf, sezee. 'I des call by fer ter bring de news. I went down ter Brer Fox house little bit 'go, en dar I foun' 'im stiff,' sezee. "Den Brer Wolf lope off. Brer Rabbit sot down en stratch his head, he did, en bimeby he say ter hisse'f dat he b'leeve he sorter drap 'roun' by Brer Fox house fer ter see how de Ian' lay. No sooner said'n done. Up he jump, en out he went. Wen Brer Rabbit got close ter Brer Fox house, all look lonesome. Den he went up nigher. Nobody stirrin'. Den he look in, en dar lay Brer Fox stretch out on de bed des ez big ez life. Den Brer Rabbit make like he talkin' to hisse'f. Dar la\ Bree Fos. " ' Nobody 'roun' fer ter look atter Brer Fox — not even Brer Tukkey Buzzard ain't come ter de funer'I,' sezee. ' I hope Brer Fox ain't dead, but I speck he is,' sezee. ' Even down ter Brer Wolf done gone en lef 'im. Hit's de busy season wid me, but I'll set up wid 'im. He seem like he dead, yet he mayn't be,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 'Wen a man go ter see dead fokes, dead fokes allers raises up der behime leg en hollers, wahoo ! ' sezee. " Brer Fox he stay still. Den Brer Rabbit he talk little louder : " ' Mighty funny. Brer Fox look like he dead, yit he don't do like he dead. Dead fokes hists der behime leg en hollers xuahoo ! w'en a man come ter see um,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. " Sho' nuff. Brer Fox lif up his foot en holler wahoo ! en Brer Rabbit he tear out de house like de dogs wuz atter 'im. Brer Wolf mighty smart, but nex' time you hear fum 'im, honey, he'll be in trouble. You des hole yo' breff'n wait." FIRST BLOOD. 153 FIRST BLOOD. [FiOm *■ The Deerslayer." ||, EERSLAYER'E xttentionwas first given 1^ to the canoe head. It was already quite ^(, near the dangerous point, and a very few strokes of the paddle sufficed to tell him that it must touch before he could possibly overtake it. Just at this moment, too, the wind inopportunely freshened, rendering the drift of the light craft much more rapid and •certain. Feeling the impossibility of preventing a contact with the land, the young man wisely deter- mined not to heat himself with unnecessary exer- tions ; but, first looking to the priming of his piece, he proceeded slowly and warily towards the point, taking care to make a little circuit, that he might be exposed on only one side as he approached. The canoe adrift, being directed by no such intelligence, pursued its proper way, and grounded on a small sunken rock, at the distance of three or four yards from the shore. Just at this moment Deerslayer had got abreast of the point, and turned the bows of his own boat to the land ; first casting loose his tow, that his movements might be unen- cumbered. The canoe hung an instant on the rock ; then it rose a hair's-breadth on an almost imper- ceptible swell of the water, swung round, floated clear, and reached the strand. All this the young man noted, but it neither quickened his pulses nor hastened his hand. If any one had been lying in wait for the arrival of the waif he must be seen, and the utmost caution in approaching the shore be- came indispensable ; if no one was in ambush, hurry •was unnecessary. The point being nearly diagonally opposite to the Indian encampment, he hoped the last, though the former was not only possible, but probable ; for the savages were prompt in adopting aU the expedients of their particular modes of war- fare, and quite likely had many scouts searching the shores for craft to carry them ofi' to the castle. As a glance at the lake from any height or projec- tion would expose the smallest objects on its sur- face, there was little hope that either of the canoes could pass unseen, and Indian sagacity needed no instruction to tell which way a boat or a log would ■drift, when the direction of the wind was known. As Deerslayer drew nearer and nearer to the land, the stroke of his paddle grew slower, his eye became more watchful, and his ears and nostrils almost dilated with the effort to detect any lurking danger. 'Twas a trying moment for a novice, nor was there the encouragement which even the timid sometimes feel, when conscious of being observed and com- mended. He was entirely alone, throvra on his own resources, and was cheered by no friendly eye, ■emboldened by no encouraging voice. Notwith- By J. Feisimore Coopep.] standing all these circumstances, the most expe- rienced veteran in forest warfare could not have conducted himself better. Equally free from recklessness and hesitation, his advance was marked by a sort of philosophical prudence, that appeared to render him superior to all motives but those which were best calculated to eff'ect his purpose. Such was the commencement of a career in forest exploits, that afterwards rendered this man, in his way, and under the limits of his habits and opportunities, as renowned as many a hero whose name has adorned the pages of works more celebrated than legends simple as ours can ever become. When about a hundred yards from the shore, Deerslayer rose in the canoe, gave three or four vigorous strokes with the paddle, sufficient of themselves to impel the bark to land, and then, quickly laying aside the instruments of labour, he seized that of war. He was in the very act of raising the rifle, when a sharp report was followed by the buzz of a bullet that passed so near his body as to cause him involuntarily to start. The next instant Deerslayer staggered, and fell his whole length in the bottom of the canoe. A yell — it came from a single voice — followed, and an Indian leaped from the bushes upon the open area of the point, bounding towards the canoe. This was the moment the young man desired. He rose on the instant, and levelled his own rifle at his un- covered foe ; but his finger hesitated about pulling the trigger on one whom he held at such a disad- vantage. This little delay probably saved the life of the Indian, who bounded back into the cover as swiftly as he had broken out of it. In the mean- time Deerslayer had been swiftly approaching the land, and his own canoe reached the point just as his enemy disappeared. As its movements had not been directed, it touched the shore a few yards from the other boat ; and though the rifle of his foe had to be loaded, there was not time to secure his prize and to carry it beyond danger before he would be exposed to another shot. Under the circumstances, therefore, he did not pause an instant, but dashed into the woods and sought a cover. Deerslayer knew that his adversary must be employed in re-loading unless he had fled. The former proved to be the case, for the young man had no sooner placed himself behind a tree, than he caught a glimpse of the arm of the Indian, his body being concealed by an oak, in the very act of forcing the leathered bullet home. Nothing would have been easier than to spring forward, and decide 154 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. the afiair by a close assault on his unprepared foe; but every feeling of Deerslayer revolted at such a step, although his own life had just been attempted from a cover. He was yet unpractised in the ruth- less expedients of savage warfare, of which he knew nothing except by tradition and theory, and it struck him as an unfair advantage to assail an un- armed foe. His colour had heightened, his eye frowned, his lips were compressed, and all his energies were collected and ready ; but, instead of advancing to fire, he dropped his rifle to the usual position of a sportsman in readiness to catch his aim, and muttered to himself, unconscious that he was speaking — "No, no— that may be red-skin warfare, but it's not a Christian's gifts. Let the miscreant charge, and then we'll take it out like men ; for the canoe he must not, and shall not have. No, no ; let him have time to load, and God will take care of the right!" All this time the Indian had been so intent on his own movements, that he was even ignorant that his enemy was in the wood. His only appre- hension was, that the canoe would be recovered and carried away, before he might be in readiness to prevent it. He had sought the cover from habit, but was within a few feet of the fringe of bushes, and could be at the margin of the forest, in readi- ness to fire in a moment. His rifle was no sooner loaded, than the savage glanced around him, and advanced incautiously as regarded the real, but stealthily as respected the fancied position of his enemy, until he was fairly exposed. Then Deerslayer stepped from behind his own cover and hailed him. " This-a-way, red-skin : this-a-way, if you're looking for me," he called out ; " I'm young in war, but not so young as to stand on an open beach to be shot down like an owl by daylight. It rests on yourself whether it's peace or war atween us ; for my gifts are white gifts, and I'm not one of them that thinks it valiant to slay human mortals singly in the woods." The savage was a good deal startled by this sudden discovery of the danger he ran. He had a little knowledge of English, however, and caught the drift of the other's meaning. He was also too well schooled to betray alarm, but dropping the butt of his rifle to the earth, with an air of confi- dence he made a gesture of lofty courtesy. All this was done with the ease and self-possession of one accustomed to consider no man his superior. In the midst of this consummate acting, however, the volcano that raged within caused his eyes to glare, and his nostrils to dilate, like those of some wild beast that is suddenly prevented from taking the fatal leap. " Two canoe," he said in the deep guttural tones of his race, holding up the number of fingers he mentioned, by way of preventing mistakes : " one for you — one for me." " No, no, Mingo, that will never do. You own neither ; and neither shall you have, as long as I can prevent it. I know it's war atween your people and mine, but that's no reason why human mortals should slay each other, like savage creaturs that meet in the woods ; go your way then, and leave me to go mine. The world is large enough for us both ; and when we meet fairly in battle, why, the Lord wUl order the fate of each of us." " Good !" exclaimed the Indian ; " my brother missionary — great talk ; all about Manitou." " Not so, not so, warrior. I'm not good enough for the Moravians, and am too good for most of the other vagabonds that preach about in the woods. No, no, I'm only a hunter as yet, though afore the peace is made, 'tis like enough there'll be occasion to strike a blow at some of your people. Still, I wish it to be done in fair fight, and not in a quarrel about the ownership of a canoe." " Good ! My brother very young, but he very wise. Little warrior — great talker. Chief some- times in council." " I don't know this, nor do I say it, Indian," returned Deerslayer, colouring a little at the ill- concealed sarcasm of the other's manner : " I look forward to a life in the woods, and I only hope it may be a peaceable one. All young men must go on the war-path, when there's occasion, but war isn't needfully massacre. I've seen enough of the last, this very night, to know that Providence frowns on it ; and I now invite you to go your own way, while I go mine ; and hope that we may part fri'nd.s." " Good ! My brother has two scalp — grey hair under t'other. Old wisdom— young tongue." Here the savage advanced with confidence, his hand extended, his fane smiling, and his whole bearing denoting amity and respect. Deerslayer met his ofi'ered friendship in a proper spirit, and they shook hands cordially, each endeavouring to assure the other of his sincerity and desire to be at peace. " All have his own," said the Indian ; " my canoe, mine ; your canoe, your'n. Go look ; if your'n, you keep ; if mine, I keep." " That's just, red-skin ; though you must be wrong in thinking the canoe your property. How- soever, seein' is believin', and we'll go down to the shore, where you may look with your own eyes ; for it's likely you'll object to trustin' altogether to mine." The Indian uttered his favourite exclamation of " good," and then they walked, side by side, towards the shore. There was no apparent distrust in the manner of either, the Indian moving in advance, as if he wished to show his companion that he did 'THE SAVAGE HURLED HIS KEEN WEAPON." -F/ilST niOOD" ip 155). FIEST BLOOD. 155 not fear turning liis back to him. As they reached the open gromid, the former pointed towards Deer- slayer's boat, and said, emphatically — "No mine— pale-face canoe. This red man's. No want other man's canoe— want his own." ■ " You're wrong, red-skin ; you're altogether wrong. This canoe was left in old Hutter's keep- ing, and is his'n, according to all law, red or white, tUl its owner comes to claim it. Here's the seats and the stitching of the bark to speak for them- selves. No man ever know'd an Indian to turn off such work." "Good! My brother little old— big wisdom. Indian no make him. White man's work." " I'm glad you think so, for holding out to the contrary might have made ill-blood atween us, every one having a right to take possession of his own. I'll just shove the canoe out of reach of dispute at once, as the quickest way of settling difficulties." While Deerslayer was speaking, he put a foot against the end of the light boat, and giving a vigorous shove he sent it out into the lake a hundred feet or more, where, taking the true current, it would necessarily float past the point, and be in no further danger of coming ashore. The savage started at this ready and decided expedient, and his companion saw that he cast a hurried and fierce glance at his own canoe, or that which contained the paddles. The change of manner, however, was but momentary, and then the Iroquois resumed his air of friendliness and a smUe of satisfaction. " Good !" he repeated, with stronger emphasis than ever. " Young head, old mind. Know how to settle quarrel. Farewell, brother. He go to house in water — musk-rat house — Indian go to camp ; tell chief no find canoe." Deerslayer was not sorry to hear this, and took the proffered hand of the Indian very willingly. The parting words were friendly ; and whUe the red man walked calmly towards the wood, with the rifle in the hollow of his arm, without once looking back in uneasiness or distrust, the white man moved towards the remaining canoe, carrying his piece in the same pacific manner, it is true, but keeping his eyes fastened on the movements of the other. This distrust, however, seemed to be altogether uncalled for, and, as if ashamed have to entertained it, the young man averted his look, and stepped carelessly up to his boat. Here he began to push the canoe from the shore, and to make his other preparations for departing. He might have been thus employed a minute, when, happening to turn his face towards the land, his quick and certain eye told him at a glance the imminent jeopardy in which his life was placed. The black, ferocious eyes of the savage were glancing on him, like those of the crouching tiger. through a small opening in the bushes, and the muzzle of his rifle seemed already to be opening in a line with his own body. Then, indeed, the long practice of Deerslayer, as a hunter, did him good service. Accustomed to fire with the deer on the bound, and often when the precise position of the animal's body had in a manner to be guessed at, he used the same expe- dients here. To cock and poise his rifle were the acts of a single moment and a single motion : then, aiming almost without sighting, he fired into the bushes where he knew a body ought to be, in order to sustain the appalling countenance which alone was visible. There was not time to raise the piece any higher, or to take a more deliberate aim. So rapid were his movements that both parties dis- charged their pieces on the same instant, the con- cussions mingling in one report. The mountains, indeed, gave back but a single echo. Deerslayer dropped his piece, and stood with head erect, steady as one of the pines in the calm of a June morn- ing, watching the result : while the savage gave the yeU that has become historical for its appal- ling influence, leaped through the bushes, and came bounding across the open ground, flourishing a tomahawk. Still Deerslayer moved not, but stood with his unloaded rifle fallen against his shoulders, whUe, with a hunter's habits, his hands were mechanically feeling for the powder-horn and charger. When about forty feet from his enemy, the savage hm-led his keen weapon ; but it was with an eye so vacant, and a hand so unsteady and. feeble, that the young man caught it by the handle as it was flying past him. At that, instant the Indian staggered, and feU his whole length on the ground. "I know'd it — I know'd it!" exclaimed Deer- slayer, who was already preparing to force a fresh bullet into his rifle ; " I know'd it must come to this as soon as I had got the range from the creatur's eyes. A man sights suddenly, and fires when his own life's in danger ; yes, I know'd it would come to this. I was about the hundredth part of a second too quick for him, or it might have been bad for me ! The riptyle's bullet has just grazed my side — but, say what you will, for or ag'in 'em, a red-skin is by no means as sartain with pov/der and ball as a white man. Their gifts don't seem to lie that-a-way. Even Chingachgook, great as he is in other matters, isn't downright deadly with the rifle." By this time the piece was re-loaded, and Deer- slayer, after tossing the tomahawk into the canoe, advanced to his victim, and stood over him, lean- ing on his rifle in melancholy attention. It was the first instance in which he had seen a man fall in battle — it was the first fellow-creature against whom he had ever seriously raised his own hand. The sensations were novel ; and regret, with the 156 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. freshness of our better feelings, mingled with his triumph. The Indian was not dead, though shot directly through the body. He lay on his back motionless, but his eyes, now full of consciousness, watched each action of his victor — as the fallen bird regards the fowler — jealous of every move- ment. The man probably expected the fatal blow which was to precede the loss of his scalp ; or perhaps he antici- pated that this latter act of cruelty would precede his death. Deerslayer read his thoughts, and he found a melancholy satisfaction in reliev- ing the apprehen- sions of the helpless " No, no, red-skin," he said ; " you've nothing more to fear from me. I am of a Christian stock, and scalping is not of my gifts. I'll just make sartain of your rifle, and then come back and do you what sarvice I can. Though here I can't stay much longer, as the crack of three rifles will be apt to bring some of your devils down upon me." The close of this was said in a sort of soliloquy, as the young man went in quest of the fallen rifle. The piece was found where its owner had dropped it, and was immedi- ately put into the canoe. Laying his own rifle at its side, Deerslayer then returned, and stood over the Indian again. " All inmity atween you and me's at an ind, red- skin," he said ; " and you may set your heart at rest on the score of the scalp, or any further injury. My gifts are white, as I've told you ; and I hope my conduct will be white also ! " Could looks have conveyed all they meant, it is probable that Deerslayer's innocent vanity on the subject of colour would have been rebuked a little ; but he comprehended the gratitude that was expressed in the eyes of the dying savage, ' Deerslatee stood over him," without detecting in the least the bitter sarcasm that struggled with the better feeling. " Water I" ejaculated the thirsty and unfortunate creature ; " give poor Indian water." "Ay, water you shall have, if you drink the lake dry. I'll just carry you down to it, that you may take your fiU. This is the way, they tell me, with all wounded people — water is their greatest comfort and delight." So saying, Deer- slayer raised the- Indian in his arms, and carried him to the lake. Here he first helped him to take an attitude in which he could appease his. burning thirst ; after which he seated him- self on a stone, and took the head of his wounded adversary in his own lap, and en- deavoured to soothe his anguish in the best manner he could. "It would.be sinful in me to tell you your time hadn't come, warrior," he com- menced, " and there- fore I'll not say it. You've passed the middle age already, and considerin' the sort of lives ye lead^ your days have been pretty well filled. The principal thing now is to look for- ward to what comes next. Neither red- skin nor pale-face, on the whole, calculates much on sleepin' for ever ; but both expect to live in another world. Each has his gifts, and each will be judged by 'em, and I suppose you've thought these matters over enough, not to stand in need of sarmons, when the trial comes. You'll find your happy hunting grounds if you've been a just Indian ; if an unjust, you'll meet your desarts in another way. I've my own ideas about those things ; but you're too old and exper'enced to need any explanations from one as young as I." " Good ! " ejaculated the Indian, whose voice retained its depth even as life ebbed " young head — old wisdom !" FIRST BLOOD. 157 " It's sometimes a consolation, when the ind comes, to know that them we've harmed or tried to harm, forgive us. I suppose natur' seeks this relief by way of getting a pardon on 'arth ; as we never can know whether He pardons, who is all in all, till judgment itself comes. It's soothing to know that any pardon at such times ; and that, I conclude, is the secret. Now, as for myself, I overlook altogether your designs ag'in my life ; first, because no harm came of 'em ; next, because it's your gifts, and natur', and trainin', and I ought not to have trusted you at all ; and finally and chiefly because I can bear no ill-will to a dying man, whether heathen or Christian. So put your heart at ease, so far as I'm consarned ; you know best what other matters ought to trouble you, or what ought to give you satisfaction, in so trying a moment." It is probable that the Indian had some of the fearful glimpses of the unknown state of being which God, in mercy, seems at times to aiford to all the human race ; but they were necessarily in conformity with his habits and prejudices. Like most of his people, and like too many of our own, he thought more of dying in a way to gain ap- plause among those he left, than to secure a better state of existence hereafter. While Deerslayer was speaking, his mind was a little bewildered, though he felt that the intention was good ; and when he had done, a regret passed over his spirit that none of his own tribe were present to witness his stoicism, under extreme bodily suffering, and the firmness with which he met his end. With the high, innate courtesy that so often distinguishes the Indian warrior before he becomes corrupted by too much intercourse with the worst class of the white men, he endeavoured to express his thank- fvilness for the other's good intentions, and to let him understand that they were appreciated. " Good !" he repeated — for this was an English word much used by the savages — "good — young head ; young heai-t, too. Old heart tough ; no shed tear. Hear Indian when he die, and no want to lie — what he call him ?" " Deerslayer is the name I bear now, though the Delawares have said that when I get back from this war-path, I shall have a more manly title, provided I can 'arn one." "That good name for boy — poor name for warrior. He get better quick. No fear there " — the savage had strength sufficient, under the strong excite- ment he felt, to raise a hand and tap the young man on his breast — " eye sartain — finger lightning — aim death — great warrior soon. No Deerslayer — Hawkeye — Hawkeye — Hawkeye. Shake hand." Deerslayer — or Hawkeye, as the youth was then first named, for in after years he bore the appella- tion throughout all that region— Deerslayer took the hand of the savage, whose last breath was drawn in that attitude, gazing in admiration at the countenance of a stranger who had shown so much readmess, skill, and firmness in a scene that was equally trying and novel. When the reader re- members it is the highest gratification an Indian can receive to see his enemy betray weakness, he will be better able to appreciate the conduct which had extorted so great a concession at such a moment " His spirit has fled !" said Deerslayer, in a sup- pressed, melancholy voice. " Ahs me ! WeU, to this we must all come, sooner or later ; and he is happiest, let his skin be of what colour it may, who is best fitted to meet it. Here lies the body of, no doubt, a brave warrior, and the soul is already fly- ing towards its heaven or hell, whether that be a happy hunting-ground, or a place scant of game ; regions of glory, according to Moravian doctrine, or flames of fire ! So it happens, too, as regards other matters ! Here have old Hutter and Hurry Harry got themselves into a difficulty, if they haven't got themselves into torment and death, and all for a bounty that luck offers to me in what many would think a lawful and suitable manner. But not a farthing of such money shall cross my hand. White I was born, and white will I die ; clinging to colour to the last, even though the King's Majesty, his governors, and all his councils, both at home and in the colonies, forget from what they come, and where they hope to go, and all for a little advantage in warfare. No, no, warrior, hand of mine shall never molest your scalp, and so your soul may rest in peace on the p'int of making a decent appearance, when your body comes to join it in your own land of spirits." Deerslayer arose as soon as he had spoken. Then he placed the body of the dead man in a sitting posture, with its back against the little rock, taking the necessary care to prevent it from falling or in any way settling into an attitude that might be thought unseemly by the sensitive though wild notions of a savage. When this duty was per- formed, the young man stood gazing at the grim countenance of his fallen foe in a sort of melancholy abstraction. As was his practice, however, a habit gained by living so much alone in the forest, he then began again to give utterance to his thoughts and feelings aloud. " I didn't wish your life, red-skin," he said, " but you left me no choice atween killing or being killed. Each party acted according to his gifts, I suppose, and blame can light on neither. You were treacherous, according to your natur' in war, and I was a little over-sightful, as I'm apt to be in trusting others. WeU, this is my first battle with a human mortal, though it's not likely to be the last. I have f ou't most of the creature of the forest, such as bears, wolves, painters and catamounts, but this is the beginning with the red-skins. If I wa? Indian born, now, I might tell of this, or carry in 158 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. the scalp, and boast of the expli'te afore the whole tribe : or if my iniiiiy had only been even a bear, 'twould have been nat'ral and proper to let every- body know what had happened ; but I don't well see how I'm to let even Chingachgook into this secret, so long as it can be done only by boasting with a white tongue. And why should I wish to boast of it after all 1 It's slaying a human, although he was a savage ; and how do I know that he was a just Indian, and that he has not been taken away suddenly to anything but happy hunting- grounds 1 When it's onsartain whether good or evil has been done, the wisest way is not to be boastful. Still, I should like Chingachgook to know that I haven't discredited the Dela wares or my training." Soliloquy and reflection recei\ ed a startling in- terruption, however, by the sudden appearance of a second Indian on the lake shore, a few hundred yards from the point. This man, evidently another scout, who had probably been drawn to the place by the reports of the rifles, broke out of the forest with so little caution, that Deerslayer caught a view of his person before he himself was discovered. When the latter event did occur, as was the case a moment later, the savage gave a loud yell, which was answered by a dozen voices from different parts of the mountain-side. There was no longer any time for delay, and in another minute the boat was quittingthe shore under long and steady sweeps of the paddle. MY MISTAKES. [By BiCHABD "Whiteing.] J HE rector tells me I am wasting my time and my opportunities of doing good in the world. Good man, the rector. I have a great respect for him. Wonder if he is right. What do I do? As a matter of fact, nothing. I lounge through life. It is almost a pity my poor father left me so comfortably provided for. I might have had a career — might have got into Parliament, or written for the reviews. As it is, my only possible next step is marriage, and I am not so sure that that would be a lasting preserva- tive against ennui. It is all very well for the rector to talk, but what can I do ? That question ought to pose him. Mem. — Put it to him next time. Says that, with my means and my leisure, I might be of the greatest assistance in parish work. Pressed to be more explicit, says, " In visiting the poor." I look helpless and bewildered. " In making yourself acquainted with the wants and the weaknesses of that class," pursues the rector, " and doing something to remedy them." " I have always been ready to put money in the plate after charity sermons," I urge. " I can't do more." Rector says, " Yes, you can, you might distri- bute your gifts yourself, and the sympathy of your presence would enhance their value a hundred- fold ; or better still, keep your money in your pocket, and give only the money's worth. Only take care that you form your own estimate of the wants you mean to supply." Don't very well know what to say. It was rather stupid to have begun arguing the question. Observe, by way of saying something, " But people would laugh." He looks grave — is beginning to talk about my not doing justice to my own character by that plea. I promise to think of it and let him know. Exit rector. I'm booked for it. There was no escaping him. He came down with a visitation charge about lay helpers in one pocket, and a select list of his own poor in the other. I am to start next Thursday at ten, and to make notes of anything remarkable, to be shown to him. Begin to think I'm very ignorant. In the meantime I went out with my man .Joseph and a bag, to buy a few useful things to take with me as presents for the poor. Asked Joseph what he thought would be useful. He suggested " Dutch cheeses." Don't know any cheeses of that name. Besides, can't take pro- visions. They smell. Strolled into the dressing-case maker's, and asked the man there if he had anything that would do for the poor. He suggested a few cheap mono- grams. Joseph thought something more in the portable shaving apparatus way. Was shown a very capital little contrivance of this kind, with looking-glass in the lid. Handed it to Joseph. Fancy he grinned as he put it in the bag, but shouldn't like to be positive about it. The man suggested pen-holders, a memorandum book, and somebody's Diary (shilling size), half-a- dozen nail-trimmers, and a book-mark. Capital ! the very things. Had them all placed in the bag. MY MISTAKES. 159 Asked the man if he could think of anything else not in his particular line of trade. He ob- served that there was a brushmaker next door and perhaps — We went there. Ever so many curious things here, and all un doubtedly useful. The brushmaker said so. No- ticed one in particular, very remarkable — you turned a handle, and so on. Asked what it was. " An egg- whisk." Everybody eats eggs. Egg-whisks must be useful. Bought it. On the same principle, bought a butter cooler, cucumber slice, moderator lamp-brush, and velvet- faced hat-pad — a most useful contrivance for putting a gloss on the nap. Fancied I caught Joseph grinning again, when ordered to take them home ; but it is very difficult to be certain about these movements, he is so sly. At ten on Thursday morning, disguised myself in a cast-off suit, and went out with Joseph (out of livery) to Seven Dials. Seven Dials is near the Garrick Club. They appear to sell birds there. It is a place altogether beyond human concep- tion — that is to say, you "must take it in through the senses ; it cannot be described. The people lunch at barrows in the open air. The first name on the rector's list is " Timothy Baker, 23, Diving Bell Court," in this place. The numbers are not on the doors in Diving Bell Court ; they are in all sorts of astonishing places ; 23, for instance, is on a bone hanging from the drawing-room window — an enormous bone. Should like Professor Owen to see it. Joseph said it is a false bone, but I think he overrates the intelli- gence of these people ; they are incapable of an anatomical forgery. I wonder what superstitious reverence attaches in their minds to the display of a bone. Joseph says it means that they buy bones there, and rags ; but that is obviously absurd. Who would buy what everybody must be so glad to get rid of for nothing 1 There are certainly a great many rags about the place, but I cannot accept Joseph's hypothesis. We walk into the passage at 23, and up-stairs. They appear to be fighting in the drawing-room ; and in the spare bed-room on the next floor, some one is hammering a hard metallic substance. Joseph suggests "tinker." In the servants' bed- rooms, above, all quiet. We tap at door of front room, where Baker lives, and after subdued shuffling of feet, soft woman's voice says, " Come in." DESCRIPTIVE MEMS. Don't believe there is a right angle in the place. Walls irregularly rounded into one another, with heaps of rags and rubbish stuffed into corners ; ceiling chijiped and plastered out of all semblance of a plane ; floor forming little hillock, with crest towards fire-place and foot towards door ; table neither in middle of room nor in any of corners — half-way between nothing and nothing, so to speak, with no whereabouts, in fact, admitting of rational statement ; chairs the same ; recess indi- cated by every instinct of nature as fitting one for the clock — occupied by broken bandbox ; clock itself resting on disused washstand ; only thing in its place a cobbler's stool, in front of sloping roof ; incongruity even here — tools in tea-tray, tea-service huddled together in disorder on lid of box. ADDITIONAL MEMS. Strange man squatting on corner of box. One would say some diabolical art employed on dress and person, to spoil symmetry and balance of nature. Wears a shoe and a slipper (both lefts). Solitary brace gives twisted appearance to trunk. Short black pipe draws mouth awry and spoils harmony of features. Woman not quite so uneven, standing near door, curtsies, and says, " Beg pardon, gentlemen. Thought you was the rent." I explain. " Have come to see if I can be of any help — at least have come to see them — mutual friend the rector — very glad to make their ac. quaintance," etc. Woman says, "Yes, certainly, sir," in some perturbation. " This is my husband, sir ; " points to uneven man. " We need it, I'm sure, sir " (the help). "Joe, hand the gentleman that chair by the tea-kettle." I should prefer to stand. I say so. NOTES OP CONVERSATION — VERBATIM. The man (Joe) : " There ain't much choice of chairs, anyhow;" pushes forward bottomless frame with foot. Self (amiably to woman) : " By-the-bye, won't you introduce me to your husband ? " Woman : " Oh, that's him, sir," pointing to imeven man ; " and them's our marriage lines," producing something — rather think a marriage certificate — from a tea-pot. Who wanted to see that 1 Not I, certainly. Strangely irrelevant ! Self (endeavouring to start new subject) : " And do you mean to live here always 1 " Woman : " We shall stay till they put the brokers in, sir." The man (Joe) : " The brokers ! " 3£em. — This is a habit of his. He echoes last words in a meaning manner, as if he had some- thing serious to add to them. You wait for him, and he has nothing to add. Irritating ! Self (smiling) : " Well, now, you'll forgive me for saying so, but your mode of living seems very 160 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. irregular. Don't you think if I were to give you a few simple articles of domestic use, it would' help you to bring your surroundings into a little better order 1 " The man ; " Order ! " Pay no attention to him this time. Woman says, " Oh thank you, sir. It's three weeks — nine shillings." I explain — remembering what rector said. " Oh, I'm not going to give you any money." Man repeats in muttering tone, "Money ! That's right, don't give 'em no money. They might get something to eat." Very unpleasant. Woman checks him, and says apologetically, to me, " He's always nasty when he don't get his two meals a-day." Not unnatural ; but why doesn't " A small contrivance for cleaning the chimney of the moderator," I explain as Joseph shows lamp-brush. Dead silence. They look neither grateful nor pleased. Then man says to woman, in sort of stage whisper, meant for me to catch — " Let's see ; I don't think we shall have any use for it yet. The cat ain't finished the shoe-brush you give her for dinner last week, has she, missis?" Mem. — Hate that man. "A Household 'Dairy,'" says Joseph— incorrectly enough — holding the diary up. Uneven man chuckles. " Something for dinner at last. There's a cheese a comin', missis." Winks at wife in a way that fills my whole soul with horror of him. ' BCTTER COOLER,' I OBSERVE." he take his meals regularly, then 1 He ought to have had his breakfast long ago. Joseph unpacks parcel, brings out red earthen- ware jar, with moulded rose on lid for handle. I hold it up before them. " Butter cooler," I observe. Woman says nothing ; seems disappointed. Man remarks out of unoccupied corner of mouth, " Well, who'd have thought that was butter 1 " "Not butter," I reply; "butter cooler— thing for holding butter." " Oh, a thing for holding butter," he observes, in meaningless way. Hat-pad offers opportunity for conciliating him. " Dare say you have noticed," I say pleasantly, "what a roughness even the best of the old- fashioned brushes will leave on the nap. I am told this will entirely remove it." His reply is brutal. Throws hat-pad to his wife, and says, " Here, you take that, perhaps you wears a beaver — / don't." Most extraordinary person ; but I am deter- mined to show no annoyance. I lay rest of things on table- nail-trimmer, pen- holders, few point-preserver pencils, etc. etc. — and make little speech. "Shall come and see them again." " No thanks, I insist," etc. etc. Prepare to leave. Man's face suddenly assumes ferocious, though more natural, expression, as if he had hitherto been playing a part. He rises suddenly, sweeps presents to floor with one wave of his hand, and says vehemently (long speech, but I can't forget the words) — " Look here, master, me and my old woman ain't had more nor a cup o' tea and a slice o' dry bread for four-and-twenty hours, and this is what you brings to set us right again. You may mean well, but you've got a precious rum way o' showin' it ; for it isn't as though the things 'ud pawn. They wouldn't lend yer tuppence on that lot, bless yer, if you was to pray to 'em. Then what earthly use are they to people like usl Where's the butter for the ' cooler,' as you calls it, and the eggs for the ' whisk 1 ' As for this little earthenware machine, it may do for bird's-eye, when I can get some pence to fiU it with ; and one THE BELLS. 161 •o' them other things might make a scoop for a pipe ; but is it posserble that you and your friend has come all this way to make a starvin' couple a present of a gallipot and a tobaccy stopper 1 " Starving ! Never thought of that. Good gracious ! Throw money on table. Leave hastily. -Man calls out after me down staircase, " You are a trump, sir ! " Indescribable perturbation of spirits. Home again. Mem. — Must try again. No idea there was so much misery in the world. Poor creatures ! and to offer them a butter cooler ! Mem. the Last. — Never too late to learn. Go round with the rector next time. THE BELLS. [By Edgak Allas Poe.] EAK the sledges with the bells — Silver bells ! What a world of merriment their melody fore- tells I How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. In the icy air of night f While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Eunic rhyme, ' To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells. Bells, beUs, beUs— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells — Golden bells ! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight From the molten-golden notes ! And all in tune. What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while .she gloats On the moon ! Oh, from out the sounding cells. What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! How it swells ! How it dwells On the Future ! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, beUs, bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. Bells, bells, bells— To the rliyming and the chiming of the bells. U Hear the loud alarum bells — Brazen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright ! Too much horrified to speak. They can only shriek, shriek. Out of tune. In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. Leaping higher, higher, higher. With a desperate clesire, And a resolute endeavour. Now — now to sit or never. By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the belLs, bells, bells ! What a tale their terror tells Of despair ! How they clang, and clash, and roar ! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air ! Yet the ear, it fully knows. By the twanging. And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows ; Yet the ear distinctly tells. In the jangling' And the wrangling. How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells— Of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— In the clamour and the clangour of the beUs ! Hear the tolling of the bells — Iron bells ! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! In the silence of the night How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 162 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. For every sound that floats And he dances and he yells ; From the rust within their throats Keeping time, time, time. Is a groan : In a sort of Runic rhyme. And the people— ah, the people — To the paean of the bells — They that dwell up in the steeple, Of the bells ; All alone, Keeping time, time, time, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, To the throbbing of the bells — In that muffled monotone. Of the bells, beUs, bellf, Feel a glory in so rolling To the sobbing of the bells ; On the human heart a stone — Keeping time, time, time. They are neither man nor woman — As he knells, knells, knells. They are neither brute nor human — In a happy Runic rhyme. They are Ghouls ! To the rolUng of the bells — And their king it is who tolls ; Of the bells, beUs, bells— And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls. To the tolling of the bells, A psean from the bells ! Of the bells, bells, bells, beUs, And his merry bosom swells Bells, bells, bells— With the piBan of the bells ! To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. MY EXAMINATION. [From "Peter Simple." By Captain Marry at.] I'HE day after Captain Kearney's decease, his acting successor made his appearance ajj on board. The character of Captain Horton was well known to us from the complaints made by the oificers belonging to his ship, of his apathy and indolence ; indeed, he went by the sobriquet of "the Sloth." It certainly was very annoying to his officers to witness so many opportunities of prize-money and distinction thrown away through the indolence of his disposition. Captain Horton was a yoimg man of family, who had advanced rapidly in the service from interest, and from occasionally distinguishing himself. In the several cutting - out expeditions, on which he had not volunteered but had been ordered, he had shown, not only courage, but a remarkable degree of cool- ness in danger and difficulty, which had gained him much approbation : but it was said, that this cool- ness arose from this very fault — an unaccountable laziness. He would walk away, as it were, from the enemy's fire, when others would hasten, merely because he was so apathetic that he would not exert himself to run. In one cutting-out expedition in which he distinguished himself, it is said, that Laving to board a very high vessel, and that in a shower of giape and musketry, when the boat dashed alongside, and the men were springing up, he looked up at the height of the vessel's sides, and exclaimed, with a look of despair, " Must we really climb up that vessel's sides?" When he- had gained the deck, and became excited, he then proved how little fear had to do with the remark,, the captain of the ship falling by his hand, as he fought in advance of his own men. But this, peculiarity, which in a junior officer was of little consequence, and a subject of mirth, in a captain became of a very serious nature. The admiral was- aware how often he had neglected to annoy or cap- ture the enemy when he might have done it ; and by such neglect Captain Horton infringed one of articles of war, the punishment awarded to which infringement is death. His appointment, therefore,, to the Sanglier was as annoying to us, as his quitting his former ship was agreeable to those on board of her. As it happened, it proved of little consequence ; the admiral had instructions from home to advance Captain Horton to the first vacancy, which of course he was obliged to comply with ; but not wishing to keep on the station an officer who- would not exert himself, he resolved to send her to England with despatches, and retain the other frigate which had been ordered home, and which MV EXAMINATION. 163 we had been sent up to replace. We therefore heard it announced with feelings of joy, mingled with regret, that we were immediately to proceed to England. For my part I was glad of it. I had now served my time as midshipman, to within five months, and I thought that I had a better chance of being made in England than abroad. I was also very anxious to go home, for family reasons, which I have already explained. In a fortnight we sailed with several vessels, and directions to take charge of a large convoy from Quebec, which was to meet us off the island of St. John's. In a few days we joined our convoy, and with a fair wind bore up for England. The weather soon became very bad, and we were scudding before a heavy gale, under bare poles. Our captain seldom quitted the cabin, but remained there on a sofa, stretched at his length, reading a novel, or dozing, as he found most agreeable. I recollect a circumstance which occurred, which will prove the apathy of his disposition, and how unfit he was to command so fine a frigate. We had been scudding three days, when the weather became much worse. O'Brien, who had the middle watch, went down to report that "itblewveryhard." " Very well," said the captain ; " let me know if it blows harder." In about an hour more the gale increased, and O'Brien went down again. " It blows much harder, Captain Horton." " Very well," answered Captain Horton, turning in his cot ; " you may call me again when it Mows Imrder." At about six beUs the gale was at its height, and the wind roared in its fury. Down went O'Brien again. " It blows tremendous hard now, Captain Horton." " WeU, well, if the weather becomes worse " " It can't be worse," interrupted O'Brien : " it's impossible to blow harder." " Indeed ! Well, then," replied the captain, " let me know when it lulls." In the morning watch a similar circumstance took place. Mr. PhiUott went down, and said that several of the convoy were out of sight astern. " Shall we heave-to. Captain Horton ?" " 0, no," replied he. " She will be so uneasy. Let me know if you lose sight of any more." In another hour, the first lieutenant reported that " there were very few to be seen." "Very weU, Mr. Pliillott," replied the captain, turning round to sleep ; " let me know if you lose any more." Some time elapsed, and the first lieutenant reported, "that they were all out of sight." " Very well, then," said the captain ; " call me when you see them again." This was not very likely to take place, as we were going twelve knots an hour, and running away from them as fast as we could ; so the captain remained undisturbed until he thought proper to get up to breakfast. Indeed, we never saw any more of our convoy, but, taking the gale with us, in fifteen days anchored in Plymouth Sound. The orders came down for the frigate to be paid off, all standing, and re-commissioned. I received letters from my father, in which he con- gratulated me at my name being mentioned in Captain Kearney's despatches, and requested me to come home as soon as I could. The admiral allowed my name to be put down on the books of the guard-ship, that I might not lose my time, and then gave me two months' leave of absence. I bade farewell to my ship -mates, shook hands with O'Brien, who proposed to go over to Ireland pre- vious to his applying for another ship, and, with my pay in my pocket, set off in the Plymouth mail, and in three days was once more in the arms of my affectionate mother, and warmlj^ greeted by my father, and the remainder of my family. I remained at home until my time was complete, and then set off for Plymouth to undergo my ex- amination. The passing-day had been fix^d by the admiral for the Friday, and, as I arrived on Wednesday, I amused myself during the day, walking about the dockyard, and trying aU I could to obtain further information m my pro- fession. On the Thursday, a party of soldiers from the depot were embarking at the landing- place in men-of-war boats, and, as I understood, were about to proceed to India. I witnessed the embarkation, and waited tUl they shoved off, and then walked to the anchor wharf to ascertain the weights of the respective anchors of the different classes of vessels in the King's service. I had not been there long, when I was attracted by the squabbling, created by a soldier, who, it ap- peared, had quitted the ranks to run up to the tap in the dockyard to obtain liquor. He was very drunk, and was followed by a young woman with a child in her arms, who was endeavouring to pacify him. "Now be quiet, Patrick, jewel," said she, cling- ing to him ; " sure it's enough that you've left the ranks, and will come to disgrace when you get on board. Now be quiet, Patrick, and let us ask for a boat, and then perhaps the officer will think it was ail a mistake, and let you off aisy ; and sure, I'll spake to Mr. O'Rourke, and he's a kind man." " Out wid you, you cratur, it is Mr. O'Rourke you'd be having a conversation wid, and he be chucking you under that chin of yours. Out wid you, Mary, and lave me to find my way on board. Is it a boat I want, when I can swim like St. Patrick, wid my head under my arm, if it wasn't on my shoulders 1 At all events, I can wid my nappersack and musket to boot." The young woman cried, and tried to restrain him, but he broke from her, and, running down to 164 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. the wharf, dashed off into the water. The young woman ran to the edge of the wharf, perceived him sinking, and, shrieking with despair, threw up her arms in her agony. The cliild fell, struck on the edge of the piles, turned over, and before I could catch hold of it, sank into the sea. " The child ! the child !" burst forth in another wild scream, and the poor creature lay at my feet in violent fits. I looked over, the child had disappeared ; but the soldier was still struggling with his head above water. He sank and rose again — a boat was pulling towards him, but he was quite exhausted. He threw back his arms as if in despair, and was about disappearing under the wave, when, no longer able to restrain myself, I leaped off the high wharf, and .swam to his assistance, just in time to lay hold of him as he was sinking for the last time. I had not been in the water a quarter of a minute before the boat came up to us, and dragged us on board. The soldier was exhausted and speechless. I, of course, was only very wet. The boat rowed to the landing-place at my request, and we were both put on shore. The knapsack which was fixed on the soldier's back, and his regimentals, indicated that he belonged to the regiment just embarked ; and I stated my opinion, that as soon as he was a little recovered, he had better be taken on board. As the boat which picked us up was one of the men-of-war boats, the officer who had been embarking the troops, and had been sent on shore again to know if there were any yet left behind, consented. In a few minutes the soldier recovered, and was able to sit up and speak, and I only waited to ascertain the state of the poor young woman whom I had left on the wharf. In a few minuses she was led to us by the warder, and the scene between her and her husband was most affecting. When she had become a little com.posed, she turned round to me, where I stood dripping wet, and, intermingled with lamentation for the child, showering down emphatic blessings on my head, inquired my name. " Give it to me ! " she cried ; " give it to me on paper, in writing, that I may wear it next my heart, read and kiss it every day of my life, and never forget to pray for you, and to bless you ! " " I '11 tell it you. My name " "Nay, write it down for me — vtrite it down. Sure, you '11 not refuse me. AU the saints bless you, dear young man, for saving a poor woman from despair ! " ~ The officer commanding the boat handed me a pencil and a card ; I wrote my name, and gave it to the poor woman ; she took my hand as I gave it, kissed the card repeatedly, and put it into her bosom. The officer, impatient to shove off, ordered her husband into the boat — she followed, clinging to him, wet as he was — the boat shoved off, and I hastened up to the inn, to dry my clothes. I could not help observing, at the time, how the fear of a- greater evil will absorb all consideration for a minor. Satisfied that her husband had not perished, she had hardly once appeared to re- member that she had lost her child. I had only brought one suit of clothes with me : they were in very good condition when I arrived, but salt water plays the deuce with a uniform. I lay in bed until they were dry ; but when I put- them on again, not being before too large for me, for I grew very fast, they were now shrunk and shrivelled up, so as to be much too small. My wrists appeared below the sleeves of my coat— my trousers had shrunk half way up to my knees— the buttons were all tarnished, and, altogether, I certainly did not wear the appearance of a gentlemanly, smart midshipman. I would have- ordered another suit, but the examination was to take place at ten o'clock the next morning, and there was no time. I was therefore obliged to appear as I was on the quarter-deck of a line-of- battle .ship, on board of which the passing was to take place. Many others were there to undergo the same ordeal, aU strangers to me, and, as I per- ceived by their nods and winks to each other, as they walked up and down in their smart clothes, not at all inclined to make my acquaintance. There were many before me on the list, and our hearts beat every time that a name was called, and the owner of it walked aft into the cabin. Some returned with jocund faces, and our hopes mounted ■with the anticipation of similar good fortune ; others came out melancholy and crestfallen, and then the expression of their countenances was communicated to our own, and we quailed with fear and apprehension. I have no hesitation in asserting, that although " passing " may be a proof of being qualified, " not passing " is certainly no proof to the contrary. I have known many of the cleverest young men turned back (while others of inferior abilities have succeeded), merely from the feeling of awe occasioned by the peculiarity of the situation ; and it is not to be wondered at, when it is considered that all the labour and exertion of six years are at stake at this appalling moment. At last my name was called, and, almost breathless from anxiety, I entered the cabin, where I found myself in presence of the three captains who were to decide whether I was fit to hold a commission in his Majesty's service. My logs and certificates were examined and approved ; my time calculated, and allowed to be correct. The questions in. navigation which were put to me were very few, for the best of all possible reasons, that most captains in his Majesty's service know little or nothing of navigation. During their servitude as midshipmen, they learn it by rote, without being aware of the principles upon which the calculations they use are founded. As lieutenants, their services as to navi- MY EXAMINATION. 105 Ration are seldom required, and they rapidly forget all about it. As captains, their whole remnant of mathematical knowledge consists in being able to set down the ship's position on the chart. As for navigating the ship, the master is answerable ; and the captains not being responsible themselves, they trust entirely to his reckoning. Of course there are exceptions, but what I state is the fact ; and if an order from the Admiralty was given, that all captains should pass again, although they might acquit themselves very well in seamanship, nine- teen out of twenty would be turned back when it was the Earl of Sand\\ich of whom it is stated,, that, his ship being in a sinking state, he took a boat to hoist his flag on board of another vessel in the fleet, but a shot cutting the boat in two, and the -weight of his armour bearing him down, the Earl of Sandwich perished. But to proceed. As soon as I had answered several questions- satisfactorily, I was desired to stand up. The-, captain who had interrogated me on navigation^ was very grave in his demeanour towards me, but at the same time not uncivil. During his exami- nation, he was not interfered with by the other Mt Eiaminatioit. {Draim by W. Ralston.) they were questioned in navigation. It is from the knowledge of this fact that I think the service is injured by the present system, and the captain .should be held wholly responsible for the naviga- tion of his ship. It has been long known that the ofiicers of every other maritime state are more scientific than our own, wliich is easily explained, from the responsibility not being invested in our captains. The origin of masters in our service is singular. 'V\'Tien England first became a maritime power, ships for the King's service were found by the Cinque Ports and other parties — the fighting part of the crew was composed of soldiers sent on board. All the vessels at that time had a crew of sailors, with a master to navigate the vessel. During our bloody naval engagements with the Dutch, the same system was acted upon. I think two, who only undertook the examination in " sea- manship." The captain who now desired me to stand up, spoke in a very harsh tone, and quite frightened me. I stood up, pale and trembling, for I augured no good from this commencement. Several questions in seamanship were put to me, which I have no doubt I answered in a very lame way, for I cannot even now recollect what I said. " I thought so," observed the captain ; " I judged as much from your appearance. An officer who is so careless of his dress, as not even t-o put on a decent coat when he appears at his examination, generally turns out an idle fellow, and no seaman. One would think you had served all your time in a cutter, or a ten-gun brig, instead of dashing frigates. Come, sir, I'll give you one more chance." 166 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. I was so hurt at what the captain said, that I could not control my feelings. I replied, with a -quivering lip, "that I had had no time to order another uniform " — and I burst into tears. " Indeed, Burrows, you are rather too harsh," said the third captain ; "the lad is frightened. Let him sit down and compose himself for a little while. Sit down, Mr. Simple, and we will try you again directly." I sat down, checking my grief and trying to recall my scattered senses. The captains, in the meantime, turning over the logs to pass away the time ; the one who had questioned me in naviga- tion reading the Plymouth newspaper, which had a few minutes before been brought on board and sent into the cabin. " Hey ! what's this ? I say. Burrows — Keats, look here," and he pointed to a paragraph. " Mr. Simple, may I ask whether it was you who saved the soldier who leaped off the wharf yesterday '] " " Yes, sir," replied I ; " and that's the reason why my uniforms are so shabby. I spoilt them then, and had no time to order others. I did not like to say why they were spoilt." I saw a change in the countenances of all the three, and it gave me courage. Indeed, now that my feelings had found vent, I was no longer under any apprehension. "Come, Mr. Simple, stand up again," said the captain, kindly ; " that is, if you feel sufficiently composed ; if not, we will wait a little longer. Don't be afraid, we ivish to pass you." I was not afraid, and stood up immediately. I answered every question satisfactorily ; and finding that I did so, they put more difficult ones. " Very good, very good, indeed, Mr. Simple ; now let me ask you one more ; it's seldom done in the service, and perhaps you may not be able to answer it. Do you know how to club-haid a ship 1 " "Yes, sir," replied I ; and I innnediately stated how it was to be done. " That is sufficient, Mr. Simple ; I wish to ask you no more questions. I thought at first you were a careless officer and no seaman : I now find you are a good seaman and a gallant young man. Do you wish to ask any more questions ? " con- tinued he, turning to the two others. They replied in the negative ; my passing certi- ficate was signed, and the captains did me the honour to shake hands with me, and wish me speedy promotion. Thus ended happily the severe trial to my poor nerves ; and, as I came out of the cabin, no one could have imagined that I had been in such distress within, when they beheld the joy that irradiated my countenance. A COLD RECEPTION. [From "Little Kate Kiiby." By F. W. Eoeinson.] 'OOKING at Westmair's from Wat- ling Street was to set down the great house as not worth its salt. Strangers making a short cut to the Mansion House, or whose offices were in broader thoroughfares, might passed Westmair's all their lives without knowing it ; it was a strip of a liouse even where houses ran in strips as a rule. This was only Westmair's London office — a place which was handy for the London folk, but not imperative for Westmair's to possess — a crotchet of the firm, that had always had faith in City offices for anything. Westmair's proper was ten miles from London, and the Westmair's oils and the Westmair's polish, which had made the fortune of the family, were kept and mixed in large quan- tities miles away from the shadow of St. Paul's. This was only a house of samples, and order's and general correspondence. I turned the handle of the half-glass door — had the glass been cleaned since I was there last 1 — and i)assed into the stuffy shop. All was very misty, scarcely to be accounted for by the fog which had come in with me from the street. Per- haps there were tears in my eyes at the prospect of meeting my father after four long years — at the thought of beginning life again with him from that very moment, as it were. I went cautiously towards the counting-house at the end of the shop ; it went up three or four steps, and was shut from public gaze, when there was any representative of the ijublic to gaze at it, by a second glass front, behind which was a vsdre-blind, behind which was a lamp burning brightly, behind which was some one, with his back towards me, ■writing at a desk. My father in his new post of principal cashier, indubitably ! When I was in London last, he had sat at a little desk below this window, with a gas jet above his premature greyness, and had blown verbal com- munications through a gutta-percha pipe into the office above him ; but times had changed, and now there was a little bald man with a bent back to blow at my father instead. I had not seen this last-named personage, and was proceeding boldly to the inner sanctum, wheii he piped out, " What's your business, young lady V A COLD RECEPTION. 167 aucl fooussed me with two liorn-rimmed spectacles. This old gentleman was the new clerk — the office and book-keeper. I knew all about him at once. My father's rise had left a vacancy in the post, which my grandfather had been the first of our family to fill ; there had been no more Kirbys to the good, hence an advertisement, and this worn- out, broken-down man at eighty pounds a year ! Westmair's never gave more than eighty pounds a year for their office-keeper — they called this little, dusky, ill-smelling shop an office — and possibly the situation was not worth more, for there had been hundreds always ready to jump at it. There had never seemed a great deal to do for the money — I had often caught my father dozing over the books, although it was his fixed idea that Westmair's worked him like a horse, and I believe this old man had been asleep before I had intruded on the premises. He was alive to business very quickly — juniors in office are frequently the most energetic of the staff. "What's your business, young lady 1 " " Oh, if you please, don't speak so loudly," I said, gesticulating towards the counting-house ; '' I want to surprise him." The office-keeper looked from me to the window over his head, and then back from the window to me, and glared. It was a full minute and a half before the idea seized him, and then he grinned from ear to ear, and turned me a little qualmish with three yellow tusks and a furry tongue, of which he made the most. " Oh, you know Mr. " " Of course I know him. I have come thousands of miles to see him ; all the way from the Cape of Good Hope ! " The book-keeper, or office-keeper, looked some- what amazed at this avowal, for he shut his mouth and glared at me again through his ugly spectacles. "You can go up, then," he said, dipping his pen into the ink and flourishing it towards the cotlnting-house, " if he expects you. Does he ex- pect you 1 " " To be sure he does." " I shouldn't have thought it of him," he mut- tered ; " in business hours, too — well ! " I did not stay to explain more fully my conduct to one who had evidently set me down for a very forward young woman. I was in a hurry to em- brace my dear dad, and to hear him murmur forth, " My darling Faith— I am so glad you have come back ! " He would be glad of that, I was very .sure. Man of many faults as he was, peevish, discontented, and eccentric, I had always thought that he had loved his girls in his way. My woollen dress did not betray me by any rustling, as I as- cended the steps, on the top of which my heart began beating nervously — I hardly knew for what reason. The dialogue beneath the counting-house window had not disturbed the studies of the cashier, who was very much bent over his desk, as I pushed open the door and stole in. It was a small counting-house, with an u'on safe on one side of the room, that looked respectable and solid. How quickly Westmair's made money in their quiet way was evident by that big safe, and by the cheques, which had come by the last post, and which the cashier was examining and endorsing before lock- ing up for the night, now that banking hours were over. I laid my hands upon his shoulders, and said — " I have come back, dear, as you asked me — back for good ! Don't be very much afraid, or very much scared, but take time to think that I am here, your little Faith ! " AU this was said in a low whisper, for I knew that my father was nervous, and I wished to sur- prise him, not to frighten him. But before it was all said, or almost before — for I have a faint recol- lection of going on with a few more words, even after my discovery — I had become aware that my hands were not resting on my father's shoulders, which were round shoulders, and weak, and would have given way more, and that in lieu of the scanty grey-flecked hairs of Mr. Kirby, there was rising up before me a cuiiier, darker, and more vigorous head of hair. " Oh, my ! " I gasped forth, and then a sunburnt face turned round as my hands dropped to my side, and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. He was a young man of some four or five and twenty years of age before whom I was- standing — a principal, probably, a Westmair or a somebody of importance who had taken my father's post for a day or two. He was inclined to laugh at me and my embarrassment. I saw the curves of his mouth trying hard to keep them- selves down, and a pair of big brown eyes seemed laughing already. I was ashamed of myself, until I grew hot and indig-nant and " fussy," and thought that he might have shown more consideration for one who had made so egregious a blunder. He rose from his chair at last. " I beg your pardon," he said, seeing how grave I had become, " but I think this is the wrong ■ office. You — you'n find it higher up the street perhaps." He was a trifle confused himself, now, and gave an odd and impulsive scratch to his head, forcible but inelegant. " No, it is not the wi-ong office : I have been very foolish ; pray forgive my rudeness, sir, but I only expected to find one person here — not you, certainly," I stammered forth. " You have got in the wrong place, I think," was . his reply, "unless — oh, dear ! — whose place do you, want, may I inquire 1 " 168 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " Mr. Westmair's." "Oil!" He ran his fingers througli his hair again- taking two hands this time, and becoming thereby much fiercer in aspect— and then turned suddenly so pale that I thought he must be a -very delicate young man. He sat down in the chair which he had half pushed towards me a few minutes since, and which I had not occupied, and dashed at his cheques and papers with extraordinary interest, turning his back upon me and ignoring my presence altogether. It was very strange and startling, and I was begin- ning to think that all might not be well — that all "I LAID HY HANDS UPOM HIS SHOULDERS." {Braivu bij F. Barnard,) "You are Mr. Westmair, I presume? " I said. " My name is Westmair certainly — not one of the Westmairs, but an oifshoot — a family con- nection — a hanger-on — a — I hope you follow me — I hope you are — that is, that you are not — may I take the liberty of inquiring what is your name 1 " he asked with sudden energy and de- 'cision. " My name is Kirby." "Oh— I see!" might be very ill for me — as some of the papers fluttered to the floor without the gentleman taking heed of them. He had been surprised — he was now confused. " My name is Kirby," I explained more fully, " and I have called at my father's request. It was his wish that I should come direct to the oflice." " Oh — indeed — confound it ! — was it though 1 " " Something has happened ! — he has left here 1 " A COLD EECEPTION. 169 " Yes — he has left," said Mr. Westmair, slowly ; " I'll tell you in a minute — you don't know any- thing, then ? " " Not anything — save that he was fortunate in life when he wrote last to me." "When was that r' " Some months ago, he wrote to me at Pieter- maritzburg. Oh, sir, he has not met with an accident — he is not dead ? You would not keep me in this suspense if he were dead, I am sure ! " " No, no — he is not dead, I am sorry to say — I mean I am glad to say. Pray sit down — pray compose yourself — I will tell you everything in a minute." He had forgotten that he was occupying the only chair in the room, and that I was leaning for support against a wainscot partition, yearning for the news, the bad news, which I knew now was on its way towards me. What could have happened since my father's stroke of good luck to have so wholly changed the scene 1 Was he really mad when he wrote last, and was his fortune only a dream 1 " I — I hope that I have been patient, sir — but I . — I am very anxious," I hinted at last. He looked round quickly, then rose, snatched up his hat, and walked sharply from the counting- house, down the steps into the office, and into the street. Was he going to fetch my father, or what t I peered through the window above the wire-blind as he went striding along the shop. The street- door was opened before he had reached it, and a tall, swarthy man entered and regarded the cashier with amazement. " What's the matter 1 " " Nothing. That is, only Kirby's daughter from the Cape ; she is in the counting-house." " Well— you have told her, I suppose 1 " " No, I haven't — I couldn't ; upon my soul, I couldn't — I must leave it to you." " Why, this is cowardice." " Very likely ; I am naturally a coward. Tell her as gently as you can ; she seems a very nice girl, poor thing." « But " " But I'm hanged if I do all the dirty work in this place ; it does not suit me ; and I can't tell that girl, who came in just now, all life and hope, the truth about her father. Tell her yourself, Abe." The swarthy man seemed more astonished by the excitable behaviour of his cashier than by the news of my presence in his office. He went to the door and looked out in the fog after his refractory subordinate, then with slow, precise steps, he came towards me and my sinking heart. I wished that the other man had stopped to tell me all the truth, though he had taken longer time about it. I did v not like this hard-lined face, which seemed ad- vancing towards me like a fate, beyond my power to resist. The gentleman who entered the counting-house, and took the place of his eccentric cashier, was a man of thirty years of age, who might have told the world he was forty-five, without surprising it in the least. He was a tall stiff-backed man, with one of the saddest countenances I had ever seen, " stern it was as well as sad, in many respects, but it was not so wholly inflexible as I had fancied from my first look at it. He was very dark, vrith black eyes that seemed cold and unsympathetic, and unlike black eyes in general, and his close- shaven cheeks and chin did not give him one day's younger aspect. If he had shorn himself of all hirsute decoration for that purpose, it had been a mistake in art, and had only given him a grim Don Quixote looking head that was not pleasant to confront. He entered slowly, and after regarding me attentively for an instant, bowed, and pushed the chair over more towards me. "You are Miss Kirby," he said. "Sit down, please ; you had better sit down, I think." I sat down thus adjured. I was in no hurry for the news now. I knew that it would be bad enough, and there came over me the wish, strangely at variance with my late impatience, to delay the revelation which this man, in his cold hard tones, would give out to me, as the hammer of a beU might strike out its time of day. " My name is We.stmair — Abel Westmair, of the firm of Westmair and Son. I am the son," he added, as if by some mischance I should take him for his father. I bowed, but I could not speak to him. I was not awed by the greatness of his position, but by the consciousness of the terrible nature of his forth- coming revelation. " You are Miss Faith Kirby, I presume, to whom I wrote a few weeks since, suggesting that you should remain in Pietermaritzburg, and not come to London, as your father had previously desired," he continued. "It was his wish too, I believe, that you should stay ; but I was following out my own ideas, certainly not his." " Is he dead, then ? Oh, he is dead ! " I cried very quickly now. " Pardon me, but he is not dead. He how careless ! " and Mr. Westmair, Junior, stooped under the table, picked up several cheques and papers, and looked over them as he continued, "He is not dead, but in trouble." His black eyes were fixed upon me over the edge of the papers, and he was watching the effect with great attention. Was he breaking the news to me kindly or not 1 It was impossible to guess from his stolid countenance. 170 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " In trouble," I repeated mechanically. Mr. Westmair restored the cheques to their place from which his cashier had swept them in his hurry to depart, leaned against the table, crossed his legs, clasped his thin hands together, and once more looked at me with fixed intentness. " In trouble by his own acts — and by his own weakness, and consequently there is no one to blame but himself for all the misery that he has brought about." " Poor father ! is he very Ul — in very great trouble 1 " " I don't see that he deserves any pity from you — any more," he added, after a moment's pause, " than he deserves it from me." " Go on, sir." Mr. Westmair, having as he thought sufficiently prepared me, or having grown tired of his circum- locutory process of information, or having attended so far as he considered necessary to the injunctions of the young man who had beaten an uncere- monious retreat, delivered the rest of his com- munication at one shot. " Your father is in prison." There was a sudden singing in my ears, an up- heaving of the floor towards the ceiling, a merry- go-round of the iron safe, the counting-house Avindow, and Abel AVestmair, and then the mist was very dense and thick about me, as if a grand rush of all the fog in WatUng Street had streamed into the office, to hide me with my grief and shame from him who had told me all the news. # * *- # * * I was quite certain that I had fainted and made a scene, some minutes afterwards. I hated scenes and to have given way like this, and before this man, was humiliating to reflect upon, when the strength for reflection returned to me. I had always fancied that I was inclined to be firm, but this weakness convinced me that I was only a silly girl, after all, unable to bear up against trouble. Should I ever bear up against real trouble again — such real, downright trouble as this was ? " I shall be better in a minute," I said, though my lips trembled very much, and I am sure were as white as paper ; "it's — it's the long journey. I have been some time on board ship, and — and the journey was a fatiguing one." " It's a considerable distance from the Cape to London," Mr. Westmair observed. He had been bending over me along with his book-keeper, whom he had evidently called to my assistance. The cheques were all over the floor again, and at some stage or other of my con- valescence I had knocked a water-bottle and glass from his hand, the contents of which were all over the cheques. " Do you feel better now ? " he inquired, after I had dreamily regarded him for a minute or two. " I don't know ; I — I think I do. I suppose I fainted away 1 " " Yes." " Because — you told me that my father — hadn't this gentleman better go now 1 I am much obliged to him, but " " You can go, Simpson," said Mr. Westmair. " Not that it matters," he added, after Simpson had retired, " for he knows the whole story, which he could have told you much better than I. I am not used to this kind of thing." He said it in an aggrieved tone of voice, as if he had been imposed upon very much that afternoon. He stooped, picked up his cheques, regarded their damp condition ruefuUy, and finally directed his attention to myself again. " Will you not put your bonnet on 1 " he said, and I was conscious that that article of attire hacl been removed, and that my hair had become rough and tumbled. I made myself as tidy as possible, and as my agitation would allow, keeping my eyes upon him, feeling that I shotdd flinch no more, and be uncomfortable never again beneath his micro- scopic stare. " My father in prison ! " I said ; " in prison for - what 1 " "For robbing us." " My father turn robber — oh, I don't believe that! My father was honour itself, with aU his faults, and do you tell me — do you dare to tell me that he is a thief 1 " " I would certainly refrain from exciting myself in tills way," said Abel Westmair, coldly ; " it un- nerves you. ' " Tell me all you know — or, rather, all that you believe against him." I dare say that I was unpleasantly peremptory in my tone, but I was so beset wdth the conviction that my father had been the victim of a cruel plot, that I did not study the feelings, if he had any, of my companion. Mr. Westmair complied with my request. I was seated in the chair again, and he was leaning against the table in his old position. He spoke clearly and precisely, but betrayed no emotion at the story, or any further concern for my feelings. He was one of the great Westmairs, and I was one of the Kirbys — for two generations the Kirbys had been the servants of these people. "Your father was a clever book-keeper and an ingenious man at figures. When we made him cashier, and when a great deal of money passed through his hands, he turned his talents to a bad account, and robbed us systematically. We dis- covered it, and prosecuted him, as we should prosecute on principle any one gTiilty of a breach of trust in this establishment. He pleaded guilty and " " He pleaded guilty ! " I cried. KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT. 171 " Yes — the facts were too clear for any attempt at refutation — and he was sentenced to two years' imprisonment." " Where is he now ? " " In Hollo way Prison." " God help him ! — he was not guilty ; I am sure he was not guilty, Mr. Westmair." Mr. Westmair's face shadowed more at my per- sistence. " That is a reflection on my word — on the honour of the house, Miss Kirby," he said slowly ; " but you are suffering from natural excitement. What do you think of doing ? You have some money, I suppose, and friends in London, and — and so on 1 Shall Simpson fetch a cab 1 " " No, su- — I can walk," said I, rising at this hint, -" do not trouble yourself about me in any way. Of what sum were you robbed 1 " ".Eight hundred pounds." " And when was my father tried for the rob- bery ?" " The fifteenth of September." " I — I must get a newspaper, or something, and understand it for myself. I can't understand you," I added abruptly, " and I do not want." " Just as Miss Kirby pleases," he said, more coldly still. " You never took his part, or thought that he might have been innocent ; you believed every fact against an old servant at once. And yet his father before him had been in this firm." " There was a Kirby here before your father," said Abel Westmair, "but we were not called upon to regard the matter from a sentimental or a dramatic point of view. We were robbed, and we found out the thief, that is all. If he had been our dearest and nearest friend, it woidd have still been our duty to repay a base act of ingratitude with the law's justice and might. There was no malice in the matter, and so far as regards yourself, young lady, I, speaking for the firm, will add that we are sorry." He said it with some dignity, perhaps with as much kindness as it was in his nature to evince, but I saw in him only a hard master who had had no mercy on my father. I hated the man; I could have cursed him in my desolation, and for all the forced calmness which I had at last assumed I hated him ; but I was too proud to show that ha or his words had any power to move me, and as my reiteration of a belief in my father's innocence appeared to vex him slightly, I expressed again my firm conviction that my father had been wronged. He did not defend liimself, or offer any further explanation ; he regarded me with his old aggra- vating stolidity, and as I moved towards the door he opened it for me, standing thereat like a statue. I was going out in the world, not knowing which way to turn, wholly uncertain concerning my next step, more be^vildered by the strangeness of my position than I could have been aware at the moment, when I remembered that an all-important question had not been asked yet. " And Where's little Kate 1 " The question leaped from me with spasmodic force, and he elevated his eyebrows and stared at me harder than ever. '' Where's who 1 " he said. " Little Kate, my sister'?" " I didn't know that you had a sister. Really I have been quite in the dark as to your family connections." " And my father never spoke of her to you 1" " Not a word — why should he '? " " Great Heaven ! that chUd is alone in the world then. And she is only seventeen. Where can she be?" I went out of the counting-house, pondering on this mystery, on the impossibility of my finding her in the dark City of London, wherein I was myself submerged. I went out of Westmair and Son's with a heart that I thought was broken. My own position was precarious, but I had not time to think of it. Where was the child I had loved so much, and to whom I had been more like a mother than a sister after the real mother had died 1 She had been a wild, excitable, pretty girl, wayward, vain, fragile ; she had been my chief anxiety in going away; what was she now in my coming back again 1 There were troubles and cares on all sides of me, as I crept out of the office of the Westmairs into the fog, which had become very thick and black with the night. All seemed as impenetrable as my own life ahead, and there was no seeing a step before me. KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT. [From the " Percy Reliques."] AN ancient story He tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John ; And he ruled England with maine and with might. For he did gxeat wrong, and maintein'd little right. And He tell you a story, a story so merrye, Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye ; How for his house-keeping, and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne. 172 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day ; And fifty golde chaynes without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about. "I FEARE THOa WORK'S! TEEASON AGAJKST MY CItOWNE." " How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee. Thou keepest a farre better house than mee. And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, I feare tliou work'st treason against my crowne." "My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne, I never spend nothing but what is my owne ; And I trust your grace will doe me no deere For spending of my owne true-gotten geere." " Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe. And now for the same thou needest must dye ; For except thou canst answer me cjuestions three. Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie." "And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead, With my crowne of golde so faire on my head. Among all my liege men, so noble of birthe. Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe. " Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt. How soone I may ride the whole world about, And at the third question thou must not shrink. But tell me here truly what I do think." "O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet ; But if you will give me but three weekes space, He do my endeavour to answer your grace." " Now three weeks space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live ; For if thou dost not answer my questions three. Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee." Away rode the abbot, all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford ; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise Then home rode the abbot, of comfort so cold- And he mett his shepheard agoing to fold ; " How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home, What newes do you bring us from good King John?" " Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give : That I have but three days more to live : For if I do not answer him questions three. My head mil be smitten from my bodie. " The first is to tell him there in that stead. With his crowne of golde so fair on his head. Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, To within one penny of what he is worth. '■ The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole world about ; And at the third question I must not shrinke. But tell him there truly what he does thinke." — m — —-==' J^ J __ ^I'^P K .. 1 ^I^M w F ff ^M » M M ' wi f^i -^g JE^ h-S! i 1 ^Sfc^ i--^^ \ "I HATE BUT THREE DAYS MORE TO LIVE." "Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learne a wise man witt % Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, And I '11 ride to London to answere your quarrel. KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT. 173 *' Nay ; f rowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, I am like your lordship, as ever may bee : And if you wiU but lend me your gowne. There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne." *' Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave ; With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appeare 'fore our father the pope." — Now secondly tell me, without any doubt. How soone I may ride this whole world about." " You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth againe ; And then your grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'U ride it about." The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, " I did not think it could be gone so soone ! 'I'm his pooe shepheakd, as plain you mat see.'' (Drawnhy W. Ralston.) " Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say, " 'Tis well thou 'rt come back to keepe thy day ; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. ■''And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crown of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birth. Tell me to one penny what I am worth." "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told : And twenty-nine is the worth of thee. For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee." The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, •" I did not think I had been worth so littel ! — Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But teU me here truly what I do thinke." " Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry ; You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbury ; But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee." The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, " He make thee lord abbot this day in his place ! " " Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write, ne reade." " Four nobles a week, then, I vrill give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee : And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John." 174 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. SLEIGHING IN THE SNOW. [Prom "A Eide to Khiva." By Colonel Feed Buenabt.] T WAS called JL at daybreak the following morning. The few prepara- tions required to be made were soon finished, and I found my- self in my new- ly - purchased sleigh, which had been tho- roughly re- paired, driving along in the direction of Smweshlaev- the first .^^2>. station arrived at when travel- ling towards Orenburg, and about twenty versts from "^^^^^ Samara. The country was a dead flat, and of a most uninteresting description. A few trees scattered here and there made by their scarcity the bleak and naked ap- pearance of the adjacent surroundings the more conspicuous. Naught save snow here, there, and everywhere. No signs of life save a few melan- choly crows and jackdaws, which from time to time made a short flight to stretch their pinions, and then returned to perch by the side of some kitchen chimney, and extract from the rapidly rising smoke as much warmth as possible. The route much resembled the road between Sizeran and Samara ; for, indeed, in winter-time every- thing in Russia is either aUke or hidden from view, buried beneath its blanch white pall of snow. The station-houses along the line of road I was then travelHng were fairly clean. The furniture generally consisted of a horsehair sofa and some wooden chairs, whilst a few coloured prints of the Emperor and other members of the Royal Family of Russia were hung about the walls, and made up the attempt at decoration. A book in which to inscribe complaints was also kept, and any traveller who felt himself aggrieved could -write down his grievance, which would be subsequently investi- gated by an inspector, whose duty it was to per- form this task once a month. I sometimes used to while away the time whilst waiting for fresh horses by turning over the pages of the grumblers' book— occasionally, indeed, having to add my own grievance to the list— the badness of the horses being a frequent source of annoyance to the passengers. I reached Bodrovsky, the next station, a little after sunset, only halting sufficient time to drink a few glasses of tea, in order the better to resist the rapidly-increasing cold, the thermometer having fallen to 25° below zero (Reaumur), and started again for Malomalisky, about 26J versts distant. I hoped to reach this point about 9 p.m., and there refresh the inner man before proceeding on my journey. It is hungry work, sleigh-driving in the winter, and the frame requires a good deal of sup- port in the shape of food in order to keep up the vitality. However, it is no good forming any plans in which time is concerned in Russia. The natives have a Mohammedan-like indifference to the clock, and travellers must succumb, however unvsdllingly, to the waywardness of the elements. Presently I became aware by some pistol-Hke cracks — the sounds of the whip reverberating from the backs of my horses— that there was a difference of opinion between them and the driver. A blind- ing snow had come on ; the darkness was so great that I could not distinguish the driver. Our jaded animals were floundering about in all directions, vainly endeavouring to hit off the original track, from which it was evident that they had strayed. The man now got down from his box, and, leaving me in charge of the horses, made a wide cast round on foot, hoping to discover the road. The snow all this time was falling in a manner unknown to people in this country. It was piling itself up against the sleigh in such volumes that I foresaw, if we did not speedily reach the station, we should inevitably be buried alive. After about half- an hour's search the driver returned, and said to me, " Oh, Lord ! — you are a misfortune. Let us turn back." I replied, "If you have lost the way, how can you turn back % Besides, if you know the road, we are now half-way, so it is just as easy to go forward as to return." He had found the track, but by this time the sleigh was so buried in the snow that the horses could not stir it. There was only one thing to do, which was for me to get out and help him to lift the vehicle, when we eventually succeeded in re- gaining the path. The fellow was a good deal surprised at this action on my part, for Russian gentlemen as a rule would almost prefer to be frozen to death than do any manual labour. Presently he said, " One of SLEIGHING IN THE SNOW. 175 noble birtli, what shall we do now ? " " Go on.'' But at last, finding that it was no use, and that the snow in front of us had drifted over the track to a much greater extent than over that part of the road which we had left behind, I was reluctantly- obliged to give the order to return. This he obeyed vnth the greatest alacrity, the horses as weU as the driver, showing by their redoubled exertions, that they were well aware of the change of direction. There is nothing so disheartening to a traveller who wishes to get forward rapidly as the frequent snow-storms which occur in winter in this jsart of Russia. Days upon days of valuable time are thus lost, whilst any attempt to force a way through at aU hazards, will only lead to the extreme pro- bability of your being frozen to death, without enabling you in any way to accelerate your arrival. The inspector at the station laughed heartily when we returned, and said that.it was very fortunate I had not to pass the night out in the open. He had previously advised us not to attempt the journey that evening, but wait for daylight. However, I did not believe him, and consequently had to buy my experience. Of all the countries in which it has been my fate to travel, the land where curiosity is most rampant is decidedly Russia. Whether this comes from a dearth of public news and subjects for conversa- tion, or from something innate and specially characterising the Sclavonic race, it is difficult to say. The curiosity of the fair sex, which in other countries is supposed to be the ne 2}his ultra of inquisitiveness, is in the land of the Tzar far outstripped by the same peculiarity in the male inhabitants. Of course I am alluding more par- ticularly to the lower orders and not to the upper classes, though even with the latter it is a feature that cannot help striking the foreigner. The inspector was a thorough old conservative, and greatly mourned the new order of things, and that he could no longer demand the traveller's podorojnaya, or pass. " Why," he said, " I do not know whom I am addressing ; I may be talking to a shopkeeper, and call him Your Excellency, or addi'ess a Grand Duke as simply one of noble birth." " Yes," chimed in some travellers who were benighted like myself, "and rogues can travel now, for they are not obliged to go to the police." I was rather amused at this. There was decidedly a wish on the part of the other way- farers to know who I was ; so, pulling my English passport out of my pocket, I said to the inspector, " There, you can look at my podvrojnaya" He turned it upside down ; and then said, " Ah, yes ! you are a Greek, but what a beautifid crown that is on it ! You must be some great personage, going to Tashkent." " Perhaps so," I replied, assuming an air of importance. " There is a royal highness coming through soon," said the inspector ; " I heard it from a pedlar who went by yesterday ; and one of his officers is travelhng on in front to make pre- parations. Perhaps his Excellency," turning to me, " is that gentleman." " No," was my answer ; when one of the company, who appeared a little annoyed at my evident unwillingness to undergo this process of pumping, remarked that there had been several robberies in the neighbourhood. " Yes, there have," said another, and the assem- blage all looked at me as much as to say, " You are the man ; now, do not deny it ; we shall not believe you." So the evening wore on, till one by one we laid - om'selves down to rest, when a sound, very sugges- tive of a pigsty, awoke the echoes of the night. On looking out at daybreak, I found that the mnd had subsided, and the thermometer had risen to within a few degrees of freezing-point. There was no time to be lost, particularly as I could not tell how long this exceptional order of things would last ; so, ordering fresh horses, I recommenced the journey. A great deal of snow had fallen during the night, and it was fortunate that we had returned to the station, as in some places, only a little distance beyond the spot from which my driver had retraced his steps, were drifts eight and ten feet deep. " Praise be to God that we did not fall in !" said my Jehu, pointing them out to me as he drove by ; " I might have been frozen." A single line of telegraph ran along the side of the road, being part of the wire which connects the capital with Tashkent. The high poles from which the line was suspended served as a capital landmark to point out the route which we must foUow. Presently the scenery changed, and some plantations here and there relieved the eye, tired by continually gazing over the endless waste. Low trucks on wooden runners, drawn by two or four horses, and laden with iron rails for the construc- tion of the railway, encountered us on the path. In many places we had great difficulty in passing, owing to the narrowness of the road. My Jehu's vocabulary of expletives was more than once thoroughly exhausted upon the heads of the sleighmen. They had, as it appeared, purposely tried to upset our sleigh by charging it with their heavily-laden vehicles. A few stations further on the road I met General Kryjinovsky, the Governor of the Orenburg district, who was on ids way to St. Petersburg, accompanied by his wife and daughter. He had highly dis- tinguished himself in his early career in Turkistan, and to this he owes the important post entrusted to his charge. He is a little spare man, with a keen glance and determined eye, and if I might be allowed to judge from our brief interview, he was not the sort of individual who would care to give me much information about my journey, of which he did not seem to approve. 176 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " You must remember," he said, " on no account are you to go to India or to Persia. You must retrace your steps to European Russia along the same road by which you go. You speak Russian, I hear 1 " he suddenly remarked, looking fixedly at extent had let the cat out of the bag. He now observed, " Oh, I only supposed you did so." In the meantime his wife and daughter were taking off their furs in the same apartment. The ac- commodation for ladies is of the most meagre kind in these roadside stations, there are no retiring- rooms whatever, and the fair sex have in this, respect to put up with much more discomfort than, the men. As I drove away after our interview I pondered the general's words well over in my mind — " You. must not go to India ; you must not go to Persia ;, and you must retrace your steps exactly by the- ' They kicked ani> jumped." me. Our conversation up to that time had been carried on in French. " Yes," I replied ; " but how clever you are to have made this discovery, considering that we have not spoken one word in your language, and you have never seen me before. " This took the general a little aback, and he slightly changed colour. He had evidently received a communication from some authorities at St. Petersburg, to the effect that I was acquainted with Russian, generally an unknown tongue to foreigners, and to a certain same route you go." It was really very extra- ordinary to see how much interest this paternal government in St. Petersburg took in my move- ments. Here I was travelling in a country where the rulers defend the despoliation of the inhabi- tants in Central Asia, and the annexation of their territory, on the ground that it is done for the purpose of Christianity and civilisation. And yet the government of this civilised nation made as much fuss about my travelling in Central Asia as any mandarin at Pekin, whose permission I SLEIGHING IN THE SNOW. 177 might have had to ask for a journey through the Celestial Empire. It will take the Eussians a long time to shake oti' from themselves the habits and way of thought inherited from a barbarous ancestry. Grattez le Russe et vous trouverei le Tartare, f« cVsi ■am hmdte aux Tartares. This is a hackneyed expression ; however, it is a true one. It requires but a little rubbing to disclose the Tartar blood so freely circulated through the Muscovite veins. Some distance further on the road I observed a strong disinclination evinced by the man whose business it was to drive me to the next halting- place. He was a fresh-looking, sturdy fellow, and I could not understand the evident dislike he had for his fare, the more particularly as I had made a point of well tipping the respective drivers in order to get on as fast as possible. " What is it 1 " I inquired of the station-master. " Is he ill 1 " " No," was the reply ; "he was married yesterday, that is all." It seemed somewhat cruel to tear away the poor fellow from the conjugal bliss that awaited him in the next room, but there was no help for it. No other driver could be procured, and the duty must be performed. If I had not before remarked that there was something, amiss with the fellow, I should very soon have found it out by the extraordinary motions his horses im- parted to the sleigh. He lashed the animals. They kicked and jumped, performing antics which slightly re- sembled the convulsive twitcliings of an indi- vidual suifering from St. Vitus. I was thrown in the air and caught again by the rebound ; upset, righted, and upset again, without having had time to realise the first disaster ; cartridge- cases, gun, saddle-bags, and self, all flying in the air at the same instant, the enamoured driver forgetting everything in the absorbing influence •of his passion, save the desire to return to the side of his adored Dulcinea. I once rode a camel in love ; this was in the Great Korosko desert. He was known by the name of the Magnoon, or the Mad Camel ; but whether on account of his susceptible heart or not I cannot say. I shall never forget on one occasion, when the amorous quadruped had accidentally become separated from the Juliet of his aftec- tion, a sweet creature, that carried the sheik of our party. She was very old, but this was no deterrent in the eyes of her ardent admirer, who was miserable when not at her side. I had ridden on a little ahead of the party when the voice of Juliet, who was being saddled in the desert, and who vented her woes in weird squeals and sounds appropriate to her race, was wafted by the breeze to the attentive ears of her admirer. He was a very long and a very tall camel, and in an instant he commenced to rear. My position became both ludicrous and precarious. Ludicrous to every one but myself, who was interested in the matter more than anyone except Komeo. I found that I was, as it were, slipping down the steep roof of a house, with nothing to hold on by but a little peg about four inches long, which projected from the front part of the saddle. It was an awful moment, but he did not keep me long in suspense. Performing an extraordinary movement, he suddenly swung himself round on his hind legs, and ran as fast as ever he could in the direction of the fair enticer. A camel's gait is a peculiar one ; they go something like a pig with the fore, and like a cow with the hind legs. The motion is decidedly rough. At this moment my steed was seized with a strange and convulsive twitching which threatened to capsize the saddle. My position became each second more ridiculous and appalling. I was a shuttlecock, Romeo's back was the battledore. At every moment I was hurled into the air. The fear of missing the saddle and falling on the ground was continually in my mind. The little projecting knob, which seemed an instru- ment of torture like the impaling sticks used to punish the unfaithful in China, was also a source of consternation. I do not think I have ever felt a more thorough sensation of relief, than when, on arriving at our encampment, Romeo halted by the side of his Juliet. The episode with Romeo had been an alarming one. It was nothing to being driven by this amorous young Russian as a charioteer. At last, after having been deposited with all my luggage for the third time in the snow, I resolved to appeal to his feelings by a sharp application of my boot " Why do you do that ?" he said, pulling up short. " You hurt, you break my ribs." " I only do to you what you do to me," was my reply, " you hurt, you break my ribs, and property besides." " Oh, one of noble birth," ejaculated the fellow, " it is not my fault. It is thou, oh, moody one ! " — to his offside horse, accompanied by a crack from his lash. " It is thou, oh, spoilt and cherished one!" — to his other meagre and half -starved ! quadruped. (Whack !) " Oh, petted and caressed ; sons of animals" (whack, whack, whack!), "I will teach you to upset the gentleman ! " 178 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. MY AUNT. [By Oliver Wendell Holmes.] aY aunt ! my dear unmarried aunt ! Long years have o'er her flown, Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone ; I know it hurts her — though she looks As cheerful as she can ; Her waist is ampler than her life, For Ufe is but a span. My aunt ! my poor deluded aunt ! Her hair is almost grey ; Why will she train that winter curl Li such a spring-like way 1 How can she lay her glasses down. And say she reads as well. When, through a dovible convex lens, She just makes out to spell ? Her father — grandpapa ! forgive This erring lip its smiles — Vowed she should make the finest girl Within a hundred miles ; He sent her to a stylish school ; 'Twas in her thirteenth June ; And with her, as the rules required, " Two towels and a spoon." They braced my aunt against a board, To make her straight and tall ; They laced her up, they starved her down, To make her light and small. They pinched her feet, they singed her hair^ They screwed it up with pins : — O, never mortal suffered more In penance for her sins. So, when my precious aunt was done. My grandsire brought her back ; (By daylight, lest some rabid youth Might follow on the track ;) " Ah ! " said my grandsire, as he shook Some powder in his pan, "What could this lovely creature do Against a desperate man ! " Alas ! nor chariot, nor barouche. Nor bandit cavalcade. Tore from the trembling father's arms His all-accomplished maid. For her how happy had it been '. And heaven had spared to me To see one sad, ungathered rose On my ancestral tree. THE BRAVEEY OF BAILIE NICOL JAEVIE. [From "Rob Eoy." By Sir Walter Scott.] i^BOUT half a mile's riding, after we if crossed the bridge, placed us at the I igj^T^ door of a jaublic-house, where we were ' to pass the evening. It was a hovel rather worse than better than that in which we had dined ; but its little windows were lighted up, voices were heard from withiuj and all intimated a prospect of food and .shelter, to which we were by no means indifferent. Andrew was the first to observe that there was a peeled willow-wand placed across the half-open door of the little inn. He hung back, and advised us not to enter. " For," said Andrew, " some of their chiefs and grit men are birling at the usque- baugh in by there, and dinna want to be disturbed ; and the least we'll get, if we gang ram-stam in on them, will be a broken head, to learn us better havings, if we dinna come by the length of a cauld dirk in our wame, whilk is just as likely." I looked at the Bailie, who acknowledged, in a whisper, "that the gowk had some reason for singing, ance in the year." jMeantime a staring half-clad wench or two came out of the inn and the neighbouring cottages, on hearing the sound of our horses' feet. No one bade us welcome, nor did any one offer to take our horses, from which we had alighted ; and to our various inquiries, the hopeless response of " Ha niel Sassenach " was the only answer we could extract. The Bailie, however, found (in his ex- perience) a way to make them speak English. " If I gie ye a bawbee," said he to an urchin of about ten years old, with a fragment of a tattered plaid about him, " will you understand Sassenach 1 " " Ay, ay, that will I," replied the brat in very decent English. " Then gang and tell your mammy, my man,, there's twa Sassenach gentlemen come to speak wi' her." The landlady presently appeared, with a lighted THE BRAVERY OF BAILIE NICOL JARVIE. 179 piece of split fir blazing in her hand. The turpen- tine in this species of torch (which is generally dug from out the turf-bogs) makes it blaze and sparkle readily, so that it is often used in the Highlands in lieu of candles. On this occasion such a torch illuminated the wild and anxious features of a female, pale, thin, and rather above the usual size, whose soiled and ragged dress, though aided by a plaid or tartan screen, barely served the purposes of decency, and certainly not those of comfort. Her black hair, which escaped in uncombed elf-locks from under her coif, as well as the strange and embarrassed look with which she regarded us, gave me the idea of a. witch dis- turbed in the midst of her unlawful rites. She plainly refused to admit us into the house. We remonstrated anxiously, and pleaded the length of our joiu-ney, the state of our horses, and the cer- tainty that there was not another place where we could be received nearer than Callander, which the Bailie stated to be seven Scots miles distant. How many these may exactly amount to in English measurement I have never been able to ascertain, but I think the double ratio may be pretty safely taken as a medium computation. The obdiu'ate hostess treated our expostulation with contempt. "Better gang farther than fare waur," she said, speaking the Scottish Lowland dialect, and being indeed a native of the Lennox district. "Her house was taen up wi' them wadna like to be intruded on wi' strangers. She didna ken wha mair might be there — redcoats, it might be, frae the garrison." (These last words she spoke under her breath, and with very strong emphasis.) " The night," she said, "was fair abune head — a night amang the heather wad caller our bloods — we might sleep in our claes as mony a gude blade does in the scabbard — there wssna muckle flow- moss in the shaw, if we took up our quarters right, and we might pit up our horses to the hiU, naebody wad say naething against it." " But, my good woman," said I, while the Bailie groaned and remained undecided, " it is six hours since we dined, and we have not taken a morsel since. I am positively dying with hunger, and I have no taste for taking up my abode supperless among these mountains of yours. I positively must enter ; and make the best apology you can to your guests for adding a stranger or two to their number. Andrew, you wiU see the horses put up." The Hecate looked at me with surprise, and then ejaculated, "A wilfu' man will hae his way — them that will to Cupar maun to Cupar ! To see thae English belly-gods — he has had ae fu' meal the day ah-eady, and he'll venture life and liberty rather than he'll want a het supper ! Set roasted beef and pudding on the opposite side o' the pit o' Tophet, and an EngUshman will mak a spang at it. But I wash my hands o't. Follow me, sir" (to Andrew), " and I'll show ye where to pit the beasts." I own I was somewhat dismayed at my land- lady's expressions, which seemed to be ominous of some approaching danger. I did not, however, choose to shrink back after having declared my resolution, and accordingly I boldly entered the house ; and after narrowly escaping breaking my shins over a turf back and a salting-tub, which stood on either side of the narrow exterior passage, I opened a crazy half-decayed door, constructed not of plank, but of wicker, and, followed by the Bailie, entered into the principal apartment of this Scottish caravansary. The interior presented a view which seemed singular enough to southern eyes. The fire, fed with blazing tm-f and branches of dried wood, blazed merrily in the centre ; but the smoke, having no means to escape but through a hole in the roof, eddied round the rafters of the cottage, and hung in sable folds at the height of about five feet from the floor. The space beneath was kept pretty clear, by innumerable currents of air which rushed towards the fire from the broken panel of basket-work which served as a door, from two square holes, designed as ostensible windows, through one of which was thrust a plaid, and through the other a tattered great-coat ; and more- over, through various less distinguishable apertures in the walls of the tenement, which, being built of round stones and turf, cemented by mud, let in the atmosphere at innumerable crevices. At an old oaken table, adjoining to the fire, sat three men, guests apparently, whom it was impos- sible to regard with indifference. Two were in the Highland dress ; the one, a little dark-com- plexioned man, with a lively, quick, and irritable expression of featru-es, wore the trews, or close pantaloons, wove out of a sort of chequered stock- ing stuff. The BaUie whispered me that "he behoved to be a man of some consequence, for that naebody but their Duinh^wassels wore the trews ; they were ill to weave exactly to their Highland pleasure." The other mountaineer was a very tall, strong man, with a quantity of reddish hair, freckled face, high cheek-bones, and long chin — a sort of caricature of the national features of Scotland. The tartan which he wore differed from that of his companion, as it had much more scarlet in it, whereas the shades of black and dark green pre- dominated in the chequers of the other. The third, who sat at the small table, was in the Low- land dress — a bold, stout-looking man, with a cast of military daring in his eye and manner, his riding-dress showily and profusely laced, and his cocked-hat of formidable dimensions. His hanger and a pair of pistols lay on the table before him. 180 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Each of the Highlanders had their naked dirks stuck upright in the board beside him — an emblem, I was afterwards informed, but surely a strange one, that their compotation was not to be inter- rupted by any brawl. A mighty pewter measure, containing about an English quart of usquebaugh, a liquor nearly as strong as brandy, which the Highlanders distil from malt, and drink undiluted in excessive quantities, was placed before these worthies. A broken glass, with a wooden foot, served as a drinkiiig-cup to the whole party, and circulated with a rapidity which, considering the potency of the liquor, seemed absolutely marvel- lous. These men spoke loud and eagerly together, sometimes in Gaelic, at other times in English. Another Highlander, wrapt in his plaid, reclined on the floor, his head resting on a stone, from which it was only separated by a wisp of straw, and slept, or seemed to sleep, without attending to what was going on around him. He also was probably a stranger, for he lay in full dress, and accoutred with the sword and target, the usual arms of his countrymen when on a journey. Cribs there were of different dimensions beside the walls, formed, some of fractured boards, some of shattered wicker-work or plaited boughs, in which slumbered the family of the house, men, women, and children, their places of repose only concealed by the dusky wreaths of vapour which arose above, below, and around them. Our entrance was made so quietly, and the carousers I have described were so eagerly engaged in their discussions, that we escaped their notice for a minute or two. But I observed the High- lander who lay beside the fire raise himself on his elbow as we entered, and, drawing his plaid over the lower part of his face, fix his look on us for a few seconds, after which he resumed his recum- bent posture, and seemed again to betake himself to the repose which our entrance had interrupted. We advanced to the fire, which was an agreeable spectacle after our late ride, during the chilluess of an autumn evening among the mountains, and first attracted the attention of the guests who had preceded us, by calling for the landlady. She approached, looking doubtfully and timidly, now at us, now at the other party, and returned a hesitating and doubtful answer to our request to have something to eat. " She didna ken," she said, " she wasna sure there was onything in the house," and then modi- fied her refusal with the qualification — "that is, o-nything fit for the like of us." I assured her we were indifierent to the quality of our supper ; and looking round for the means of accommodation, which were not easily to be found, I arranged an old hen-coop as a seat for Mr. Jarvie, and turned down a broken tub to serve for my own. Andrew Fairservice entered presently afterwards, and took a place in silence behind our backs. The natives, as I may caU them, continued staring at us with an air as if confounded by our assurance, and we — at least, I myself — disguised as well as we could, under an appearance of in- difference, any secret anxiety we might feel con- cerning the mode in which we were to be received by those whose privacy we had disturbed. At length, the lesser Highlander, addressing himself to me, said, in very good English, and in a tone of great haughtiness, " Ye make yourself at home, sir, I see." " I usually do so," I replied, " when I come into a house of public entertainment." " And did she na see," said the taller man, " by the white wand at the door, that gentlemans had taken up the public-house on their ain business'?" " I do not pretend to understand the customs of this country ; but I am yet to learn," I replied, " how three persons should be entitled to exclude all other travellers from the only place of shelter and refreshme]it for mUes round." " There's uae reason for't, gentlemen," said the Bailie; "we mean nae offence — but there's neither law nor reason for't — but as far as a stoup o' gude brandy wad make up the quarrel, we, being peace- able folk, wad be willing " " Hang your brandy, sir ! " said the Lowlander, adjusting his cocked-hat fiercely upon his head;. "we desire neither your brandy nor your com- pany," and up he rose from his seat. His com- panions also arose, muttering to each other, draw- ing up their plaids, and snorting and sniffing the ■ air after the manner of their countrymen when working themselves into a passion. " I tauld ye what wad come, gentlemen," said the landlady, " an ye wad hae been tauld. Get awa' wi' ye out o' my house, and make nae dis- turbance here — there's nae gentleman bo disturbed at Jeanie MacAlpine's an she can hinder. A wheen idle English loons, gaun about the country under cloud o' night, and disturbing honest peaceable gentlemen that are drinking their drap drink at the fireside ! " At another time I should have thought of the old Latin adage — " Dat veniam corvis, vesat censura columbas " — but I had not any time for classical quotation, for there was obviously a fray about to ensue, at which, feeling myself indignant at the inhospitable insolence with which I was treated, I was totally indifferent, unless on the BaiUe's account, whose person and qualities were ill qualified for such an adventure. I started up, however, on seeing the others rise, and dropped my cloak from my" shoulders, that I might be ready to stand on the defensive. " We are three to three," said the lesser High- THE BRAVERY OF BAILIE NICOL JARVIE. 181 lander, glancing his eyes at our party ; " if ye be pretty men, draw !" and, unslieathing his broad- sword, he advanced on me. I put myself in a posture of defence, and, aware of the superiority of my weapon, a rapier or small-sword, was little afraid of the issue of the contest. The Bailie behaved with unexpected mettle. As he saw the gigantic Highlander confront him with his weapon drawn, he tugged for a second or two at the hilt of his shabble, as he called it ; but finding it loath to quit the sheath, to which it had long been secured by rust and disuse, he seized as a substitute on set, was sorely bested. The weight of his weapon,, the corpulence of hLs person, the very efferves- cence of his own passions, were rapidly exhausting both his strength and his breath, and he was almost at the mercy of his antagonist, when up started the sleeping Highlander from the floor on which he reclined, with his naked sword and target in Ms hand, and threw himself between the dis- comfited magistrate and his assailant, exclaiming,, "Her nainsell has eaten the town pread at the Cross o' Glasgow, and py her troth she'll fight for Bailie Sharvie at the Clachan of Aberfoil — tat will. The Bailie behavi;d with unexpected mettle." (Draicnhy W. E. Overcnd.) the red-hot coulter of a plough which had been employed in arranging the fire by way of a poker, and brandished it with such efiect, that at the first pass he set the Highlander's plaid on fire, and compelled him to keep a respectful distance till he could get it extinguished. Andrew, on the con- trary, who ought to have faced the Lowland cham- pion, had, I grieve to say it, vanished at the very commencement of the fray. But his antagonist, crjring, " Fair play ! fair play ! " seemed cour- teously disposed to take no share in the scufHe. Thus we commenced our rencontre on fair terms as to numbers. My owa aim was to possess myself, if possible, of my antagonist's weapon ; but I was deterred from closing for fear of the dirk which he held in his left hand, and used in parrying the thrusts of my rapier. Meantime the BaUie, notwithstanding the success of his first on- she e'en ! " And seconding his words with deeds^. this unexpected auxiliary made his sword whistle about the ears of his tall countryman, who, nothing abashed, returned his blows with interest. But being both accoutred with round targets made of wood, studded with brass, and covered with leather, with which they readily parried each other's strokes, their combat was attended with much more noise and clatter than serious risk of damage. It appeared, indeed, that there was more of bravado than of serious attempt to do us. any injury ; for the Lowland gentleman, who, as I mentioned, had stood aside for want of an antago- nist when the brawl commenced, was now pleased to act the part of moderator and peace-maker. " Hand your hands — hand your hands — eneugh done — eneugh done ! — the quarrel's no mortal. The strange gentlemen have shown themselves.- 182 GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. men of honour and gien reasonable satisfaction. I'll stand on mine honour as kittle as ony man, but I hate unnecessary bloodshed." It was not, of course, my wish to protract the fray — my adversary seemed equally disposed to sheath his sword — the Bailie, gasping for breath, might be considered as hors de combat, and our two sword-and-buckler men gave up their contest with as much indifference as they had entered into it. "And now," said the worthy gentleman who acted as umpire, "let us drink and gree like honest fellows — the house will hand us a'. I propose that this good little gentleman that seems sair for- foughen, as I may say, in this tuilzie, shall send for a tass o' brandy, and I'U pay for another, by way of archilowe,* and then we'll birl our bawbees a' round about, like brethren." "And fa's to pay my new ponnie plaid," said the larger Highlander, " wi' a hole burnt in't ane alight put a kail-pat through ■? Saw ever onybody a decent gentleman fight wi' a firebrand before 1 " " Let that be nae hindrance," said the Bailie, who had now recovered his breath, and was at once disposed to enjoy the triumph of having behaved with spirit, and avoid the necessity of again resorting to such hard and doubtful arbitre- ment. " Gin I hae broken the head," he said, " I sail find the plaister. A new plaid sail ye hae, and o' the best — your ain clan-colours, man — an .ye will tell me where it can be sent t'ye frae •■Glasco." " I needna name my clan — I am of a king's clan, as is weel kend," said the Highlander; "but ye may tak a bit o' the plaid — tigh ! she smells Kke a singit sheep's head — and that'll learn ye the sett — and a gentleman, that's a cousin o' my ain, that carries eggs doun frae Glencroe, will ca' for't about Martimas, an ye wiU tell her where ye bide. But, honest gentleman, neist time ye fight, and ye hae ony respect for your athversary, let it be wi' your sword, man, since ye wear ane, and no wi' thae het culters and fireprands, like a wild Indian." " Conscience ! " replied the Bailie, " every man maun do as he dow — my sword hasna seen the light since Bothwell Brigg, when my father, that's dead and gaue, ware it ; and I kenna weel if it was forthcoming then either, for the battle was o' the briefest. At ony rate, it's glewed to the scab- bard now beyond my power to part them ; and, finding that, I e'en grippit at the first thing I could make a fend wi'. I trow my fighting days is done, though I like ill to take the scorn, for a' that. But where's the honest lad that tuik my quarrel on himsel' sae frankly? — I'se bestow a giU o' aquavitae on him, an I suld never ca' for anither." The champion for whom he looked around was, however, no longer to be seen. He had escaped, unobserved by the Bailie, immediately when the brawl was ended, yet not before I had recognised, in his wild features and shaggy red hair, our acquaintance Dougal, the fugitive turnkey of the Glasgow gaol. A DEEADFUL AFFAIE. ) T'S all very well to report a man, and make minutes about him, and all that sorter thing," said John Pipley, A B 247, as he went down Great Bulky Street, beating his white-gloved hands together, and rolling his eyes about in all •directions. "A man can't be all hyes, like a peacock, and looking everywhere at once. Twenty shillings a week aint much, you know, is it, for board and lodging, and washing, and the missus, and the young uns ? Here, just get out o' that, now, will yer ? " " I aint in nobody's way, am I ? " " Yes, you are ; so go on ! That there barrer o' •youm's been getting bigger every week, and how's •carriages to draw up if you're here ? " This bit of fencing took place between PC. Pipley and a man with an apple barrow — the fruit vendor going off grumbling, and PC. on the look- "* Ai'chilowe, of unknown derivatiou, signifies a peace-oifering. ovit for workers of mischief against the laws of her Sovereign Majesty the Queen. He was not a perfect man, John Pipley : he was a good officer, and worked hard for his pay ; biit he was not perfect, and he knew it. In earlier days, before Mrs. Pipley agreed to rest in future upon his manly breast, he had been seen more than once to steal up from areas, and close the gate very carefully after him — of course returning from voyages of investigation and examination of locks, bolts, and bars for the protection of her Majesty's liege subjects. Of course he had on these occasions tried the coal-cellar, and looked into the dustbin. But why was a gentle cough heard, and a door closed softly when John came up % and, again, why bulged those pockets, to the distortion of the symmetry of his manly form — the knobblefying of his neat bine uniform 1 It is a very old joke to accuse policemen of par- tiality for cooks ; but the charge is none the less A DREADFUL AFFAIR. 183 true, and the great Force need not blush. Have not the greatest generals and statesmen found solace in the society of the other sex 1 But John was now a married man, and devoted himself most strongly to his profession. Evil-doers feared him, and many were the scoundrels he had haled off to prison, with penal results. It was not often that he interfered with applewomen. His orders were to keep the way clear ; but, as John said, "We must all live, and selling apples is honest — as honest as selling tea and sugar — honester, for you can't adulterate your apples, though you. may boil an orange." But John was now under a cloud, and he did interfere with apple men and women ; " chivied " small boys ; cuffed one who had " cut behind " a cab and nearly been run over ; frowned severely at a fuzee seller ; scowled at the patchouli native in cummer- bund, till the coffee-coloured Hindoo shivered in his shoes and smiled pathetically. John even had words with an earl's coachman, and moved him on in spite of the coronet upon, the panel and the dashing bays. For John was under a cloud. Mysterious rob- beries had been taking place on his beat, and though he had done his best to catch the members of the gang, they had been too much for him, and the robberies went on. Now this was very galling to a man who had ' set his mind upon rising in Ufe. Blue was very well ; but John wanted to wear black, with silk facings. P.O. was decent, sergeant was better ; but inspector, and then superintendent — those were the goals that John Pipley wished to reach in the race of life ; and now, instead of going forward, his movements were retrograde : he was threatened with minutes and reports, and all because of the scoundrels who had been too much for him. " I'll be down upon them, though, one of these days," said John. " I'll put salt on some of your tails, my pretty gaol-birds. It's 'ware hawk with you, so I tell you, my fine feUows." So he went on, up and down, down and up, and had nothing to report at last. And the robberies went on. A carpet bag was taken from a cab in motion. Next day, a shawl, and a carriage timepiece were stolen as the barouche stood at a fashionable milliner's door. The disturbance about that was hardly over when a boy was hiistled, and a valuable parcel wrested from his hands. Again, a page was bonneted, and a pet dog and a motlier-o'-pearl opera-glass taken from his encircling arms. John Pipley was in despair. Another day. Great-coat and umbrella from the front hall of Lord Rubblemede's town mansion, in Upper Crook Street ; two umbrellas from No. 24 in the same street, and a roll of carpet from the big draper's round the corner. John had a sharp lecture from the inspector, and he went again upon his beat, horribly wroth. " If I'd only been by that shop-door I could have nailed them," said John, angrily ; " but a man can't be everywhere at once. I'U have them, though, next time, hang me if I don't ! or else I'll leave the force." He was very busy that day, and took up one man on suspicion ; but only got snubbed for his pains. " I shall be too many for them yet," said John, as he swung leisurely down a street. " Every dog has his day, watch-dogs as well as mongrels, a-running about and doing mischief; but when I do get liold, why then " He paused before an orange woman who was en- croaching upon the pavement, and, after warning her off, began to ponder on her appearance. Some one must have committed these robberies, and why not she as well as any one else 1 She was bulky, and had a habit of sitting in a sieve packed with her legs under her, to keep her warm ; her bonnet was very much crushed, and her plaid shawl all awry — all of which proved nothing ; but they might be found to be associated in some way with the late robberies. It was astonishing what great things sometimes grew out of small, as the detective had often shown. John Pipley could not make the sides of the puzzle iit, so he moved on himself. Ah ! Now that was more likely. An organ- grinder. Hum ! Always loitering about and turning that handle — what opportunities for think- ing out villainy ! But no, it would not do. He couldn't take up Giuseppe on suspicion ; so the man ground out the march from " Faust " like so much mu.sical meal to be blown away upon the wind,, the sounds buzzing in John Pipley's ears, even when he was out of sight. " I'll have 'em yet, — I'll have 'em yet," said John, as he chewed the cud of his disappointment, and thought of his inspector's words ; but his business was very slack, the people were awfully well-behaved, and it was very disappointing. A cab rattled by, laden with luggage ; but no scoundrel was dislodging a portmanteau ; and he - John Pipley — could not run after that cab all the way to the Great Northern to see if it arrived there safe. It was not reasonable, and would be horribly v.'anting in dignity. How his head worked ! How he beat together his gloves, in which his fingers itched to get at crime or longed to lay hold of his truncheon, and hit at something, hard — very hard! Up and down, here and there ; but nothing on the wing. Not even a row between somebody s coachman and a cabby ; not even a horse dowr ; all was peace when he wanted war— war to the truncheon. It was enough to make any policeman sigh, and 184 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. lie sighed accordingly. Ah ! if some daring scoundrel would only dash a brick through one of those great panes of glass, and seize handfuls of the ^glorious jewels therein ! With what a feeling of ex- quisite delight he could bring down his truncheon upon the evil-doer's arm, and make him drop the treasure, which would fly scintillating all over the pavement ; and then, with the fellow's cuff tightly held, the jewels gathered and placed in his — John Pipley's — pocket, how he could proudly march the thief off, enter the charge, and deposit the culprit, like so much honey which he had .gathered, safely in a cell 1 Ah, and court next day ! Yes, he would shine there as the active and intelligent ofiicer. The jeweller would, of course, come down handsome, and it would be a step towards promotion. Yes, if such an attempt were only made, and he was at hand to stay it ! What a crack at the gang it would be — if it were not a castle in the air. P.O. Pipley beat his gloves together and sighed — ■sighed deeply. " I was on the look-out when that last carriage robbery came off, and I'd almost go so far as to •swear that I saw that roll of carpet perfectly safe ten mimites before it was stolen. Though it couldn't have been safe, or it wouldn't have been taken. Ah ! I shall have 'em yet." " Now then, Bobby, give's a lift with this here, there's a good 'un." John Pipley had been slowly approaching a great cheesemonger's shop, at one end of which stood a light cart, with the tail-board down, and an ordi- nary-looking man was trying to lift a large firkin into the cart, its fellow being already there. " Heavy ^ "said PC. Pipley. " Out an' out," said the man. John Pipley was naturally good-natured. He knew, too, the value of aid in a row : how often the law was glad to appeal to a civilian for help in the capture of some ugly customer. So, without a moment's hesitation, he slipped off his gloves, seized one end of the little barrel, and with a swing it was safely deposited in the cart. "A little furder, old un," said the man; " now, then, both together. Another to come." A vigorous push sent the firkin right forward beside the other. " Now this here," said the man, " and then there's the price of a pint," as he stepped up to an egg- box lying close under the cheesemonger's window. "All right," said John; "but just tell your people as it aint safe to leave these things out ; there's been a good many robberies about." " Well, I told our foreman as it wasn't safe," said the man ; " but he called me a fool for my pains. Now, then." John Pipley pocketed the twopence offered to him, got his fingers under one end of the straw- packed case, the man got his under the other ; the box was rested on the tail of the cart, leisurely thrust in, the tail-board rattled up, pins and chains secured, the man climbed into the cart, a mutual nod of good-fellowship was exchanged, the reins were shaken, the horse flicked, and away it rattled while PC. Pipley slowly replaced his gloves. " Luck's dead against me," he said — " dead as dead ; but I'll have 'em yet. If some one would only do something. If I'd had any luck at all, I should have nobbled some one after them butter kegs. Heighho ! nothing never falls in my way." All through the afternoon, like a law-preserving and intelligent ofiicer, did PC. Pipley wander about his beat, longing to get a shot at some rascal or another; but everything was quieter than usual, and the time for relief coming, P.C. Pipley returned to the station. " Another robbery on your beat this afternoon, Pipley," said the inspector. " Strange thing ! Most mysterious ! But it must be stopped. We can't go on like this. I must put another man on." " No, sir, don't, please ; I'm down on 'em first chance," said Pipley ; " but what is it this time — another timepiece out of a carriage 1 " "No ; a " " Not a great-coat from a hall? " "No ; a shop-door robbery." " And 1 told 'em to be careful about them there rolls of carpet," said Pipley. " I don't want to be harsh," said the inspector ; " and I suppose you were watched out of the way. A man can't be everywhere at once, nor yet be all eyes, as the ratepayers and the press seem to think." " What was it this time, sir 1 " said Pipley. " Oh, a very daring affair — butter firkins and egg chests, just delivered from a railway van. Two firkins and a chest taken from the cheesemonger's door directly after." " Were they outside the shop, .sir 1 " said Pipley, rubbing his gloves softly together. " Yes, outside at Chedderby's. The fellows must have had a cart. I'll put on a couple of plain- clothes men, for this sort of thing must be stopped. The colonel will be furious." " 'They're sharp mis, and no mistake," said John Pipley, with a peculiar look of his eye ; and then, being dismissed, he slowly returned to his lodgings, grinding his teeth, doubling his fists, and biting a bit of straw into the smallest possible fragments. " It won't do to say how I've been sold," he muttered at last, as he sat down to the tea-table ; " for I have been sold, and no mistake. Looked as innocent as a lamb, he did ; and me not to see as he was the lamb of black sheep. And me, after eight years in the Force, not to have the gumption to take a note of the name upon the cart i " ■THE BEIDE HATH PACED INTO THE HALL.- {Drawn by M. L. Gcw.) " THE AXCIEKT aiAltlSER- (p. 185) THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. T^5 THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINEE. [By Samhel Taylob Coleeidge,] The Wedding-guest sat on a stone : He cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared. Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top. The sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he ! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon — The Wedding-guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she : Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy. The Wedding -guest he beat his breast. Yet he cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man. The bright-eyed Mariner. And now the storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong : He struck with his o'ertaking wings. And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe. And forward bends his head. The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southward aye we fled. And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold : And ice, mast-high, came floating by. As green as emerald. And through the drifts, the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen : Nor shapes of men, nor beasts we ken— The ice was all between. ' He stoppeth one of three.' ^ T is an ancient Jlariner, And he stoppeth one of three. " By thy long gray beard and glittering eye. Now wherefore stopp'st thou me 1 " The bridegroom's doors are opened wide. And I am next of kin ; The guests are met, the feast is set : May'st hear the merry din." He holds him with his skinny hand, " There was a ship," quoth he. " Hold off ! unhand me, gray-beard loon ! " Eftsoons his hand dropt he. He holds him with his glittering eye — The Wedding-g-uest stood still, And listens like a three years' child : The Mariner hath his will. GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around : It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound ! At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came ; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name. It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; The helmsman steered us through ! And a good south -wind sprung up behind ; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play. Came to the mariner's hollo ! In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine ; Whiles all the niglit, through fog-smoke white. Glimmered the white moonshine. " God save thee, ancient Mariner ! From the fiends that plague thee thus ! — Why look'st thou so ? " — With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross. The sun now rose upon the right : Out of the sea came he. Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariner's hollo ! And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe : For all averred I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay. That made the breeze to blow ! Nor dim, nor red, like God's own head. The glorious sun uprist : Then all averred I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. The furrow followed free ; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be ; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea ! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody sun, at noon. Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the moon. Day after day, day after day. We stuck, nor breath nor motion : As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, everywhere. And all the boards did shrink ; Water, water, everyn'here. Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot : O Christ ! That ever this should be ! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night ; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue, and white. And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root ; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks Had I from old and young ! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time ! a weary time ! How glazed each weary eye, When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky. At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist ; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MAKINER. 187 A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! And still it neared and neared ; As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged, and tacked, and veered. With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. We could nor laugh nor wail ; Through utter drought all dumb we stood ; I bit my arm, I sucked the blood. And cried, A sail ! A sail ! When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the sun. And straight the sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered With broad and burning face. Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears ! " A S.IIL ! (From the Design hy Sir Noel Paton, R.S.A. A SAIL ! '* B'j permission of the Art Un-on of Lonion,) With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. Agape they heard me call : Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all. See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! Hither to work us weal ; Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel ! The western wave was all aflame, The day was well-nigh done ! Almost upon the western wave Eested the broad bright sun ; Are those her sails that glance in the sun, Like restless gossameres 1 Are those her ribs through which the sun Did peer, as through a grate '* And is that Woman all her crew t Is that a death ? and are there two ? Is Death that woman's mate ? Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold : Her skin was as white as leprosy, The night-mare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. 183 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. (From the J *' The self-same houient I could prat." 'gn by Sir Noel Paton, F.S.A, By permission of the Art Union of London.) The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice ; " The game is done ! I've won, I've won ! " Quoth she, and whistles thrice. The sun's rim dips : the stars rush out : At one stride comes the dark ; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark. We listened, and looked sideways up ! Fear at my heart, as at a cup. My life-blood seemed to sip. The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; From the sails the dew did drip — Till clomb above the eastern bar The horned moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. One after one, by the star-dogged moon. Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. And cursed me with his eye. Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one. The souls did from their bodies fly, — They fled to bliss or woe ! And every soul it passed me by. Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! PART IV. " I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! I fear thy skinny hand ! And thou art long, and lank, and brown,. As is the ribbed sea-sand. " " I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand so brown." — Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-gTiest I This body dropt not down. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. The many men, so beautiful ! And they all dead did lie ; And a thousand thousand slimy thi ig3 Lived on ; and so did I. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 189 I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away ; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. I looked to heaven, and tried to pray But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came and made My heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids, and kept them close. And the balls like pulses beat ; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, Lay like a load on my weary eye. And the dead were at my feet. The cold sweat melted from their hmbs. Nor rot nor reek did they : The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away. \.n orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high ; But oh ! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die. The moving moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide : Softly she was going up. And a star or two beside — Her beams bemock'd the sultry main Like April hoar-frost spread ; But where the ship's huge shadow lay. The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red. Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes : They moved in tracks of shining white. And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire : Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam ; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. " The skiff-boat neared. ' {From the Design by Sir Noel Paton, R.S.A. By permission of the Art Union of London.) 190 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. happy living things ! no tongue Their beauty might declare : A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware ; Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware. The selfsame moment I could pray ; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. ****** But soon I heard the dash of oars, 1 heard the Pilot's cheer ; My head was turned perforce away. And I saw a boat appear. The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, I heard thera coming fast : Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy The dead men could not blast. I saw a third — I heard his voice : It is the Hermit good ! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. PAET VII. This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly liis sweet voice he rears ! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — He hath a cushion plump : It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. The skiff- boat neared : I heard them talk — " Why, this is strange, I trow ! Where are those lights so many and fair. That signal made but now 1 " " Strange, by my faith ! " the Hermit said— " And they answered not our cheer ! The planks looked warped ! and see those sails, How thin they are, and sere ! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were " Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest brosk along ; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below. That eats the she-wolf's young." " Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — (The Pilot made reply) I am a-feared " — " Push on, push on ! " Said the Hermit cheerily. The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred ; The boat came close beneath the ship. And straight a sound was heard. Under the water it rumbled on. Still louder and more dread : It reached the ship, it split the bay ; The ship went down like lead. Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote. Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat ; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat. Upon the whirl where sank the shiji. The boat spun round and round ; And all was still save that the hill Was teUing of the sound. I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit ; The holy Hermit raised his eyes. And prayed where he did sit. I took the oars ; the Pilot's boy. Who now doth crazy go. Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. " Ha ! ha ! " quoth he, " full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row." And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land ! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. " O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! " The Hermit crossed his brow. " Say quick," quoth he, " I bid thee say— What manner of man art thou ? ' Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale ; And then it left me free. Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns : And till my ghastly tale is toid, This heart within me burns. THE DILEMMA OF PHADRIG. 191 I pass, like Night, from land to land ; I liave strange power of speech ; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me : To him my tale I teach. Wliat loud uproar bursts from that door ! The wedding-guests are there : But in the garden bower the bride And bride-maids singing are : And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer ! Weddi'jg-guest ! this soul hath been Alone on a mde, wide sea : So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be. O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company ! — To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends. And youths and maidens gay. Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell To thee, thou AVedding-guest ! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best who lovetli best All things both great and small ; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.. The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone : and now the Wedding-guest Turned from the bridegToom's door. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn : A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow mom. THE DILEMMA OF PHADRIG. [By Gekaid Geiffis.] i" HERE'S no use in talken about it, Phad- rig. I know an I feel that all's over wit p)| me. My pains are aU gone, to be sure i-w. ' — but in place o' that, there's a weight like a quern stone down upon my heart, an I feel it blackenen within me. All 1 have to say is — think o' your own Mauria when she's gone, and be kind to poor Patcy." " Ah, darlen, don't talk that way — there's hopes yet — what'U I do — what'll the child do witout you 1 " — "Phadrig, there's noan. I'm goen fast, an if you have any regard for me, you wont say anythin that'll bring the thoughts o' you an him between me an the thoughts o' heaven, for that's what I must think of now. An if you marry again " " Oh, Mauria, honey, will you kill me entirely t Is it I'll marry again ? " " If it be a thing you should marry again," Mauria resumed, without taking any notice of her husband's interruption, " you'll bear in mind, that the best mother that ever walked the ground will love her own above another's. It stands with raisin an natur. The gander abroad will pull a strange goslen out of his own flock ; and you know yourself, we could never get the bracket hen to sit upon Nelly O'Leary's chickens, do what we could. Everything loves its own. Then, Phadrig, if you see the floury potaties — an the top o' the milk— an the warm seat be the hob — an the biggest bit o' meat on a Sunday goen away from Patcy — you'll think o' your poor Mauria, an do her part by him ; just quietly, and softly, an without blamen the woman — for it is only what's nait'rel, and what many a stepmother does without thinking o' themselves. An above all things, Phadrig, take care to make him mind his books and his religion, to keep out o' bad company, an study his readin-made-aisy, and that's the way he'U be a blessing an a comfort to you in your old days, as I once thought he would be to me in mine." Here her husband renewed his promises in a tone of deep affliction. " An now for yourself, Phadrig. Remember the charge that's upon you, and don't be goen out venturen your life in a little canvas canoe, on the bad autumn days, at Ballybunion ; nor vnt foolish boys at the Glin and Tarbert fairs ; — and don't be so wake-minded as to be trusten to card-drawers, an fairy doctors, an the like ; for it's the last word the priest said to me was, that you were too superstitious, an that's a great shame an a heavy 192 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. sin. But tee you 1 * Phadrig, dear, tliere's that rogue of a pig at the potaties over " Phadrig turned out the grunting intruder, bolted the hurdle-door, and returned to the bedside of his expiring helpmate. That tidy housekeeper, how- ever, exhausted by the exertion vphich she had made to preserve, from the mastication of the swinish tusk, the fair produce of her husband's conacre of white eyes, had fallen back on the pillow and breathed her last. Great was the grief of the widowed Phadrig for her loss — great were the lamentations of her female friends at the evening wake — and great was the The fair Milly, however, did not appear to resent this slight, which was occasioned (so the whisper went among the guests) by the fact, that she had been an old and neglected love of the new widower. All the fiery ingredients in Milly's constitution appeared to be comprehended in her glowing ring- lets — and those, report says, were as ardent in hue as their owner was calm and regTilated in her temper. It would be a cold morning, indeed, that a sight of Milly's head would not warm you — and a hot fit of anger which a few tones of her kind and wrath-disarming voice would not cool. She dropped, after she had concluded her " cry," The EvENiifG Wake. jug of whisky-punch which the mourners imbibed at the mouth, in order to supply the loss of fluid which was expended from the eyes. According to the usual cottage etiquette, the mother of the deceased, who acted as mistress of the ceremonies, occupied a capacious hay-bottomed chair near the fireplace — from which she only rose when courtesy called on her to join each of her female acciuain- tances as they arrived, in the death- wail which (as in politeness bound), they poured forth over the pale piece of earth that lay coffined in the centre of the room. This mark of attention, however, the old lady was observed to omit ■ndth regard to one of the fair guests — a round-faced, middle-aged woman, called Milly Rue — or Red Milly, probably because her head might have furnished a solution of the popular conundrum, "Whj is a red-haired lady like a sentinel on his post 1 " * To you ! B?ware ! a conciliating courtesy to the sullen old lady, took an unobstrusive seat at the foot of the bed, talked of the " notable " qualities of the deceased, and was particularly attentive to the flaxen-headed little Patcy, whom she held in her lap during the the whole night, cross-examining him in his reading and multiplication, and presenting him, at parting, in token of her satisfaction at his proficiency, with a copy of The Seven Chcmipiotis of Christendom, with a fine marble cover and pictures. Milly acted in this instance under the advice of a pru- dent mother, who exhorted her, "whenever she thought o' maken presents, that way, not to be layen her money out in cakes or gingerbread, or things that would be ett off at wanst, an no more about them or the giver — but to give a strong toy or a book, or somethen that would last, and bring her to mind now and then, so as that when a per- son 'ud ask where they got that, or who gev it, they'd say, ' from ililly Rue,' or 'Milly gev it, we're THE DILEMMA OF PHADRIG. 193 obleest to her,' an be talken and thinken of her when she'd be away." To curb in my tale, which may otherwise become restive and unmanageable — Milly's deep affliction and generous sympathy made a serious impression on the mind of the widower, who more than all was touched by that singularly accidental attach- ment which she seemed to have conceived for little Patcy. Notliing could be farther from his own wishes than any design of a second time changing his condition ; but he felt that it would be doing a grievous wrong to the memory of his first wife if he neglected this opportunity of providing her The first shock which burst in with a sudden violence upon their happiness was one of a direful nature. Disease, that pale and hmigiy fiend who haunts alike the abodes of wealth and of penury, who brushes away with his baleful wing the bloom from beauty's cheek, and the balm of slumber from the pillow of age ; who troubles the hope of the young mother with dreams of ghastliness and gloom, and fears that come suddenly, she knows not why nor whence ; who sheds his poisonous dews alike on the heart that is buoyant and the heart that is broken ; this stern and conquering demon scorned not " Well, an' who are tou ? '• favourite Patcy with a protector, so well calculated to supply her place. He demurred a little on the score of true love, and the violence which he was about to do his own constant heart — but like the bluff King Henry, his conscience, " aye — his conscience," touched him, and the issue was, that a roaring wedding shook the walls which had echoed to the waO. of death within the few preceding months. Milly Kue not only supplied the place of a mother to young Patcy, but presented him in the course of a few years with two merry playfellows, a brother and a sister. To do her handsome justice, too, poor Mauria's anticipations were completely disproved by her conduct, and it would have been impossible for a stranger to have detected the stepison of the house from any shade of undue partiality in the mother. The harmony in which they dwelt was unbroken by any accident for many years. Y to knock, one summer morning, at the door of Phadrig's cowhouse, and to lay his iron fingers upon a fine milch-cow, a sheeted-stripper which constituted (to use his own emphatic phrase) the poor farmer's " substance," and to which he might have applied the well-known lines which run nearly as follows : — '* She's straight in her back and thin in her tail ; She's fine in her horn, and good at the pail ; She's calm in her eyes, and soft in her skin ; She's a grazier's without, and a hutcher's within.'' All the "cures" in the pharmacopceia of the village apothecary were expended on the poor animal, without any beneficial effect ; and Phadrig after many conscientious qualms about the dying words of his first wife, resolved to have recourse to that infallible refuge in such cases — a fairy doctor. He said nothing to the afflicted Milly about his 194 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. intention, but slipped out of the cottage in the afternoon, hurried to the Shannon side near Money-point, unmoored his light canvas-canoe, seated himself in the frail vessel, and fixing his paddles on the toivl-jnn, sped away over the calm face of the waters towards the isle of Scatterly, where the renowned Crohoore-na-Oona, or Connor of-the-Sheep, the Mohammed of the cottagers, at this time took up his residence. This mysterious personage, whose prophecies are still commented on among the cottage circles with looks of deep awe and wonder, was much revered by his con- temporaries as a man " who had seen a dale ; " of what nature those sights or visions were was in- timated by a mysterious look and a solemn nod of the head. Li a little time Phadrig ran his little canoe aground on the sandy beach of Scatterly, and, drawing her above high-water mark, proceeded to the humble dwelling of the gifted Sheep- shearer with feelings of profound fear and anxiety. He passed the lofty round tower — the ruined grave of St. Senanus, in the centre of the little isle — the mouldering church, on which the eye of the poring antiquary may still discern the scidptured image of the two-headed monster, with which cottage tradition says the saint sustained so fierce a conflict on landing on the islet — and which the translator of Odranus has vividly described as " a dragon, with his fore-part covered with huge bristles, standing on end like those of a boar ; and mouth gaping wide open with a double row of crooked sharp tusks, and with such ojDenings that his entrails might be seen ; his back like a round island, full of scales and shells ; his legs short and hairy, with such steely talons, that the pebble- stones, as he ran along them, sparkled — parching the way wherever he went, and making the sea boil about him where he dived — such was his excessive fiery heat." Phadrig's knees shook beneath him when he remembered this awful description — and thought of the legends of Lough Dhoola, on the summit of Mount Gallon, to which the hideous animal was banished by the saint, to fast on a trout and a half per diem to the end of time ; and where, to this day, the neighbouring fishermen declare that, in dragging the lake with their nets they find the half-trout as regularly divided in the centre as if it were done with a knife and scale. While Phadrig remained with mouth and eyes almost as wide open as those of the sculptured image of the monster which had fascinated him to the spot, a sudden crash among the stones and dock-weed, in an opposite corner of the ruin, made him start and yell as if the original were about to quit Lough Dhoola on parole of honour, and use him as a relish after the trout and a half. The noise was occasioned by a little rotund personage, who had sprung from the mouldering wall, and now stood gazing fixedly on the terrified Phadrig, who continued returning that steady glance with a half-frightened, half-crying face — one hand fast clenched iipon his breast, and the other extended, with an action of avoidance and deprecation. The person of the stranger was stout and short, rendered still more so by a stoop, which might almost have been taken for a hump — his. arms hung forward from his shoulders, like those of a long-armed ape — his hair was grey and bushy,, like that of a wanderoo — and his sullen grey eye seemed to be inflamed with ill-humour — his feet were bare and as broad as a camel's — and a leathern girdle buckling round his waist, secured a tattered grey frieze riding coat, and held an enormous pair of shears, which might have clipped ofl^ a man's head as readily perhaps, as a lock of wool. This last article of costume afforded a sufficient indication to Phadrig that he stood in the presence of the awful object of his search. '' Well ! an who are you .? " growled the Sheep- shearer, after surveying Phadrig attentively for some moments. The first gruff sound of his voice macle the latter renew his start and roar for fright ; after which, composing his terrors as well he might, he replied, in the words of Autolycus — " I am only a poor fellow, sir." " Well ! an what's your business with me ? " " A cure, sir, I wanted for her. A cow o' mine, that's very bad inwardly, an we can do nothen for her ; an I thought may be you'd know what it is. ail'd her — an prevail on them " (this word was pronounced with an emphasis of deep meaning) '' to leave her to uz." " Hush ! " the Sheep-shearer thundered out, in a tone that made poor Phadrig jump six feet back- wards, with a fresh yell, " do you daare to spake of them before me. Go along ! you viUyan o' the airth, an wait for me outside the church, an I'll tell you all about it there ; but first — do you think I can get the gentlemen to do anything for me gratish — without oflferen 'em a trate or a haip'orth ? " " If their honours wouldn't think two tinpennies and a fi'penny bit too little. — It's all I'm worth in the wide world." " Well ! we'll see what they^U say to it. Give it here to me. Go now — be ofB with yourself — if you don't want to have 'em all a-top o' you in a. minnit." This last hint made our hero scamper over the stones like a startled fawn ; nor did he think himself safe until he reached the spot where he had left his canoe, and where he expected the coming of the Sheep-shSarer ; conscience-struck by the breach of his promise to the d3dng Mauria, and in a state of agonising anxiety THE DILEMMA OF PHADRIG. 195 "with respect to the lowing patient in the cow- house. He was soon after rejoined by Connor-of-the Sheep. " Thei-e is one way," said he, " of saving your cow — ^but you must lose one of your childer if you wish to save it." " Oh Heaven presarve uz, sir, how is that, if you plase 1 " "You must go home," said the Sheep-shearer, " an say nothen to any body, but fix in your mind which o' your three cliilder you'll give for the cow ; an when you do that, look in his eyes, an he'll .sneeze, an don't you bless him, for the world. Then look in his eyes again, an he'll sneeze again, an still don't think o' blessen him, be any mains. The third time you'll look in his eyes he'll sneeze a third time — an if you don't bless him the third time, he'll die — but your cow will live." " An this is the only cure you have to gi' me 1 " exclaimed Phadrig, his indignation at the moment overcoming his natural timidity. " The only cure. — It was by a dale to do I could prevail on them to let you make the choice itself." Phadrig declared stoutly against this decree, and -even threw out some hints that he would try whether or no Shaun Lauther or Strong John, a young rival of the sheep-shearing fairy doctor, might be able to make a better bargain for him vidth the " gentlemen." "Shaun Lauther ! " exclaimed Connor -of -the- Sheep, in high anger — "Do you compare me to a man that never seen any more than yourself 1 — ■ that never saw so much as the skirt of a dead man's shroud in the moonlight — or heard as much as the nioanen of a sowlth in an old graveyard 1 Do you know me 1 — Ask them that do — an they'll tell you how often I'm called up in the night, and kep posten over bog an mountain, till I'm ready to drop down with the sleep — while few voices are heard, I'll be bail, at Shaun Lauther's windey — an little knoUidge given him in his drames. It is then that I get mine. Didn't I say before the King o' France was beheaded that a blow would be struck with an axe in that place, that the somid of it would be heard all over Europe 1 — An wasn't it true 1 Didn't I hear the shots that were fired at Gibaralthur, an tell it over in Dooly's forge, that the place was relieved that day? — an didn't the news come afterwards in a month's time, that I toult nothen but the truth 1 " Phadrig had nothing to say in answer to this overwhelming list of interrogatories — but to apologise for his want of credulity, and to express himself perfectly satisfied. AVith a heavy heart he put forth in his canoe upon the water, and prepared to return. It was already twilight, and as he glided along the peaceful shores, he ruminated mournfully within his mind on the course which he should pursue. The loss of the cow would be, he considered, almost equivalent to total ruin — and the loss of any one of his lovely children was a probability which ho could hardly bear to dwell on for a moment. Still it behoved him to weigh the matter weU. Which of them, now — supposing it possible that he could think of sacrificing any — which of them would he select for the purpose 1 The choice was a hard one. There was little Mauria, a fair-haired, blue-eyed little girl — but he could not, for an instant, think of losing her, as she happened to be named after his first wife ; her brother, little Shamus, was the least useful of the three, but he was the youngest — " the child of his old age — a little one ! " his heart bled at the idea ; he would lose the cow, and the pig along with it, before he would harm a hair of the darling infant's head. He thought of Patcy — and he shuddered, and leaned heavier on his oars, as if to flee away from the horrible doubt which stole into his heart with that name. It must be one of the three, or the cow was lost for ever. The two first-men- tioned he certainly would not lose — and Patcy — again he bade the fiend begone, and trembling in every limb, made the canoe speed rapidly over the tide in the direction of his home. He drew the little vessel ashore, and proceeded towards his cabin. They had been waiting supper for him, and he learned with renewed anxiety that the object of his solicitude, the milch-cow, had rather fallen away than im- proved in her condition during his absence. He sat down in sorrowful silence with his wife and children, to their humble supper of potatoes- and thick milk. He gazed intently on the features of each of the young innocents as they took their places on the suggan chairs that flanked the board. Little Mauria and her brother Shamus looked fresh, mirthful, and blooming, from their noisy play in the adjoining paddock, whUe their elder brother, who had spent the day at school, wore — or seemed to the distempered mind of his father, to wear a look of suUenness and chagrin. He was thinner too than most boys of his age — a circumstance which Phadrig had never remarked before. It might be the first indications of his poor mother's disease, consumption, that were beginning to declare themselves in his constitution ; and if so, his doom was already sealed— and whether the cow died or not, Patcy was certain to be lost. Still the father could not bring his mind to resolve on any settled course, and their meal proceeded in silence. Suddenly the latch of the door was lifted by some person outside, and a neighbour entered to 196 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. inform Phadrig that the agent to Ms landlord had arrived in the adjacent village, for the purpose of driving matters to extremity against aU those tenants who remained in arrear. At the same moment, too, a low moan of anguish from the cow outside announced the access of a fresh paroxysm of her distemper, which it was very evident the poor animal could never come through ill safety. In an agony of distress and horror, the distracted father laid his clenched fingers on the table, and looked fixedly in the eyes of the unsuspecting Patcy. The child sneezed, and Phadrig closed his lips hard, for fear a blessing might escape them. The child at the same time, he observed, looked paler than before. Fearful lest the remorse which began to awake within his heart might oversway his resolution, and prevent the accomplishment of his unnatural design, he looked hurriedly, a second time, into the eyes of the little victim. Again the latter sneezed — and again the father, using a violent effort, restrained the blessing which was strugghng at his heart. The poor child drooped his head upon his bosom, and letting the untasted food fall from his hand, looked so pale and mournful as to remind his murderer of the look which his mother wore in dying. It was long — very long — before the heart- struck parent could prevail on himself to complete the sacrifice. The visitor departed ; and the first beams of a full moon began to supplant the faint and lingering twihght which was fast fading in the west. The dead of the night drew on before the family rose from their silent and comfortless meal. The agonies of the devoted animal now drew rapidly to a close, and Phadrig still remained tortured by remorse on the one hand, and by selfish anxiety on the other. A sudden sound of anguish from the cow- house made him start from his seat. A third time he fixed his eyes on those of his child — a third time the boy sneezed — but here the charm was broken. Milly Eue looking with surprise and tenderness on the fainting boy, said, — " Why, then. Heaven bless you, child ! — it must be a cold you caught, you're siieezen so often." Immediately the cow sent forth a bellow of deep agony, and expired ; and at the same moment a low and plaintive voice outside the door was heard exclaiming — " And Heaven bless you, !Milly ! and the Almighty bless you, and spare you a long time over your children ! " Phadrig staggered back against the wall — his blood froze in his veins — his face grew white as death — his teeth chattered — his eyes stared — ^his hair moved upon his brow, and the chilling damp of terror exuded over all his frame. He recog- nised the voice of his first wife ; and her pale cold eye met his at that moment, as her shade flitted by the window in the thin moonlight, and darted on him a glance of mournful reproach. He covered his eyes with his hands, and sunk, sense- less, into a chair ; — while the affrighted MiUy, and Patcy, who at once assumed his glowing health and vigour, hastened to his assistance. They had all heard the voice, but no one saw the shade nor recognised the tone, excepting the conscience- smitten Phadrig. HEE VE [By Egbert i^N the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred _ ninety-two, '-^-'^ Did the English fight the French,— woe to France ! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Eance, With the English fleet in view. II. Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase ; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville ; E I E L. Beoivning.] Close on him fled, great and small. Twenty-two good ships in all, And they signalled to the place " Help the winnei-s of a race ! " Get us gTiidance, give us harbour, take us quick - -or, quicker still, " Here's the English can and will ! " Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board ; " Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass 1 " laughed they : " Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, " Shall the Formidable here with her twelve and eighty guns ^ '■Hi .; * / -— ^-v 4 • 'I 'SIES, THET KNOW I SPEAK THE TEUTH!" (Dravin hy J . 1.',iven in the Cork papers, that he was obliged tc negotiate a change of quarters with another " My dear Loerequer, — The Colonel has received orders to despatch two companies to some remote part of the county Clare, and as you have ' done the state some service,' you are selected for the beautiful town of Kilrush, where, to use the eulogistic language of the geography books, ' there is a good harbour, and a market plentifully supplied with fish.' I have just heard of the kind intention in store for you, and lose no time in letting you know. " God give you a good deliverance from the ' garqons hlancs,^ as the Moniteur calls the White- boys, and believe me ever yours, " Charles Cuezon." I had scarcely twice read over the adjutant's epistle when I received an official notification 230 GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. from the Colonel, directing me to proceed to Kilrush, then and there to afford all aid and assistance in suppressing illicit distillation, when called on for that purpose ; and other similar duties, too agreeable to recapitulate. Alas ! alas I " Othello's occupation " was indeed gone ! The next morning at sunrise saw me on my march, with what appearance of gaiety I could muster, but in reality very much chapfallen at my banishment, and invoking sundry things upon the devoted head, of the Colonel, which he would by no means con- sider as " blessings." BOYS WILL BE BOYS. GLORIOUS June day, and the earth bright in her new green mantle ; the soft genial showers which fell from time to time only seemed to add to its lustre. They left no spots upon its surface, but dashed off every speck of dust that wanton winds brought from out the lanes in clouds, and left on hedge, bank, and meadow. A bright, clear day ; the emerald fields glis- tening with the golden buttercups, and banks beauteous with the drooping oxlip and late dog violet. Gardens displaying their treasures, and nature in her wild garden trying, and not in vain, to compete for the prize of beauty ; for every bank and hedgeside teemed with the floral beauties we are so indifferent about, when, though minute, they are as lovely as those which deck our choicest beds. The old Hall, buried amongst the trees, now nearly in full leaf, save where at some bleak summit the foliage was thin and showed the dark nest of a pair of rooks. For the home of John Rouse seemed to be the centre of a chorus from the rookery above, where the sable-plumed and noisy vocalists were busy supplying the voracious demands of their callow broods. Summer everywhere, and the birds so occupied that, with the exception of the rooks, there was not a note to be heard. The finch in the pink-blossomed apple-tree sat close to its hatching mate, as still and serious as it was mute, and his example seemed to be followed throughout the garden. On the lawn, fronting the old red brick house, busy manufacturing a watch-spring gun, sat Fred and John Rouse, deep in conversation ; for, if possible, on Saturdays Fred always contrived to accompany John Rouse to his home. John's dog, Tinker— an ugly, rough terrier — lay lazily winking in the warm sun. "There," said John, at last, shutting up his knife, " that's a beaiity ! " and then he held up his watch-spring gun for Fred to admire. "So it ought to be," said Fred ; "why, it cost threepence. Wouldn't old Snarley kick up a row if I were to spend threepence in watch-spring and pen barrels." "Oh, he's an old bone -grinder," said John, making his gun click ; " every one says he puts bones in the flour." " No, he don't, now," said Fred ; " what's the good of talking such stuff ?^ust as if I didn't know. But I can tell you what he does do." "Well, what 1 " said John. " Oh, I sha'n't tell, you'd split," said Fred, in a mysterious tone. " No, I wouldn't. Do tell, there's a good chap,' said John. " Come now," he exclaimed, brighten- ing up, "jou tell me, and I'll lend you the new book ma bought for me in London. It's such a beauty — all blue and gold, and there's an out-and- out tale in it, about a boy. I haven't read it yet, but it looks such a beauty ; and I can read it when yo^^'ve done. Now, what does he do ? " " Well, then," said Fred, yielding to the tempta- tion, and most anxious to have the reading of such an "out-and-out" book — "well, then — you won't tell r' " No," said the other, repeating what was quite equal to the most solemn oath — "honour bright." "Well, then," said Fred, in a half-whisper, "he goes and — Who's that at the window 1 " he exclaimed, hurriedly. "Why, nobody," said John, "its only the white curtain fluttering about. Go on." " Well," said Fred, mysteriously, " he goes and fills his pockets out of the sacks which come to be ground." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed John; "shouldn't I like to shout at him when he's at it ! Wouldn't he- drop it again quickly ! Ma says that people who do wrong things always feel frightened." " Now tell me what the story's about," said the- other. " Oh," said John, " there's lots of stories in the book, and I only just peeped at them. One's about a midshipman climbing up the rigging of a ship until he stands right on top of the mast, and then he can't get down again. And then his- father comes on deck, and says he'll shoot him if he don't jump right overboard. And so, as he couldn't get down any other way, he jumps right off the top of the mast into the sea, and then some of the sailors jump overboard after him, and bring him on deck. There, that's all I know about it, sa don't bother any more." BOYS WILL BE BOYS. 231 " Well, but that's an old tale," said Fred. " I Tead that ever so long ago ; and I don't believe it. Why couldn't he come down the same way as he 4'ot npl" " Why, because he was standing right up," said John, "and there was nothing to catch hold of." " Oh, nonsense ! " said Fred ; " why didn't he stoop down, and get hold of the top vnth his hands ? I know I could have got down easy enough if I had been there." "Oh, ah," said John, tauntingly; "just as if you could climb at all." " Climb better than you," said Fred, shortly. " No, you can't," said John. "Yes, I can," said Fred. " Why, you couldn't climb the elm and take the mag's nest," said John. " Yes, I could, if I liked," said Fred ; " but I ain't going to." " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed John. "I knew you couldn't. You're afraid." " No, I'm not," said Fred. " Yes, you are," said John. " Bet you a penny you are." " No, I sha'n't bet," said Fred ; " but I could climb the tree, and I'm not afraid." "There's a coward," said John, tauntingly. " Who's a brag now 1 " "I'm not," said Fred, sturdily, "and I'll soon show you. Only, mind, I shall keep aU the mags." "Ah," said John, with a grin on his face ; " but you won't get any." Unfortunately the boys' conversation was not heard by any one but the children, and they were too intent on their daisy chains to take any notice ; so off went the lads to the home-field, closely followed by Tinker, who sent all his floral decora- tions flying at the first bound he made— and he made plenty of leaps and rushes — till they stood where a large elm grew alone, towering to a great height, and in the midst of whose crown of golden green leaflets could be seen a dark cluster of twigs, evidently the nest of a pair of magpies, and at first sight apparently inaccessible. "There," said John, when they had reached the tree, and evidently wishing that his companion would not make the dangerous attempt. " There, you know you can't do it, so let's go back." " Can't I ! " said Fred. " Wait a bit, and you'll see." And as his friend glanced at him, he could see that the lad's teeth were set firm, and that there was the same look of obstinate determination that appeared on his face on the day of their first fight, now a year before ; and this was a look which seemed to augur success. He took off his jacket and boots, and then, soliciting a lift-up, he got hold of one of the lowest boughs, where it drooped towards the earth, and then climbed along it till he reached the trunk, where he stopped to rest, sitting cross-legged upon the horizontal limb he had just attacked. It was no easy task that Fred Lister had cut out for himself, for it was one that would have cowed many a stouter heart. The old giant was of the most rugged kind, and the branches which pro- jected from the parent trunk were large and at considerable distances apart. However, the lad knew well the difflculty of his task, and like a wary general he sat watching for the weakest point of the tower he was about to scale, and recruiting his forces for the hard battle before liim. A jeering laugh from the boy below, and a short, quick bark of excitement from the dog, roused the climber, and with one more glance upward he set to work, straining, crawling, climbing, and drawing himself up foot by foot, until he had reached the great fork of the tree, where the parent trunk separated into five great boughs, each of which, however, formed a great tree of itself ; and here again, fifty feet above the ground, Fred paused to have another rest. Well breathed, he started again ; and here it was that the difficulties of the ascent began. The twigs, small boughs, and excrescences of the great trunk wei-e at an end, and there was hardly any- thing else now but sheer climbing, with but little hold for the climber's feet. Far up among the thin branches, hidden amidst the leafy covers which surrounded it, hung the magpie's nest ; and after climbing a short distance Frank found that his goal was in the top of the principal bough, and that he must descend a little way again, for he was on the wrong one ; and he could see, too, now, that this bough towered far above the others. And now, seeing that a dangerous enemy had set himself to scale the fortress, the hen magpie darted down from her lofty seat, giving utterance to a shriU cry, and leaving her brood to the chances of the day. Fred descended again to the fork, and then up and up he went, slowly and painfully. His hands were bleeding and the skin was off his legs, but he felt that if he stopped now it would be his honour that would bleed, which would be far woi'se, and not for worlds would he have given up. Anon he paused again ; for a shout from John arrested him, and then followed a cry to come down. " Don't go any highei', Fred — you'll fall." "No, I won't," shouted Fred, sturdily ; though in his own mind he did not feel very sure about it. But he knew how unmercifully he would be bantered if he gave up ; so he toiled, panting, hot, and tired, but achieving difiiculty after difficulty, and only once summoning courage enough to look 232 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. down, wlien he shuddered and quickly raised his eyes again, for a strange, creeping sensation came over him, and the bough he was on seemed to rock fearfully, although it was only the steady swaying of the tree in the gentle summer breeze. Higher and higher, till an opening in the boughs showed him the winding river, the mill, and, far off, the spire of Dunton Church, up which he had once been ; and he recalled the sensation he had felt upon that occasion ' as being similar to the tremor which now came over him. Higher still, and higher, and a horrible slip — a catching of the breath, and a hanging suspended by the hands ninety feet above the earth. A sharp struggle, and the lost place regained. Five minutes' rest, and, with renewed courage, again higher and higher — the tree swaying more and more, and the breeze feeling brisker, the branches growing thinner and thinner ; and at last the climber stopping to hesitate and think whether he shall attempt to ascend farther ; but, testing each bough before trusting it with his weight, he still mounts boldly, and creeps, and draws himself up. gazing with a half-shuddering pleasure at the beautiful scene around. Higher still, and higher ; and now the eminence is gained, while the bough sways and bends terribly as he stands in the fork just below the great, bushy, arched nest, and waves one hand while he clings for dear life with the other ; for he is too breathless to cheer. A loud hurrah from John — a shout of genuine pleasure — and another bark from Tinker, saluted Fred by way of response to his waving hand ; and now he set about the rather difficult task of se- curing the spoil : no easy matter, when it is taken into consideration that a magpie's nest is a mass of thorny twigs about a yard in diameter, and the interior only to be reached from one side. How- ever, with legs tightly clasping the bough he was- on, Fred thrust his bleeding hands into the nest, and seized two of the strong and well-fledged birds,, who resented the intrusion by digging their beaks well into the flesh of their captor. The other three — for there were five birds — took advantage of the struggle that was going on to escape from their aerial cradle and descend, fluttering, through the branches — two to kill themselves in the fall,, and the other to be captured by Tinker. ~ Fred secured his prizes as well as he could by tying their legs together with his top-string — rather an arduous task in his position ; and then, after a rest, he prepared to descend. This, however, proved, if anything, a nioie difficult tisk than the ascent, fui the boy was tired, and his hands and legs bOie Moie than once his heait failed him ;, but the thought"? of the victoiy he had achieved kept back the flutteimg of his heart, foi he was growing miseiable and weak with his exertions; his hands, too, bled a good deal , and when he made the Jip m ascending the tree, he had strained one of his shoulders At length, aftei a good deal of sliding and SLi ambling, lu \\hich his clothes suifeied teiribly,. BOYS WILL BE BOYS. 233 Fred was half-way down ; and then, in obedience to a shout from John, he relieved himself of the birds he had suspended to his brace, by throwing them down. But the venturesome boy was not destined to reach the ground in safety. He liad still a con- siderable distance to descend, when he unfortu- nately trusted his whole weight to a rotten branch. There was a sharp crack, a simultaneous cry from both lads, and then a heavj', rushing sound, as, falling from branch to branch, Fred lay at length, .stunned and motionless, at his companion's feet. John Rouse and Tinker both set to work directly to render all the aid in their power. •John's first act was to take his friend by the shoidders and shake him to make him speak, and it is almost needless to say that the remedy was not productive of satisfactory results ; while Tinker, as if to help his master, seized hold of the leg of the fallen lad's trousers, and shook it rat fashion, until he had doubled the size of one of the rents. Finding, however, that the treatment administered was of no service, John ran off towards the Hall, shouting for help as he went, and bringing the Squire out, pipe in hand, while a bright brown and yellow silk handkerchief still fluttered about his head, where it had been placed for a fly-guard during the afternoon's snooze. "Oh, papa, father!" shouted John. Oh, dear! Fred's killed. I know he is ! What shall I do 1 He has tumbled out of the tree where the mag's nest is." " And what business had you to — ! But, hi ! — here, Sam, Tom ! " shouted the Squire. And off he trotted, followed by a couple of men, to where poor Fred was lying insensible at the foot of the tree. They carried him up to the house, and laid him 2d pack of sendinff tenderly on the sofa ; the Squire all the while puffing -with his exertions, and muttering and grumbling about a young scamps, but losing no time off one of the men for the doctor ; while Mrs. Rouse's time was taken up between pacifying the youngsters and trying to revive the in.sensible boy. "Oh, I know he's dead," ■whimpered .John ; " and it's all my faidt, for I dared him to go up. And—" " You dog," roared his father, " how dared you i' Why didn't you go up yourself, eh ? Why didn'( you 1 " " Had we not better send for poor Mrs. Graves? " said Mrs. Rouse. " Certainly not ! " said the squire. "What is the good of horrifying the poor woman if we can pre- vent it ? " Mrs. Rouse remained silent, and directly after came the doctor, and soon relieved the family from aU fears of fatal consequences. Still, the fall had been sirfficiently serious ; for, in addition to the severe bruises the boy had received, the poor fellow's arm was broken. But the doctor set to work in a business-like style, completed his first inspection, .set the arm; and soon 'after Fred was lying upon his friend's bed, bandaged and faint, but perfectly sensible. As soon as the doctor had left the room, the lad asked the Squire to let John come to him ; and Mrs. Rouse went out on the tips of her toes to fetch the boy herself. She soon returned with her son, whose eyes looked qvute red and puffy with crying, and who began to sob afresh as soon as he saw his schooKellow's pale face and bandaged arm. He went to the bed and leaned over the sufferer. 234: GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. while Mr. and Mrs. Rouse stood aloof to watch what would take place. But no sooner did the Squire hear the few words which fell from the lips of the cripple than — " Bother the boy ! " he muttered, " worrying me to death in this way. Come down, mother; there's nothing the matter. He'll be out again to- morrow." Mrs. Rouse .smiled, and followed her lord ; for to a certain extent, she could not but endorse the opinion he had expressed, especially after hearing Fred's query. For on John going up to his school- fellow, Fred had forgotten all his pains. There was no tender and affecting interview to take place, and no occasion for Mrs. Rouse, nor yet the Squire, to have walked, with a difficulty of pre- serving equilibrium, on the points of their toes ; for said Fred, trying to grin with his swelled and puffed face — " Jack, where's the mags 1 " FOUR LONDON LTEICS. [By Predehick Lockee.J MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS. She has dancing eyes atid ruhy lips, Delightful boots — and ajuai; she sfctps fv HEY nearly strike me dumb,- h I tremble when they come ■^^ Fit-a-pat : This palpitation means These Boots are Geraldine's^ Think of that ! O, where did hunter win So delicate a skin For her feet] You lucky little kid, You perisli'd, so you did, For my vSweet. The faery stitching gleams On the sides and in the seams, And reveals The Pixies wei-e the wags Who tipt these funny tags. And these heels. What soles to charm an elf ! Had Crusoe, sick of self. Chanced to view One printed near the tide, O, how hard he would have tried For the two ! For Gerrj's debonair, And innocent and fair As a rose ; She has ilouncing little frocks. And cunning little clocks To her hose. The simpletons who squeeze Their pretty toes to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine's. Cinderella's lefts and rights To Geraldine's were frights: And I trow The Damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod Until now. Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) These to don. Set this dainty hand awhile On my shoulder. Dear, and I'll Put them on. MRS. SMITH. Hdghj-lio ! they're wed. The^cards ari dealtf Our frolic games are o'er; I've lauglied, andfool'd^ and loved, Vvefeli As 1 shall feel no more ! Last year I trod these fields with Di, Fields fresh with clover and with rye ; They now seem arid : Then Di, was fair and single ; how Unfaii- it seems on me, for now Di's fair — and married ! Ton little thatch is where she livcs^ Yon spire is where she met me ; I think that if she quite forgives. She ca/imot quite forget me. A blissful swain — I scorn'd the song Which tells us though young Love is strong, The Fates are stronger ; Then breezes blew a boon to men, The buttercups were bright, and then This grass was longer. FOUR LONDON LYRICS. 235 That day I saw and much esteem'd Di's ankles, that the clover seem'd IncHned to smother : It twitch'd and soon untied (for fun) The ribbon of her shoes, first one, And then the other. For answer I was fain to sink To what we all would say and think Were beauty present : " Don't mention such a simple act — A trouble 1 not in the least ! In fact It's rather pleasant ! " I'm told that Virgins augur some Misfortune if their shoe-strings come To grief on Friday : And so did Di, and then her pride Decreed that shoe-strings so untied Are " so untidy ! " I trust that Love will never tease Poor little Di, or prove that he's A graceless rover. She's happy now as Mrs. Smith— And less polite when walking with Her chosen lover. Of course I knelt ; with fingers deft I tied the right, and tied the left : Says Di, " This stubble Is very stupid ! — as I live I'm quite ashamed ! . . . I'm shock'd to give You so much trouble ! " Heigh ho ! Although no moral clings To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings. We've had our quarrels. I think that Smith is thought an ass, — I know that when they walk in grass She wears halmorals. THE HOUSEMAID. Thi yiOOY cam love through toil and imin^ Tliey feel as mwcTi, ojnd do far more AlthoiLgh tlieir hoinely speech is fain To halt in fetters : Wistful she sits — and yet resign'd She watches by the Tsdndow-blind : Poor Girl. No doubt The passers-by despise thy lot : Thou canst not stir, because 'tis not Thy Sunday out. To play a game of hide and seek With dust and cobweb all the week Small pleasure yields : Oh dear, how nice it were to drop One's pen and ink — one's pail and mop ; And scorn* the fields. Poor Bodies few such pleasures know ; Seldom they come. How soon they go ! But Souls can roam ; For lapt in visions airy-sweet, She sees in this unlovely street Her far-off home. The street is now no street ! She pranks A purling brook with thymy banks. In Fancy's realm Than some of fTtem they 6010 I MiscalVd their betters. Yon post supports no lamp, aloof It spreads above her parents' roof, — A gracious ehn. A father's aid, a mother's care, And life for her was happy there : But here, in thrall She sits, and dreams, and fondly dreams, And fondly smiles on one who seems More dear than aU. Her dwelling-place I can't disclose ! Suppose her fair, her name suppose Is Car, or Kitty ; She may be Jane — she might be plain — For must the Subject of my strain Be always pretty % But if her thought on wooing run And if her Sunday-Swain is one Who's fond of strolling. She'd like my nonsense less than his, And so it's better as it is — And that's consoling. THE CROSSING-SWEEPER. AZLA AND EMMA. A orossing-siceeper, Wack and tan. Tells how he came from HiTidoston, My Wife was fair, she worsMpp'd me, Her father was a Caradee, His Deity was aquatile, A rough and tough old CrocodUe. And why he wears a hat, and shunn'd The H/yals of the Pugree Band. To gratify this Monster's maw He sacrificed his Sons-in-law ; We'd wed — my tender Bride confessmg To Husbands five already — missing ! 236 GLEANINGS PROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Her Father, when lie play'd his pranks, Proposed " a turn on Jumna's banks ; " He spoke so kind, she seem'd so glum, I knew at once when mine had come. I fled before his artful ruse To cook my too-confiding goose. And now I sweep, in chill despair, A Crossing by St. James's Square ; Some old Qid-hij, or rural flat May drop a sixpence in my hat ; Yet still I mourn the Mango-tree Where Azla first grew fond of me. The.se rogues who swear my skin is tawny Would pawn their own for brandy -pawny ; What matter if their skins are snowy, As Chloe fair ! They're drunk as Chloe ! Your Town is vile. On Thames's stream The Crocodiles get up the steam ! Your Juggernauts their victims bump From Camlserwell to Aldgate pump ! A year ago, come Candlemas, I woo'd a plump Feringhee lass ; United at her idol fane, I furnishd rooms in Idol Lane. A moon had waned when virtuous Eunua Involved me in a new dilemma : The Brahma faith that Emma scorns Impaled me tight on both its hoi-ns : SMd voted to BURN if she survived mc ; Of this sweet fancy she's deprived me. She's run from all her obligations. And gone to stay with her Relations. My Azla weeps by .Jumna's deeps, But Emma mocks my trials. She pokes her jokes in Seven Oaks At me in Seven Dials, — I'm dash'd if these Feringhee Folks 7\.int rather worse than Eyals. THE STOET OF LE FEVEE, [From " Tristram Shandy." By Latjeence Steene.] Y uncle Toby was one evening sitting at supper, when the landlord of a little inn in the village came into '{^^ the parlour with an empty phial in his hand, to beg a glass or two of " 'Tis for a poor gentleman, I think of the army," said the landlord, " who has been taken ill at my house four days ago, and has never held up his head since, or had a desire to taste anything till just now, that he has a fancy for a glass of sack and a thin toast ; ' I think,' says he, taking his hand from his fore- head, ' it would comfort me.' If I could neither beg, borrow, nor buy such a thing," added the landlord, " I would almost steal it for the poor gentleman, he is so ill. I hope in God he will still mend," continued he ; " we are all of us concerned for him." " Thou art a good-natured soul, I will answer for thee," cried my uncle Toby ; " and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman's health in a glass of sack thyself ; and take a couple of bottles with my service, and tell him he is heartily welcome to them, and to a dozen more, if they will do him good." " Though I am persuaded, ' said my uncle Toby, as the landlord shut the door, "he is a very com- passionate fellow, Trim, yet I cannot help enter- taining a high opinion of his guest too ; there must be something more than common in him that in so short a time he should win so much upon the afi'ections of his host." " And of his whole family," added the corporal ; " for they are all concerned for him." " Step after him," said my uncle Toby, " do. Trim, and ask if he knows his name." " I have quite forgot it, truly," said the landlord, coming back into the parlour with the corporal ; " but I can ask his son again." " He has a son with him, then ?" said my uncle Toby. " A boy," replied the landlord, " of about eleven or twelve years of age ; but the poor creature has tasted almost as little as his father ; he does no- thing but mourn and lament for him night and day. He has not stirred from the bedside these two days." My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, and thrust his plate from before him, as the landlord gave him the account ; and Trim, without being ordered, took it away, without saying one word, and in a few minutes after, brought him his pipe and tobacco. " Stay in the room a little," said my uncle Toby. " Trim," said my uncle Toby, after he had lighted his pipe, and sanoked about a dozen whifFs. Trim came in fi'ont of his master, and made his bow. My rmcle Toby proceeded no farther, but finished his pipe. " Trim," said my uncle Toby, " I have a project in my head, as it is a bad night, of wrap- THE STORY OF LE FEVRE. 237 ping myself up warm in my ro(inelaure, and paying ■a, visit to this poor gentleman." " Your honour's roquelaure," replied the corporal, ■" has not once been had on since the night before your honour received your wound, when we mounted guard in the trenches before the gate •of St. Nicholas. And besides, it is so cold and Tainy a night, that what with the roquelaure, and and I will bring your honour a full account in an hour." " Thou shalt go, Trim," said my uncle Toby ; " and here's a shilling for thee to drink with his servant." " I shall get it all out of him," said the coi'poral, shutting the door. 'He shall march/ cried my uncle toby.' -what with the weather, 'twill be enough to give your honour your death, and bring on your .honour's torment in your groin." " I fear so," replied my uncle Toby ; " but I am not at rest in my mind, Trim, since the account the landlord has given me. I wish I had not known so much of this affair," added my uncle Toby, "or that I had known more of it. How -shall we manage it"?" " Leave it, an't please your honour, to me," quoth the corporal ; " I'll take my hat and stick, and go to the house, and reconnoitre, and act accordingly ; It was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out of his third pipe, that Corporal Trim returned from the inn, and gave him the following account : "I despaired at first," said the corporal, "of being able to bring back your honour any kind of intelligence concerning the poor sick lieutenant." " Is he in the army then V said my uncle Toby. " He is,' said the corporal. " And in what regiment ? " said my uncle Toby. " I'll tell your honour," replied the corporal " everything straightforwards as I learned it." 238 GLEANINGS FROM. POPULAR AUTHOEiS. " Then, Trim, I'll fill another pipe," said my uncle Toby, " and not interrupt tliee till thou hast done ; so sit down at thine ease. Trim, in the window-seat, and begin thy story again." The corporal made his old bow, which generally spoke as plain as a bow could speak it — " Your ■ honour is good." And having done that, he sat down, as he was ordered, and began the story to my uncle Toby over again in pretty near the same words I " I despaired at first," said the corporal, " of being able to bring back any intelligence to your honour about the lieutenant and his son ; for when I asked where his servant was, from whom I made myself sure of knowing everything which was proper to be asked " " That's a right distinction. Trim," said my uncle Toby. " I was answered, an't please your honour, that he had no servant with him ; that he had come to the inn with hired horses, which, upon finding himself unable to proceed (to join, I suppose, the regiment), he had dismissed the morning after he came. ' If I get better, my dear,' said he, as he gave his purse to his son to pay the man, ' we can hire horses from hence.' ' But, alas ! the poor gentleman will never get from hence,' said the landlady to me ; ' for I heard the death-watch all night long ; and when he dies, the youth, his son, will certainly die with him ; for he is broken- hearted already.' "I was hearing this account," continued the corporal, " when the youth came into the kitchen, to order the thin toast the landlord spoke of. ' But I wiU do it for my father myself,' said the youth. ' Pray let me save you the trouble, young gentle- man,' said I, taking up a fork for the purpose, and offering him my chair to sit down upon by the fire whilst I did it. 'I believe, sir,' said he, very modestly, 'I can please him best myself.' 'I am sure,' said I, ' his honour will not like the toast the worse for being toasted by an old soldier.' The youth took hold of my hand, and instantly burst into tears." "Poor youth!" said my uncle Toby; "he has. been bred up from an infant in the army ; and the name of a soldier. Trim, sounded in his ears like the name of a friend, I wish I had him here." "I never, in the longest march," said the cor- poral, " had so great a mind to my dinner, as I had to cry vidth hun for company. What could be the matter with me, an't please your honour 1" " Nothing in the world, Trim," said my uncle Toby, blovsring his nose ; " but that thou art a good-natured fellow." "When I gave him the toast," continued the corporal, "I thought it was proper to tell him I was Captain Shandy's servant, and that your honour, though a stranger, was extremely concerned for his. father ; and that, if there was anything in your house or cellar " — " And thou mightst have added my purse, too," said my uncle Toby — " he was heartily welcome to it. He made a very low bow, which was meant to your honour ; but no answer, for his heart was full ; so he went upstairs with the toast. " ' I warrant you, my dear,' said I, as I opened the kitchen door, ' your father will be well again.' Mr. Yorick's curate was smoking a pipe by the kitchen fire, but said not a word, good or bad, to comfort the youth. I thought it wrong," added the corporal. " I think so, too," said my uncle Toby. "When the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast, he felt himself a little revived, and sent do-rni into the kitchen to let me know that in about ten minutes he should be glad if I would step upstairs. " ' I believe,' said the landlord, ' he is going to say his prayers, for there was a book laid upon the chair by his bedside ; and as I shut the door I saw his son take up a cushion.' " ' I thought,' said the curate, ' that you gentle- men of the army, Mr. Trim, never said your prayers at all." " ' I heard the poor gentleman say his prayers last night,' said the landlady, ' very devoutly, and with my own ears, or I could not have believed it.' "'Are you sure of it?' replied the curate. " ' A soldier, an't please your reverence,' said I,, ' prays as often of his own accord as a parson ; and when he is fighting for his king, and for his own life, and for his honour, too, he has the most reason to pray to God of any one in the whole world.' " " 'Twas well said of thee. Trim," said my imcle Toby. " ' But when a soldier,' said I, ' an't please your reverence, has been standing for twelve hours together in the trenches up to his knees in cold water, or engaged,' said I, ' for months together in long and dangerous marches ; harassed, perhaps, in his rear to-day ; harassing others to-morrow ; detached here ; countermanded there ; resting this night out upon his arms ; beat up in his shirt the next ; benumbed in his joints ; perhaps without straw in his tent to kneel on ; he must say his prayers how and when he can. I believe,' said I, for I was piqued," quoth the corporal, "for the reputation of the army — ' I believe, an't please your reverence,' said I, ' that when a soldier gets time to pray, he prays as heartily as a parson, though not with all his fun and hypociisy.' " " Thou shouldst not have said that, Trim," said my uncle Toby ; " for God only knows who is a hypocrite and who is not. At the great and general review of us all, corporal — at the day of judgment and not till then — it will be seen whO' THE STORY OF LE FEVRE. 239 have done their duty in this world and who have not, and we shall be advanced, Trim, accordingly." " I hope we shall," said Trim. " It is in the Scripture," said my uncle Toby ; " and I will show it thee to-morrow. In the mean- time, we may depend upon it. Trim, for our com- fort," said my uncle Toby, " that God Almighty is so good and just a governor of the world, that if we have but done our duty in it, it will never be inquired into whether we have done it in a red coat or a black one." " I hope not," said the corporal. " But go on, Trim," said my uncle Toby, " with thy story." " When I went up," continued the corporal, " into the lieutenant's room, which I did not do till the expiration of the'ten minutes, he was lying in his bed with his head raised upon his hand, his elbow upon the pillow, and a clean white cambric hand- kerchief beside it. The youth was just stooping down to take up the cushion, ujaon which I sup- posed he had been kneeling ; the book was laid upon the bed ; and, as he arose, in taking up the cushion with one hand, he reached out his other to take it away at the same time. " ' Let it remain there, my dear,' said the lieu- tenant. "He did not offer to speak to me till I had walked up close to his bedside. " ' If yoa are Captain Shandy's servant,' said he, ' you must present my thanks to your master, with my little boy's thanks along with them for his courtesy to me. If he was of Leven's,' said the lieutenant. " I told him your honour was. " ' Then,' said he, ' I served three campaigns with him in Flanders, and remember him ; but 'tis most likely, as I had not the honour of any acquaintance with him, that he knows nothing of me. You will teU him, however, that the person his good nature has laid under obligation to him is one Le Fevre, a lieutenant in Angus's. But he knows me not,' said he, a .second time, musing. ' Possibly he may my story,' added he. ' Pray tell the captain I was the ensign at Breda, whose wife was most unfortu- nately killed with a musket-shot as she lay in my arms in my tent.' "'I remember the story, an't please your honour,' said I, ' very well.' " ' Do you so ? ' said he, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief ; ' then well may I.' " In saying this he drew a little ring out of his bosom, which seemed tied with a black riband about his neck, and kissed it twice. " ' Here, Billy,' said he. " The boy fiew across the room to the bedside, and, falling down upon his knees, took the ring in his hand, and kissed it too ; then kissed his father, and sat down upon the bed and wept." " I wish," said my uncle Toby, with a deep sigh, " I wish. Trim, I was asleep." " Your honour," replied the corporal, " is too much concerned. Shall I pour your honour out a glass of sack to your pipe 1 " " Do, Trim," said my uncle Toby. " But finish the story thou art upon." " 'Tis finished already," said the corporal ; " for I could stay no longer ; so wished his honour a good night. Young Le Fevre rose from off the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the stairs, and, as we went down together, told me they had come from Ireland, and were on their route to join the regi- ment in Flanders. But, alas ! " said the corporal, "the lieutenant's last day's march is over." " Then what is to become of his poor boy ?" cried my uncle Toby. ****** "Thou hast left this matter short," said my uncle Toby to the corporal, as he was putting him to bed ; " and I will tell thee in what. Trim. In the first place, when thou madest an oifer of my services to Le Fevre — as sickness and travelling are both expensive, and thou knowest he was but a poor lieutenant, with a son to subsist as well as himself out of his pay — that thou didst not make an offer to him of my purse ; because, had he stood in need, thou knowest. Trim, he had been as wel- come to it as myself." " Your honour knows," said the corporal, " I had no orders." " True ! " quoth my uncle Toby ; " thou didst very right. Trim, as a soldier, but certainly very wrong as a man. In the second place, for which indeed thou hast the same excuse," continued my uncle Toby, "when thou offeredst him whatever was in my house, thou shouldst have offered him my house too. A sick brother officer should have the best quarters. Trim ; and if we had him with us, we could tend and look to him. Thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim ; and what with thy care of him, and the old woman's, and his boy's, and mine together, we might recruit him at once, and set him on his legs. In a fortnight or three weeks," added my uncle Toby, smiling, " he might march." " He will never march, an't please your honour, in this world," said the corporal: " He will march," said my uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the bed, with one shoe off. "An't please your honour," said the corporal, " he will never march but to his grave." " He shall march," cried my uncle Toby, march- ing the foot which had one shoe on, though with- out advancing an inch, — " he shall march to his regiment ! " " He cannot stand it," said the corporal. "He shall be supported," said my uncle Toby. " He'll drop at last," .said the corporal ; " and what will become of his boy 1 " MO GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " He shall not drop," said my uncle Toby, firmly. " All, well-a-day ! do what we can for him," said Trim, maintaining his point, "the poor soul will die." " He shall not die, by ," cried my uncle Toby. The accusing spirit, which flew up to Heaven's chancery -ivith the oath, blushed as he gave it in ; and the recording angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear ujion the word, and blotted it out for ever. My uncle Toby went to his bureau ; put his purse into his breeches pocket ; and having ordered the corporal to go early in the morning for a jihysician, he went to bed and fell asleep. The sun looked bright the morning after to every eye in the village but Le Fevre's and his afflicted son's. The hand of Death pressed heavy upon his eyelids, and hardly could the wheel at the cistern turn round its circle, when my uncle Toby, who had risen an hour before his wonted time, entered the lieutenant's room, and without preface or apology, sat himself down upon the chair by the bedside; and, independently of all modes and customs, opened the curtain in the manner an old friend and Ijrother officer would ha-\'e done it, and asked him how he did — how he had rested in the night — what was his complaint — where was his pain — and what he could do to help him. And without giving him time to answer any one of the^ inquiries, he went on and told him of the little plan, which he had been concerting with the corporal the night before for him. " You .shall go home directly, Le Fevre," said mj^ uncle Toby, " to my house, and we'll have an apothecary, and the corporal shall be your nurse^ and I'll be your servant, Le Fevre." There was a frankness in my uncle Toby — not the effect of familiarity, but the cause of it — which let you at once into his soul, and showed you the goodness of his nature ; to this there was some- thing in his looks, and voice, and manner super- added, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him ; so that before my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, he had the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards- him. The blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which were waxing cold and slow within him, and were retreating to their last citadel, the heart, rallied back ; the film forsook his eyes for a moment ; he looked up wistfully in my uncle Toby's face, then cast a look upon his boy ; and that ligament, fine as it was, was never broken. Nature instantly ebbed again ; the film returned to its place ; the pulse flu-ttered — stopped — went on — throbbed — stopped again — moved — stopped ! Shall I go on I No. THE JACKDAW OF EHEIMS.* [ax ingoldset legeni>.] THE Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair ! Bishop and abbot and prior were there ; ]\Iany a monk, and many a friar. Many a knight, and many a squire, With a gTeat many more of lesser degree,- In sooth a goodly company ; And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. Never I ween. Was a prouder seen, Pbead of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims I In and out Through the motley rout. That little Jackdaw kept hopping about i Here and there. Like a dog in a fair, Over comfits and cates. And dishes and plates, Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall. Mitre and crosier ! he hopp'd upon all 1 With saucy air. He perch'd on the chair Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sab In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat ; And he peer'd in the face Of his Lordship's Grace, * Ke-yrinted by permissiou of Messrs. Bentley. THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. With a satisfied look, as if he would say, ■*' We two are the greatest folks here to-day ! " And the priests, with awe, As such freaks they saw, Said, " The devil must be in that little Jackdaw ! " The feast was over, the board was clear'd, The flawns and the custards had all disappe.'.rd. And six little Singing-boys, — dear little souls ! In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, Came, in order clue, Two by two, IMarching that grand refectory through ! Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing. That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring ! # * # * * -J There's a cry and a shout. And a deuce of a rout, And nobody seems to know what they're about. But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out. The friars are kneeling. And hunting, and feeling The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The fkiars are kneeunc;, and hunting." A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Emboss'd and fill'd with water, as pure As any that flows between Eheinis and ^^Tamur, Which a nice little boy, stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand- basin made to match. Two nice little boys, rather more grown. Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne ; And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. One little boy more A napkin bore, Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd " in permanent ink' The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dressed all in white : From his finger he draws His costly turquoise ; And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, Deposits it straight By the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait ; 2 E The Cardinal drew Off each plum-coloured shoe, And left his red stockings exposed to the view ; He peeps, and he feels In the toes and the heels ; They turn up the dishes, — they turn up the jjlates, — They take up the poker and poke out the grates, — They turn up the rugs, They examine the mugs : — But, no ! — no such thing ; — They can't find the ring ! And the Abbot declared that, "when nobody twigg'd it. Some rascal or other had popp'd in and prigg'd it!" The Cardinal rose with a dignified look. He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book i In holy anger, and pious grief. He solemnly cursed that rascally thief ! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed ; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head ) 242 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright ; He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking ; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying ; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying. He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying !— Never was heard such a terrible curse .' But what gave rise To no little surprise. Nobody seem'd one penny the worse ! The day was gone. The night came on, The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn ; When the Sacristan saw, On crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw ! . No longer gay, As on yesterday ; His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way ;— His pinions droop'cl — he could hardly stand, — His head was as bald as the palm of your hand ; His eye so dim. So wasted each limb. That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "That's HIM ! — That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing ! That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!". The poor little Jackdaw, When the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw ; And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say, " Pray, be so good as to walk this way ! " Slower and slower He limp'd on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry door. Where the first thing they saw. Midst the sticks and the straw. Was the eing in the nest of that little Jackdaw ! Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book,. And off that terrible curse he took ; The mute expression Served in lieu of confession. And being thus coupled with full restitution, The Jackdaw got plenary absolution ! — When those words were heard, That poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd^ He grew sleek and fat ; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat ! His tail waggled more Even than before ; But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air. No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair. He hopp'd now about. With a gait devout ; At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out ; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds. He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads. If any one lied, — or if any one swore, — Or slumber'd in pray'r-time and happened ta snore. That good Jackdaw Would give a great " Caw ! " As much as to say, " Don't do so any more ! " While many remarked, as his manners they saw. That they " never had known such a pious Jackdaw '" He long lived the pride Of that country side. And at last in the odour of sanctity died ; When, as words were too faint His merits to paint. The Conclave determined to make him a Saint • And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know. It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow. So they canonised him by the name of Jim Crow. AT ANCHOR BEFORE THE PACHA. (Drawn by W. Ealston.) " T£r£ TALE OF THE EyQLISH SAILOH" {p. S«L THE TALE OF THE ENGLISH SAILOR. 343 THE TALE OF THE ENGLISH SAILOE* [By Captain Marryat.] HAVE an infidel in the courtyard," replied Mustapha, "who telleth of strange things. He hath been caught like a wild beast ; it is a Frank Galiongi, who hath travelled as far as that son of Shitan, Huck- aback ; he was found in the streets, overpowered by the forbidden juice, .after having beaten many of your highness's subjects ; and the cadi would have administered the bamboo, but he was as a lion, and he scattered the slaves as chatf, until he fell, and could not rise again. I have taken him from the cadi, and brought him here. He speaketh but the Frankish tongue, but the sun who shineth on me knoweth I have been in the Frank country, and Inshallah ! I can interpret his meaning." " What sort of a man may he be, Mustapha ? " " He is a baj baj — a stout man ; he is an an- hunkher, a swallower of iron. He hath sailed in the war- vessels of the Franks. He holdeth in one hand a bottle of the forbidden liquor, in the other he shakes at those who would examine him a thick stick. He hath a large handful of the precious weed which we use for our pipes in one of his cheeks, and his hair is hanging behind down to his waist, in a roUed-up mass, as thick as the arm of your slave." " It is well — we will admit him ; but let there be armed men at hand. Let me have a full pipe. 'God is great," continued the pacha, holding out his glass to be filled ; " and the bottle is nearly empty. Place the guards, and brmg in the infidel. " The guards in a few minutes brought into the presence of the pacha a stout-built EngKsh saUor, in the usual dress, and with a tail which hung ■down behind, below his waist. The sailor did not appear to like his treatment, and every now and then, as they pushed and dragged him in turned to one side or the other, looking daggers at those who conducted him. He was sober, although his eyes bore testimony to recent intoxi- cation ; and his face, which was manly and hand- some, was much disfigured by an enormous quid of tobacco in his right cheek, which gave him an appearance of natural deformity. As soon as he was near enough to the pacha the attendants let him go. Jack shook his jacket, hitched up his trousers, and said, looking furiously at them, "Well, you beggars, have you done with me at last?" Mustapha addressed the sailor in English, telling him that he was in the presence of his highness the pacha. " What, that old chap muffled up in shawls and furs — is he the pacha 1 Well, I don't think much o' he ; " and the sailor turned his eyes round the room, gaping with astonishment, and perfectly unmindful how very near he was to one who could cut off his head or his tail by a single move- ment of his hand. "What sayeth the Frank, Mustapha?" inquired the pacha. " He is struck dumb with astonishment at the splendour of your majesty, and all that he beholds." " It is well said, by Allah! " " I suppose I may just as well come to an anchor," said the sailor, suiting the action to the word, and dropping down on the mats. " There," continued he, folding his legs in imitation of the Turks, " as it's the fashion to have a cross in your hawse in this here country, I can be a bit of a lubber as well as yourselves ; I wouldn't mind if I blew a cloud as well as you, old fusty-musty." " What does the Giaour say 1 What son of a dog is this, to sit in our presence ? " exclaimed the pacha. " He saith," replied Mustapha, "that in his country no one dare stand in the presence of the Frankish king ; and, overcome by his humility, his legs refuse their office, and he sinks to the dust before you. It is even as he sayeth, for I have travelled in their country, and such is the custom of that uncivilised nation. Mashallah.' but he lives in awe and trembling." "By the beard of the Prophet, he does not appear to show it outwardly," replied the pacha ; "but that may be the custom also." "Be chesm, on my eyes be it," replied Mustapha, "it is even so. Frank," said Mustapha, "the pacha has sent for you that he may hear an account of all the wonderful things which you have seen. You must tell hes, and you will have gold." " Tell lies ! that is, to spin a yarn ; well, I can do that, but my mouth's baked with thirst, and without a drop of something no yarn from me, and so you may tell the old billy-goat perched up there." " What sayeth the son of Shitan 1 " demanded the pacha, impatiently. " The unbeliever declareth that his tongue ia glued to his moiith from the terror of your * Prom " Tlie Pacha of Many Tales." By pennission of Messrs. George Eoutledge and Sons. 244 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. liiglmess's presence. He fainteth after water to restore him, and enable him to speak." " Let him be fed," rejoined the paclia. But Mustapha had heard enough to know that the sailor would not be content witli the pure element. He therefore continued, "Your slave must tell you that in the country of the Franks they drink nothing but the fire-water, in which the true believers but occasionally venture to indulge." "AUah acbar! nothing but iire-water] What, then, do they do with common water 1 " " They have none but from heaven — the rivers are all of the same strength." " Mashallah, how wonderful is God ! I would we had a river here. Let some be procured, then, for I wish to hear his story." A bottle of brandy was sent for, and handed to the sailor, who put it to his mouth, and the quan- tity he took of it before he removed the bottle to recover his breath fully convinced the pacha that Mustapha's assertions were true. J' Come, that's not so bad," said the sailor, putting the bottle down between his legs ; " and now I'll be as good as my word, and I'll spin old Billy a yarn as long as the maintop-bowling." " What sayeth the Giaour ? interrupted the pacha. " That he is about to lay at your highness's feet the wonderful events of his life, and trusts that his face will be whitened before he quits your sublime presence. Frank, you may proceed." " To lie till I'm black in the face — well, since you wish it ; but, old chap, my name ar'n't Frank. It happens to be Bill ; howsomever, it warn't a bad guess for a Turk. " I was born at Shields, and bred to the sea, served my time out of that port, and got a berth on board a small vessel fitted out from Liverpool for the slave trade. We made the coast, unstowed our beads, spirits, and gunpowder, and very soon had a cargo on board ; but the clay after we sailed for the Havannah, the dysentery broke out among the niggers — no wonder, seeing how they were stowed, poor devils, head and tail, like pilchards in a cask. We opened the hatches and brought part of them on deck ; but it was no use, they died like rotten sheep, and we tossed overboard about thirty a day. Many others, who were alive, jumped overboard, and we were followed by a shoal of sharks, splashing and darting, and diving, and tear- ing the bodies, yet warm, and revelling in the hot and bloody water. At last they were all gone, and we turned back to the coast to get a fresh supply. We were within a day's sail of the land, when we saw two boats on our weather bow ; they made sig-nals to us, and we found them to be full of men. We hove-to, and took them on board, and thei\. it was that we discovered that they had belonged to a French schooner, in the same trade, which had started a plank, and had gone down hke a shot, with all the niggers in the hold. " Now give the old gentlema-.i the small change of that, while I just whet my whistle." Mustapha having in- terpreted, and the sailor having taken a swig at the bottle, he proceeded. " We didn't much like having these French beg- gars on board, and it wasn't without reason, for they were as many as we were. The very first night they were over- heard by a negro who belonged to us, and had learnt French, making a plan for overpowering us,, and taking possession of the vessel ; so when we heard that, their doom was sealed. We mustered ourselves on deck, put the hatches over some o' the French, seized those on deck, and — in half an hour, they all walked the plank." " I do not understand what you mean," said. Mustapha. " That's 'cause you're a lubber of a landsman. The long and short of walking a plank is just this. We passed a wide plank over the gunnel, greasing it well at the outer end, led the Frenchmen up to it blindfolded, and wished them ' bon voyage ' in their o-mi lingo, just out of politeness. They walked on till they toppled into the sea, and the sharks, didn't refuse them, though they prefer a nigger tO' anything else." " What does he say, Mustapha ? " interrupted the pacha. Mustapha interpreted. " Good ! I should like to have seen that," replied, the pacha. " Well, as soon as we were rid of the Frenchmen,, we made our port, and soon had another cargo on. board, and, after a good run, got safe to the Havannah, where we sold our slaves ; but I didn't much like the service, so I cut the schooner, and THE TALE OF THE ENGLISH SAILOR. 245 sailed home in summer, and got safe back to Eng- land. There I fell in with Betsy, and, as she proved a regular out-and-outer, I spliced her, and a famous wedding we had of it, as long as the rhino lasted ; but that wasn't long, more's the pity ; so I went to sea for more. When I came back after my trip I found that Bet hadn't behaved quite so well as she might have done, so I cut my stick, and went away from her altogether." " Why didn't you put her in a sack 1 " inquired the pacha, when Mustapha explained. " Put her head in a bag — no ; she wasn't so ugly as all that," replied the sailor. " Howsomever, to coil away : I joined a privateer brig, and after three cruises I had plenty of money, and deter- mined to have another spell on shore, that I might get rid of it. Then I picked up Sue, and spliced again ; but, bless your heart, she turned out a regular-built Tartar— nothing but fight, fight, scratch, scratch, all day long, till I wished her at old Scratch. I was tired of her, and Sue had taken a fancy to another chap ; so says she one day, ' As we both be of the same mind, why don't you sell me, and then we may part in a re.spectable manner.' I agrees, and I puts a halter round her neck, and leads her to the market-place, the chap following to buy her. ' Who bids for this woman 1 ' says I. " ' I do,' says he. " ' What will you give 1 ' " ' Half-a-crown,' says he. " ' Will you throw a glass of grog into the bar- gain 1 ' " ' Yes,' says he. " ' Then she's yours ; and I wish you much joy of your bargain.' So I hands tlie rope to him, and he leads her off." " How much do you say he sold his wife for 1 " said the pacha to Mustapha, when this part of the story was repeated to him. " A piastre and a drink of the fire-water," replied the vizier. " Ask him if she was handsome," said the pacha. " Handsome ! " replied the sailor, to Mustapha's inquiry ; " yes, she was as pretty a craft to look at as you may set your eyes upon." * * * * * * " Mashallah ! all for a piastre ! Ask him, Mus- tapha, if there are more wives to be sold in that country." " More ! " replied the sailor, in answer to Mus- tapha ; " you may have a shipful in an hour. There's many a fellow in England who would give a handful of coin to get rid of his wife." " We vnl\ make further inquiry, Mustapha ; it must be looked to. Say I not well f " " It is well said," replied ^Mustapha. " My heart is burnt as roast meat at the recollection of the women of that country, who are indeed, as he de- cribed, houris to the sight. Proceed, Yaha Bibby, my friend, and tell his " " Yaw Bibby ! I told you my name was Bill, not. Bibby ; and I never yaws from my course, although I heaves-to sometimes, as I do now, to take in pro- visions." The sailor took another swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and continued — " Now for a good lie. " I sailed in a brig for the Brazils, and a gale came on that I never see'd the like of. AVe were obliged to have three men stationed to hold the captain's hair on his head, and a little boy was blown over the moon, and slid down by two or three of her beams, till he caught the mainstay, and never hurt himself." " Good ! " said Mustapha, who interpreted. '' By the beard of the Prophet, wonderful ! " ex- claimed the pacha. "Well, the gale lasted for a week, and at last one night, when I was at the helm, we dashed on the rocks of a desolate island. I was pitched right over the mountains, and fell into the sea on the other side of the island. I swam on shore, and got into a cave, where I fell fast asleep. The next morning I found that there was nothing to eat except rats, and they were plentiful ; but they were so quick that I cortld not catch them. I walked about, and at last discovered a great many rats to- gether ; they were at a spring of water, the only one, as I afterwards found, on the island. Kats can't do without water, and I thought I should have them there. I filled up the spring, all but a hole, which I sat on the top of. When the rats, came again, I filled my mouth with water, and held it wide open ; they ran up to drink, and I caught, their heads in my teeth, and thus I took as many as I wished." " Aferin, excellent ! " cried the pacha, as soon as. this was explained. " WeU, at last a vessel took me off, and I wasn't sorry for it, for raw rats are not very good eating. I went home again, and I hadn't been on shore more than two hours, when who should I see but my first wife Bet, with a robin-redbreast in tow. ' That's he,' says she. I gave fight, but was nabbed and put into limbo, to be tried for what they call bigr/eri/, or having a wife too much." "How does he mean? Desire him to explain," said the pacha, after Mustapha had conveyed the- intelligence. Mustapha obeyed. " In our country one wife is considered a man's. allowance ; and he is not to take more, that every .Jack may have his Jill. I had spliced two, so they tried me, and sent me to Botany Bay for life." ******** " Well," rejoined the pacha, " what are they biit. infidels 1 They deserve to have no more. Houris are for the faithful. May their fathers' graves be. defiled. Let the Giaour proceed." 246 GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. " Well. I was started for the other side of the water, and got there safe enough, as I hope one day to get to heaven, wind and weather permitting ; but I had no idea of working without pay, so one fine morning I slipped away into the woods, where I remained with three or four more for six months. We lived upon kangaroos, and another odd little animal, and got on pretty well." " What may the dish of kangaroos be composed of?" inquired Mustapha, in obedience to the pacha. " 'Posed of ! why, a dish of kangaroos be made of kangaroos, to be sure. But I'U be dished if I talk about anything but the animal, which we had some trouble to kill ; for it stands on its big tail, and fights with all four feet. Moreover, it be otherwise a strange beast ; for its young ones pop out of its stomach and then pop in again, having a place there on purpose, just like the great hole in the bow of a timber ship : and as for the other little animal, it swims in the ponds, lays eggs, and has a duck's bill, yet stiU it be covered all over with hair, like a beast." The vizier interpreted. " By the Prophet, but he laughs at our beards ! " exclaimed the pacha, angrily. " These are foolish lies." " You must not tell the pacha such foolish Hes. He wOl be angry," said Mustapha. " Tell hes, but they must be good lies." " After I had been there about six months I was tired, and as there was only twenty thousand miles between that country and my own, I determined to swim back." " MashaUah ! swim back ! — how many thousand mUes 1 " exclaimed Mustapha. " Only twenty thousand — a mere nothing. " So one fine morning I throws a young kangaroo on my shoulder, and off I starts. I swam for three months, night and day, and then feeling a little tired, I laid-to on my back, and then I set oft' again ; but by this time I was so covered with barnacles, that I made but little way. So I stopped at Ascension, scraped and cleaned myself, and then, after feeding for a week on turtle, just to keep the scurvy out of my bones, I set ofl^ again ; and, as I passed the Gut, I thought I might just as well put in here ; and here I arrived, sure enough, yesterday, about three beUs in the morning watch, after a voyage of five months and three days.'' When Mustapha translated all this to the pacha, the latter was lost in astonishment. " Allah acbar ; God is everjrwhere ! Did you ever hear of such a swimmer 1 Twenty thousand miles — five months and three days. It is a wonderful story ! Let his mouth be fiUed with gold." Mustapha intimated to the sailor the unexpected compliment about to be conferred on him, just as he had finished the bottle and roUed it away on one side. " Well, that be a rum way of paying a man. I have heard it said that a fellow pursed up his mouth ; but I never afore heard of a mouth being a i^trse. Howsomever, aU's one for that; only, d'ye see, if you are about to stow it away in bulk, it may be just as well to get rid of the dun- nage." The sailor put his thumb and forefinger into his cheek, and pulled out the enormous quid of tobacco. " There now, I'm ready, and don't be afraid of choking me." One of the attendants then thrust several pieces of gold into the sailor's mouth, who, spitting them all out into his hat, jumped on his legs and made a jerk of his head, with a kick of the leg behind, to the pacha ; and, declaring that he was the funniest old beggar he had ever fallen in \nXh, nodded to Mustapha, and hastened out of the divan. " MashaUah ! but he swims well," said the pacha, breaking up the audience. GOKE HOME ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. [By P. E. 'Weatherlt,] "STuT OME," did you say, my darling ? We haven't 31! "IL got where to go ! ^^^ Only the dreary pavement, only the freez- ing snow, Only the hard cold stones against our weary feet. Only the flaring lamplight, only the open street ! " Cold," did you say, my darling ? I know the cloak is thin. But I haven't got anything better or warmer to wrap you in ! Yet hug it closer round you, though it is so thin and old. And we'll go and sit on this doorstep, out of the bitter cold ! We can hear the loud bells ringing : I love to hear them so ! They remind me of one past New Year's Eve, only a year ago ; Only twelve short, short months, but they seem like as many years ; Then my eyes shone brightly, but now — they are dull with tears. GONE HOME ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 247 A New Year's Eve, my darling, — the last that I was to see With my husband, round the fireside, and you upon my knee ; And, as the bells were ringing — just as it may be to-night — He talked of the past and the present, and all looked cheerful and bright. He talked of a soft spring morning, when first he saw my face : — He was an unknown painter, and had come to stay in the place ; And he used to take his painting out in the sunny land — It was there that first I met him, it was there that he asked my hand. And oft at eve in the sunlight by the fern-clad stile we stood That leads from the field of clover into the hazel wood, While the thousand voices of labour came up from the village below. And through the leaves beside us we heard the river flow. And fondly he talked of our marriage, and anon of a happy morn, All in the flowery summer, when, darling, you were born ; Until soon the candle flickered, and the falling ashes grew dim — Then we slept, and through the quiet I lay and dreamt of him. Gladly I woke on the morrow, the first day of the year ; Gladly I heard from the village the chimes go loud and clear : Gladly I woke, and leant over to kiss your sunny hair, And I turned to kiss your father — I turned — but he was not there. Gone ! after all his fondness, on the Old Year's dying day ! Gone ! after all his kind words ! But a letter remained to say That he long had feared his parents wouldn't know him for their own,. If they heard of his humble marriage — so he left me all alone ! And the parish turned us out : it wasn't our house, they said ; Ah me ! but is it wicked to wish that I were dead? They came and turned us out, and we hadn't got where to go, — Only the dreary common, only the driving snow. And all looked bleak and friendless, and I clasped you, darling, tight — Clasped you tight to my bosom, and away in the dark rough night, Away from the sleeping vUlage, along the desolate road We walked, until soon before us the lights in London glowed. But the brightness seemed to mock us, and the glare to laugh us down, As weary and faint with our journey we entered the noisy town ; And the heartless passers spurned us — they never had known a care — Oh God ! it is hard, my darUng — Oh God ! it is hard to bear ! And once on an Autumn evening, as I was wander- ing by, I stopped and looked in at a window, I looked — but I know not why ; And by the cheerful fireside I saw a well-known face, And another, a lovely maiden, was sitting there in my place. And my spirit yearned towards Tier, but could 7 say a word 1 So I bitterly wept at the window — it was only the rain they heard : My spirit yearned towards her, to tell her to have good care : For I said in my anger, " The painter has another victim there ! " But I checked the words of anger, I wouldn't darken their love, If he doesn't care about me, there's One who does above ! Yet still I can see that window, and the well-known features there — Oh God ! it is hard, my darling — Oh God ! it is hard to bear ! It was only yesterday evening that they passed us in the street, But he turned his face to the darkness, not to see who lay at his feet. Nor saw the sweet look of compassion that crossed his wife's fair face — Little, I trow, she fancied she held my rightful place ! 248 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. ■ I STOPPED AND LOOKED IN AT A WINDOW." (Brawiihy F. BicTxsec, A.R.A.) Xisten ! the bells are telling the Year is dying slow : It was just like this that I heard them only a year ago ! They sound like the bells of our village, rolling up from below the hill — Why don't you answer, darling ? why do you lie so still] Why are the blue eyes closed 1 Why are the limbs so cold? And yet on the pale lip lingers the sunny smile of old- [But while the bells were ringing out through the frosty air, An angel had taken my darling to Heaven, to be happy there !] "Home," did yon say, my darling'? Yes, you've, found a home of rest. Although your frail little body hangs lifeless on my breast ! " Home," did I say, my darling 1 I haven't got where to go, — Only the hard, hard pavement — only the cold, cold snow ! MR. GRAINS' LAKE. 249 ME. GEAINS' LAKE, -H, yes ! I know well what observation my story is calculated to draw from an un- sympathetic reader's lips ; " A worm at one end and a ," in short, a very rude remark. But I am hardened. It is my custom in the autumn, when the weeds are rotting, to bring a small skiff to anchor on the shallows of the river Thames, below locks, and fly -fish for dace, and the opinions of the British public are very freely con- fided to me by perfect strangers in passing pleasure- boats. Some of these remarks, which are never complimentary, are addressed to me- personally ; others, generally more severe, are intended for private circulation only ; but, in consequence of water being such a good conductor of sound, are perfectly audible, and find a mark the archer (or archeress) Kttle meant. When ladies learn acoustics, thin-skinned anglers will be spared much pain and confusion of face. When young and (comparatively) beautiful, a feminine relative would occasionally take a sympathetic seat in the stern of my boat, and then the passing observa- tions invariably assumed the form of compassion for her. " Poor thing ! " " How dull ! " said the gay and thoughtless ones, who were seeking an appetite for their Star and Garter dinner in the fresh air of the river. When my fair companion happened to be without the prohibited degrees, I confess that I was sometimes a trifle annoyed by these misplaced condolences. But all this was early; in the century ; youth is no longer stationed at the prow nor pleasure at the helm of my bark, and the severest sarcasms only tickle. You may call me what names you like, therefore, when I confess to being fond of fishing. There is one great drawback to this taste : it cannot be enjoyed worthily without a great deal of trouble, and trouble spoils it. Other sports are social, and the preparation for them is in itself a pleasure. But you ought never to make up your mind to go a-fishing till the very morning. As for answering advertisements in the papers, buying a right to fish in certain streams, making a long journey, and staying for week after week at a dull country inn waiting for a favourable day, I had sooner by far go to JSTorway or North America at once. And so I content myself with catching dace or chub, which is hardly worth the name of fishing at all ; but still, " Better is a bleak without bother than a troublesome trout," is a motto which I present to posterity ; and there is a touch of proverbial philosophy about it, look you, not to mention the alliteration. As for fishing in the free trout streams of 2 P England and Wales, it is a most unsatisfactory amusement. If you capture a trout at all, it is generally about the length of your middle finger. But on the lakes you may have some .sport if, on a windy day, when the surface of the water is rough with wavelets, you get a boat to the windward end of your lake and drift across it, throwing flies, tied by natives, and not bought in shops, as you go. I have taken nice half-pound trout two at a time in this way, at a very much fre- quented place in Wales. The difficulty is to get your boat. There is a stream in Westmoreland with very fewtroutin it,andthoseof minnow-like proportions, which is yet sometimes considered worth whipping by mischievous young tourists at one particular part, about half a mile in length. One bank for this distance is public ground, the other the pro- perty of a very cantankerous old gentleman, who lays doubtful claim to the barren fishery. The plan is to keep on the free side and flog away at the stream, not in hope of attracting trout, but of getting a rise out of the short-tempered one. The ruse never fails, for he spends his life in watchful- ness, and always hurries down to the waterside at once, and proceeds to throw hard words at the fisherman and stones at his line. I believe that, if you are an amateur of vituperation, you may learn many new and curious expletives and phrases by disputing his right in a calm and rational manner. Humanity dictates, however, that you should leave without informing him of the sole object of your visit ; for that, it is said, nearly brings on apoplexy. I am indebted to my friend Grains for the most eccentric day's fishing I ever enjoyed. Grains is a brewer, who determined some ten years ago to become a landed proprietor, and therefore pur- chased an estate in Suffolk ; and when, all being ready for his reception, he took possession with his charming and amiable family, I was invited to accompany them on a visit. It was a beautiful place. There was a home park, with tame deer in it ; acres and acres of wood, well stocked with pheasants and rabbits ; and a large pond, with swans, and an island, and a Chinese summer-house. As our introduction to all this took place in July, when there was no shooting ; as the family were as yet totally unacquainted with their neighbours, and archery parties, pic-nics, and other social gaieties were therefore in abeyance ; and as the hospitable Grains was anxious to amuse his guests, he naturally thought of a fishing excursion, and sent for his head keeper. 250 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " Can we have a day's fishing in the lake to- morrow, Williams 1 " he asked. " Certainly, sir," said Williams. " There is a boat, I see ; is it in good repair f " ''Yes, sir." " That's all right. Then £ will give directions for all my tackle to be put in your hands, and you can get everything ready for us." " Very good, sir." " Get some worms, you know, and live bait, and spinning bait." " Yes, sir." At eleven o'clock on the following morning, the whole party, consisting of the jovial Grains, the kindly Mrs. Grains, their three charming daughters, Fanshawe of the Admiralty (a good fellow, but suffering from Alice — the second girl — on the brain) and myself, went down to the water-side. Grains and the keeper took boat, the latter rowing slowly about, the former throwing a dead dace, arrayed in a bristling panoply of hooks, in all directions, and drawing it in again ; the rest of us being entrusted with rods and lines with enormous floats, and live little fishes attached tenderly to tempt the jack. But the jack were superior to temptation. Lunch time came without any one having had a ghost of a run, so we desisted for a while, and pic-nicked. " No use trying for jack any more to-day, eh,, Williams 1 " said Mr. Grains. " No, sir." " Well, then, shall we try for a perch 1 " " If you please, sir." So fresh tackle was distributed, and we dispersed, taking up various coigns of vantage about the banks of the lake, Fanshawe and Alice Grains discovering a very likely spot, somewhat secluded, and hidden in a clump of trees. We baited with worms, we baited with minnows, but with no more success than we had had during the morn- ing ! The afternoon waned : Fanshawe, indeed, secured Alice, and Alice hooked Fanshawe, that summer's day, but no finny prey came to bank. " Come, Williams," said Mr. Grains, as we pre- pared to go back to the house, " are there any fish at all, of any description whatever, in this lake 1 " " I never heerd tell of any, sir," said the imper- turbable keeper. What Mr. Grains said, I did not hear. "THE STEAJSTGEST ADVENTURE." ""ES, I could tell you plenty of stories like that ; I've seen a few adventures in my tune. " You have indeed ; but won't you give me a few more 1 It's early yet." We were sitting in the half -demolished summer- house of a little village inn on the coast of Brittany — in all probability the only wakeful inhabitants of the whole place, for sitting up tiU eleven p.m. is an enormity unknown in that primitive region. My companion's stern, swarthy face and tangled black beard, seen beneath the uncertain light of the rising moon, might have made him appear, to any person of unsteady nerves, rather an " un- canny " comrade for a midnight tete-a-tete ; but in spite of his repellant manner and miner-like rough- ness of speech, there was an indescribable some- thing in his tone and bearing which convinced me that, however he might have fallen, or been forced into his present nondescript way of life, he had (to use the common phrase) " been a gentleman once." This, however, was mere conjecture on my part; for in all the marvellous diorama of personal adventure which he had spread before me — riotous revels in Australian taverns, succeeded by days of deadly peril in Antarctic seas ; fights with pirates in the Straits of Malacca, following upon weeks of luxurious indolence amid the lotus - eaters of Brazil ; sledge-drives across Russian steppes, and bear-hunts in American forests — there was not the slightest hint at his early life or original station in society. It was at the close of a vivid description of a hurricane oif Cape Horn that my Ulysse.j paused in his narrative, and I now reiterated my request for another page from this eventful auto- biography. " What ! not tired yet ■? It's not every one that could stand hearing a fellow talk so long about himself." " Well," said I, " I'll only ask you for one more — tell me the strangest adventure you ever had." The wanderer started slightly, and then said in an altered voice : " You've made a better bargain than you think for ; I ^oill tell you the strangest of all, and let us see how you like it. I don't ask you to believe it, because I know that when you put these sort of things into books people laugh, and talk of Baron Munchausen and all that. I've read the Baron," he went on, noticing my look of surprise, " and many another book that you'd never give me credit for ; but in a book this story I am going to tell you would be im- possible ; and it 's just becmise it seems impossible that it is true."" 'THE STRANGEST ADVENTURE." 251 " You remember how tliose two fellows robbed my tent, and bow I fired all tlie six barrels of my revolver into them 1 Well, it was just after that job that I shifted my tent away from the rest, thinking I'd be more comfortable by myself for a bit. You'll say this was rather venturesome, after I'd been robbed once already ; but then, you see, these beauties that I fired at thought they'd fairly ■cleaned me out. Nobody knew that I'd got a lot more buried under a big gum-tree some two hundred yards off ; so the whole camp thought I was dry, and you may be sm-e I did not undeceive them. Well, I moved my tent up to the tree where the gold was, and there I stayed ; but I still stuck to my digging, to make up for what I'd lost. I got a middling lot of dust every day, but I took care to let nobody see more of it than I could help ; so folks got to think I was down on my luck, and left off minding about me at alL " One night I'd been working pretty late, and got chilled right through ; and, though I rolled my blanket well round me after turning into my hammock, I couldn't get warm anyhow ; and so I shivered away till I fell asleep. Then I fell to dreaming that I was in a trance, like some man I once read about in America, and that they thought me dead, and were going to bury me. I tried my hardest to move, or scream out, or some- thing, but no good ; and I heard the coffin-lid slap to, and the first spadeful of earth faU on it, and then I awoke. " It was a fine bright morning, and through the opening of the tent I could see the sun shining, and hear the picks and cradles getting to work as usual. But my dream wasn't all fancy, for I felt as if I were bound down, and couldn't move an inch ; and yet it wasn't quite that either — it was more as if I had no substance left, but was all air and shadow. If ever a living man felt like a ghost, I did then. " Well, I didn't think of being frightened just at iirst ; I felt more put out and foolish, like a man who's had a tumble, or got splashed all over by a cart. It seemed so queer for a great strong fellow like me, to be laid by the heels that way, and at first the thought of it almost made me laugh ; so there I lay like a log for ever so long, listening to all the noises from the camp, till at last (about noon it must have been, by the sun) I began to feel hungry, and commenced looking very hard at my ' damper ' and cold mutton, which lay upon a log t' other side of the tent. ' Well,' thought I, 'it's a queer thing for a man to be starved this way, mth food before his eyes 1 ' But the moment I thought it, something cold seemed to clutch my heart and squeeze it all together. I tried to put it away by saying to myself, ' This'U go ofi" soon— of course it will ;' but at that minute it flashed across me, as if some one had written it in letters of fire all over the place, ' And supposing it doesn't go off — WHAT THEN ?' " It was then I began to feel frightened for the first time. I turned sick all at once, as if I were going to die, and likely enough I may have fainted, for the next thing I remember, there was a great silence all over the camp ; and by that I knew that the men were having their dinner, and that it must be late in the afternoon. As night came on, I began to feel very bad every way. So long as the sun was shining, and the sound of the picking and shovelling went on, the light, and the noise, and the feeling of having lots of people close to me, kept me up a bit ; but when the sounds died away little by little, and the darkness came all round as if it were locking me in, I felt as cast- do'mi and helpless as a child lost in a great town. However, my hunger made me savage-like, and that held me up ; for so long as there's strength enough for anger in a man, he's got a chance ; it's when he can't feel savage that his heart's broken. Only I kept always wishing that something would break the silence : and at last something did, with a vengeance, for a lot of the horrible dingoes commenced howling. And so they kept on, and worked me up till I felt as if I'd give anything to have just one blow at them, no matter what came after ; for what with the hunger, and the lying still so long, and the howling of these brutes, I'd got so mad, that I'd have liked to kill somethiiig, no matter what it was. And so the night wore away — a dreary night for me ! " While he was speaking, the moon had become gradually obscured, and we were wrapped in a shado"wy dimness that harmonised well with the gloomy recital, to which the deepening sombreness of his tone lent additional horror. " The sun rose at last, but it brought no bright morning hope with it ; only the same weary help- lessness, which seemed as if it had lasted for days and days — for I had lost all count of time. When the noise of the diggings began again, I almost wislied it would leave off, much as I had ■wished for it before ; for it sent a kind of horror through me to think of the hundreds of men so near, any one of whom would have run like lightning to help me, if he'd only known of the scrape I was in — while I lay dumb and dying close by. Ay, dying! it was no use shamming hopeful any longer ; for now I began to feel a gnawing and tugging in my inside, as if the teeth of a wolf were tearing it ; and I knew what that meant, for I'd felt it before, only not so bad. I wouldn't have minded so much if I could only have screamed, or flung myself about, or anything to show what I felt ; but to lie there stock-still and speechless, it was horrible." A shudder, which I could see in the uncertain light, shook .his strong frame as he proceeded. "As the sun grew hotter, the flies began to 252 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. swarm ; and as I watched them, it struck me all of a sudden, what a way I should be in, supposing they attacked me ; for, as I was then, they might have sucked every drop of my blood before I could have stirred a finger. I knew something of what Austi'alian bush-flies could do, for I'd once stumbled on the body of a shepherd who had been tied to a tree by the bushrangers, and left. However, luckily for me, there was something else in the tent that tempted them more, and that was the food I'd left lying on the log. In a second they were down on it : all the meat turned black at once, as if with a shower of soot, and their buzzing was like the wind blowing through a row of wires. You'd laugh at me, stranger, if I were to tell you ' And never a man and never a beast They met on their desolate way ; But the bleaching bones in the hungry sand Said all that a tongue could say.' And so it kept going over and over, till at last I fairly went off— half slept and half fainted. " It was late when I awoke, and I can't tell yoa how I felt at seeing the sun setting again. As the light faded, I felt as if my life was going out along with it, and when it dipped below the horizon I was ready to start up and stretch out my arms and hold it back, if I'd had the strength. And such a night as that second night was, good Heaven ! There's a verse somewhere in the Bible that speaks of ' a horror of great darkness ;' I learned ' Looking right down into hit face.' how savage that sight made me ; for of course you'll say I ought to have been mighty glad to get off so cheap ; but, oh ! to see those flies gorging them- selves before my eyes, while I, a man, lay starving ! I tell you, all that I felt before was nothing to it ! " Towards afternoon, there began a kind of whispering and humming in my ears, getting louder bit by bit. It wasn't the flies, for they were all gone ; it was what comes to one on the second or third day of starving to death, and I knew it. Some of my mates that were starved up country used to keep putting their hands to their ears for a while before they died, saying they heard some- thing whispering to them. It got stronger and stronger, till the sound seemed to shape itself into an old song that a man I was with in Brazil kept crooning over just before he died. The song was all about a party going across the desert to look for some men that were lost ; but the verse that rang in my head then was this : it at school, but I never knew what it really meant till then. This time there was no howling of dingoes, no noise of any sort ; all was deadly still, as if tha world itself, with all that lived and breathed in it,, were dead, and I alone kept living— living on. I suppose I must have been getting light-headed with hunger and weakness, for I began to fancy all sorts of queer things. First I thought I was naUed down in a cofSn, and that if I could only move, or scream, or even speak, the lid would fly open ; but I couldn't Then it seemed as if I were at the bottom of the sea, and the weight of water above pressed me down till I could liardly breathe. All at once I was startled out of my fancies by a sound close to the tent, the like of which I never heard before or since— a low moaning cry, that sounded like 'All alone ! all alone !' over and over again. I can't tell to this day whether I really heard it, or only fancied it ; but at the time it gave me such a horror that I nearly went mad. PHCEBE'S SUITOK. 253 " Tiie third morning came, and found me nearly at my last. The gnawing pain was gone, and in- stead of it had come a pleasant drowsiness, like what a man feels when he falls down to sleep in the snow. All the morning I lay in a kind of dream, thinking of nothing, fearing nothing— as quiet as a child at its mother's breast ; till all at once I saw something that roused me in good earnest — a black shining thing, like a long strip of velvet, coming gliding into the tent. I knew it directly for one of the deadliest snakes in Australia. The next moment I heard the rustle of its coils up the tent pole to which my hammock was slung, and then I saw its flat head and black beady eyes hanging over me, and looking right down into my face to see if I were dead or not. I suppose it thought I was, for the next minute it slid down over my face, and to and fro along the hammock, till at last it went to the other pole, and there it glided off, and I saw no more of it. Anybody watching me then would have called me a brave fellow ; but I daresay it's not the first time that a man has been thought brave because he couldn't run away. " I don't know how long it was after that — it may have been an hour, or a day, or a week, for all I could tell — that a shadow fell across my face, and I heard a voice calling out, ' Holloa, mate ! can you give us a firestiok 1 I've let my fire out ! ' With the sound of that voice all my love of life came back again, and I gathered up my strength to try and speak. " Seeing me lying there so white and stiU, the fellow must have thought me dead ; and for a moment — the bitterest moment I ever had — I thought he was going to turn and go out again ; but, although I couldn't speak, I managed just to move my eyelids, and he saw it. He said nothing, but raised my head on his arm and took out his flask to pour some rum into my mouth ; and then I knew that I was saved, and with the shock of the reaction I fainted in right earnest." Here my strange companion suddenly ceased, and, rising from his chair, said to me, " You've had your story, stranger, and now I'm going to bid you good night ; for I haven't spoke of this busi- ness since it befell, and it rather upsets me thinking of it.. You tell me you 're oif early to-morrow morning, so it's a hundred to one if we ever meet again ; but in any case I wish you success in your travels, and may you end better than / have done !" Then grasping my hand with a force that made it tingle to the wrist, he departed. His parting words were true, for we have never met since that night ; but should these lines ever meet his eye, it may gratify him to know there is at least one man in the world who fully believes his story, even though it be (as he styled it) " the strangest adventure of all." PHCEBE'S SUITOE.* [From "Lady Audley's Secret." By Miss Braedox.] R. GEORGE TALBOYS.— Any ^ person who has met this gentle- man since the 7th inst., or who can furnish any information respecting his movements subsequent to that date, will be liberallj' rewarded on communicating with A. Z., 14, Chancery Lane." Sir Michael Audley read the above advertise- ment in the second column of the Times, as he sat at breakfast with my lady and Alicia two or three days after Robert's retm-n to town. "Robert's friend has not yet been heard of, then," said the baronet, after reading the advertise- ment to his wife and daughter. " As for that," replied my lady, " I cannot help wondering who can be silly enough to advertise for him. The young man was evidently of a rest- less, roving disposition— a sort of Bamfylde Moore C'arew of modern hfe, whom no attraction could ever keep in one spot." Though the advertisement appeared several times, the party at the Court attached very little importance to Mr. Talboys' disappearance ; and after this one occasion his name was never again mentioned by either Sir Michael, my lady, or Alicia. Alicia Audley and her pretty step-mother were by no means any better friends after that quiet evening on which the young barrister had dined at the Court. " She is a vain, frivolous, heartless little coquette, " said Alicia, addressing herself to her Newfoundland dog, Csesar, who was the sole recipient of the young lady's confidences ; " she is a practised and con- summate flirt, Caesar ; and not contented with setting her yellow ringlets and her silly giggle at half the men in Essex, she must needs make that stupid cousin of mine dance attendance upon her. I haven't common patience with her." In iiroof of which last assertion Miss Alicia ' By permission of Messrs. Jolm Mxswell and Co. 254 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Aiidley treated her step-mother with such very- palpable impertinence that Sir Michael felt himself called upon to remonstrate with his only daughter. " The poor little woman is very sensitive, you know, Alicia," the baronet said gravely, " and she feels your conduct most acutely." " I don't believe it a bit, papa," answered Alicia, stoutly. " You think her sensitive, because she has soft white hands and big blue eyes with long lashes, and all manner of aiFected, fantastical ways, which you stupid men call fascinating. Sensitive ! Why, I've seen her do cruel things with those slender white fingers, and laugh at the pain she inflicted. I'm very sorry, papa," she added, softened a little by her father's look of distress ; " though she has come between us, and robbed poor -Alicia of the love of that dear, generous heart, I wish I could like her for your sake ; but I can't, I can't, and no more can Caesar. She came up to him once with her red lips apart, and her little white teeth glisten- ing between them, and stroked his great head with her soft hand : but if I had not had hold of his collar, he would have flown at her throat and strangled her. She may bewitch every man in Essex, but she'll never make friends with my dog." " Your dog shall be shot," answered Sir Michael, angrily, " if his vicious temper ever endangers Lucy." The Newfoundland rolled his eyes slowly round in the direction of the speaker, as if he understood every word that had been said. Lady Audley happened to enter the room at this very moment, and the animal cowered down by the side of his mistress with a suppressed growl. There was something in the manner of the dog which was, if anything, more indicative of terror than of fury, incredible as it may appear that Cffisar should be frightened of so fragile a creature as Lucy Audley. Amiable as was my lady's nature, she could not live long at the Court without discovering Alicia's dislike of her. She never alluded to it but once ; then, shrugging her graceful white shoulders, she said with a sigh, — " It seems very hard that you cannot love me, Alicia, for I have never been used to make enemies ; but since it seems that it must be so, I cannot help it. If we cannot be friends, let us at least be neutral. You won't try to injure me 1 " " Injure you ! " exclaimed Alicia ; " how should I injure you ? " " You'll not try to deprive me of your father's affection 1 " " I may not be as amiable as you are, my lady, and I may not have the same sweet smiles and pretty words for every stranger I meet, but I am not capable of a contemptible meanness ; and even if I were, I think you are so secure of my father's love, that nothing but your own act will ever deprive you of it." " What a severe creature you are, Alicia ! " said my lady, making a little grimace. " I suppose you mean to infer by all that, that I'm deceitful. Why, I can't help smiling at people, and speaking prettily to them. I know I'm no better than the rest of the world, but I can't help itif I'm^jte«a?jto'. It's constitutional." Alicia having thus entirely .shut the door upon all intimacy between Lady Audley and herself, and Sir Michael being chiefly occupied in agricultural pursuits and manly sports, which kept him away from home, it was, perhaps, only natm-al that my lady, being of an eminently social disposition, should find herself thrown a good deal upon her white eye-lashed maid for society. Phoebe Marks was exactly the sort of girl who is generally promoted from the post of lady's-maid to that of companion. She had just sufiicient education to enable her to understand her mistress when Lucy chose to allow herself to run riot in a species of intellectual tarantella, in which her tongue went mad to the sound of its own rattle, as the Spanish dancer at the noise of his castanets. Phosbe knew enough of the French language to be able to dip into the yellow-paper-coyered novels which my lady ordered from the Burlington Arcade, and to discourse with her mistress upon the ques- tionable subjects of those romances. The likeness which the lady's-maid bore to Lucy Audley was, perhaps, a point of sympathy between the two women. It was not to be called a striking like- ness ; a stranger might have seen them both to- gether, and yet have failed to remark it. But there were certain dim and shadowy lights in which, meeting Phoebe Marks gliding softly through the dark oak passages of the Court, or under the shrouded avenues in the garden, you might have easily mistaken her for my lady. Sharp October winds were sweeping the leaves from the limes in the long avenue, and driving them in withered heaps with a ghostly rustling noise along the dry gravel walks. The old well must have been half choked up with the leaves that drifted about it, and whirled in eddying circles into its black, broken mouth. On the still bosom of the fish-pond the same withered leaves slowly rotted away, mixing theinselves with the tangled weeds that discoloured the surface of the water. All the gardeners Sir Michael could employ could not keep the impress of autumn's destroying hand from the grounds about the Court. " How I hate this desolate month ! " my lady said, as she walked about the garden, shivering beneath her sable mantle. " Everything dropping to ruin and decay, and the cold flicker of the sun lighting up the ugliness of the earth, as the glare of gas-lamps lights the wrinkles of an old woman. Shall I ever grow old, Plicebe 1 Will my hair ever drop oft' as the leaves are falling from those trees. PHCEBE'S SUITOR. 255 and leave me wan and bare like them 1 What is to become of me when I grow old 1 " She shivered at the thought of this more than she had done at the cold wintry breeze, and muffling herself closely in her fur, walked so fast that her maid had some difficulty in keeping up with her. " Do you remember, Phoebe," she said presently, relaxing her pace, " Do you remember that French story we read — the story of a beautiful woman who committed some crime — I forget what — in the zenith of her power and loveliness, when all Paris drank to her every night, and when the people ran away from the carriage of the king to flock about hers, and get a peep at her face 1 Do you remember how she kept the secret of what she had done for nearly half a century, spending her old age in her family chateau, beloved and honoured by all the province as an uncauonised saint and benefactress to the poor ; and how, when her hair was white, and her eyes almost blind with age, the secret was revealed through one of those strange accidents by which such secrets always are revealed in romances, and she was tried, found guilty, and condemned to be burned alive 'I The king who had worn her colours was dead and gone ; the court of which she had been the star had passed away ; powerful functionaries and great magistrates, who might perhaps have helped her, were mouldering in their graves ; brave young cavaliers, who would have died for her, had fallen upon distant battle-fields ; she had lived to see the age to which she had be- longedfade like a dream ; and she went to the stake, followed only by a few ignorant country people, who forgot all her bounties, and hooted at her for a wicked sorceress." " I don't-care for such dismal stories, my lady," said Phcebe Marks, with a shudder. " One has no need to read books to give one the horrors in this dull place." Lady Audley shrugged her shoulders, and laughed at her maid's candour. " It is a dull place, Phoebe," she said, " though it doesn't do to say so to my dear old husband. Though I am the wife of one of the most influen- tial men in the county, I don't know that I wasn't nearly as well off at Mr. Dawson's ; and yet it's something to wear sables that cost a hundred and sixty guineas, and to have a thousand pounds spent on the decoration of one's apartments." Treated as a companion by her mistress, in the receipt of the most liberal wages, and \^>ith per- ([uisites such as perhaps no lady's-maid ever had before, it was strange that Phoebe Marks should ■vvish to leave her situation ; yet it was not the less a fact that she was anxious to exchange all the advantages of Audley Court for the very unpro- mising prospect which awaited her as the wife of her cousin Luke. The young man had contrived in some manner to associate himself with the improved fortunes ot his sweetheart. He had never allowed Phcebe any peace till she obtained for him, by the aid of my lady's interference, a situation as under-groom at the Court. He never rode out with either Alicia or Sir Michael ; but on one of the few occasions upon which my lady mounted the pretty little grey thoroughbred reserved for her use, he contrived to attend her in her ride. He saw enough in the very first half hour they were out to discover that, graceful as Lucy Audley might look in her long blue cloth habit, she was a timid horsewoman, and utterly unable to manage the animal she rode. Lady Audley remonstrated with her maid upon her folly in wishing to marry the uncouth groom. The two women were seated together over the fire in my lady's dressing-room, the grey sky closing in upon the October afternoon, and the black tracery of ivy darkening the casement windows. " You surely are not in love with the awkward ugly creature, are you, Phoebe 1 " asked my lady, sharply. The girl was sitting on a low stool at her mistress's feet. She did not answer my lady's question immediately, but sat for some time look- ing vacantly into the red abyss in the hollow fire. Presently she said, rather as if she had been thinking aloud than answering Lucy's question, — " I don't think I can love him. We have been together from children, and I promised, when I was little better than fifteen, that I'd be his wife. I daren't break that promise now. There have been times when I've made up the very sentence I meant to say to him telling him that I couldn't keep my faith with him ; but the words have died upon my lips, and I've sat looking at him, with a choking sensation in my throat that wouldn't let me speak. I daren't refuse to marry him. I've often watched him as he has sat slicing away at a hedge-stake with his great clasp-knife, till I have thought that it is just such men as he who have decoyed their sweethearts into lonely places, and murdered them for being false to their word. When he was a boy he was always violent and re- vengeful. I saw him once take up that very knife in a quarrel with his mother. I tell you, my lady, I must marry him." "You silly girl, you shall do nothing of the kind ! " answered Lucy. " You think he'll murder you, do you 1 Do you think, then, if murder is in him, you would be any .safer as his wife 1 If you thwarted him or made him jealous ; if he wanted to marry another woman, or to get hold of some poor, pitiful bit of money of yours, couldn't he murder you then 1 I tell you, you shan't marry him, Phoebe. In the first place, I hate the man ; and in the nest place, I can't afford to part with 256 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. you. We'll give him a few pounds and send him about his business." Phcebe Marks caught my lady's hands in hers, and clasped them convulsively. " My lady ! " she cried vehemently, " don't try to thwart me in this — don't ask me to thwart him. I tell you, I must marry him. You don't know what he is. It will be my ruin, and the ruin of others, if I break my word. I must marry him ! " " Very well, then, Phoebe," answered her mistress. " You are very good, my lady," Phcsbe answered: with a sigh. Lady Audley sat in the glow of fire-light and wax candles in the luxurious drawing-room ; the amber damask cushions of the sofa contrasting with her dark violet velvet dress, and her rippling hair falling about her neck in a golden haze. Everywhere around her were the evidences of wealth and splendour ; while, in strange contrast to all this, and to her own beauty, the awkward You'll make it a hundred, mt lady." [Drawn hy G. C. Rindley.) " I can't oppose you. There must be some secret at the bottom of all this." " There is, my lady," said the girl, with her face turned away from Lucy. " I shall be very sorry to lose you ; but I have promised to stand your friend in all things. What does your cousin mean to do for a living when you are married 1 " " He would like to take a public house." " Then he shall take a public house, and the sooner he drinks himself to death the better. Sir Michael dines at a bachelor's party at Major Mar- grave's this evening, and my step-daughter is away with her friends at the Grange. You can bring your cousin into the drawing-room after dinner, and I'll tell him what I mean to do far him." groom stood rubbing his bullet head as my lady explained to him what she meant to do for her confidential maid. Lucy's promises were very liberal, and she had expected that, uncouth as the man was, he would in his own rough manner have expressed his gratitude. To her surprise he stood staring at the floor without uttering a word in answer to her offer. Phcebe was standing close to his elbow, and seemed distressed at the man's rudeness. " Tell my lady how thankful you are, Luke," she said. "But I'm not so over and above thankful," answered her lover, savagely. " Fifty pound ain't much to start a public. You'll make it a hundred, my lady." ATTORNEY SNEAK 257 "I shall do nothing of the kind," said Lady Audley,her clear blueeyes flashing withindignation, " and I wonder at your impertinence in asking it." " Oh yes, you will though," answered Luke, with quiet insolence, that had a hidden meaning. " You'U make it a hundred, my lady. ' Lady Audley rose from her seat, looked the man steadfastly in the face till his determined gaze sank under hers : then walking straight up to her maid, she said in a high, piercing voice, peculiar to her in moments of intense agitation, " Phcebe Marks, you have told this man ! " The girl fell on her knees at my lady's feet. " Oh, forgive me, forgive me ! " she cried. " He forced it from me, or I would never, never have told!" ATTORNEY SNEAK. [By Egbert Buchanan.] Sftarp, like a tyrant ; timid, Wcc a slavs ; A iitth raan, with yellow, hloodless'cheeli ; UT execution in on Mrs. Hart— If people will be careless, let them smart ; Oh, hang her chil- dren ! just the common cry ! Am I to feed her family? Not! I'm tender- hearted, but I dare be just, — I never go beyond the law, I trust; I've work'd my way, plotted and starved and plann'd. Commenced without a penny in my hand, And never howl'd for help, or dealt in sham — No ! I'm a man of principle, I am. What's that you say? Oh father has been here? (")f course, you sent him packing ? Dear, oh dear ! When one has worked his weary way, like me. To comfort and respectability, Can pay his bills, and save a pound or two, And say his prayers on Sunday in a pew, Can look the laws of England in the face, 'Tis hard, 'tis hard, 'tis shame, and 'tis disgrace. That one's own father — old and worn and gray — Should be the only hindrance in his way. Swore, did he? Very pretty! Threaten 'd? Oh! Demanded money ? You, of course, said " No ?" 'Tis hard— my life will never be secure— He'll be my ruin some day, I am sure. I don't deny my origin was low — All the more credit to myself, you know : Mother (I never saw her) was a tramp, Father half tramp, half pedlar, and whole scamp, A snappish mingling oj the fool and hnave. Resulting in the hyhrid compound — Sneak. ^Vho travell'd over England with a pack, And carried me about upon his back. Trudging from door to door, to feasts and fairs, Cheating the silly women with his wares. Stealing the farmers' ducks and hens for food, Pilfering odds and ends where'er he could, And resting in a city now and then. Till it became too hot, — and off again. Beat me ? No, he knew better. I confess He used me with a sort of tenderness ; But would have warp'd my nature into sin, Had I been weak, for lack of discipline. Why, even now, I shudder to the soul, To think how oft I ate the food he stole. And how I wore upon my back the things He won by cheats and lawless bargainings. Oh, he had feelings, that I freely say ; But vsdthout principle what good are they ? He swindled and he stole on every hand. And I was far too young to reprimand ; And, for the rest, why, he was circumspect. And might have been committed for neglect. Ah ! how I managed, under stars so ill, To thrive at all, to me is mystery still. In spite of father, though, I got along. And early learn'd to judge the right from wrong ; At roadsides, when we stopp'd to rest and feed. He gave me lessons how to write and read ; I got a snack of schooling here and there. And learn'd to sum by instinct, as it were. Then, latterly, when I was seventeen. All sorts of evil I had heard and seen ; Knew father's evil ways, bemoan 'd my fate, Long'd to be wealthy, virtuous, and great ; Swore with the fond ambition of a lad. To make good use of what poor gifts I had. At last, tired, sick, of wandering up and down, Hither I turn'd my thoughts, — ^to London town ; 268 GLEANINGS FROM FOFULAR AUTHORS. And finally, with little doubt or fear, Made up my mind to try my fortune here. Well, father stared at first, and shook his head ; But when he found I held to what I said, He clasp'd me tight, and hugg'd me to his heart, And begged and prayed that I would not depart ; Said I was all for whom he had to care, His only joy in trudging here and there ; Vow'd if I ever left him, he would die, — Then, last of all, of course, began to cry. You know how men of his position feel l Selfish, at best, even when it is real ! I tried to smooth him over, and, next day, I pack'd what things I had, and ran away. I need not tell you all my weary flight, To get along in life and do aright — How often people, when I sought a place, Still push'd my blessed father in my face ; Until, at last, when I was almost stark, Old Lawyer Hawk made me his under-clerk ; How from that moment, by avoiding wrong, Possessing principle, I got along ; Read for the law, plotted, and dreani'd and plann'd, Until — I reach'd the height on which I stand. 'Twas hard, 'twas hard ! Just as my business grows. In father pops his miserable nose, Steps in, not sober, in a ragged dress, And worn tenfold with want and wickedness ; Calls me hard names because I wish'd to rise ; Here, in the office, like a baby cries ; Smothers my pride with shame and with disgrace, Till, red as fire, I coax'd him from the place. What could I do under so great a blow 1 I gave him money, tried to make him go ; But ah ! he meant to rest, I plain could see, His ragged legs 'neath my mahogany ! No principle ! When I began complaining, How he would be my ruin by remaining, He turn'd upon me, white and wild, and swore. And would have hit m?, had I utter'd more. " Tommy," he dared to say, " you've done amiss ; I never thought to see you come to this. I would have stopp'd you early on the journey. If I had ever thought you'd grow attorney. Sucking the blood of people here in London ; But you have done it, and it can't be undone. And, Tommy, I will do my best to see You don't at all disgrace yourself and me." I rack'd my brains, I moan'd and tore my hair, Saw nothing left but ruin and despair ; Father at hand, why, all would deem me low: "Sneak's father? humph!" — the business would go. The labour of long years would come to nought ! At last I hit upon a happy thought : Why should not father, if he pleased to be, Be decent and respectable like me ? He would be glad and grateful, if a grain Of principle were settled in his brain. I made the offer, — proud he seemed and glad, — There rose a hope he'd change to good from bad, Though, " Tommy, 'tis a way of getting bread I never thought to come upon," he said ; And so I put him in the office here, A clerk at five-and-thirty pounds a year. I put it to you, could a man do more 'I 1 felt no malice, did not close my door. But gave the chance to show if he was wise ■ He had the world before him, and could rise- Well, for a month or more, he play'd no tricks, Writ-drawing, copying, from nine to six. Not smart, of course, nor clever, like the rest. But trying, it appear'd, to do his best ; But by and by he changed — old fire broke out — He snapp'd when seniors order'd him about — Came late to office, tried to loaf and shirk — Would sit for precious hours before his work, And scarcely lift a pen, but sleepily stare Out through the window at the empty air. And watch the sunshine lying in the lane. Or the bluebottles buzzing on the pane. And look as sad and worn and grieved and strange As if he ne'er had had a chance to change ; Came one day staggering in a drunken fit ; Flatly refused one day to serve a writ. I talk'd, appeal'd, talked of my honest name, He stared, turn'd pale, swore loud, and out it came : He hated living with that monkey crew, Had tried his best and found it would not do ; He could not bear, forsooth, to watch the tears Of people with the Law about their ears. Would rather steal his meals from place to place. Than bring the sorrow to a poor man's face — In fact, you see, he hated all who pay, Or seek their moneys in the honest way ; Moreover, he preferr'd a roadside crust. To cleanly living with the good and just : Old, wild, and used to roaming up and down. He could not bear to stagnate in a town ; To stick in a dark office in a street. Was downright misery to a man with feet ; Serving the law was more than he could bear. Give him his pack, his freedom, and fresh air. Mark that ! how base, ungrateful, gross, and bad His want of principle had made him mad. I gave him money, sent him off by train. And trusted ne'er to see his face again. But he came back. Of course. Look'd wan and ill. More ragged and disreputable stilL THE FOX'S TALE. 259 Despairing, groaning, wretchedest of men, I granted him anotlier trial then. Still the old story — the same vacant stare Out through the window at the empty air, More watching of the sunshine in the lane, And the bluebottles buzzing on the pane, Then more of tipsvness and drunken dizziness, And rage at things done in the way of business. I saw the very office servants sneer, And I determined to be more severe. At last, one winter's morn, I went to him, And found him sitting, melancholy, grim, Spr&wling like any schoolboy on his seat, And scratching drawings on a foolscap sheet ; Here, an old hag, with half-a-dozen chits, Lash'd with a cat-o'-nine tails, labell'd " Writs ; " There, a young rascal, ragged as a daw. Drinking a cup of poison, labell'd " Law ; " Elsewhere, the Devil, looking o'er a pile Of old indictments with a crafty smile. And sticking lawyers on an office file ; And in a corner, wretchedly devised, A shape in black, that kick'd and agonis'd. Strung by a pauper to a gallows great. And underneath it written, " Tommie's Fate ! " I touch'd his arm, conducted him aside, Produced a bunch of documents, and cried : " Now, father, no more nonsense ! You must be No more a plague and a disgrace to me — If you won't work like others, you must quit ; See, here are two subpoenas, there a writ, Serve these on Such-a-one and So-and-So. Be sharp, and mind your conduct, or you go." He never said a word, but with a glare All round him, drew his thin hand through his hair, Turn'd white, and took the papers sOently, Put on his hat, and peep'd again at me. Then quietly, not like a man in ire. Placed all the precious papers on the fire ! And turning quickly, crying with a shout, " You, and all documents, be ! " went out He came again ! Ay, after wandering o'er The country as of old, he came once more. I gave him money, off he went ; and then, After a little year, he came again ; Ay, came, and came, still ragged, bad, and po( r, And he will be my ruin, I am sure. He tells the same, old tale from year to year. How to his heart I ever will be dear ; Or oft into a fit of passion flies, Calls me ungrateful and unkind, — then cries. Raves of his tenderness and suffering. And mother's too — and all that sort of thing : He haunts me like a goblin pale and grim. And— to be candid — I'm afraid of him ; For, ah ! all now is hopeless, to my cost, — Through want of principle the man is lost. — That's Badger, is it ? He must go to Vere, The Bank of England clerk. The writ is here. Say, for his children's sake we will relent, If he'll renew at thirty -five per cent. THE FOX'S TALE. ["From "Eory O'More." By Samuel Lover."] i^ORY went to chapel ; and thoughts of the expedition and hopes for his country mingled with his devotions, and a prayer for the safety of the friend from whom he had just parted rose sincerely from his heart. Mass being over, he returned to the Black Bull, where Finnegan was serving his customers. " I am come to ax you for something, Larry," said Rory. " I jist came to see if you're done with the crowbar I lint you some time agon, as I'm in want of it myself to quarry some stones to- morrow." " Yis ; there it is, standin' over in the corner, beyant the hob in the kitchen forninst you : I'm done with it — many thanks to you ! " " Why, thin, what would you want wid a crowbar, Finnegan 1 " said one of his customers. " Oh, it's the misthiss you should ax about that ! " said Rory. " Why, is it for batin' her he got it 1 " " No," said Finnegan. " It's a flail I have for that." " It's Misthiss Finnegan that wants it," said Rory : " she makes the punch so sthrong, that she bent all her spoons sthrivin' to stir it ; and so she borrowed the crowbar." " Long life to you, Rory, your sowl ! " said Finnegan, who relished this indirect compliment to the character of his establishment. " Divil be from me, but you won't lave the house this day without takin' a tumbler with the misthiss, afther that ! and she shall mix it herself for you, and with the a-ou^jS Quatorze ormolu clock ticked solemnly away, registering the death of each minute audibly, and indefinably forcing itself upon the attention of those .sitting by, in connection with the rapidly-closing earthly career of the sufferer on the bed. She lay there, having again fallen into deep heavy slumber, broken occasionally by a fitful cry, a moan of anguish, then relapsing once more into stertorous breathing and seemingly placid rest. In a large arm-chair close by the head of the bed sat Robert Simnel, his eyes tear-blurred, his cheeks swollen and flushed, his lips compressed, his hands stretched straight out before him and rigidly knit together over his knee. This was the end of it, then ; the result of all his hopes and fears, his toil- ing and his scheming. Just as the prize was in his grasp, it melted into thin air. Bitter, frightfully bitter, as were his reflections at that moment, they were tinged -ndth very little thought of self. Grief, unspeakable grief, plucked at his heartstrings as he looked upon the mangled wreck of the only one he had ever really cherished in the course of his busy life. There lay the beautiful form which he had seen, so round and plump, swaying from side in graceful inflections, with every movement of her 2k horse, now crushed out of shape and swathed with bandages and splints. The fair hair, which he re- collected tightly knotted under the pretty hat, lay floating over the pillow, dank with death-dew ; the strong white hands, against the retaining grasp of which the fieriest horses had pulled and plunged in vain, lay helpless on the coverlet, cut and scored by the gravel, and without an infant's power in them. A fresh burst of tears clouded Robert Simnel's eyes as he looked on this sad sight ; and his heart sunk within him as he felt that his one chance in life, his one chance of love and peace and happiness, was rapidly vanishing before him. Then the ex- pression of his face changed, his eyes flashed, he set his teeth, and drove his nails into the palms of his hands ; for in listening to poor Kate's incoherent exclamations and broken phrases, Simnel had gath- ered sufficient to give him reason to suspect that she had met Beresford, and that he had somehow or other — whether intentionally or not, Simnel could not make out — been connected with, if not the primary cause of, the accident. And then Simnel's chest heaved, and his breath came thick, and he inwardly swore that he would be revenged on this man, who, to the last, had proved himself the evil genius of her who once so fondly loved him. When Barbara and Frank entered the room 290 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. together, Simnel looked up, and the bad expression faded out of his face. He in common with the rest of the world, had heard some garbled story of the separation, and he saw at a glance that poor Kitty's accident had been the means of throwing them together again, and of effecting a reconciUation. What he had just heard from the girl's mouth of Churchill had inspired in him a sense of gratitude and regard ; and as he noticed Barbara clinging closely to her husband's arm^ as she threw a half- frightened glance towards the bed, he felt himself dimly acknowledging the mysterious workings of that Providence, which in its own good time, brings all things to their appointed end. Frank and Barbara, after casting a hurried look at the bed, had seated themselves on the other side ; the nurse, tired out with watching, had drawn her large chair close to the fire and fallen into that state of nodding and catching herself up again, of strug- gling with sleep, then succumbing, then diving for- ward with a liod and pulling herself rigid in an instant, — a state so common in extra-fatigue ; and Simnel had dropped into his old desolate attitude. So they sat, no one speaking. Ah, the misery of that watching in a sick-room ! the solemn silence scarcely broken by the ticking of the clock, the crackling of the fire, the occasional dropping of the coals, the smothered hum of wheels outside ; the horrible thoughts that at such times get the masteiy of the mind and riot in full sway, — thoughts of the sick person there being watched, doubts as to the chances of their recovery, wonderings as to whether they themselves are conscious of their danger, as to whether they are what is commonly called " pre- pared " to die. Then a dreamy state, in which we begin to wonder when we shall be in similar plight ; and where 1 Shall we have had time for the reali- sation of those schemes which now so much occupy us, or shall we be cut ofi^ suddenly 1 Shall we be able to bear it calmly and bravely when the doctor makes that dread announcement, and tells us that if we have any earthly affairs to settle, it were best to do it at once ; for it is impossible to deny that there is a certain amount of danger, etc., etc. And the boys, with life before them, and no helping, guiding hand to point out the proper path '? And the wife, dearest helpmate, true in all her wifely duties, but ah ! how unfitted to combat with the world, to have the responsibilities of the household to bear alone 1 And then the end itself ! — the Shadow cloaked from head to foot ! the great hereafter ! ■' Behold, we know not anything ! " Happy are we to arouse from that dismal reverie at the sound of the wheels of the doctor's carriage, and gaze into his eyes, trusting there to read a growing hope. The reflections of the four persons assembled round poor Kate Mellon's sick-bed were not entire- ly of this kind. The minds of Frank and Barbara were naturally full of all that had just occurred, in which they were most interested ; full of thoughts of past storms and future happiness, — full of such pleasurable emotions, that the actual scene before them had but a minor influence. Simnel was pon- dering over his shattered idol and his dreams of vengeance. And then came the sound of the wheels and the smothered knock, and then the gentle opening of the door, and Mr. Slade's pleasant pre- sence in the room. He approached the bed, and surveyed Ihe sleeper ; crossed the room with the softest footsteps,, and asked a few whispered questions of the nurse ; then turned quietly back, and seated himself by Frank and Barbara. " How do you find her 1 " asked the latter. Mr. Slade simply shook his head, without making any verbal reply. "The nurse summoned us hurriedly about half- an-hour ago," whispered Churchill ; " but when we came in, we found her in the state in which you now see her ; she has not moved since, scarcely." " Poor child ! poor child ! " said Mr. Slade, plying his pocket-handkerchief very vigorously ; she'll not move much more." "Is she, — is she very bad to-night?" asked Barbara. " Yes, my dear," said the old gentleman, taking a large pinch of snuff to correct his emotion ; " yes, my dear, she is very bad, as you would say. There is a pinched, worn look in her face which is unmis- takable. She is going home rapidly, poor girl 1 " The sense of the last observation, though he had heard the words, seemed to have reached Mr. Simnel's ears, for he rose hurriedly, and crossing to Mr. Slade, took him by the arm and led him on one side. "Did you say she was dying T' he asked in a hoarse whisper, when they had moved some distance from the rest. " I did not say so, though I implied it," said the old man ; then, peering at him from under his spec- tacles, " May I ask, are you any relation of the lady's '? " " No, no relation ; only I — I was going to be married to her, that was all." He said these words in a strange, hard, dry voice ; and Mt. Slade felt him clutch his wrist tight as he went on to say, " Is there no hope 1 You won't take amiss what I say ; I know your talent and your position ; but still, in some cases, a second opinion, — ^if there is anything that money can do — " " My dear sir," said Mr. Slade, " I tinderstand perfectly what you mean ; and God knows if there were anything to be done I wouldn't stand in the way ; but in this case, if you had the whole College of Surgeons before you, and the gold-fields of Australia at your back, there could be but one result." Mr. Simnel bowed his head, while one great GOING HOME. (I>)-a«!ii iij Gordon Browne.) "GO/JVB HOME- [p. ! GOING HOME. 291 sMver ran tliroiigh his frame. Then he looked up and said, " And when ? " " Immediately, — to-night ; in two or three hours at most. She will probably rise from this lethargy, have some moments of consciousness, and then — " "And then r' Mr. Slade made no direct answer, but he shrugged his shoulders and turned on liis heel. Silently he shook hands with Barbara and Churchill, then with Simnel, placing one hand on his shoulder, and gripping him tightly with the other ; then he walked to the bed, and bent over it, peering into poor Kitty's tortured face, while two large tears fell on the coverlet. Then he stooped and lightly kissed the hand which lay outstretched, and then hurried noiselessly from the room. Mr. Slade saw several patients that night before going to a scientific con- versazione at the Hanover Square Rooms, — a noble lord, who had softening of the brain, and who pas- sed his days in a big arm-chair, and made a moan- ing noise, and wept when turned away from the fire ; a distinguished commoner, who had given way to brandy, and was raving in delirium ; and a young- gentleman, who, in attempting to jump the mess- room table after dinner, had slipped, and sustained a compound fracture of his leg. But at each of these visits he was haunted by the palKd, tortured face of the dying girl. At the conversazione it got between the microscope and a most delicious preparation ; and was by his side as he drew on his nightcap, and prepared for his hard-earned slumbers. Slowly, slowly wore away the night : Simnel still sat rigid and erect : but the nurse was sound asleep, and Barbara's head had drooped upon Frank's shoulder, when suddenly the room rang with a shrill startling cry, In an instant all rushed to the bedside. There lay Kate awake, but still under the influence of some dreadful dream. " Keep him off ; keep him off ! " she cried. " It's unfair, it's cowardly, Charley ! I'm a woman^ and you hit so hard ! Oh, Robert," she exclaimed, vainly endeavouring to drag herself towards Simnel, "you'll keep him off! you'll defend me ! " " There's no one there, Kate," said Simnel, drop- ping on his knees by the bedside, and taking her hand ; " there's no one to hurt you, my child." " I was dreaming then," said Kate ; " oh, such a horrid dream ! I thought I Who are these % " she exclaimed, looking at Barbara and Frank. " I'm scarcely awake yet, I think. Why, it's Guardy, of course ! and you, clear, who were so kind to me. But how are you here together ? I can't make that out." " This is my wife, Kate," said Churchill ; " my wife, of whom you were speaking this evening." " Your wife ! ah, I'm so glad ; I never thought of that ; I never thought of asking her who she was ; I only knew she was, oh, so kind and rso affection- ate with me ; and it was because she was your vsdfe, eh 1 Will you kiss me again, dear ! So ; and again ! Wiat a sweet soft face it is ! Ah, he's been so good to me, dear, this husband of yours ; and I've given him such trouble for so many years. So grave and so steady he's always been, that I've looked upon him as quite an old fellow, and never thought of his marrying. I — I'm much weaker to-night, I think ; the pain seems to have left my side ; but I feel so weak, as though I coiddn't raise a finger. You're there, Robert ? " '' Yes, dear." " Ay, I feel your hand-grip now ! You must not mind what I am going to say, Robert ; you took on so before ; but you'll be brave now, eh, Robert 1 I — I know I'm going home, — to my long home, I mean ; and I want to say how happy, and peaceful, and grateful to the Lord, I am. I've often thought of this tune, — often and often ; and wondered,— and I've often thought it would be like this, and yet not quite in this way. You used to talk to me about my rashness, Guardy, — in riding, I mean." " Yes, dear Kate ; and you always promised and you never did, my headstrong child ! " " No, Guardy, I didn't, and yet I tried hard ; but I hadn't much pleasure elsewise, had I ? Robert knows that ; and I dul so enjoy my work ! I've often thought it might come when I was with the hounds, and that would have been dreadful ! All the business and bother in the field, and carried away somewhere, to some wretched place, where there'd have been no one near to care for me ; and now I've you all here, and that kind old doctor ; and oh, thank God, for all." There was a little pause, and then she asked in, if anything, a weaker voice, " What's become of the horse 1 does any one know 1 — the horse, I mean, that did this ? " " He was taken home, Kate, so Freeman said. He's a good deal cut ; but — " " Oh don't let him come to grief, Robert ! It wasn't his fault, poor fellow ! He was startled by the — ah, well ; it's all over now ! Don't frown so, Robert ; I ought to have known better. Lord Clon- mel always said he had a temper of Lis own ; but I thought I could do anything, and — . Some of them will crow over this, won't they ? Those Jeffrey girls, who always said I was a park-rider, and no good at fencing, eh'? Well, well, that's neither here nor there. You know all about the will, Guardy, — in the desk, you know 1 and what I said about your having — and Freeman— and the men's wages ; and — " As she spoke she sunk back, and seemed to fall asleep at once. The nurse, who had been hovering round, advanced and looked anxiously at her, lay- ing her finger on her pulse, and peering into her face. Reassured, she retired again ; and the others, save Simnel, who still remained kneeling by the bed, resumed their places. Then, stretched supine, 292 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. and without addressing herself to any one, Kate Mellon began to talk again. Frag-mentary, discon- nected, incoherent sentences they were that she uttered : but, listening to them, Simnel and Frank Churchill managed to make out that her head was wandering, and that she was running through pas- sages of her earlier life. " Ready ! " she said. "All right, Dolphin ! Now, band ; — why don't they play up 1 No hoop lit yet ! Get along. Dolphin ! Ribbons now ! Stand up, man ! — whj' doesn't that man stand up 1 So, give liiTTi his head — that's it. Chalk ; more chalk ! — this pad's so slippery, I shall never stand on it ; that's better. Now we go — one, two, three ! All right, sir ; all right, madam ; told you I should clear it. Ah, Charley ! Hold the hoop lower— lower yet. What's he at ? I shall miss it — miss it and then — Slacken your curb, miss, or she'll rear ! So, that's it — easy does it. Courage now, — head and the heart up ; hand and the heel down ! Oh he's jumped short ! — he's over ! he's over ! " She gave a sharp cry, and half raised herself on to the pillow. The nurse was by her in an instant ; so were they all. Her eyes opened at first dreamily ; then she looked round and smiled sweetly. " Kiss me, dear," she said to Barbara. " Guardy ! Robert, Robert ! kindest, dearest Robert, I'm — going home !" Then, with tears streaming from both their eyes, Frank led Barbara away ; while, haggard and rigid, Simnel knelt by the bedside firmly clutching a dead hand. OUR JE-RUSALEM POKY. * [By James Patn.] AM a medical man, residing, as my wife informs her relatives in the South, "in the neighbourhood of" Edinburgh ; but in point of fact we are iji it, the nearest villa-residences being thirty streets off at the very least. " Alfy," said she, coaxingly, " now you are getting on so well, my love, don't you think that you ought to buy a brougham ? " " Certainly, if you wish it, my dear," returned I," pretending to misunderstand her, " buy half-a- dozen brooms if they are necessary, by all means, sweetest ; but I thought we stocked the house when I moved, at your request, from our flat into this main-door." " I meant a carriage, love — a brough-am ; a one- horse brougham would be quite enough." " 'Wliy not say Mr. Axle's prize ' drag ' at once 1 " rephed I, laughing, and lighting another cigar : " I'U send round Betsy in the morning, with my compliments, and I'll buy it of him at his own figure." "It would very much increase your practice," remarked Leonora, musingly ; " there's nothing like a carriage for a medical man, you may depend on that ; it takes him where skill and talent, even such as yours, Alfy, would never carry him." " Yes, love ; it sometimes takes him to prison," remarked I, assentingly. A slight pause here took place, during which I only caught one word of my Leonora's, and even that was not intended for me ; it sounded exceedingly like " Fiddle- stick ! " "Do you know how much you spend in the course of the year in cabs, Alfred t Notklng ! Oh, don't you tell me naughty fibs ; you men never can keep any account. What do you say, dear 1 I can't quite catch what you are saying. YoiL roalk ! Oh, you wicked man, you don't walk from ten to five every day, I'm sure ! " " My love," returned I, kissing her, " my remark was that there is such a thing as a 'bus." " Very well, Alfred," observed Leonora, with a sigh, and as though the discussion was closed ; " aU I have to say is this, that the child's ancles are going." " Going I " ejaculated I, with unaifected sur- prise ; "and where are they going to'? " "If the child's being lame for life is a joke, Alfred — as everything seems, indeed, to be a joke to you — it's all well and good, and it doesn't signify." " He's got the perambulator," observed I, with that callousness to shame which is the husband's only and very inadequate defence, the unwarranted mackintosh in which he vainly wraps himseK from the watery foe ; " he can keep his ancles from going in that, Leonora, surely." "Betsy won't push it," sobbed my wife; "she said .she'd see the little angel fur-fur-further first. Its only use now is to hold the umbrellas in the lobby." " "Then we must turn over a new leaf, and get a page," returned I, pleasantly. " You've promised me him a long time," returned the unrelenting Leonora ; " but I wouldn't trust that child to be butted about by a page — no, not for millions." " I don't think so large a temptation will ever be thrown in your way, my love," remarked I, By permission of Messrs. Chatto aud Windus. OUR JERUSALEM PONY. 393 "drily ; " say ' thousands.' But I tell you what I will do, Lenny ; I'll get a Jerusalem pony for him." " A pony ! " cried she, clapping her hands, and ^shutting up her lachrymal ducts as if by magic ; " oh, that'll be delicious ! " "A Jerusalem pony," observed I again, wdth emphasis, and unwilling that an expectation ■should be aroused of some Arab steed ; " it will only be a Jerusalem." " I don't care whether it comes from Jerusalem or not," replied she, in evident ignorance that the expression was euphuistic for a donkey ; " I'd proprietor, who, without giving himself an instant's breath for a comma, and far les.s for consideration of the facts, deposed — that it was middle-aged, steady, and well-conducted, would carry a lady side- ways, didn't know liow to startle. Lie clown ? Bless you, never ! A child might ride him a-hunt- ing ; while as for kicking It may have been that the philosophic beast was annoyed by so much flattery ; it may have been that fate herself interposed to save my precious infant ; or it may have been a gadfly ; but certain it is that at the word " kicking," that donkey ' A SCORE OF HUMAN HEADS REGARDED ME." {Drawn h'j W. Ealstoil.) just as soon have it from there as from Wales or Shetland." " Ha ! " said I ; for I had nothing else to say, since I had not the heart, nor indeed the courage, to undeceive her. "And, Alfy, darling," observed she, as she trippingly left the room to communicate this piece ■of news to her offspring, "do please, if you possibly can, let it be a piebald." " Very well, my love ; I will, if I possibly can," returned I ; " but I conf e.ss I do not think it very likely." On a certain Saturday evening, some time after this conversation, I chanced to be at a small village in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, which forms a sort of watering-place to that metropolis — that is to say, which boasts of a pier, a wheel-of- fortune, a few bathing-machines, and a stud of Jerusalem ponies ; and on one of these animals I set my eye and my mind. I made inquiry concerning its merits of the began a pas de deux with its hind-legs, the dura- tion and violence of which I never before saw equalled. " It's only his play " — began the hypo- critical proprietor. I congealed the remainder of his sentence by a glance of incredulous scorn, and reciuested to see some smaller specimens — infant donkeys, who had left off milk-diet, but had not yet been taught vicious tricks. Had he any such that he could lay his hand upon his heart and recommend to the father of a young family ? Had he any under a year old % Young donkeys^ Of course, he had young donkeys ; scores — hundreds. Under one year old ■? Certainly not. How could he have? Nothing was younger than one ? How could it be 1 I turned away in disgust, and should have departed donkeyless, but that a Deus ex machind — a fellow belonging to the bathing-machines — who seemed to know this man and his humour, intervened, and solved the difficulty. He explained to him, with an elaborate patience, which should 294 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. earn him the lately vacated place in the College of Preceptors, that there was a smaller measure of time than a year, and that a Jerusalem pony might be any number of months old short of a twelvemonth. I accompanied these two to the donkey emporium, purchased my young ass for ten shillings, hired a boy to lead it home by a straw- halter, and imagined the affair to be concluded. When myself and prize reached our residence in Paradise Row, about eleven o'clock p.m., he had, in addition to his four personal attendants, who had remained faithful, a " tail " of about one hundred people, including two policemen, and three or four highly respectable persons who wanted to go the other way, but who were compelled to follow the stream and accompany iw. I had forgotten, when I made my purchase, that om- back-green was, so to speak, down-stairs, and only approachable by the area steps and through the kitchen passage ; but often during the course of my triumphal march this difficulty had presented itself to my procrastinating mind, and it had now to be solved ; " How were we to get the Jerusalem pony into his uncomeatable paddock 1 " " Come," cried the policeman, as we vainly urged the animal to descend into his future residence, " this won't do, you know ; you must move on, sir; you mustn't be obstructing the street." " Obstructing your grandmother," cried I, pale with passion at the idea of the law interfering to oppress what it was intended to protect ; " is there not room in Paradise Row for this poor young creature as well as myself 1 Move on, indeed ! that is the very thing I want to do ! A 1, take the Jerusalem pony's fore-legs ; A 2, take his hind-quarters, and be very careful ; and carry him down those steps." " Hooray ! " shouted the crowd, in a state of wild excitement, and delighted with my com- manding air. "Take him down," cried I, in a voice of thunder ; " you had better take him down when I tell you ! " " Hooray ! " shouted the crowd ; " take him down, or down with the Peelers." The policemen looked at me, looked at the assembled thousands — for the street was filled by this time from end to end, and surged into the adjoining squares — looked at one another, and then proceeded to obey me without a murmur. They took up — they had never taken up such a customer before — the astonished quadruped in the manner I had suggested, and carried him safe and sound down the area steps. Oh, the relief of mind and body when I saw that Jerusalem pony deposited safely in our back- green 1 the gratitude with which I overwhelmed those guardians of public safety ! the recklessness of expense with which I opened bottle after bottle of superior beer for their refreshment ! I woke Leonora, to recount to her all that I had done, and had some difficulty to prevent her rush- ing to the window to look at the new arrival. '" I don't even know what a Jerusalem pony ?'.s," urged she ; " I shall be lying awake, and trying to picture what unusual " At this juncture, her doubts were set at rest for ever by the most tremendous braying that ever issued from the mouth of jackass since the days of Balaam ; it was exactly beneath our bed-room window, and sounded like a brass band composed of ophicleides out of repair. " Why, it's only a dreadful donkey, Alfred," cried Leonora, with just indignation. " It's forty donkeys," cried I, penitently, and stopping my ears. Never, indeed, shall I forget that noise, which seems even now to be ringing through the chambers of memory. We retired to rest, however — that is to say, we lay down and listened. Sometimes we would nourish a faint hope that all was over, that the Jerusalem pony would himself require the bless- ings of sleep, and become quiet ; and sometimes the real horrors of our situation could not be dispelled by any such baseless fancy. I think the creature must have been composing a coronach or lament for his absent mother or other relatives ; for after very short pauses, such as might have been given by any donkey to composition, he would burst forth with a torrent of discordant wailing of about fourteen lines in length^as far as we could judge— and ending in an Alexandrine. It was horrible from the first, and rapidly grew to be unbearable. At 2.30 a.m. I put on my dressing, gown and slippers, and taking down the rope from. one of the window-curtains, I sallied forth into the back-green. Sleep had of course been banished from every other inhabitant of Paradise Row as well as from ourselves ; a score of human heads regarded me from far and near, from first flat to attic, with interest and satisfaction. They believed in their foolish and revengeful hearts, I knew, that I was about to kaiiff the Jerusalem pony. I was not going to do anything of the kind. I approached the animal, uttering sounds such as, in the mouths of his late attendants, I had observed to give him pleasure ; but I might just as well have read aloud the Act for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. He turned away ; he fled ;, he even lifted up his heels against me. Disgusted but not dispirited by this conduct, I pursued the flying beast with persevering vigour, despite the fluttering of my lengthy garment, and the in- creasing coolness of my unprotected legs. I caught him ; I tied up his jaws — securely, as I thought — with the curtain-rope ; and retired amid THE SPANISH ARMADA. 295 Tiiurmurs of applause to my apartment, leaving liini speechless and discomfited. Better, far better would it have been had I never attempted this. The great harmonies of Nature are not to be hushed by the rude hands of Man. Scarcely had my head touched the pillow, when the bray, half-stifled, pitiful, more harassing beyond expression than before, recommenced with hideous pertinacity, and increased in volume with every note. Presently the rope gave way, and the full tide of song burst forth again from that Jerusalem pony as the pent-up waters from an ineffectual dam ; while the cock, imagining, no doubt, that it was dawn, and accusing itself of over-sleeping, i)nd permitting another creature to be the first to salute the sun, added its shrill tribute to the din. " I'll cut that donkey's throat," cried I, leaping -t'>ii.) when j\Ir. Nabb and I (almost fainting) had entered : then he opened the third door, and then I was introduced to a filthy place, called a coffee- room, which I exchanged for the solitary comfort of a little dingy back-parlour where I was left for a while to brood over my miserable fate. Fancy the change between this and Berkeley Square ! Was I, after all my pains, and cleverness, and per- severance, cheated at last f Had this ]\lr.s. Manasseh been imposing upon me, and were the words of the wretch I met at the table tVlwte at Leamington only meant to mislead me and take me ml I determined to send for my wife, and know the whole truth. I saw at once that I had been the victim of an infernal plot, and that the carriage, the house in town, the AVest India for- tune, were only so many lies which I had blindly believed. It was true the debt was but a hundred and fifty pounds : and I had two thousand at my 2n might have had twenty others ? She only took me, she said, because I had twenty thousand pounds. I had said I possessed that sum ; but in love, you know, and war, all's fair. We parted quite as angrily as we met ; and I cordially vowed that when I had paid the debt into which I had been swindled by her, I would take my £2,000, and depart to some desert island ; or, at the very least, to America, and never sto her more, or any of her Israelitish brood. There was no use in remaining in the sponging-house (for I knew that there were such things as detainers, and that where ]\Irs. Stubbs owed a hundred pounds, she might owe a thousand), so I sent for Mr. Nabb, and tendering him a cheque for £150, and his costs, requested to be let out forthwith. " Here, fellow," said I, " is a cheque on Child s for your paltry sum." " It may be a shech on Shild's," sayc j\Ir. Nabb, 314 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. ■' but I should be a baby to let you out on such a paper as that." " Well," said I, "Child's is but a step from this; you may go and get the cash — just giving me an acknowledgment." Nabb drew out the acknowledgment with great punctuality, and set off for the bankers', whilst I prepared myself for departure from this abomin- able prison. He smiled as he came in. " Well," said I, " you have touched your money ; and now, I must tell you, that you are the most infernal rogue and extortioner I ever met with." " O no, Mishtcr Shtubbsh," says he, grinning still; " dere is som greater roag dan me — mosh greater." " Fellow," says I, " don't stand grinning before a gentleman ; but give me my hat and cloak, and let me leave your filthy den." " Slitop, Shtubbsh,'' says he, not even Mistering me this time, "here ish a letter, vicli you had better read." I opened the letter; something fell to the ground : it was my cheque. The letter ran thus : " Messrs. Child and Co. present their compliments to Captain Stubbs, and regret that they have been obliged to refuse payment of the enclosed, having been served this day with an attachment by Messrs. Solo- monson and Co., which compels them to retain Captain Stubbs's balance of £2,010 lis. Od. until the decision of the suit of Solomonson v. Stubbs. "Fleet Street." " You see," says Mr. Nabb, as I read this dread- ful letter, " you see, Shtubbsh, dere vas two debts, — a little von, and a big von. So dey arrested you for the little von, and attashed your money for de big von." Don't laugh at me for telling this story ; if you knew what tears are blotting over the paper as I write it ; if you knew that for weeks after I was "more like a madman than a sane man — a madman in the Fleet Prison, where I went, instead of to the desert island. What had I done to deserve it 1 Hadn't I always kept an eye to the main chance '? Hadn't I lived economically, and not like other young men ? Had I ever been known to squander or give away a single penny ! No ! I can lay my hand on my heart, and, thank Heaven, say. No ! Why — why was I punished so 1 Let me conclude this miserable history. Seven months— my wife saw me once or twice, and then dropped me altogether— I remained in that fatal place. I wrote to my dear mamma, begging her to sell her furniture, but got no answer. All my old friends turned their backs upon me. My actioi; went against me— I had not a penny to defend it. Solomonson proved my wife's debt, and seized my two thousand pounds. As for the detainer against me, I was obliged to go through the court for the relief of insolvent debtors. I passed through it, and came out a beggar. But, fancy the malice of that wicked Stiffelkind ; he appeared in court as my creditor for £3, with sixteen years' interest, at five per cent., for a pair of top-boots. The old thief produced them in court, and told the whole story — Lord Cornwallis, the detection, the pump- ing, and all. Commissioner Dubobwig was very funny about it. " So Doctor Swishtail would not pay you for the boots, eh, Mr. Stiffelkind t " " No ; he said, ven I ask him for payment, dey was ordered by a yong boy, and I ought to have gone to his schoolmaster." " What, then, you came on a bootless errand, eh, sir?" (A laugh.) " Bootless, no sare. I brought the boots back vid me ; how de devU else could I show dem to you 1 (Another laugh.) " You've never soled them since, Mr. Tickle- shins?" " I never vood sell dem ; I svore I never vood, on porpus to be revenged ondat Stobbs." " What, your wound has never been healed, eh ? " " Vat do you mean vid your bootless errants and your soling and healing ! I tell you I have done vat I svore to do ; I have exposed him at school, I have broke off a marriage for him, ven he vould have had twenty tousand pound, and now I have showed him up in a court of justice ; dat is vat I ave done, and dat's enough." And then the old wretch went down, whilst everybody was giggling and staring at poor me — as if I was not miserable enough already. " This seems the dearest pair of boots you ever had in your life, Mr. Stubbs," said Commissioner Dubobwig, very archly, and then he began to inquire about the rest of my misfortunes. In the fulness of my heart I told him the whole of them ; how Mr. Solomonson the attorney had introduced me to the rich widow, Mrs. JIanasseh, who had eighty thousand pounds, and an estate in the West Indies. How I was married, and arrested on coming to town, and cast in an action for two thousand pounds, brought against me by this very Solomonson for my wife's debts. " Stop," says a lawyer in the court. " Is this woman a showy black-haired woman, with one eye 1 very often drunk, with three children — ■ Solomonson, short, with red hair ? " " Exactly so," says I, with tears in my eyes. "That woman has married three men within the last two years. One in Ireland, and oue at Bath. A Solomonson is, I believe, her hus- band, and they both were off for America ten days ago." THE BOAT RACE. 315 " But -why did you not keep your £2,000 ? " said the la-\\'yer. " Sir, they attached it." " ' well, we may pass you : you have been unlucky, Mr. Stubbs, but it seems as if the biter had been bit in this aflfair." " No," said Mr. Dubobwia;, " Mr. Stubbs is the victim of a FATAL ATTACHMENT" THE BOAT EAOE. [By W. C. Bennett.] HERE, win the cup and you shall have my - girl. ;: I won it, Ned; and you shall win it too. Or wait a twelvemonth. Books — for ever books ! Nothing but talk of poets and their rhymes ! I'd have you, boy, a nran, with thews and strength To breast the world with, and to cleave your way, No maudlin dreamer, that wUl need her care. She needing yours. There — there — I love you Ned, Both for your own, and for your mother's sake ; So win our boat-race, and the cup, next month. And you shall have her." With a broad, loud laugh, A jolly trimnph at his rare conceit. He left the subject ; and across the wine, We talk'd — or rather all the talk was Ms — Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known, Both of his set, and others — Clare, the boast Of Jesus', and young Edmonds, he who fell. Cleaving the ranks at Lucknow ; and, to-day, There was young Chester might be named with them. " Why, boy, I'm told his room is lit with cups Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows, he wins ; Small chance for you, boy." And again his laugh. With its broad thunder, turn'd my thoughts to gaU : But yet I mask'd my humour with a mirth Moulded on his ; and, feigning haste, I went. But left not. Through the garden-porch I turn'd, But on its sun-flecked seats, its jessamine shades Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths Wander'd my eye, in rapid quest of one Sweeter than all its roses ; and across Its gleaming lilies and its azure oeiis. There, in the orchard's greenness, down beyond Its sweetbriar hedge-row, found her — found hei' there, A summer blossom that the peering sun Peep'd at through blossoms, — that the summer airs Waver'd down blossoms on, and amorous gold, Warm as that rain'd on Danae. With a step. Soft as the sun-light, down the pebbled path I pass'd, and, ere her eye could cease to count The orchard daisies, in some summer mood Dreaming (was I her thought 1), my murmur'd "Kate" Shock'd up the tell-tale roses to her cheek. And lit her eyes with starry lights of love That dimm'd the daylight. Then I told her all, And told her that her father's jovial jest Should make her mine, and kissed her sunlit tears Away, and all her little trembling doubts. Until hope won her heart to happy dreams, And all the future smiled with happy love. Nor, till the still moon, in the purpling East, Gleam'd through the twilight, did we stay our talk. Or part, with kisses, looks, and whisper'd words Eemembered for a lifetime. Home I went. And in my college rooms what blissfid hopes Were mine ! — what thoughts, that still'd to happy dreams ; Where Kate, the fadeless summer of my life, Made my years Eden, and lit up my home (The ivied rectory my sleep made mine). With little faces, and the gleams of curls, And baby crows, and voices twin to hers. Oh, happy night ! Oh, more than happy dreams ! But with the earliest twitter from the eaves, I rose, and, in an hour, at Clifford's yard. As if but boating were the crown of life. Forgetting Tennyson, and books, and rhymes. Even my new tragedy upon the stocks, I thronged my brain with talks of lines and curves, And all that makes a wherry sure to win. And furbish'd up the knowledge that I had, Ere study put my boyhood's feats away, And made me bookworm. All that day my hand Grew more and more familiar 'nith the oar. And won by slow degrees, as reach by reach Of the green river lengxhen'd on my sight, 316 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Its by-laid cunning back ; so, day by day, From when dawn touch'd our elm-tops till the moon Gleam'd through the slumbrous leafage of our lawns, I flashed the flowing Tsis from my oars, And dream'd of triumph and the prize to come ; And breathed myself, in sport, one after one, Against the men with whom I was to row, Until I feared but Chester— him alone. So June stole on to July, sun by sun. And the day came ; how well I mind that day ! Glorious with summer, not a cloud abroad O hope, was hope a prophet truth alone 1 There was a murmur in my heart of " Yes," That sung to slumber every wakening fear That still would stir and shake me with its dread. And now a hush was on the wavering crowd That sway'd along the river, reach by reach, A grassy mile, to where we were to turn — A barge moor'd midstream, fluSh'd with fluttering flags. And we were ranged, and, at the gun, we went, As in a horse-race, all, at first, a-crowd ; Then thinning slowly, one by one dropp'd ofi". Till, rounding the moor'd mark, Chester and I ' I WKDSS HIS AHSWERING HAND." To dim the golden greenness of the field,s. And all a happy hush about the earth. And not a hum to stir the drowsing noon. Save where along the peopled towing-paths, Banking the river, swarm'd the city out, Loud of the contest, bright as humming-birds. Two winding rainbows by the river's brinks. That flush'd with boats and barges, silken-awn'd Shading the fluttering beauties of our balls, Our college toasts, and gay with jest and laugh. Bright as their champagne. One, among them all. My eye saw only ; one, that morning, left With smiles that hid the terrors of my heart. And spoke of certain hope, and mock'd at fears — One, that upon my neck had parting hung Arms white as daisies — on my bosom hid A tearful face that sobb'd against my heart. Filled with what fondness ! yearning with what love ! O hope, and would the glad day make her mine ! Left the last lingerer with us lengths astern. The victory hopeless. Then I knew the strife Was come, and hoped 'gainst fear, and, oar to oar, Strain'd to the work before me. Head to head Through the wild-cheering river-banks we clove The swarming waters, raining streams of toil ; But Chester gain'd, so much his tutor'd strength Held on enduring — mine still waning more. And parting with the victory, inch by inch, Yet straining on, as if I strove with death. Until I groan'd with anguish. Chester heard. And turn'd a wondering face upon me cpick, And toss'd a laugh across, with jesting words : " What, Ned, my boy, and do you take it so 1 The cup's not worth the moaning of a man. No, nor the triumph, Tush ! boy, I rmist win." Then from the anguish of my heart a cry Burst : " Kate, O dearest Kate— O love — we lose !" " Ah ! I've a Kate, too, here to see me win," He answer'd ; " Faith ! my boy, I pity you.''' HELPING A LAME DOG OVER A STILE. 317 " Oh, if you lose," I answered, " you but lose A week's wild triumph, and its praise and pride ; I, losing, lose what priceless years of joy ! Perchance a life's whole sum of happiness — What years witli her that I might call my wife ! Winning, I win her ! " Oh, thrice noble heart ! I saw the mocking laugh fade from his face • I saw a nobler light Kght up his eyes ; I saw the flush of pride die into one Of manly tenderless and sharp resolve ; No word he spoke ; one only look he threw, That told me all ; and, ere my heart could leap In prayers and blessings rain'd upon his name, I was before him, through the tracking eyes Of following thousands, heading to the goal. The shouting goal, that hurl'd my conquering name Miles wide in triumph, " Chester foil'd at last ! " Oh, how I turn'd to him ! with what a heart ! Unheard the shouts — unseen the crowding gaze That ring'd us. How I wrung his answering hand With grasps that bless'd him, and with flush that told I shamed to hear my name more loud than his, And spurn'd its triumph. So I won my wife, My own dear wife ; and so I won a friend, Chester, more dear than aU but only her. And these, the small ones of my college dreams. HELPING A LAME DOG OVER A STILE.* [Prom " Frank Fairlegll." By Frank E. Smedley.] tT was usually my custom of an afternoon to read Law for a couple of hours, a course of training preparatory to committing myself to the tender mercies of a special pleader ; and as Sir John's weU-stored library afforded me every facility for so doing, that was the veiuie I generally selected for my interviews with Messrs. Blackstone, Coke upon Lyttelton, and other legal luminaries. Accordingly, on the day in question, after having nearly quarrelled with my mother for congratula- ting me warmly on the attainment of my wishes, when I mentioned to her Lawless's proposal, found fault with Fanny's Italian pronunciation so harshly as to bring tears into her eyes, and grievously offended our old female domestic by disdainfully rejecting some pet abomination upon which she had decreed that I should lunch, I sallied forth, and, not wishing to encounter any of the family, entered the hall by a side door, and reached the library unobserved. To my surprise I discovered Lawless (whom I did not recollect ever to have seen there before, he being not much given to literary pursuits) seated, pen in hand, at the table, apparently absorbed in the mysteries of composi- tion. " I shall not clistiirb you. Lawless," said I, taking down a book. " I am only going to read Law for an hour or two." " Eh ! disturb me 1 " was the reply ; " I'm un- common glad to be disturbed, I can tell you, for hang me if I can make head or tail of it ! Here have I been for the last three hours trying to write an ofier to your sister, and actually have not con- trived to make a fair start of it yet. I wish you would lend me a hand, there's a good fellow — I know you are up to all the right dodges — just give one a sort of notion, eh 1 don't you see ? " " What ! write an ofi'er to my own sister 1 AVeU, of all the quaint ideas I ever heard, that's the oddest — really you must excuse me." " Very odd, is it 1 " inquired Coleman, opening the door in time to overhear the last sentence. " Pray let me hear about it then, for I like to know of odd things particularly ; but, perhaps, I'm in- truding ? " " Eh ? no ; come along here, Coleman," cried Lawless, " you are just the very boy I want — I am going to be married — that is, I want to be, don't you see, if she'll have me, but there's the rub ; Frank Fairlegh is all right, and the old lady says she's agreeable, so everything depends on the young woman herself — if she will but say ' Yes,' * By permission of Messrs. George Routledge and Sous, 318 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. we shall go a-liead in style ; but, unfortunately, before she is likely to say anything one way or the other, you understand, I've got to pop the question, as they call it. Now, I've about as much notion of making an offer, as a cow has of dancing a hornpipe — so I want you to help us a bit — eh 1 " " Certainly," replied Freddy, courteously ; " I shall be only too happy, and as delays arc dangerous, I had perhaps better be off at once — where is the young lady ? " " Eh ! hold hard there ! don't go quite so fast, young man," exclaimed Lawless, aghast ; " if you bolt away at that pace you'll never see the end of the run ; why, yon don't suppose I want you to go and talk to her — pop the question viva voce, do you ? You'll be advising me to be married by deputy, I suppose, next. No, no, I'm going to do the trick by letter — something like a Valentine, only rather more so, ehl but I can't exactly manage to write it properly. If it was but a warranty for a horse, now, I'd knock it off in no time, but this is a sort of thing, you see, I'm not used to ; one doesn't get married as easily as one sells a horse, nor as often, eh 1 and it's rather a nervous piece of business — a good deal depends upon the letter." " You've been trying your hand at it already, I see," observed Coleman, seating himself at the table ; " pretty consumption of paper ! I wonder what my governor would say to me if I were to set about drawing a deed in this style ; why, the sta- tioner's bill would run away with all the profits." " Never mind the profits, you avaricious Jew," replied Lawless. " Yes, I've been trying effects, as the painters call it — putting down two or three beginnings to find out which looked the most like the time of day — you understand 1 " " Two or three 1 " repeated Coleman, " six or seven rather, voyons. ' Mr. Lawless presents his affections to Miss Fairlegh, and requests the hon . . .' Not a bad idea, an offer in the third person — the only case in which a third person would not be de trap in such an affair." " Eh ! yes, I did the respectful when I first started, you know, but I soon dropped that sort of thing when I got warm ; you'll see, I stepped out no end afterwards." " ' Honoured Miss,' continued Coleman, reading, " ' My sentiments, that is, your perfections, your splendid action, your high breeding, and the many slap-up points that may be discerned in you by any man that has an eye for a horse . . .' " "Ah ! that was where I .spoiled it," sighed Law- less. "Here's a very pretty one," resumed Freddy. "'Adorable and adored Miss Fanny Fairlegli, seeing you as I do, with the eyes ' (Why, she would not think you saw her with your nose, would she f) ' of fond affection, probably would induce me to overlook any unsoundness or disposition to vice . . .' " " That one did not turn out civilly, you see," said Lawless, "or else it wasn't such a bad begin- ning." " Here's a better," rejoined Coleman. " ' Ex- quisitely beautiful Fanny, fairest of that lovely sex, which to distingiu.sh it from us rough and ready fox-himters, who, when once we get our heads at any of the fences of life, go at it, never mind how stiff it may be (matrimony has always appeared to me one of the stiffest), and generally contrive to find ourselves on the other side, with our hind legs well under us ; — a sex, I say, which to distinguish it from our own, is called the fair sex, a stock of which I never used to think any great things, reckoning them only fit to canter round the parks with, until I saw you brought out, when I at once perceived that your condi- tion — that is, my feelings — were so inexpressible that . . . ! " " Ah ! " interposed Lawless, " that's where I got bogged, sank in over the fetlocks, and had to give it up as a bad job." " In fact, your feelings became too many for you," returned Coleman ; " but what have we here % — verses, by all that's glorious ! " " No, no ! I'm not going to let you read them," e-xclaimed Lawless, attempting to wrest the paper out of his hand. " Be quiet, Lawless," rejoined Coleman, holding him off, " sit down directly, sir, or I won't write a word for you : I tmi&t see what all your ideas are, in order to get some notion of what you want to say ; besides, I've no doubt they'll be very original. I. ' Sweet Fanny, there are moments "N^Hien the heart is not one's own, AVhen we fain would clip its wiUl wings' tip, But we find tlie bird has flown. II. ' Dear Fanny, there are moments "W^ien a loss may be a gain, And sorrow, joy — for the heart's a toy, And loving's such sweet pain. III. ' Yes, Fanny, there are moments ^A^ien a smile is worth a throne, When a frown can prove the flower of love Must fade, and die alone. ' — Why, you never wrote those, Lawless % " " Didn't 1 1 " returned Lawless, " but I know I did, though — copied them out of an old book I found up there, and wrote some more to 'em, because I thought there wasn't enough for the money, besides putting in Fanny's name instead of — what, do you think 1 — Pliillis ! — there's a name for you ; the fellow must have been a fool. Why, HELPING A LAME DOG OVER A STILE. 319 I v/ould not give a dog such an ill name for fear somebody should hang him ; but go on." " All, now we come to the original matter," re- turned Coleman, " and very original it seems. ' Dear Fanny, there are moments When love gets you in a fix. Takes the bit in his jaws, and, without any i^ause. Bolts away with you like bricks. ' Yes, Famiy, there are moments When affection knows no bounds, AVhen I'd rather be talking witli you out a-walking, Than rattling after the hounds. VI. ' Dear Fanny, there are moments When one feels that one's inspired. And .... and . . . .' — It does not seem to have been one of those moments with you just then," continued Freddy, " for the poem comes to an abrupt and untimely conclusion, unless three blots, and something that looks like a horse's head, may be a hieroglyphic mode of recording your inspirations, which I'm not learned enough to decipher." " Eh ! no ; I broke down there," replied Law- less ; " the muse deserted me, and went off in a canter for — where was it those young women used to hang out 1 — ^tlie ' Gradus ad ' place, you know ? " "The tuneful Nine, whom you barbarously designate young women," returned Coleman, " are popularly supposed to have resided on Mount Par- nassus, which acclivity I have always imagined of a triangular or sugar-loaf form, with Apollo seated on the apex or extreme point, his attention divided between preserving his equilibrium and keeping up his playing, which latter necessity he provided for by executing difficult passages on a golden (or, more probably, silver-gilt) lyre." " Eh ! nonsense," rejoined Lawless ; " now, do be serious for five minutes, and go ahead with this letter, there's a good fellow, for, 'pon my word, I'm in a wretched state of mind, — I am indeed. It's a fact, I'm nearly half a stone lighter than I was when I came here ; I know I am, for there was an old fellow weighing a defunct pig down at the farm yesterday, and I made him let me get into the scales when he took piggy out. I tell you what, if I'm not married soon I shall make a job for the sexton ; such incessant wear and tear of the sensi- bilities is enough to kill a prize-fighter in full training, let alone a man that has been leading such a molly-coddle life as I have of late, lounging about drawing-rooms like a lapdog." '• Well, then, let us begin at once," said Freddy, seizing a pen ; " now, what am I to say ? " " Eh ! why, you don't expect me to know, do you 1 " exclaimed Lawless, aghast ; " I might just as well write it myself as have to tell you ; no, no, you must help me, or else I'd better give the whole thing up at once." " I'll help you, man, never fear," rejoined Freddy, " but you must give me something to work upon ; why, it's all plain sailing enough ; begin by de- scribing your feelings." " Feelings, ehl" said Lawless, rubbing his ear violently as if to arouse his dormant faculties ; " that's easier said than done. Well, here goes for a start ; — ' My dear Miss Fairlegh.' " " ' My dear Miss Fairlegh,' " repeated Coleman, writing rapidly, " yes." " Have you written that 1 " continued Lawless ; " ar — ^let me think — ' I have felt for some time past very peculiar sensations, and have become, in many respects, quite an altered man.' " " ' Altered man,' " murmured Freddy, still writ- ing. " ' I have given up hunting,' " resumed Lawless, " ' which no longer possesses any interest in my eyes, though I think you'd have said, if you had been with us the last time we were out, that you never saw a prettier run in your life ; the meet v/as at Chorley Bottom, and we got away in less than ten minutes after the hounds had been in cover, with as plucky a fox as ever puzzled a pack ' " " Hold hard there ! " interrupted Coleman. " I can't put all that in ; nobody ever wrote an ac- count of a fox-hunt in a love-letter, — no, ' You've given up hunting, which no longer possesses any interest in your eyes ;' now go on." " j\Iy eyes," repeated Lawless, reflectively : " yes ; ' I am become indifferent to everj^thing ; I take no pleasure in the new dog-cart King in Long Acre is building for me, with cane sides, the wheels larger, and the seat, if possible, still higher than the last, and which, if I am not very much out in my reckoning, will follow so light ' " " I can't write all that trash about a dog-cart," interrupted Freddy, crossly ; " that's worse than the fox-hunting ; stick to your feelings, man, can't you 1 " "Ah, you little know the effect such feelings produce," sighed LaAvless. " That's the style," resumed Coleman, with de- light ; " that will come in beautifully ; — ' such feel- ings produce :' now, go on." " ' At night my slumbers are rendered distract- ing, by visions of you as — as ' " " 'The bride of another,'" suggested Coleman. " Exactly," resumed LaAvless ; " or, ' sleep refus- ing to visit my ' " " ' Aching eye-balls,' " put in Freddy. " ' I lie tossing restlessly from side to side, as if bitten by "' '" The gnawing tooth of Remorse ;'— that will do famously," added his scribe ; " now tell her tha*- she is the cause of it." 320 GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. " All these unpleasantnesses are owing to you,' " began Lawless. " Oh. ! that won't do," said Coleman ; " no,— These tender griefs (that's the term, I think) are some of the efiects, goods, and chattels,'— psha ! I was thinking of drawing a will — ' the effects pro- duced upon me by ' " Coleman, " ' to succeed in winning your affection, it wiU be the study of my future life to prevent your every wish ' " " Eh ! what do you mean t not let her have her own way ? — Oh ! that will never pay ; why, the little I know of women, I'm sure that, if you want to come over them, you must flatter 'em up with DicTATi.-iG A Proposal. {Drawn hj K . Rahton.) " ' The wonderful way in which you stuck to your saddle when the mare bolted with you,' " re- joined Lawless, enthusiastically ; — " what, won't that do either ? " " No, be quiet, I've got it all beautifully now, if you don't interrupt me : ' Your many perfections of mind and person, — perfections which have led me to centre my ideas of happiness solely in the fond hope of one day calling you my own.' " " That's very pretty indeed," said Lawless ; " go on." " ' Should I be fortunate enough,' " continued the idea that you mean to give 'em their heads on all occasions — let 'em do just what they like. Tel] a woman she should not go up the chimney, it's my belief you'd see lier nose peep out of the top before ten minutes were over. Oh ! that'll never do ! " " Nonsense," interrupted Freddy ; " ' prevent ' means to forestall in that sense ; however, I'll put it ' forestall,' if you like it better." " I think it will be safest," replied Lawless, shak- ing his head solemnly. " ' In everything your will shall be law,' " con- tinued Coleman, writing. FAIR EOSAMOND. 321 "Oh ! I say, that's coming it rather strong, though," interposed Lawless ; " query about that 1 '" " All right," rejoined Coleman, " it's always customaiy to say so in these cases, but it means nothing ; as to the real question of mastery, that is a matter to be decided post-nuptially ; you'll be enlightened on the subject before long in a series of midnight discourses, commonly known under the title of curtain-lectures." " Pleasant, eh 1" returned Lawless ; " well, I bet two to one on the grey mare, for I never could stand being preached to, and shall consent to any- thing for the sake of a quiet life — so move on." " ' If this offer of my heart and hand should be favourably received by the loveliest of her sex,' " continued Coleman, " ' a line, a word, a smile, a — ' " " ' Wink,' " suggested Lawless. " ' Will be sufficient to acquaint me with my happiness.' " "Tell her to look sharp about sending an answer," exclaimed Lawless : " if she ^jeeps me waiting long after that letter's sent, I shall go off pop, like a bottle of ginger-beer ; I know I shall, — string won't hold me, or wire either." " ' When once this letter is despatched I shall enjoy no respite from the tortures of suspense till the answer arrives, which shall exalt to the highest pinnacle of happiness or plunge into the lowest abysses of despair, one who lives but in the sun- shine of your smile, and who now, with the liveliest I affection, tempered by the most profound respect, ventures to sign himself. Your devotedly attached " ' And love-lorn,' " interposed Lawless, in a sharp, quick tone. " Love-lorn ?" repeated Coleman, looking up with an air of surprise ; " sentimental and ridiculous in the extreme ! I shall not write any such thing." " I believe, Mr. Coleman, that letter is intended to express my feelings and not yours 1 " questioned Lawless, in a tone of stern inve.stigation. "Yes, of course it is," began Coleman. " Then write as I desire, sir," continued Lawless, authoritatively ; " I ought to know my own feel- ings best, I imagine; I feel love-lorn, and 'love- lorn' it shall be." "Oh, certainly," replied Coleman, .slightly offended, " anything you please, ' Your devotedly attached and love-lorn admirer' — here, sign it yourself, ' George Lawless.' " " Bravo ! " said Lawless, relapsing into his accustomed good humour the moment the knotty point of the insertion of "love-lorn" had been carried ; " if that isn't first-rate, I'm a Dutchman : why, Freddy, boy, where did you learn it ? how does it all come into your head 1 " " Native talent," replied Coleman, " combined ■ndth a strong and lively appreciation of the sub- Hme and beautiful, chiefly derived from my maternal grandmother whose name was Burke." FAIE EOSAMOND. A FRAGMENT. [By Owen Meredith (The Earl of Lyttou.)] iORD CLIFFORD'S daughter loved a .stranger knight. How met they ? Deem some gos- hawk chanced to light Over the river freshets, whence the breeze Blew the faint bugle-notes thro' slumbrous trees Across that sleepy wood that lay about The limits of Lord Clifford's land ; nor doubt How the knight, following with jess and hood Thorough the green realm of the rippling wood, To call back and recapture his estray, . 2 'Met with the maiden. Sure the bold blue jay. Sitting against the sun on some great bough, Was over garrulous, and blabb'd, I trow. The wood's best secret : or the sweet stock-dove Moan'd from her warm green hiding-place above Peculiar pathos to enchant his way. I, who believe in what old poets say, Deem the dim-footed Dryads of the place Flitted before him, each with wistful face And woodland eyes, from many a sunken hollow, Athwart the sun-sweet mosses, murmuring "Follow!" While the leaves wink'd, and clapp'd their hands together, Too mad with May-dew and the merry weather To keep the tender secret to themselves. Breaking their moonlight oaths to the mild elves. Enough, that — whether by fair fate or chance, Or led by Powers that ruled in old romance — He 'lighted on the maid in happy hour. 322 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. And found lier fairer tlian the bramble flower That unbeliolden bears the wilding rose, Fresli as a first spring dawn that, ere it close. Leaves the world wealthier for the violet ; For ere they parted (howsoe'er they met), A sweetness, like the scent from some unseen And new-born flower that makes the mild month green. Lingering along the thoughts of each, made known That the first violet of the heart was blown- Love, the beginning and the end of youth ! Sweet Rosamunda, maid o' the rosy mouth. Did the deep skies assume more blissful blue, Saw ye faint fairy footsteps in the dew, That eve, when Love's pale planet made aware Of Love's faint advent all the holy air About the ivy-twine and eglatere Powering the balmy casement, where shy fear Of thine own young heart leaping into life Against its fragrant girdle, wrought sweet strife Among thy maiden musings ? None shall tell The secret of that hoiir, and this is well. No old worm-eaten page with flowery marge. And faded letters, once made fair and large To suit the sight of some lascivious king, Remainetli now to babble anything To prying pedants of thine inmost heart ; But, in unfading Fable-land, thou art (Among green England's greenest memories) A flower kept fresh by tears from poets' eyes. Albeit, fond fancies sue me to conceive How many a gleaming morn and glimmering eve Belield the stranger, that sweet trespass made A welcome guest, in Clifford's hall. I said '" The Stranger : " but not nameless, sure, he came. The Count Plantagenet had such a name Might win him welcome when the love of sport Lured him that way ; the manners of the Court, Moreover, mingling with a debonaire Frank nature, made his comely presence tliere .A secret pleasure in the pride of all The homely inmates of Lord Clifford's hall. His stout voice cheer'd the fifty squires thatbowl'd The daylight down in alleys green and cold : His brave lips blew so shrill a blast among The echoing glades that, when the high wood rung To his blithe bugle, every huntsman knew That note, and merrily his response blew. Nor less, when oft to snare the sliding fish. Among the low-bridged moats, with silken mesh, Fair Rosamunda and her maids would lean. The courtly guest soft songs could breathe between The rippled silver of most sweet lute-strings, Musical with great loves of mighty kings For queens of old, and every fair romance By well-skill'd minstrels sung through sunny France ; Till, as a Naiad being slowly born, That rises up a forest fount forlorn. The maiden's misty sense of her own love. Borne on the mounting music, seem'd to move LTp every virgin pulse to palpable And passionate consciousness. He touched so well The tingling source of tender thoughts ! Half child, Half giant, there was in him, undefil'd, The fresh fount of an overflowing heart, And that strong sense that grasps the sovranest part Of life, and makes it pregnant. See him stand, His grey goshawk upon his ungloved hand ! Singulfus shows ye how he yet appears Athwart the ravage of those ruthless years That make men names, or nothing. I, meanwhile, Follow these fancies, meaning to beguile Dull days, unlike the days whereof I sing, Blown blossoms from the May of the world's spring. Yet were their goings, comings, mysteries, Wild intervals of absence, vague surmise. Oft, in the midst of tenderest talk, he sat Suddenly silent, gazing sternly at The faint blue upland objects leagues away ; As tho', for him, beyond the hills there lay A fiercer world than that 'mid those soft bowers Visited only by the silver showers. And then the woman-instinct in her heart Dimly divined her presence claim'd no part Among those fitful moods : and if her glance Stole up the silence to his coimteuance Timidly, she beheld upon his brow Deep furrows folding, and a shadow grow Into his face, as when in open lands The shadow of a hawk sweeps o'er still sands. So that her love was like a summer cloud Breathless above some brooding garden bow'd. Where all the watchful roses seem aware Of the uncertain spirit in the air. And even the brightest minutes of that love Were but as rays of light that rest above Such clouds as, girt with thuiider at the base, Have yet sweet sunlight sleeping on their face. At last doubt broke to passionate appeal That drew such response as did less reveal Thau hint deep cause for these disturbed moods : Court complots growing from domestic feuds : A spleenful parent, powerful friends to be Humour'd, and some persistent enemy. An easy tale Lord Clifford's faith beguil'd. Who loved the comely guest that loved his child. They wed, by night, in secret. A strange friar Join'd them. And when, too late, the stricken sire Learn'd all : the falsehood consummate that night — The mockery of the midnight marriage rite — A MINSTEEL KING. {Drawn by M. L. Goiv.) "FAIR ROSAMOND" (p. 322) FAIR ROSAMOND. 328 The maid a mother whom the blessed name Of wife miglit shield not from a leman's shame^ The true name of his over-trusted guest ; He lock'd so close the secret in his breast, That his heart broke beneath it. With grey head Bow'd henceforth by the weight of nothing said, He to a near grave crept unmurmuring, Loyal in death to the disloyal king. Night gather'd up the ghostly solitudes And gave them voices from the groaning wood's Black bowels, stray'd wayfarers had been knov/n To see a furious horseman, toward the town, Bounding o'er bosky places in the moon ; And once a tir'd nut-gathering village loon, Lost in the wood, came suddenly upon The castle, glaring in the sinking sun ; *'ThET wed BT KI3HT, i:i SECRET." (DraifH bj AT. L. Gow.) Meanwhile, in Woodstock town wild rumour told Of a strange castle from enchantments old, Raised up by Merlin in the days gone by. And buried deep in woods from every eye Save of the sun and silent stars : and there ('Twas said) a lady magically fair Dwelt folded fast by many a fortress wall. So held by some wild baron for his thrall. For oft, at eve, the unwhispering woods among. Some wandering woodman heard a plaintive song That fell more soft than softest twilight falls From battlements of blossom-bosom'd walls, O'er woodland, water, glade, and hollow glen. Breaking the heart of silence : often, when Where, from beneath the southern wall he spied A fair green garden-lawn, enfolded wide With flowery alleys, cloister'd arbours, close Roof'd with the ripe and multitudinous rose. And, by a creaming fountain, standing there Alone, a lady marvellously fair And melancholy pale. To scan her face (Since the spent moat in that unnoticed place Ran dry, and chok'd among thick weeds) hs crept Under the parapet, but scarce had stept Up to his perch when straight an armed hand Stretch'd o'er the toothed wall, and graspt him, and . . 324 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Dropt him among the dank moat flowers. The tale In Woodstock hostel, pusht with pots of ale, Circled the board, and made a certain stir Among the gossips there j each wassailer, Pledging the enchanted lady, took it up, Play'd on, and pass'd it with a flowing cup To his swiU'd neighbour, till from man to man, It grew more wondei'ful as round it ran. But we, by Dan Apollo visited With visionary power, boldly tread The haunted woodland. Fancy finds the clue — The forest trees are spell'd to let us thro'. Leave Woodstock sleeping in the dawn. We stand In the wood's heart. Autumn, with unseen haad. Hath been before to brand the shrivell'd fern With biting gold ; already you discern Her doings in the abandon'd glens. Then pass A few leagues further. Comes a wild morass, Steam'd o'er by shining vapour, where the foot Pashes marsh-mallows and blue lily-root 'Twixt streaks of flashing water : everything Is dumb save some great heron making wing Heavily o'er the waste, and that intense Sharp insect sound that swarms about the immense And simmering surface of the solitude Thro' which the way lies. Then again the wood Unclasps and takes us. Day is falling down, And the last sunbeams under elm-trees brown Lie dreaming, and the hazel-thickets close About us, and more labyrinthine blows The hundred-handed bramble, the' despoil'd Of her Briarean blossoms : heap'd and coil'd, The wood hangs round us, heavy ; till dismay Takes it and suddenly it voids its prey, And we stand, breathless, in the open chase — Across a league of sunset, face to face With a grey clump of turrets. Thro' thick grass^ Gilt with the golden gallingale, we pass. Blow the slug-horn, down clangs the sharp drawbridge Over a melancholy moat the midge O'ercircles, and the sullen pompion. With pallid blossoms sleeping in the sun. On the black water. Thence, with fold on fold. The forked fortress' outworks grimly hold At bay the in-comer. Suddenly we are (Alone with Hesperus the happy star) In the dim garden : fades the world beyond, And in her bower behold Fair Rosamond 1 The dying sun on each ambrosial curl, Fall'n round her white neck from the braided pearl. Stays all his softest light, and will not set ; Whilst at her feet the great Plantagenet Lies, looking up into those lustrous eyes. And from his forehead slowly, slowly dies The furrow and the frown, and from his face (Bath'd in that blissful beauty) the vext trace Of Eleanor's last look — the sharp French shrew — And all his rebel sons, and false Anjou. THE SHOWMAN'S COUETSHIP. [By "Artebids "Ward."] HARE was many aiFectiu ties which made me hanker arter Betsy Jane. Her father's farm jined our'n ; their cows and our'n squencht their thurst at the same spring ; our old mares both had stars in their for- rerds ; the measles broke out in both famerlies at nearly the same period ; our parients (Betsy's and mine) slept reglarly every Sunday in the same meetin- house, and the nabers used to obsarve, "How thick the Wards and Peasleys air ! " It was a surblime sitC; in the Spring of the year, to see our sevral mothers (Betsy's and mine) with their gowns pin'd up so thay couldn't sile 'em, affecshunitly bihn sope together & aboozin the nabers. Altho I hankerd intensly arter the objeck of my afFecshuns, I darsunt tell her of the fires which was rajin in my manly buzzum. I'd try to do it, but my tung would kerwoUup up agin the roof of my mowth & stick thar, like deth to a deseast Afrikan or a country postmaster to his offiss, while my hart whanged agin my ribs like a old fashioned wheat flale agin a barn door. 'Twas a carm still nite in Joon. All nater was husht and nary zefier disturbed the sereen silens. I sot with Betsy Jane on the fense of her farther's pastur. We'd been rompin threw the woods, kullin floui's & drivin the woodchuck from his Nativ Lair (so to .speak) with long sticks. Wall, we sot thar on the fense, a .swingin our feet two and fro, blushin as red as the Baldinsville skool house when it was fust painted, and lookin very THE SHOWMAN'S COURTSHIP. 325 simple, I make no doubt. My left ana was ockepied in baUunsin myself on the fense, while my rite was woundid luvinly round her waste. I cleared my throat and tremblinly sed, " Betsy, you're a Gazelle." I thought that air was putty fine. I waitid to see what efieck it would hav upon her. It evidently didn't fetch her, for she up and sed — " You're a sheep ! " Sez I, " Betsy, I think very muchly of you." probly for sum time, but unfortnitly I lost my ballunse and fell over into the pastur ker smash, tearin my close and seveerly damagin myself ginerally. Betsy Jane sprung to my assistance in dubble quick time and dragged me 4th. Then, drawin herself up to her full hite, she sed : " I won't listen to your noncents no longer. Jes say rite strate out what you're drivin at. If you mean gettin hitched, I'm in ! " 'If you mean gettin hitched, I'm in!" (Drav^nly W. Balton.) " I don't b'leeve a word you say — so there now, cimi ! " with which obsarvashun she hitched away from me. " I wish thar was winders to my Sole," sed I, " so that you could see some of my feelins. There's fire enuff in here," sed I, strikin my buzzum with my fist, " to bile all the corn beef and turnips in the naberhood. Versoovius and the Critter ain't a circumstans ! " She bowd her hed down and commenst chawin the strings to her sun bonnet. " Ar could you know the sleeplis nites I worry threw with on your account, how vittles has seized to be attractiv to me & how my lims has shrunk up, you wouldn't dowt me. Gaze on this wastin form and these 'ere sunken cheeks " I should have continnered on in this strane I considered that air enuff for all practical pur- pusses, and we proceeded immejitly to the parson's & was made 1 that very nite. I've parst threw many tryin ordeels sins then, but Betsy Jane has bin troo as steel. By attendin strickly to bizniss I've amarsed a handsmn Pit- tance. No man on this foot-stool can rise ik git up ifc say 1 ever knowinly injered no man or wimmin folks, while all agree that my Show is ekalled by few and exceld by none, embracin as it does a wonderful coUeckshun of livin wild Beests of Pray, snaix in grate profushun, a endHss variety of life-size wax figgers, & the only traned kangaroo in Ameriky — the most amoozin Little cuss ever introjuced to a discriminatin public. 326 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. A TITANK-OFFEEING. [From " The Vicar's People," by G. Manville Fenn.] J HERE was a bit of excitement down on the cliff. "Here you, Amos Pengelly, what have you got to say to it '] " said Tom Jennen. " You don't carry on none o' them games at chapel. Why don't you set to and have thanksgiving, and turn chapel into greengrocer's shop like up town in Penzaunce"?" Amos shook his head, but said nothing. '' Why," said Tom Jennen, " you never see anything like it, lads. I went up church-town, and see something going on, when there was Penwynn's gardener with a barrowful o' gashly old stuff — carrots, and turnips, and 'tatoes, and apples, and pears, and a basket o' grapes ; an' parson, and young Miss Elioda, and Miss Pavey, all busy there inside turning the church into a reg'lar shop. Why, it'll look wonder- ful gashly to-morrow." " They calls it harvest thanksgiving," said another fisherman, " and I see pretty nigh a cart- load o' flowers, and wheat, and barley, and oats, go in. Won't be no room for the people." "I thought the church looked very nicely," interposed Amos Pengelly ; " and if I Avasn't down on the plan to preach to-morrow at St. !Milicent, I'd go myself." " Lor' a mussy, Amos Pengelly, don't talk in that way," said Tom Jennen. "I never go to church, and I never did go, but I never knew old parson carry on such games. Harvest thanks- giving, indeed ! I never see such a gashly sight in my life. Turnips in a church ! " "Well, but don't you see," said Amos, in an expounding tone of voice, " these here are all offerings for the harvest ; and turnips and carrots may be as precious as offerings as your fine fruits, and grapes, and flowers." " Well said, lad," exclaimed one of the fisher- men ; " and, like 'tatoes, a deal more useful." " Didn't Cain an' Abel bring their offerings to the altar 1 " said Amos, who gathered strength at these words of encouragement. " Yes," said Tom Jennen, grinning, " and Cain's 'tatoes, and turnips, and things, weren't much thought on, and all sorts o' trouble come out of it. Garden stuff ain't the right thing for offerings. Tellee what, lads, here's our boat with the finest haul o' mack'ral we've had this year, and Curnow's boat half full o' big hake. We arn't got no lambs, but what d'yer say, Amos Pengelly, to our taking parson up a couple o' pad o' the finest mack'ral, and half a score o' big hake ? " Tom Jennen winked at his companions as he said this, and his looks seemed to say — " There's a poser for him ! '' Amos Pengelly rubbed one ear, and then he rubbed the other, as he stood there, apparently searching for precedent for such an act. He ■\\iinted to work in something from the New Testa- ment about the Apostles and their fishing, and the miraculous draught, but jjoor Amos did not feel inspired just then, and at last, unable to find an appropriate quotation, he said — " I think it would be C(uite right, lads. It would be an offering from the harvest of the sea. Parson said he wanted all to give according to their means, and you lads have had a fine haul. Take up some of your best." " What, up to church 1 " cried Tom Jennen. "It'll make a reg'lar gashly old smell." "Nay," said Amos, "they'd be fresh enough to-morrow." " You daren't take 'em up to parson, Tom Jennen," said one of the men, grinning. Tom took a fresh bit of tobacco, spat several times down on to the boulders, and narrowly missed a mate, who responded with a lump of stone from the beach below, and then, frowning hugely, he exclaimed — " I lay a gallon o' ale I dare take up a hundred o' mack'ral and half a score o' hake, come now." " Ye daren't," clrorused sevei'al. "Parson '11 gie ye such a setting down." " I dare," said Tom Jennen, grinning, " I arn't feard o' all the parsons in Cornwall. I'll take it up." " Bet you a gallon o' ale you won't," said one. " Done," cried Tom Jennen, clapping his hand into that of his mate. " And I'll lay you a gallon," said another. " And I," — "and I" — " and I," cried several. " Done ! done ! done ! " cried Tom Jennen, grinning. " Get the fish, lads. I arn't afraid o' the parson. I'll take 'em." Amos Pengelly looked disturbed, but he said nothing. " What's he going to do with all the stuff after- wards ? " said Tom Jennen. " Give it to the poor folk, I hear," said Amos. "Then he shall have the fish!" cried Tom Jennen. " Anyhow, I'll take 'em up." There was a regular roar of laughter here, and a proposal was made to go and drink one of the A THANK-OFFERING. 327 gallons of ale at once, a proposal received with acclamation, for now that the bet had been decided upon, the want of a little Dutch courage was felt, for, in spite of a show of bravado, there was not a man amongst the group of fishermen who did not, in his religiously-superstitious nature, feel a kind of shrinking, and begin to wonder whether " parson " might not curse them for their profanity in taking up in so mocking a spirit such an ofter- iug as fish. " Thou'lt come and have a drop o' ale, Amos Pengelly," said Tom Jennen. " No," said Amos, " I'm going on." " Nay, nay, come and have a drop ; " and almost by force Amos was restrained, and to a man the group joined in keeping him amongst them, feeling as if his presence, being a holy kind of man, might mitigate any pains that might befall them. If one only had hinted at the danger, the rest would have followed, and the plan would have come to an end ; but no one would show the white feather, and, with plenty of laughing and bravado, first one and then a second gallon of ale was drunk by the group, now increased to sixteen or seventeen men ; after which they went down to the boats, the fish were selected, and four baskets full of the best were carried in procession up to the church, with Tom Jennen chewing away at his tobacco, his hands in his pockets, and swaggering at the head of the party. It was a novel but a goodly offering of the silvery harvest of the sea, and by degrees the noisy talking and joking of the men subsided, till they talked in whispers of what " parson " would say, and how they would draw off and leave Tom Jennen to bear the brunt as soon as they had set the baskets down by the porch ; and at last they moved on in silence. There was not one there who could have analysed his own feelings, but long before they reached the church they were stealing furtive glances one at the other, and wishing that they had not come, wondering, tjo, whether any misfortune would happen to boat or net in their next trip. But for very shame they W'Ould have set down the baskets on the rough stones and hurried away, Itut the wager had been made, and there was Tom Jennen in front rolling along, his hands deeper than ever in his pockets, first one shoulder forward and then the other. He drew a hand out once to give a tug at the rings in his brown ears, but it went back and down, and somehow, in spite of his bravado, a curious look came over Tom Jennen's swarthy face, and he owned to himself that he didn't like " the gashly job." " But I arn't 'fraid o' no parsons," he said to himself, " and he may say what he likes, I'll win them six gallons o' ale whether he ill-wishes or curses me, or what he likes." The dash and go of the party of great swarthy, black-haired fellows, in their blue jerseys and great boots, was completely evaporated as they reached the church, Tom Jennen being the only one who spoke, after screwing himself up. " Stand 'em down here, lads," he said ; and the baskets, with their beautiful iridescent freight of mackerel, were placed in the porch, the men being glad to get rid of their loads ; and their next idea was to hurry away, but they only huddled together in a group, feeling very uncomfortable, and Tom Jennen was left standing quite alone." " I arn't afeard," he said to himself ; but he felt very uncomfortable all the same. " He'll whack me with big words, that's what he'll do, but they'll all run off me like the sea water off a shag's back. I arn't feard o' he, no more'n I am o' Amos Pengelly ; " and, glancing back at his mates, he gave a rapping to the church door with a penny piece that he dragged out of his right-hand pocket, just as if it had been a counter, and he was going to call for the ale he meant to win. There was a bit of a tremor ran through the group of brave-hearted, stalwart fishermen at this, just as if they had had an electric shock ; and the men who would risk their lives in the fiercest storms felt the desire to run off stronger than ever, like a pack of mischievous boys ; but not one stirred. The door was opened by Miss Pavey, who was hot and flushed, and who had a great sheaf of oats in one hand and a big pair of scissors in the other, while the opening door gave the fishermen a view of the interior of the little church, bright with flowers in pot and bunch, while sheaves of corn, wreaths of evergreens, and artistically-piled-up masses of fruits and vegetables produced an effect very diiferent to that imagined by the rough, sea- faring men, who took a step forward to stare at the unuisual sight. Miss Pavey dropped her big scissors, which hung from her waist by a stout white cotton cord, something like a friar's girdle ; and as her eyes fell from the rough fishermen to the great baskets of fish, she uttered the one word — " My ! " "Here, I want parson, miss," growled Tom Jennen, setting his teeth, and screwing his maho- gany-brown face into a state of rigid determination. " Hallo, my lads, what have you got here '? " said a cheery voice, as Geoffrey Trethick strode up. " Fish ! Can't yer see 1 " growled Tom Jennen, defiantly. " Here— here are the fishermen, Mr. Lee," fal- tered Miss Pavey ; an.d, looking flushed with exertion, and bearing a great golden orange pumpkin in his arms, the Reverend Edward Lee came to the door, laid the pumpkin where it was to form the base of a pile of vegetables, and then, 328 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. with his glasses glimmering and shining, he stood framed in the Gothic doorway, with Miss Pavey and Geoffrey on either side, both looking puzzled, Tom Jennen and the fish in the porch, and the group of swarthy, blue-jerseyed fishers grouped behind. Now was the time for the tongue-thrashing to offence, no look of injured pride, and, above all, no roar of laughter from his assembled mates. For a moment or two the vicar looked at the offering, and the idea of incongruity struck him, but no thought of the men perpetrating a joke against his harvest festival. The next moment a rapt look seemed to cross his face, and he took off ' He steetched his hands involtintarilt over the fish." (Braif})ily Gordon Browne.) come in, and the roar of laiighter from the fisher- men, who had given up all hopes of winning the ale, but who were willing enough to pay for the fun of seeing " parson's " looks and Tom Jennen's thrashing, especially as they would afterwards all join in a carouse and help to drink the ale. " Brought you some fish for your deckyrations, parson," roared Tom Jennen, who had screwed his courage up, aiid, as he told himself, won the bet. There was no answer, no expostulation, no air of his glasses, looking straight before him as visions of the past floated to his mind's eye. To him, then, the bright bay behind the groiip suggested blue Galilee, and he thought of the humble fisher- folk who followed his great Master's steps, and the first fruits of the harvest of the sea became holy ] in his eyes. Geoffrey Trethick looked at him wonderingly, and Miss Pavey felt a something akin to awe as she watched the young hero of her thoughts, with THE STORY OF A GRIDIRON. 329 tears in her eyes ; while he, with a slight huski- ness in his voice, as he believed that at last he was moving the hearts of these rough, stubborn people, said simplj' — " I thank yon, my men, for your generous offer- ing," and he stretched his hands involuntarily over the fish ; " God's blessing in the future be upon you when you cast your nets, and may He pre- serve you from the perils of the sea." " Amen ! " exclaimed a loud voice from behind. It was the voice of Amos Pengelly, who had stood there unobserved : and then there was utter silence, as the vicar replaced his glasses, little thinking that his demeanour and few simple words had done more towards winning over the rough fishermen before him than all his previous efforts or a year of preaching would have done. " I'm very glad," he said, smiling, and holding out his hand. to Tom Jennen, who hesitated for a moment, and then gave his great horny paw a rub on both sides against his flannel trousers before giving the delicate womanly fingers a tremendous squeeze. " I'm very glad to see you," continued the vicar, passing Jennen, and holding out his hand to each of the fishermen in turn, hesitating for a moment as he came to Amos Pengelly, the imhallowed usurper of the holy office of the priest ; but he shook hands with him warmly, beaming upon him thi'ough his glasses, while the men stood as solemn as if about to be ordered for execution, and so taken aback at the way in which their offering had been received that not one dared gaze at the other. " Mr. Trethick, would you mind 1 ' said the vicar, apologetically, as he stooped to one handle of the finest basket of mackerel. " How beautiful they look." "Certainly not," said Geoffrey, who took the other handle, and they, between them, bore the overflowing ba.sket up to the foot of the lectern. " We'll make a pile of them here," exclaimed the vicar, whose face was flushed with pleasure ; and, setting the basket down, they returned for another. Miss Pavey, scissors in hand, once more keeping giiard at the door. " I am so glad," he continued. " I wanted some- thing by the reading desk, and these fish are so appropriate to our town." " Let's go and get the parson ten times as many, lads,"' cried Tom Jennen, excitedly. "No, no," said the vicar, laying his hand upon the rough fellow's sleeve ; " there are plenty here. It is not the quantity, my lads, but the way in which the offering is made." There was an abashed silence once more amongst the guilty group, which was broken by the vicar saying — " Will you come in and see what we have done 1 " There was a moment's hesitation and a very sheepish look, but as the head sheep, in the person of Tom Jennen, took oft' his rough cap, stooped, and lifted a basket and went in on tip-toe, the rest followed, their heavy boots, in spite of their eflbrts, clattei'ing loudly on the red and black-tiled floor, while the vicar took from them with his own hands the remainder of the fish, and placed them round the desk. ?>vitej6 THE- STOET OJP A GRIDIEOK* [By Samuel Lover.] CERTAIN old gentleman in the west of Ireland, whose love of the ridiculous -|.jjsi^. tvr> quite equalled his taste for claret and ^y'jS fox-hunting, was wont, upon certain "'•']([ festive occasions when opportunity offered, l|b to amuse his friends by " drawing out " one [ of his servants who was exceedingly fond of what he termed his " thravels," and in whom a good deal of whim, some queer stories, and, perhaps more than all, long and faithful services, had established a right of loquacity. He was one of those few trusty and privileged domestics who, if his master unheedingly uttered a rash thing in a fit of passion, would venture to set him right. If the squire said, "I'll turn that rascal off," my friend Pat would say, "Throth you won't, sir;" and Pat was always right, lor if any altercation arose upon the subject-matter in hand, he was sure to throw in some good reason, either from former service — general goocl conduct — or the delinquent's "wife and chiklher," that always turned the scale. But I am digressing ; on such merry meetings as I have alluded to, the master, after making certain " appi-oaches," as a military man would say, as the preparatory steps in laying siege to some extravaganza of his servant, might perchance assail Pat thus : " By-the-by, Sir John " (address- ing a distinguished guest), " Pat has a very curious story, which something you told me to-day reminds me of. You remember, Pat " (turning to the man, e^adently pleased at the notice paid to By i^ormission of Messrs. George Eoutledge end Sous. 330 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. ihimself) — "you remember that qiieer adventure you liad in France 1 " " Tbroth I do, sir," grins forth Pat. " What ! " exclaims Sir John, in feigned surprise, " was Pat ever in France 1 " " Indeed he was," cries mine host ; and Pat adds, "Ay, and farther, plaze your honour." " I assure you, Sir John," continues my host, ■'■' Pat told me a story once that surprised me very much, respecting the ignorance of the French." " Indeed ! " rejoins the baronet ; " really, I always supposed the French to be a most accom- plished people." " Throth then, they are not, sir," interrupts Pat. " Oh, by no means," adds miiie host, shaking his head emphatically. " I believe, Pat, 'twas when you were crossing the Atlantic ? " says the master turning to Pat with a seductive air, and leading into the " full and true account " (for Pat had thought fit to visit ■" North Ainerikay," for a " raison he had " in the autumn of the year '98). " Yes, sir," says Pat, " the broad Atlantic " — a favourite phrase of his, which he gave with a brogue as broad almost as the Atlantic itself. " It was the time I was lost in crassin' the broad Atlantic, comin' home," began Pat, decoyed into the recital ; " whin the winds began to blow, and the sae to rowl, that you'd think the Colleen dhas (that was her name) would not have a mast left but what would rowl out of her. " Well, sure enough, the masts went by the board at last, and the pumps was choak'd (divil choak them for that same), and av coorse the wather gained an us, and throth, to be filled with ■wather is neither good for man or baste ; and she was sinkin' fast, settlin' down, as the sailors calls it, and faith I never was good at settlin' down in my life, and I liked it then less nor ever ; accord- ingly we prepared for the worst, and put out the boat, and got a sack o' bishkits, and a cashk o' pork, and a kag o' wather, and a thrifie o' rum aboord, and any other little matthers we could think iv in the mortial hurry we woi in — and, faith, there was no time to be lost, for my darlint the Colleen dhas, went down like a lump o' lead, afore we wor many sthrokes o' the oar away from her. " Well, we dhrifted away all that night, and next mornin' we put up a blanket and the ind av a pole as well as we could, and thin we sailed illigant, for we darn't show a stitch o' canvas the night before, bekase it was blowin' like murther, savin' your presence, and sure it's the wondher of the world we worn't swally'd alive by the ragin' sae. " Well, away we wint for more nor a week, and nothin' before our two good-looking eyes but the canophy iv heaven, and the wide ocean— the broad Atlantic — not a thing was to be seen but the sae and the sky ; and though the sae and the sky is mighty purty things in themselves, throth they're no great things whin you've nothin' else to look at for a week together — and the barest rock in the world, so it was land, would be more welkim. And then, sure enough, throth, our provisions began to run low, the bishkits, and the wather, and the rum — throth tJiat was gone first of all, God help uz — and oh ! it was thin that starvation began to stare us in the face — ' Oh, murther, murther, captain, darlint!' says I, 'I wish we could see land anywhere,' says I. " ' More power to your elbow, Paddy, my boy,' says he, ' for sich a good wish, and throth, it's myself wishes the same.' " ' Oh,' says I, ' that it may plaze you, sweet queen in heaven, supposing it was only a dissolute island,' says I, 'inhabited wid Turks, sure they wouldn't be such bad Christians as to refuse uz a bit and a sup.' " ' Whisht, whisht, Paddy ! ' says the captain, ' don't be talkin' bad of any one,' says he ; ' you don't know how soon you may v/ant a good word put in for yourself, if you should be called to quarthers in tli' other world all of a suddent,' says he. '"Thrue for you, captain, darlint,' says I — I called him Darlint, and made free wid him, you see, bekase disthress makes uz all equal — 'thrue for you, captain, jewel — God betune uz and harm, I owe no man any spite ' — and throth, that was only thruth. Well, the last bishkit was sarved out, and by gor the wather itself was all gone at last, and we passed the night mighty cowld. Well, at the brake o' day, the sun riz most beautiful out o' the waves, that was as bright as silver and as clear as cryshthal. But it was only the more crule upon uz, for we wor beginnin' to feel terrible hungry ; when all at wanst I thought I spied the land — I thought I felt my heart up in my throat in a minnit, and ' Thundher and turf, captain,' says I, ' look to leeward,' says I. " ' What for ? ' says he. " ' I think I see the land,' says I. So he ups with his bring-um-near (that's what the sailors call a spy-glass, sir) and looks out, and, sure enough, it was. " ' Hurra ! ' says he, ' we're all right now ; pull away, my boys,' says he. " ' Take care you're not mistaken,' says I ; ' maybe it's only a fog-bank, captain, darlint,' says I. " ' Oh no,' says he ; ' it's the land in airnest.' " ' Oh, then, wherebouts in the wide world are we, captain ? ' says I ; ' maybe it id be in Roosia or Proosia, or the German Oceant,' says I. '' ' Tut, you fool,' says he — for he had that THE STORY OF A GRIDIEOK 331 consaited way wid liim, thinkin' himself cleverer nor any one else — ' that's France,' says he. " ' Tare an ouns,' says I, ' do you tell me so ] and how do you know it's France it is, captain, dear l ' says I. " Bckase this is the Bay o' Bisliky we're in now,' says he. " ' Throth, I was thinkin' so myself,' says I, ' by the rowl it has ; for I often heerd av it in regard o' the same ; ' and throth, the likes av it I never seen before nor since, and, with the help o' God, never will. " Well, with that my heart began to grow light, and when I seen nry life was safe, I began to grow- twice hungrier nor ever — so says I, ' Captain, jewel, I wish we had a gridiron.' " ' Why then,' says he, ' thundher and turf,' says he, ' what puts a gridiron in your head ? ' " Bekase I'm starvin' with the hunger,' says I. "And sure, bad luck to you,' says he, 'you couldn't ate a gridiron,' says lie, 'barrin' you wor a pelican q' the wilderness,' says he. '"Ate a gridiron ! ' says I ; ' och,,in throth, I'm not such a gommoch all out as that, anyhow. But sure if we had a gridiron we could dress a beef- steak,' says I. "'Arrali! but where's the beef-ste.ik ]' says he. " ' Sure, couldn't we cut a slice aff the pork 1 ' says I. " ' By gor, I never thought o' that,' says the captain. ' You're a clever fellow, Paddy,' says he, laughin'. " ' Oh, there's many a thrue word said in joke,' says I. " ' Thrue for you, Paddy,' says lie. " ' Well, thin,' says I, ' if you put me ashore there beyant ' (for we were nearin' the land all the time), ' and sure I can ask thini for to lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I. " ' Oh, by gor, the buttlier's comin' out o' the stairabout in airnest now,' says lie ; ' you gom- moch,' says he, ' sure I towld you before that's France — and sure they're all furriners there,' says the captain. " ' Well,' says I, ' and how do you know but I'm as good a furriner myself as any o' thim.' " ' What do you mane ? ' says he. " ' I mane,' says I, ' what I told you, that I'm as good a furriner myself as any o' thim.' " ' Make me sinsible,' says he. " ' Bedad, maybe that's more nor me, or greater nor me, could do,' says I — and we all began to laugh at him, for I thought I'd pay him off for his bit o' consait about the German Oceant. "'Lave aff your liumbuggin',' says he, 'I bid you, and tell me what it is you mane at all at all.' "' Parly iioo froivjsay ' says I. " ' Oh, your humble servant,' says he. ' Why, you're a scholar, Paddy.' " ' Throth, you may say that,' says I. ■ " ' Why, you're a clever felloAv, Paddy,' says the captain, jeerin' like. •' ' You're not the first that said that,' says I, ' whether you joke or no.' '' ' Oh, but I'm in airnest,' says the captain — 'and do you tell me, Paddy,' says he, 'that you spake Frinch ] ' '" Parbj voo fronysai/,' says I. " ' Well, that bangs Banagher. I never met the likes o' you, Paddy,' says he. ' Pull away, boys, and put Paddy ashore.' " So with that, it was no sooner said nor done — they pulled away and got close into the shore in less than no time, and run the boat up in a little creek ; and a beautiful creek it was, with a lovely white sthrand, an illigant place for ladies to bathe in the summer— and out I got ; and it's, stiff enough in my limbs I was afther bein' cramped up in the boat, and perished with the cowld and hunger ; but I conthrived to scramble on, one way or the other, tow'rds a little bit iv a wood that was close to the shore, and the smoke cuiiin' out of it, quite timptin' like. " ' By the powdhers o' Avar, I'm all right,' says. I ; ' there's a house there ' — and sure enough there was, and a parcel of men, women, and childher,. ating their dinner round a table cpiite convenient. And so I wint up to the dure, and I thought I'd be very civil to thim, as I heerd the Frinch was always mighty p'lite intirely — and I thought I'd show them I knew what good manners was. " So I took off my hat, and making a low bow, siys I, ' God save all here,' says I. " Well, to be sure, they all stopt ating at wanst, and began to stare at me, and faith they almost looked me out of countenance — and I thought to myself it was not good inanners at all — more be token from furriners, which they call so mighty p'lite ; but I never minded that, in regard of wantin' a gridiron ; ' and so,' says I, ' I beg your pardon,' says I, ' for the liberty I take, but it's only bein' in disthress in regard of ating,' says I, ' that I make bowld to throuble yez, and if you could lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, ' I'd be intirely obleeged to ye.' " They all stared at me twice worse nor be- fore, and with that, says I (knowing what was in their minds), ' Indeed it's thrue for you,' says I ; ' I'm tatthered to pieces, and God knows I look quare enough, but it's by raison of the storm,' says I, ' which dhruv us ashore here below, and we're all starvin',' says I. " So thin they began to look at each other agin, and myself, seeing at wanst dirty thoughts was in their heads, and that they tuk me for a poor beggar comin' to crave charity — with that, 332 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. says I, ' Oh ! not at all,' says I, ' by no manes ; we have plenty o' mate ourselves, there below, and we'll dhress it,' says I, ' if you would be plazed to lind us the loan of a gridiron,' says I, makin' a low bow. " Well sir, ■with that throth they stared at me twice worse nor ever, and faith I began to think that maybe the captain was wrong, and that it was not France at all at all — and so says I, ' I beg pardon sir,' says I, to a fine ould man, with a head of hair as white as silver — ' maybe I'm undher a " ' Well, sir, the ould chap begun to munseer me, but the divil a bit of a gridiron he'd gie me ; and so I began to think they were all neygars, for all their fine manners ; and throth my blood began to rise, and says I, ' By my sowl, if it was you was in disthress,' says I, ' and if it was to ould Ireland you kem, it's not only the gridiron they'd give you if you ax'd it, but something to put an it too, and a dhrop of dhrink into the bargain, and cead mille failte.' " Well, the word cead mille failte seemed to 'Would tou lind me the loan of a gridikon ? ' sats I." (Drawn ly M. Stretch., mistake,' says I, ' but I thought I was in France, sir ; aren't you furriners ? ' says I — ' Parly voo fronrjsay ? ' " ' We, munseer,' says he. " ' Then would you lind me the loan of a grid- iron,' says I, ' if you plaze 1 ' " Oh, it was thin that they stared at me as if I had siven heads ; and faith m_yself began to feel fiusthered like, and onaisy- and so says I, making a bow and scrape agin, 'I .'mow it's a liberty I take, sir,' says I, 'but it's only in the regard of bein' cast away, and if you plaze sir,' says I, ' Farbj voo frongsay 1 ' " We, munseer,' says he, mighty sharp. " ' Then would you lind me the loan of a giid- iron 1 ' says I, ' and you'll obleege me.' sthreck his heart, and the ould chap cocked h;'s ear, and so I thought I'd give him another offer, and make him sinsible at last ; and so says I, wanst more, quite slow, that he might undher- stand — Parly — voo^rongsay, munseer 1 '- " ' We, munseer,' says he. " ' Then lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, ' and bad scran to you.' " Well, bad win' to the bit of it he'd gi' me, and the ould chap begins bowin' and scrapin', and said something or other about a long tongs. " ' Phoo ! the divil sweep yourself and your tongs,' says I, ' I don't want a tongs at all at all ; but can't you listen to raison 1 ' says I—' Parly voo frongsay ? ' " ' We, munseer.' THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 333 " ' Then liud me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'and howld your prate.' " Well, what would you think but he shook his owld noddle, as much as to say he wouldn't ; and so says I, ' Bad cess to the likes o' that I ever seen — throth if you were in my country, it's not that- a-way they'd use you ; the cm-se o' the crows on you, you owld sinner,' says I, ' the divil a longer I'll darken your dure.' " So he seen I was vex'd, and I thought as I was turnin' away, I see him begin, to relint, and that his couscience troubled him ; and says I, turnin' back, ' Well, I'll give you one chance more — you owld thief — are you a Christian at all at alii are you a furriner,' says 1, ' that all the world calls so p'lite 1 Bad luck to you, do you undher- stand you own language ? — Fady voo frongsay 1 ' says I. " ' We, munseer,' says he. " ' Then thundher and turf,' says I, ' will you lind nie the loan of a gridiron ? ' '' Well, sir, the divil resave the bit of it he'd r i' me — and so with that, ' the curse o' the hungry en you, you owld negai'dly villain,' says I : ' the back o' my hand and the sowl o' my foot to you ; that you may want a gridiron yourself yet,' says I ; ' and wherever I go, high and low, rich and poor, shall hear o' you,' says I ; and with that I lift them there, sir, and kem away — and in throth it's often since that / ihotight that it was i-emm'lxible." THE VISIOISr OF THE MAID OE OELEANS. [By EOBEKT SOITTHET.] ^^E LEANS was huslvd in sleep. |3 Stretch'd on her couch The delegated Maiden lay ; with toU Ka> pg^ fe> Exhausted, and sore anguish, soon she closed Her heavy eyelids, not reposing then. For bu,sy phantasy in other scenes Awaken'd : whether that superior powers, By ■ndse permission, prompt the midnight dream, Instructing best the passive faculty ; Or that the soul, escaped its fleshy clog, Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world. And all things are that seem. Along a moor, Barren, and wide, and drear, and desohite, She roam'd, a wanderer through the cheerless night. Far through the silence of the unbroken plain The bittern's boom was heard ; hoarse, heavy, It made accordant music to the scene. Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind. Swept shadowing : through their broken folds the moon Struggled at times with transitory ray, And made the moving darkness visible. And now arrived beside a fenny lake She stands, amid whose stagnate waters, hoarse The long reeds rustled to the gale of night. A time-worn bark receives the maid, impell'd By powers unseen ; then did the moon display Where through the crazy vessel's yawning side The muddy waters oozed. A woman guides. And spreads the sail before the wind, which moan'd As melancholy mournful to her ear As ever by a dungeon'd wretch was heard Howling at evening round his prison towers. Wan was the pilot's countenance, her eyes Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrow'd deep, Channell'd by tears! a few grey locks hung down Beneath her hood : and through the maiden's veins Chill crept the blood, when, as the night breeze pass'd. Lifting her tattered mantle, coU'd around She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart. The plumeless bats with short shrill note flit by, And the night-raven's scream came fitfully. Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank Leapt, joyful to escape, yet trembling still In recollection. There, a mouldering pile Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon Shone through its fretted windows : the dark yew, Withering with age, branch'd there its nal.cd roots, And there the melancholy cypress rear'd Its head ; the earth was heaved with many a mound. And here and there a half-demolish'd tomb. And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade. The virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man Sate near, seated on what in long-past days Had been some sculptured monument, now fallen And half obscured by moss, and gather'd heaps 334 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Of wither'd yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones. His eyes were large and rayless, and fix'd full Upon the j\Iaid ; the tomb-fires on his face Shed a blue light ; his face was of the hue Of death ; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice, Exclaim'd the spectre, "Welcome to these realms. These regions of despair, O thou whose steps Sorrow hath guided to my sad abodes ! Welcome to my drear empire, to this gloom Eternal, to this everlasting night, Where never morning darts the enlivening ray, AVhere never shines the sun, but all is dark. Dark as the bosom of their gloomy king." So saying, he arose, and drawing on. Her to the abbey's inner ruin led, Resisting not his guidance. Through the roof Oncj fretted and emblazed, but broken now In part, elsewhere all open to the sky. The moonbeams enter'd, chequer'd here, and here With unimpeded light. The ivy twined Round the dismantled columns ; imaged forms Of saints and warlike chiefs, moss-canker'd now And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground, With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen. And rusted trophies. ^Meantime overhead Roar'd the loud blast, and froui the tower the owl Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest. He, silent, led her on, and often paused, And pointed, that her eye might contemplate At leisure the drear scene. He dragg'd her on Through a low iron door, down broken stairs ; Then a cold horror through the ^Maiden's frame Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw. By the sepulchral lamp's dim glaring light, The fragments of the dead. " Look here ! " he cried, " Damsel, look here ! survey this house of death ; O soon to tenant it ; soon to increass These trophies of mortality, . . . for hence Is no return. Gaze here ; behold this skull. These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws, That with their ghastly grinning seem to mock Thy perishable charms ; for thus thy cheek Must moulder. Child of grief ! shrinks not thy soul. Viewing these horrors 1 trembles not thy heart At the dread thought that here its life's blood soon Shall stagnate, and the finely-fibred frame Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon With the cold clod 1 thing horrible to think, Yet in thought only, for reality Is none of suffering here ; here all is peace ; No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave. Dreadful it is to think of losing life. But having lost, knowledge of loss is not. Therefore no ill. Oh, wherefore then delay To end all IDs at once ! " So spake Despair. The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice, And all again was silence. Quick her heart Panted. He placed a dagger in her hand, And cried again, •' Oh, wherefore then delay ! One blow, and rest for ever ! " On the fiend Dark scowled the virgin with indignant eye. And threw the dagger down. He next his heart Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid Along the downward vault. The damp earth gave A dim sound as they pass'd: the tainted air Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dew.s. " Behold ! " the fiend exclaim'd, " how loathsomely The fleshly remnant of mortality Jloulders to clay ! " then fixing his broad eye Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse Lay livid ; she beheld, with horrent look, The spectacle abhorr'd by living man. " Look here ! " Despair pursued, "this loathsomeL mass Was once as lovely and as full of life As, damsel, thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence. And where thou seest the pamper'd flesh-wornn trail. Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought That at the hallowed altar soon the priest Should bless her coming union, and the torch Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy Cast on her nuptial evening : earth to earth That priest consign 'd her, for her lover went By glory lured to war, and perish'd there ; Nor she endured to live. Ha I fades thy cheek ? Dost thou then, JIaiden, tremble at the tale ? Look here ! behold the youthful paramour I The self -devoted hero ! " Fearfully The Maid look'd down, and saw the well-known face Of Theodore. In thoughts unspeakable, Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd Her cold damp hands: "Shrink not," the phan- tom cried, " Gaze on ! " and unrelentingly he grasp'd Her quivering arm : "this lifeless mouldering clay,. As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow Of youth and love ; this is the hand that cleft Proud Salisbury's crest, now motionless in death,. Unable to protect the ra'vaged frame From the foul offspring of mortality That feed on heroes. Though long years were thine Yet never more would life reanimate THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 335 This slaughter'd youth ; slaughtered for thee ! for thou Didst lead him to the battle from his home, Where else he had survived to good old age : In thy defence he died : strike, then ! destroy Remorse with life." The Maid stood motionless. And, vi'istless what she did, with trembling hand Received the dagger. Startling then, she cried, ■" Avaunt, Despair ! Eternal Wisdom deals Or peace to man, or misery, for his good Alike design'd ; and shall the creature cry, ■' Why hast thou done this ? ' and with impious pride Destroy the life God gave 1 " The fiend rejoin'd, " And thou dost deem it impious to destroy 'The life God gave 1 What, Maiden, is the lot Assign'd to mortal man ? born but to drag, Through life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load Of being ; care-corroded at the heart ; Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills That flesh inherits ; till at length worn out, This is his consummation ! — Think again ! What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life But lengthen'd sorrow ? If protracted long, Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs Stretch out their languid length, oh think what thoughts. What agonising feelings, in that hour, Assail the sinking heart ! slow beats the pulse, Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew The shuddering frame ; then in its mightiest force, Mightiest in impotence, the love of life Seizes the throbbing heart ; the faltering lips Pour out the impious prayer that fain would change The Unchangeable's decree ; surrounding friends Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheeks with tears ; And all he loved in life embitters death. " Such, ilaiden, are the pangs that wait the hour Of easiest dissolution ! yet weak man Resolves, in timid piety, to live ; And veiling fear in superstition's garb, He calls her resignation ! Coward wretch ! Fond coward, thus to make his reason war Against his reason. Insect as he is. This sport of chance, this being of a day. Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast, Believes himself the care of heavenly powers, That -God regards man, miserable man. And preaching thus of power and providence, Will crush the reptile that may cross his path ! "Fool that thou art ! the Being that permits Existence, gives to man the worthless boon : A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest. Bask in the sunshine of prosperity. And such do well to keep it. But to one Sick at the heart with misery, and sore With many a hard unmerited affliction. It is a hair that chains to wretchedness The slave who dares not burst it ! Thinkest thou. The parent, if his child should unreeall'd Return and fall upon his neck, and cry, ' Oh ! the wide world is comfortless, and full Of fleeting joys and heart-consuming cares, I can be only happy in my home With thee — my friend ;— my father ! ' Thinkesi thou That he would thrust him as an outcast forth 1 Oh ! he would clasp the truant to his heart. And love the trespass. " Whilst he spake, his eye Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood, Even as a wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave Supply, before him sees the poison'd food In greedy horror. Yet, not silent long. " Eloquent tempter, cease ' " the Maiden cried, " What though affliction be my portion here, Thinkest thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy, Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back Upon a life of duty well perform'd, Then lift mine eyes to heaven, and there in faith Know my reward 1 ... I grant, were this life all, Was there no morning to the tomb's long night, If man did mingle with the senseless clod, Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed A wise and friendly comforter ! . . . But, fiend. There is a morning to the tomb's long night, A dawn of glory, a reward in heaven. He shall not gain who never merited. If thou did'st know the worth of one good deed In life's last hour, thou would'st not bid me lose The precious privilege, while life endures. To do my Father's will. A mighty task Is mine, ... a glorious call. France looks to me For her deliverance. " " Maiden, thou hast done Thy mission here, " the unbaffled fiend replied : " The foes are fled from Orleans : thou, perchance Exulting in the pride of victory, Forgottest him who perish'd ; yet albeit Thy hardened heart forget the gallant youth. That hour allotted canst thou not escape. That dreadful hour, when contumely and shame Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched maid ! Destined to drain the cup of bitterness. Even to its dregs, . . . England's inhuman chiefs Shall scoff thy sorrows, blacken thy pure fame. Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity. And force such burning blushes to the cheek Of virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish 336 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. The earth might cover thee. In that last hour, When tliy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the chains That link thee to the stake, a spectacle For the brute multitude, and thou shalt hear Mockery more painful than the circling flames Which then consume thee ; wUt thou not in vain Then wish my friendly aid ? then wish thine ear Had drank my words of comfort ? that thy hand Had grasp'd the dagger, and in death preserved Insulted modesty I " Her glowing cheek Blush'd crimson ; her wide eye on vacancy Was fix'd ; her breath short panted. The cold fiend, Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, " Too timid Maid, So long repugnant to the healing aid My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold The allotted length of life." He stamp'd the earth, And dragging a huge coffin as his car, Two Ghouls came on, of form more fearful-foul Than ever palsied in her mldest dream Hag-ridden Superstition. Then Despair Ssized on the Maid, whose curdling blood stood still, And placed her in the seat, and on they pass'd Adown the deep descent. A meteor light Shot from the dcemons, as they dragg'd along The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren feast On carcases. Below, the vault dilates Its ample bulk. " Look here ! " — Despair addrest The shuddering virgin, " see the dome of Death ! " It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid The entrails of the earth, as though to form A grave for all mankind : no eye could reach Its distant bounds. There, throned in dai-kness, dwelt The unseen power of Death. Here stopt the Ghouls, Iteaching the destined spot. The fiend .stepped out, .A.nd from the coffin as he led the Maid, Exclaim'd, " Where mortal never stood before. Thou standest : look around this boundless vault ; Observe the dole that nature deals to man. And learn to know thy friend." She answer'd not, Observing where the Fates their several tasks Plied ceaseless. " !Mark how long the shortest web Allow'd to man ! " he cried ; " observe how soon. Twined round yon never-resting wheel, they change Their snowy hue, darkening through many a shade. Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers. " Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, Drawn from the heap, as white as unsuun'd snoW; Or as the spotless lily of the vale. Was never one beyond the little span Of infancy untainted ; few there were But lightly tinged ; more of deep crimson hue, Or deeper sable dyed. Two Genii stood, StiU as the web of being was drawn forth. Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn. The one unsparing dash'd the bitter drops Of woe ; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow Eelax'd to a hard smile. The milder form Shed less profusely there his lesser store ; Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, Compassionating man ; and happy he Who on his thread those precious tears receives ; If it be happiness to have the pulse That throbs with pity, and in such a world Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches With anguish at the sight of human woe. To her the fiend, weU hoping now success, " This is thy thread ; observe how short the span ; And little doth the evil Genius spare His bitter tincture there. " The Maiden saw Calmly. " Now gaze ! " the tempter fiend exclaim'd. And placed again the poniard in her hand. For Superstition, with a burning torch, Approach'd the loom. " This, damsel, is thy fate ! The hour draws on — now strike the dagger home ! Strike now, and be at rest ! " The maid replied, " Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, Impious I strive not : let that will be done ! " She spake, and lo ! celestial radiance beam'd Amid tJie air, such odours wafting now As erst came blended with the evening gale From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form Stood by the ilaid ; his wings, ethereal white, Flash'd like the diamond in the noontide sun, Dazzling her mortal eye : all else appear'd Her Theodore. Amazed she saw : the fiend Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice Sounded, though now more musically sweet Than ever yet had thrill'd her soul attuned, When eloquent aftection fondly told The day-dreams of delight. " Beloved Maid ! Lo ! I am with thee, still thy Theodore ! Hearts in the holy bands of love combined. Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine ! A little while and thou shalt dwell with me In scenes where sorrow is not. Cheerily Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave, Rough though it be and painful, for the grave Is but the threshold of eternity," DRAWN FOR A SOLDIER. 37 DEAWN FOE A SOLDIEE. " Anna Vinimque Canoo." [By Thomas Hood.] WAS once— for a few hours only — in the militia. I suspect I was in part answerable for my o-wti mishap. There is a story in Joe Miller of a man who, being pressed to serve his majesty on another element, pleaded hi-> polite breeding, to the gang, as a good grovmd of exemption ; but was told that the crew being a set of sad unmannerly dogs, a Chesterfield was the very character they wanted. The militia- men acted, I presume, on the same principle. Their Gut of the kingdom — "except in case of an in- vasion." In vain I represented that we were " locals ; " they had heard of local diseases, and thought there might be wounds of the same descrip- tion. In vain I explained that we were not troops of the line ; — they could see nothing to choose between being shot in a line, or in any other figure. I told them next that I was not obliged to " serve my.self ; " — but they answered, " 'twas so much the harder I should be oliliged to serve any one else." IHE POOR SERGEANT LOOKED FOOLISH ENOUGH. customary schedule was forwarded to me, at Brighton, to fiU up, and in a moment of incautious hilarity — induced, perhaps, by the absence of aU business or employment, except pleasure — I wrote myself down in the descriptive column as " Quite a Gentleman." The conseciuence followed immediately. A pre- cept, addressed by the High Constable of West- minster to the Low ditto of the parish of St. M — , and endorsed with my name, informed me that it had turned up in that involuntary lottery, the ballot. At the sight of the orderly, who thought proper to deliver the document into no other hands than mine, my mother-in-law cried, and my wife fainted on the spot. They had no notion of any distinctions in military service — a soldier was a soldier — and they imagined that, on the very morrow, I might be ordered abroad to a fresh Waterloo. They were unfortunately ignorant of that benevolent provision, which absolved the militia from going 2q# My being sent abroad, they said, would be the death of them, for they had witnessed at Eamsgate the embarkation of the Walcheren expedition, and too well remembered " the misery of the soldiers' wives at seeing their husbands in ti-ansports !" I told them that at the very worst, if I should be sent abroad, there was no reason why I should not return again ; — but they both declared, they never did and never would believe in those " Eeturns of the Killed and Wounded." The discussion was in this stage when it was interrupted by another loud single knock at the door, a report equal in its effects on us to that of the memorable cannon-shot at Brussels ; and before we could recover ourselves, a strapping sergeant entered the parlour with a huge bow, or rather rainbow, of party-coloured ribbons in his cap. He came, he said, to offer a substitute for me ; but I was prevented from reply by the indignant females asking him in the same breath, " Who and What 338 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. did he think could be a substitute for a son and a husband ? " The poor sergeant looked foolish enough at this turn ; but he was still more abashed when the two anxious ladies began to cross-examine him on the length of his services abroad, and the number of his wounds, the campaigns of the militiamen having been confined doubtless to Hounslow, and his bodily marks militant to the three stripes on his sleeve. Parrying these awkward questions he en- deavoured to prevail upon me to see the proposed proxy, a fine young fellow, he assured me, of un- usual stature ; but I told him it was quite an in- different point with me whether he was 6-feet-2 or 2-feet-6, in short, whether he was as tall as the flag, or " under the standard." The truth is, I reflected that it was a time of profound peace, that a civil war or an invasion was very unlikely ; and as for an occasional drill, that I could make shift, like Lavater, to right-about- face. Accordingly, I declined seeing the substitute, and dismissed the sergeant with a note to the war- secretary to this purport — " That I considered my- self drawn, and expected therefore to be well quai-terd. That, under the circumstances of the country, it would probably be unnecessary for militiamen ' to be mustarded ; ' but that if his majesty did ' call me out ' I hoped I should ' give him satisfaction.' " The females were far from being pleased with this billet. They talked a great deal of moral suicide, wilful murder, and seeking the bubble reputation in the cannon's mouth ; but I shall ever think that I took the proper course, for, after the lapse of a few hours, two more of the general's red- coats, or general p)ostmen, brought me a large packet sealed with the war-office seal, and superscribed " Henry Hardinge," by which I was officially absolved from serving on horse or on foot, or on both together, then and thereafter. And why, I know not — unless his majesty doubted the handsomeness of discharging me in particular, without letting off the rest ; — but so it was, that in a short time afterwards there issued a proclamation by which the services of all militia- men were for the present dispensed with, — and we- were left to pursue our several avocations, — of course all the lighter in our spirits for being dis- embodied. THE R IBBONMAJSr. [By William Cakleton.] HE night was stormy, but without rain ; it was rather dark too, though not so as to prevent us from seeing the clouds careering swiftly through the air. The dense curtain which had overhung and obscured the horizon was gk^ now broken, and large sections of the sky ^^ were clear, and thinly studded with stars that looked dim and watery, as did indeed the whole firmament ; for in some places large clouds were still visible, threatening a continuance of severe tempestuous weather. The road appeared washed and gravelly, every dyke was full of yellow water, and each little rivulet and larger stream dashed its hoarse music in our ears ; the blast, too, was cold, fierce, and wintry, sometimes driving us back to a stand-still, and again, when a turn in the road would bring it in our backs, whirling us along for a few steps vidth involuntary rapidity. At length the fated dwelling became visible, and a short consultation was held in a sheltered place between the captain and the two parties who seemed so eager for its destruction. Their fire- arms were now charged, and their bayonets and short pikes, the latter shod and pointed with iron, were also got ready. The live coal which was brought in the small pot had become extinguished ; but to remedy this two or three persons from the remote parts of the parish entered a cabin on the wayside, and, under pre- tence of lighting their own and their comrades' pipes, procured a coal of tire, for so they called a lighted turf. From the time we left the chapel until this moment a most profound silence had been maintained, a circumstance which, when I considered the number of persons present, and the mysterious and dreaded object of their journey^ had a most appalling effect upon my spirits. At length we arrived within fifty perches of the house, walking in a compact body, and with as little noise as possible. But it seemed as if the very elements had conspired to frustrate our design ; for, on advancing within the shade of the farm-hedge, two or three persons found themselves up to the middle in water, and on stooping to- ascertain more accurately the state of the place, we could see nothing but one immense sheet of it spread like a lake over the meadows which sur- rounded the spot we wished to reach. Fatal night ! the very recollection of it, when associated with the fearful tempest of the elements, grows, if that were possible, yet more wild and THE RIBBONMAN. revolting. Had we been engiged m any — ^^ innocent or benevolent enterpube, tlieie was something in our situation just now that had a touch of interest in it to a mind imbued with a relish for the savage beauties of nature. There we stood, about a hundred and thirty in number, our dark forms bent forwards, peering into the dusky expanse of water, with its dim gleams of reflected light, broken by the weltering of the mimic waves into ten thousand fragments, whilst the few stars that overhung it in the firmament appeared to shoot through it in broken lines, and to be multiplied fifty-fold in the many-faced mirror on which we gazed. Over this was a stormy sky, and around us a darkness throiigh which we could only distinguish in outline the nearest objects, whilst the wild wind swept strongly and dismally upon us. When it was discovered that the common pathway to the house was inundated, we were about to abandon our object and return home ; the captain, however, stooped down low for a moment, and, aln"io.st closing his eyes, looked along the surface of the waters, and then raising himself very calmly, said, in his usual quiet tone, " Yees needn't go back, boys, I've found a path ; jist follow me." He immediately took a more circuitous direction, by which we reached a causeway that had been raised for the purpose of giving a free passage to and from the house during such inundations as the present. Along this we had advanced more than lialf way, when we discovered a break in it, which, as afterwards appeared, had that night been made by the strength of the flood. This, by means of our sticks and pikes, we found to be about three ieet deep and eight yards broad. Again we were at a loss how to proceed, when the fertile brain of the captain devised a method of crossing it. " Boys," said he ; " of course you've all played at leap-frog — very well, strip and go in a dozen of you ; lean one upon the shoulders of another from this to the opposite bank, where one must stand facing the outside man, both their shoulders agin one another, that the outside man may be sup- ported — then lue can creep over you, an' a decent bridge you'll be, any way." This was the work of only a few minutes, and in less than ten we were all safely over. Merciful heaven ! how I sicken at the recollection of what is to follow ! On reaching the dry bank, we proceeded instantly, and in profound silence, to the house ; the captain divided us into companies, and then assigned to each division its proper .station. The two parties who had been so vin- dictive all the night he kept about himself ; for of those who were present they only were in his con- fidence, and knew his nefarious purpose. Their number was about fifteen. Having made these dispositions, he, at the head of about five of them, approached the house on the windy side ; for the fiend possessed a coolness which enabled him to seize upon every possible advantage. That he had combustibles about him was evident, for in less than fifteen minutes nearly one half of the house 340 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS, was enveloped in flames. On seeing this, the others rushed over to the spot vfhere he and his gang -were standing, and remonstrated earnestly, but in vain. The flames now burst forth with renewed violence, and, as they flung their strong- light upon the faces of the foremost group, it is impossible to imagine anything more satanic than their countenances, now worked up into a paroxysm of infernal triumph at their own revenge. The captain's look had lost all its calmness, every feature started out into distinct malignity, the cui've in his brow was deep, and ran up to the root of the hair, dividing his face into two sections, that did not seem to have been designed for each other. His lips were half open, and the corners of his mouth a little brought back on each side, like those of a man expressing intense hatred and triumph over an enemy who is in the death-struggle under his grasp. His eyes blazed from beneath his knit eyebrows with a fire that seemed to have been lighted up in the infernal pit itself. It is unnecessary and only painful to describe the rest of his gang. When the others attempted to intercede for the lives of the inmates, there were at least fifteen loaded guns and pistols levelled at them. " Another word," said the captain, " an' you're a corpse where you stand, or the first man who will dare to speak for them. No, no ! it wasn't to spare them we came here ' No mercy ' is the Ijassword for the night ; an' by the sacred oath I swore beyant in the chapel, any one among yees that will attimpt to show it will find none at my hand. Surround the house, boys, I tell ye ; I hear them stirring — Wo mercy — no quarther — is the ordher of the night." Such was his command over these misguided creatures that in an instant there was a ring round the house to prevent the escape of the unhappy inmates, should the raging element give them time to attempt it ; for none present dared withdraw from the scene, not only from an apprehension of the captain's present vengeance, or that of his gang, but because they knew that, even had they then escaped, an early and certain death awaited them from a quarter against which they had no means of defence. The hour now was about half -past two o'clock. Scarcely had the last words escaped from the captain's lips, when one of the windows of the house was broken, and a human head, having the hair in a blaze, was descried — apparently a woman's, if one might judge by the profusion of burning tresses, and the softness of the tones, notwithstanding that it called, or rather shrieked, aloud for help and mercy. The only reply to this was the whoop from the captain and his gang of no mercy — " No mercy ! " and that instant the former and one of the latter rushed to the spot, and ere the action could be perceived, the head was transfixed with a bayonet and a pike, both having entered it together. The word mercy was divided in her mouth ; a short silence ensued, the head hung down on the window, but was instantly tossed back into the flames. This action occasioned a cry of horror from all present except the gang and their leader, which startled and enraged the latter so much that he ran towards one of them, and had his bayonet, now reeking with the blood of his innocent victim, raised to plunge it in his body, when, dropping the point, he said, in a piercing whisper that hissed in the ears of all : " It's no use noiv, you know — if one's to hang all will hang ; so our safest way, you persave, is to lave none of them to tell the story. Ye map go now if you wish, but it won't save a hair of your heads. You cowardly- set ! I knew if I had tould yees the sport that none of ye except my oum boys would come, so I jist played a thrick upon you ; but remember what you are sworn to, and stand to the oath ye tuck." Unhappilj', notwithstanding the wetness of the preceding weather, the materials of the house were extremely combustible ; the whole dwelling was now one body of glowing flame, yet the shouts and shrieks within rose awfully above its crackling and the voice of the storm, for the wind once more blew in gusts, and with great violence. The doors and windows were all torn open, and such of those within as had escaped the flames rushed towards them, for the purpose of further escape, and of claiming mercy at the hands of their destroyers ; but whenever they appeared, the unearthly cry of " No mercy ! " rung upon their ears for a moment, and for a moment only, for they were flung back at the points of the weapons which the demons had brought with them to make the work of vengeance more certain As yet there were many persons in the house, whose cry for life was strong as despair, and who clung to it with all the awakened powers of reason and instinct ; the ear of man could hear nothing so strongly calculated to stifle the demon of cruelty and revenge within him as the long and wailing shrieks which rose beyond the elements, in tones that were carried off rapidly upon th& blast, until they died away in the darkness that lay behind the surrounding hills. Had not the house been in a solitary situation, and the hour the dead of night, any person sleeping within a moderate distance must have heard them; for such a cry of sorrow, deepening into a yell of despair, was almost sufficient to awaken the dead It was lost, however, upon the hearts and ears that heard it ; to them— though, in justice be it said, to only comparatively s few of them — it was as delightful as the tones of soft and entrancing THE RIBBONMAK, S-)! The claims of the poor sufferers were now modi- fied : they supplicated merely to suffer death at the hands of their enemies ; they were willing to bear that, provided they should be allowed to escape from the flames. But no ; the horrors of the conflagration were calmly and malignantly gloried in by their merciless assassins, who deli- berately flung them back into all their tortures. Ik the course of a few minutes a man appeared as he looked, the indescribable horror which flitt>'d over his features might have worked upon Satar himself to relent. His words were few. " My child," said he, " is still safe ; she is an infant, a young creature tliat never harmed you nor any one — she is stUl safe Your mothers, your wives, have young, innoceni children like it — oh, spare her ! Think for a moment that it's one of your own ; spare it, as The Tike. (Di-mra bi; J. Bell.) upon the side-wall of the house, nearly naked : his figure, as he stood against the sky in horrible reKef, was so finished a picture of woe-begone agony and supplication that it is yet as distinct in my memory as if I were again present at the scene. Every muscle, now in motion by the powerful agitation of his sufferings, stood out upon his limbs and neck, giving him an appear- ance of desperate strength, to which by this time he must have been wrought ; the perspiration poured from his frame, and the veins and arteries of his neck were inflated to a surprising thickness. Every moment he looked down into tlie thick flames which were rising to where ho stood ; and. you hope to meet a just God ; or, if you don't, in mercy shoot me first — put an end to me before 1 see her burned." The captain approached him coolly and deli- berately. " You will prosecute no one now, you miserable informer," said he ; " you will convict nc more boys for taking an ould rusty gan an' pistol from you, or for givin' you a neighbourly knock or two into the bargain." Just then from a window opposite him proceeded the shrieks of a woman, who appeared at it with the infant in her arms- She herself was almost scorched to death, but, with the presence of mind and humanity of hei sex, she v/as about tc thrust the little babo out oT 342 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. thb window. Tlie captain noticed this, and, with characteristic atrocity, thrust, with a sharp bayonet, tlie little innocent, along with the person who endeavoured to rescue it, into the red flames, where they both perished. This was the work of an instant. Again he approached the man. " Your child is a coal now," said he, with deli- berate mockery ; " I pitched it in myself on the point of this," showing the weapon, " and now is yom- turn." Saying which, he clambered up by the assistance of his gang, who stood with a front of pikes and bayonets bristling to receive the wretched man, should he attempt, in his despair, to throw himself from the wall. The captain got up, and, placing the point of his bayonet against his shoulder, flung him into the fiery element that raged behind him. He uttered one wild and piercing cry as he fell back, and no more. After this nothing was heard but the crackling of the fire and the rushing of the blast ; all that had possessed life within were consumed, amounting either to eleven or fifteen persons. When this was accomplished, those who took an active part in the murder stood for some time about the conflagration ; and, as it threw its red light upon their fierce faces and rough persons, soiled as they now were with smoke and black streaks of ashes, the scene was inexpressibly horrible. The faces of those who kept aloof from the slaughter were blanched to the whiteness of death ; some of them fainted, and others were in such agitation that they were compelled to leave their comrades. They became actually stiff and powerless with horror; yet to such a scene were they brought by the pernicious influence of Ribbonism. It was only when the last victim went down that the conflagration shot up into the air with most unbounded fury. The house was large, deeply thatched, and well furnished ; and the broad red pyramid rose up with fearful magni- ficence towards the sky. Abstractedly it had sublimity, but now it was associated with nothing in my mind but blood and terror. It was not, however, without a purpose that the captain and his guard stood to contemplate its effect. " Boys," said he, " we had better be sartin that all's safe ; who knows but there might be some of the sarpents crouchin' under a hape of rubbish, to come out and gibbet us to-morrow or next day. We had betther wait a while, any how, if it was only to see the blaze." Just then the flames rose majestically to a surprising height. Our eyes followed their direc- tion, and we perceived for the first time that the dark clouds above, together with the intermediate air, appeared to reflect back, or rather to have caught, the red hue of the fire. The hills and coun- try about us appeared with an alarming distinct- ness ; but the most picturesque part of it was the effect or reflection of the blaze on the floods that spread over the surrounding plains. These, in fact, appeared to be one broad mass of liquid copper ; for the motion of the breaking waters caught from the blaze of the high waving column as reflected in them, a glaring light, which eddied and rose and fluctuated as if the flood itself had been a lake of molten fire. Fire, however, destroys rapidly. In a short time the flames sank — became weak and flicker- ing — by and by, they only .shot out in fits — the crackling of the timbers died away — the surround- ing darkness deepened ; and, ere long, the faint light was overpowered by the thick volumes of smoke that rose from the ruins of the house and its murdered inhabitants. " Now, boys," said the captain, " all is safe ; we may go. Remember, every man of you, that you've sworn this night on the Book and altar — not a heretic Bible. If you perjure yourselves, you may hang us ; but let me tell you, for your comfort, that, if you do, there is them livin' that wiU take care the lase of your own lives will be but short." After this we dispersed, every man to his own home. Reader, not many months elapsed ere I saw the bodies of this captain, whose name was Paddy Devan, and all those who were actively concerned in the perpetration of this deed of horror, withering in the wind, where they hung gibbeted near the scene of their nefarious villany ; and, while I inwardly thanked Heaven for my own narrow and almost undeserved escape, I thought in my heart how seldom, even in this world, justice fails to over- take the murderer, and to enforce the righteous judgment of God, " that whoso sheddeth man',s blood, by man shall his blood be shed." BALLAD. [By S. C. Calvekley.] The auld wife sat at her ivied door, {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before ; And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees. The piper he piped on the hill-top high, {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) Till the cowsaid," [die,"andthegoosea?k'd"Whyy' And the dog said nothing, but search'd for fleas. FALSTAFF THE VALIANT. 343 The farmer lie strode througli the square farmyard ; {Butter and eggs and a jMund of cheese) His last brew of ale was a trifle hard — The connection of which with the plot one sees. The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes ; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas. The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips ; {Butter and eggs and a 2Jound of cheese) If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease. The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair ; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, Which wholly consisted of lines like these. Pakt II. She sat, with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And spake not a word. While a lady speaks There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze. She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks; {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She gave up mending her father's breeks. And let the cat roll in her new chemise. She sat, with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks, {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks ; Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas. Her sheep followed her, as their tails did them, {Butter a7id eggs and a pound of cheese) And this song is considered a perfect gem, And as to the meaning, it's what you please. FALSTAFF THE VALIANT. [By William Shakespeake.] Poins. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been \ Fal. A plague of aU cowards, I say, and a vengeance too ! marry, and amen ! — Give me a cup of sack, boy. — Ere I lead this Hfe long, I'll sew nether-stocks, and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cowards ! — Give me a cup of sack, rogue. — Is there no virtue extant 1 [He drinks. P. Hen. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter (pitiful-hearted Titan), that melted at the sweet tale of the sun ? if thou didst, then behold that compound. Fal. You rogue, here's lime in this sack too : there is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man : yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with Ume in it : a villainous coward. — Go thy ways, old Jack ; die when thou wilt. If 'manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhanged in England, and one of them is fat, and grows old : God help the while ! a bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver ; I could sing psalms or anything. A plague of all cowards, I say still. P. Hen. How now, wool-sack? what mutter you? Fal. A king's son ! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive aU thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales ! P. Hen. Why, what's the matter ? Fal. Are you not a coward ? answer me to that ; and Poins there ] Poins. 'Zounds ! ye fat-paunch, an ye call me coward, I'll stab thee. Fal. I call thee coward ! I'll see thee damned ere I call thee coward ; but I would give a thousand pound, I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders ; you care not who sees your back ; call you that back- ing of your friends 1 A plague upon such back- ing ! give me them that will face me. — Give me a cup of sack : I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day. P. Hen. O villain ! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk'st last. Fal. All's one for that. [He drinks.] A plague of all cowards, still say I. P. Hen. What's the matter ? Fal. Whait's the matter ? there be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this day morn- ing. P. Hen. Where is it, Jack % where is it ? Fal. Where is it? taken from us it is : a hun- dred upon poor four of us. P. Hen. What, a hundred, man ? Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scap'd by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet ; four through the hose ; my buckler cut through and through ; my sword hacked like a hand-saw : ecce signum. I never dealt better since I was a man : all would not do. A plague 344 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " FoL-n ROQL'ES IN BUCKRAM LET DRIVE AT ME." (Drawii by W. F. Yeajnes, R.A.) of all cowards ! — Let tliem speak : if they speak moio or less than truth, they are villains, and the SOILS of darkness. P. Hen. Speak, sirs : how was it % Gads. We four set upon some dozen, — Fal. Sixteen, at least, my lord. Gais. And bound them. Peto. No, no, they were not bound. FaL You rogue, they were bound, every man of them ; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. (jcids. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us, — FaL And unbound the rest, and then come in the other. P. Hen. What, fought ye with them all % Fal. All ? I know not what ye call all ; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish : if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legged Creature. P. Hen. Pray God, you have not murdered some of them. Fal. Nay, that's past praying for : I have peppered two of them : two, I am sure, I have paid, two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, — if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward : — here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me, — P. lien. What, four ? thou saidst but two, even now. Fal. Four, Hal ; I told thee four. Poms. Ay, ay, he said four. Fal. These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus. P. Hen. Seven? why, there were but four, evennow. Fal. In buckram 1 Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits. FaL Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else. FALSTAFF THE VALIANT. 345 P. Hen. Pr'ytliee, let him alone : we shall have more anon. Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal ? P. Hen. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. Fal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram, that I told thee of, — P. Hen. So, two more already. Fal. Their points being broken, — Poins. Down fell their hose. Fal. Began to give me ground ; but I followed me close, came in, foot and hand, and with a thought seven of the eleven I paid. P. Hen. O naonstrous ! eleven buckram men grown out of two. Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three mis- begotten knaves in Kendal green came at my back and let di'ive at me ; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand. P. Hen. These lies are like the father that begets them ; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow-ketch, — Fal. What ! art thou mad 1 art thou mad 1 is not the truth the truth. P. Hen. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand 1 come, tell us your reason : what sayest thou to this 1 Poins. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason. Fal. What, upon compulsion 1 No ; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion ! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I. P. Hen. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin. Poins. Mark, Jack. P. Hen. We two saw you four set on four, and you bound them, and were masters of their wealth. — Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. — Then did we two set on you four, and, with a word, outfaced you from your prize, and have it ; yea, and can show it you here in the house. — And, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. • What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say, it was in fight ! What trick, what device, what starting- hole canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame ] Poins. Come, let's hear. Jack : what trick hast thou now 1 Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters. Was it for me to kill the heir-apparent 1 Should I turn upon the true prince 1 Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules ; but beware in- stinct : the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter, I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee, during my life ; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money. - THE TIEED JESTER. [By William Sawyer.] HE West was a tangle of throbbing gold, A cloud-skein ravell'd against the blue, The fresh wind loosen'd it fold from fold, And the jewel of Hesper glitter'd through. Only the scimitar rim of the sun Flash'd as it sank in a golden mere. And the glory of mountain and plain was one, In refluent splendour shining clear. in a rosy halo the palace stood. Many column 'd and terraced wide ; Behind it the glow of the autumn wood, And round it the garden rainbow -dyed. Within were revel and riotous glee. Wine-born laughter and bubble ot song. And a reed voice piping shrilly and free, A voice out-shrilling the screaming throng. 2b* " A bout with the jester ! " it sang — " a bout ! Whose the sword for the peacock feather l Have a care, whipster ! Out, sword, out ! Down go beauty and brains together ! " So for a season the mirth ran high. So, till its turbulent force was spent ; Then forth stole one 'neath the cooling sky, Weary and tottering, worn and bent. The jester's garb of orange-and-red, Stain'd with revel and wine, he wore ; The hood thrown back from the shaven head. The face that writhing for laughter bore. The wind was rising, the poplars sway'd. Athwart the terrace the leaves were blown ; " In a motley mocking my own array'd," He thought as he dropp'd with a hollow moan. 346 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " O light of the light of the shining hours ! " So in a passionate gust he cried ; " Life of me, breath of me ! Flower of flowers ! Heart of my heart ! That I had but died ! " Oh, to have done it — have fallen dead, I, but a dog in her proud esteem — One mad snatch at her sweet mouth's red ; A rapier thrust — and the rest a dream ! " A dozen swords would have run me through ; Time would have served me the task to do, To shriek ' I love you ! ' with ebbing breath. And then? What, then, but the quicker death ] " Coward ! I dared not die in her scorn, Spurn'd of her feet as of all the rest ; Love of the fervour of love is born ; What if she read it within my breast ? " A sudden burst of laughter and song Startled the dreamer there where he lay ; Silken gallants were crowding along ; " Only the jester ! " he heard them say. Arrowy words so daintily sped, Straight to his shuddering heart they flew, The rosy glamour of hope had fled, The fool his folly despairing knew. The passionate rain and the moaning wind Fill'd the night with their own despair ; And the sobbing dawn awoke to find The jester dead with the dead leaves there. THE CLERGYMAN'S STORY. [TTrom " The Pickwick P.-ipei's," by Charles Dickens.] .HEN I first settled in this village, which is now just five-and- -- twenty years ago, the > most notorious per- son among my pa- rishioners was a man of the name of Edmunds, who leased a small farm near this - spot. He was a mo- " rose, savage-hearted, bad man ; idle and dissolute in his habits ; ciuel and ferocious in his disposition. Be- ' yond the few lazy and reck- less vagabonds with whom he sauntered away his time iu the fields, or sotted in the ale-house, he had not a single friend or acquaintance ; no one cared- to speak the man -whom many feared and every one detested — and Edmunds was shunned by all. This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here, was about twelve years old. Of the acuteness of that woman's sufl'erings, of the gentle and enduring manner in which she bore them, of the agony of solicitude with which she reared that boy, no one can form an adequate con- ception. Heaven forgive me the supposition, if it be an uncharitable one, but I do firmly and in my soul believe, that the man systematically tried for many years to break her heart ; but she bore it all for her child's sake, and, however strange it may seem to many, for his father's too ; for, brute as he was, and cruelly as he had treated her, she had loved him once ; and the recollection of what he had been to her awakened feelings of forbearance and meekness under suffering in her bosom, to which aU God's creatures, but women, are strangers. They were poor, they could not be otherwise when the man pursued such covirses, but the woman's unceasing and unwearied exertions, early and late, morning, noon, and night, kept them above actual want. Those exertions were but ill repaid. People who passed the spot in the evening — sometimes at a late hour of the night — reported that they had heard the moans and sobs of a woman in distress, and the sound of blows ; and more than once, when it was past midnight, the boy knocked softly at the door of a neighbour's house, whither he had been sent to escape the drunken fury of his unnatural father. During the whole of this time, and when the poor creature often bore about her marks of ill-usage and violence which she could not wholly conceal, she was a constant attendant at oiu' little church. Regularly every Sunday, morning and afternoon, she occupied the same seat Avith the boy at her side ; and though they were both poorly dressed — much more so than many of their neighbours, who were in a lower station — they were always neat and clean. Every one had a friendly nod and a kind word for " poor Mrs. Edmunds ; " and some- THE CLERGYMAN'S STORY. 347 times when she stopped to exchange a few words with a neighbour at the conclusion of the service, in the little row of elm-trees which leads to the church-porch, or lingered behind to gaze with a mother's pride and fondness upon her healthy boy, as he sported before her with some little companions, her care-worn face would lighten up with an expression of heartfelt gratitude ; and she would look, if not cheerful and happy, at least tranquil and contented. Five or six years passed ; the boy had become a robust and well-grown youth. The time that had strengthened the child's slight frame and knit his weak limbs into the strength of manhood had bowed his mother's form and enfeebled her steps ; but the arm that should have supported her was no longer locked in hers ; the face that should have cheered her nomore looked uponher own. Sheoccu- pied her old seat, but there was a vacant one beside her. The Bible was kept as carefully as ever, tlie places were found and folded down as they used to be, but there was no one to read it with her ; and the tears fell thick and fast upon the book, and blotted the words from her eyes. Neighbours were as kind as they were wont to be of old, but she shunned their greetings with averted head. There was no lingering among the old elm-trees now, no cheering antici- pation of happiness yet in store. The desolate woman drew her bonnet closer over her face, and walked hurriedly away. Shall I teU you that the young man, wdio, look- ing back to the earliest of his childhood's days to which memory and consciousness extended, and carrying his recollection clown to that .moment, could remember nothing which was not in some way connected with a long series of voluntary privations suffered by his mother for his sake, with ill-usage, and insult, and violence, and aU endured for him ; shall I tell you that he, with a reckless disregard of her breaking heart, and a sullen wilful forgetfulness for all she had done and borne for him, had linked himself with depraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing a headlong career-, Avhich must bring death to him and shame to her 1 Alas for human nature ! You have' anticipated it long since. The measure of the unhappy woman's misery and misfortune was about to be completed. Numerous offences had been committed in the neighbourhood ; the perpetrators remained undis- covered, and their boldness increased. A robbery of a daring and aggravated nature occasioned a vigilance of pursuit and a strictness of search they had not calculated on. Young Edmunds was suspected with three companions. He was apprehended, committed, tried, condemned — to die, The wild and piercing shriek from a woman's voice, which resounded through the court when the solemn sentence was pronounced, rings in my ears at this present moment. That cry struck a terror to the culprit's heart, which trial, con- demnation, the approach of death itself, had failed to awaken. The lips which had been compressed in dogged sullenness throughout, quivered and parted involuntarily ; the face turned ashy pale as the cold perspiration broke forth from every pore ; the sturdy limbs of the felon trembled, and he staggered in the dock. In the first transports of her mental anguish the suffering mother threw herself upon her knees at my feet, and fervently besought the Almighty Being, who had hitherto supported her in all her troubles, to release her from a world of woe and misery, and to spare the life of her only child. A burst of grief, and a violent struggle, such as 1 hope I may never have to witness again, succeeded. I knew that her heart was breaking from that hour ; but I never once heard complaint or mur- mur escape her lips. It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison-yard from day to day, eagerly and fervently attempting by affection and entreaty, to soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. It was in vain. He remained moody, obstinate, and unmoved. Not even the unlooked for commuta- tion of his sentence to transportation for fourteen years softened for an instant the sullen hardihood of his demeanour. But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so long upheld her was unable to contend against bodily weakness and infirmity. She fell sick. She dragged her tottering limbs from the bed to visit her son once more, but her strength failed her, and she sank powerless on the ground. And now, the boasted coldnesss and iudilTerence of the young man were tested indeed ; and the retribution that fell heavily upon him nearly drove him mad. A day passed away and his mother was not there ; another flew by, and she came not near him ; a third evening arrived, and yet he had not seen her ; and in four-and-twenty hours he was to be separated from her — perhaps for ever. I bore the mother's forgiveness and blessing to her son in prison ; and I carried his solemn assur- ance of repentance, and his fervent supplication for pardon, to her sick-bed. I heard with pity and compassion, the repentant man devise a thousand little plans for her comfort and support, when he returned ; but I knew that many months before he could reach his place of destination his mother would be no longer of this world. He was removed by night. A few weeks after- wards the poor woman's soul took its flight, I con- fidently hope and solemnly believe, to a place of eternal happiness and rest. I performed the burial-service over her remains. She lies in our little churchyard. There is no stone at her grave's 348 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. head. Her sorrows were known to man ; her "virtues to God. It had been arranged previously to the convict's departure that he should write to his mother as soon as he could obtain permission, and that distance up the country on his arrival at the settlement ; and to this circumstance, perhaps, may be attributed the fact, that, though several letters were dispatched, none of them ever reached my hands. lis THE Prison Yard. (Drawn hy J. E. Christie.) the letter should be addressed to me. The father had positively refused to see his son from the moment of his apprehension ; and it was a matter of indif- ference to him whether he lived or died. Many years passed over without any intelligence of him ; and when more than half his term of transportation had expired, and I had received no letter, I concluded him to be dead, as, indeed, I almost hoped he might be. Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds set foot in the village he had left with shame and disgrace seventeen years before. His nearest way lay through the church- yard. The man's heart swelled as he crossed the stile. The tall old elms, through whose branches the declining sun cast here and there a rich ray of light upon the shady path, awakened the associ- ations of his earliest days. He pictured himself as he was then, clinging to his mother's hand, and THE CLERGYMAN'S STORY. 349 ■walking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to look up into her pale face ; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she gazed upon his features — tears which fell hot upon his forehead as she stooped tokiss him, and made him ■weep too, although he little knew then what bitter tears hers were. He thought how often he had run merrily down that path with some childish play- fellow, looking back ever and again, to catch his mother's smile, or hear her gentle voice ; and then a veil seemed lifted from his memory, and words of kindness unrequited, and warnings despised, and promises broken, thronged upon his recollec- tion till his heart failed him, and he could bear it no longer. He entered the church. The evening service was concluded, and the congregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed. His steps echoed through the low building with a hollow sound, and he almost feared to be alone, it was so still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was changed. An old man entered the porch just as he reached it. Edmunds started back, for he knew him well ; many a time he had watched him digging graves in the churcliyard. What would he say to the returned convict ? The old man raised his eyes to the stranger's face, bade him " Good evening," and walked slowly on. He had forgotten him. Tiie last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth, casting a rich glow on the yellow corn -sheaves, and leng-thening the shadows of the orchard trees, as he stood before the old house — the home of his infancy — to which his heart had yearned with an intensity of affection not to be described, through longand wearyyears of captivity and sorrow. The paling was low, though he well- remembered the time when it had seemed a high wall to him : and he looked over into the old garden. There were more seeds and gayer flowers than there used to be, but there were the old trees still — the very tree under which he had lain a thousand times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft mild sleep of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices within the house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear ; he knew them not. They were merry too ; and he well knew that his poor old mother could not be cheerful and he away. The door opened, and a group of little children, bounded out, shouting and romping. The father, with a little boy in his arms, appeared at the door, and they crowded round him, clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out to join their joyous sports. The convict thought on the many times he had shrunk from his father's sight in that very place. He remembered how often he had buried his trembling head beneath the bed-clothes, and heard the harsh word, and the hard stripe, and his mother's wailing ; and though the man sobbed aloud with agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist was clenched, and his teeth were set, in fierce and deadly passion. And such was the return to which he had looked through the weary perspective of many years, and for which he had undergone so much suffering ! No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness, no house to receive, no hand to help him — and this, too, in the old village. What was his loneliness in the wild thick woods, where man was never seen, to this ! He felt that in the distant land of his bondage and infamy, he had thought of his native place as it was when he left it ; not as it would be, when he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at his heart, and his spirits sank within him. He had not courage to make inquiries, or to present him- self to the only person who was likely to receive him with kindness and compassion. He walked slowly on ; and shunning the roadside like a guilty man, turned into a meadow he well remem- bered ; and, covering his face with his hands, threw himself upon the grass, where a man was already lying beside him ; his workhouse garments rustled as he turned round to steal a look at the new- comer ; and Edmunds raised his head. The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered, and tottered to his feet. Edmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two. Edmunds advanced. " Let me hear you speak," said the convict in a thick broken voice. " Stand off ! " cried the old man, with an oath. The convict drew closer. " Stand off ! " shrieked the old man. Furious with terror he raised his stick, and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face. " Father — devil ! " murmured the convict be- tween his set teeth. He rushed wildly forward, and clenched the old man by the throat ; but he was his father, and his arm fell powerless by his side. The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fields like the howl of an evi' spirit. His face turned black : the gore rushed from his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a deep dark red, as he staggered and fell, rupturing a blood-vessel : and he was a dead man before his son could raise him. In that corner of the churchyard — in that corner of the churchyard of which I have before spoken — there lies buried a man who was in my employ- ment for three years after this event : and who was truly contrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever man was. No one save myself knew in that ]nan's life- time who he was, or whence he came : it was John Edmunds, the returned convict. 350 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. WHERE all is so good it becomes a hard task to select from a writer who is essentially the poet of the home circle, the sweet singer whose lays make him ever welcome at the fireside. An Englishman in thought and tongue, an American by birth and nationality, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is a poet of whom all English-speaking peoples may be proud, and Great Britain and the United States may both claim a share in his thoughts. What can be sweeter, more tuneful to the ear, or more soothing to the tired frame than " The Day is Done " ? A poem that appeals to the sympathies of every nature, and seems in the time of care to bring calm and rest and a dreamy sensation of repose that is ever soothing to the weary mind. THE DAY IS DONE. The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the "wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist. And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist : A feeling of sadness and longing. That is not akin to pain. And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay. That shall soothe this restless feeling. And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters. Not from the bards sublime, "Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music. Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavour ; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet. Whose songs gushed from his heart. As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start ; A\Tio, through long days of labour. And nights devoid of ease. Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care. And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. To whom would you go for a poem at such a time as he has described 1 Wliere would you find the one " whose songs gushed from his heart 1 " The answer seems to come, naturally, in Long- THE LAYS OF LONGFELLOW. 351 fellow. For where at such a time do we find one who will read and " lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of the voice 1 " To pass on to a very different poem, few pictures could be so solemn and yet so sweet as the ■*' Burial of the Minnisink." On sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell ; And, where the maj^le's leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down, The glory, that the wood receives, At sunset, in its brazen leaves. A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Covered the warrior, and witiiin Its heavy folds tlie weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid ; The cuirass, woven of i>laiteil reeds. And the broad belt of shells and beads The Burial of the Minnisink. (Drawn by J. C. Bollman.) ^Ar upward in the meUow li^ht Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone. In the warm blush of evening shone ; An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian's soul awakes. But soon a funeral hymn was heard AVhere the soft breath of eveniug stnred The tall, grey forest ; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave. They sang, that by his native bowers He stood, in the last moon of flowers. And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior's head ; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days. Before, a dark-haired virgin train Chanted the death dirge of the slain ; Behind, the long procession came Of hoary men and chiefs of fame. With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, Leading the war-horse of their chief. Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined, and liderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread. He came ; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd. They buried the dark chief ; they freed Beside the grave his battle steed ; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To liis stern heart ! One piercing neigh Arose, and, on the dead man's plain. The rider grasps Ms steed again. However English in thought and word Longfellow might be, none but an American of the Americans could have written that graceful poem. No man but one who knew and who had studied 352 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. the Indian in his home and ways, who was well acquainted with his customs, could have pictured 80 graphically that scene with its weird solemnity ending in the tragedy of the death of the steed sent to the dead man's plain ready, according to the Indians' common belief, for his master gone before. Ever familiar, wedded as it has been to song, and simg in every home, is that sweet old lessoa of simplest teaching in its honest purity of thought — " The Village Blacksmith." It is such a. moral lay as a mother might be glad to teach the child that hangs about her knee, and thougk the little one might fail to catch some of the subtleties of thought that the poet has introduced,, there is enough and to spare of the humble story to interest the young as well as the old, and it is no vain prophecy to say that the lay of him who " swung his heavy sledge with measured beat and slow "' will be sung when generations of men have passed away. The Villaoe Blacksjiiih. (Drracii hij W. Small.) Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorroAving, Onward tlirongli life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees its close ; Something attempted, something done. Has earned a night's repose. What a lover of children must he have been who wrote of the little ones :— For what are all our contrivmgs, And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks ? Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said ; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead. What sweet pathos, too, there is in the opening verses of " Weariness " O little feet ! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load ; I, nearer to the wayside inn "Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road ! O little hands ! that, weak or strong. Have still to serve or rule so long, Have still so long to give or ask ; I, who so much with book and pen Have toiled among my fellow-rnen. Am weary, thinking of your task. THE LAYS OF LONGFELLOW. 353. And who that lias ever read can well forget the sweet words of THE CHILDEEN'S HOUR. Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That Ls known as the Cliildren's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet. They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall ! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall ! King Christian. {Drawn by H. M. Paget.) Tlie sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing AUegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence : Yet I know by their merry eye? 2s* They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair ; If I tiy to escape they surround me ; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine. Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen, In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 354 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, But put you down into the dungeon Because you have scaled the wall, In the round-tower of my heart. Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you aU ! And there wUl I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day. I have you fast in my fortress, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And will not let you depart, And moulder iu dust away ! From the calm and peace of home we are suddenly transported to the din of battle when ■\ve read such a stirring national song as KING CHRISTIAN. King Christian stood by the lofty mast In mist and smoke ; His sword was hammering so fast, Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ; Then sank each hostile hulk and mast. In mist and smoke. " Fly ! " shouted they, " fly, he who can ! AVho braves of Denmark's Christian The stroke ? " Nils .Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar, Now is tlie hour ! He hoisted his blood-red flag once more. And smote upon tlie foe full sore, And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, '* Now is the houi" ! " " Fly ! " shouted they, "for shelter fly ! Of Denmark's Juel who can defy The power ? " North Sea ! a glimpse of "Wessel rent Thy mui-ky sky ! Then cliampions to tliine arms were sent ; Terror and Death glared where lie went ; From the waves was heard a wail, that rent Thy murky sky ! From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol', Let each to Heaven commend his soul. And fly ! Path of the Dane to fame and might ! Dark-rolling wave ! Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight. Goes to meet danger with despite. Proudly as thou the tempest's migli t. Dark-rolling wave ! And amid pleasures and alarms. And war and victory, be thine arms My grave ! With one more short extract we will conclude, taking to ourselves its sweet lesson of isatience and resignation to teach us thankfulness and content. THE RAINY DAY. The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall. But at every gust the dead leaves fall. And the day is dark and dreary. ]\Iy life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast. And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; Thy fate is the common fate of all. Into each life some rain miist fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. REBECCA AND IVANHOE. " THE SIEGE OF TOIiQUILSTO^fE" {p. 355). THE SIEGE OF TORQUILSTONE. 300 THE SIEGE OF TORQUILSTONE. [From " Ivrmhoe." By Sir Walter Scott.] [ EBECCA hastened to give Ivanhoe ■\vliat information she could ; but it amounted only to this, that the Templar Bois-Guilbert, and the Baron Front-de-Boeuf, were commanders ^\•ithiu the castle; that it was be- ^.. leaguered from without, but by whom she «A^ knew not. She added, that there was a Christian priest within the castle who might be possessed of more information. " A Chi'istian priest," said the knight, joyfully ; " fetch him hither, Rebecca, if thou canst — say a sick man desires his ghostly counsel — say what thou vnlt, but bring him — something I must do or attemj)t, but how can I determine until I know how matters stand without ? " Rebecca, in compliance with the wishes of Ivanhoe, made an attempt to bring Cedric into the wounded knight's chamber, which was defeated by the interference of Urf ried, who had been also on the watch to intercept the supposed monk. Rebecca retired to communicate to Ivanhoe the failm'e of her errand. Thej-- had not much leLsure to regret the failure of this source of intelligence, or to contrive by what means it might be supplied ; for the noise ■^^dthin the castle, occasioned by the defensive preparations which had been considerable for some time, now increased into tenfold bu.stle and clamour. The heavy yet hasty step of the men- at-arms traversed the battlements or resounded on the narrow and wdnding passages and stairs which led to the various bartizans and points of defence. The voices of the knights were heard animating their followers or directing means of defence, while their commands were often drowned in the clashing of armour, or the clamorous shouts of those whom they addressed. Tremendous as these sounds were, and yet more terrible from the awful event which they presaged, there was a sublimity mixed with them which Rebecca's high-toned mind could feel even in that moment of terror. Her eye kindled, although the blood fled from her cheeks ; and there was a strong mixture of fear and of a thrilling sense of the sublime, as she repeated, half- whispering to herself, half -speaking to her companion, the sacred text : " The quiver rattleth — the glittering spear and the shield — the noise of the captains ancl the shouting." But Ivanhoe was like the war-horse of that sublime passage, glowing with impatience at his inactivity, and with his ardent desire to mingle in the affray of which these sounds were the intro- duction. " If I could but drag myself," he said. " to yonder window, that I might see how this brave game is like to go — if I had but bow to shoot a shaft, or battle-axe to strike were it but a single blow for our deliverance ! — It is in vain — it is in vain — I am alike nerveless and weaponless." "Fret not thyself, noble knight," answered Rebecca ; " the sounds have ceased of a sudden — it may be they join not battle." " Thou knowest nought of it," said Wilfrid, im- patiently ; " this dead pause only shows that the men are at their posts on the walls, and expecting an instant attack ; what we have heard was but the distant muttering of the storm — it will burst anon in all its fury. — Could I but reach yonder window ! " " Thou wilt but injure thyself by the attempt, noble knight," replied his attendant. Observing- his extreme solicitude, she firmly added, " I myself ■mR stand at the lattice, and describe to you as I can what passes without." " You must not — you shall not ! " exclaimed Ivanhoe ; " each lattice, each aperture, will be soon a mark for the archers ; some random shaft " " It shall be welcome," murmured Rebecca, as with firm pace she ascended two or three steps which led to the window of which they spoke. " Rebecca, dear Rebecca ! " exclaimed Ivanhoe, " this is no maiden's pastime — do not expose thy- self to wounds and death,, and render me for ever miserable for having given the occasion ; at least, cover thyself with yonder ancient buckler, and show as httle of your person at the lattice as may be." Follo^ving with wonderful promptitude the directions of Ivanhoe, and availing herseK of the protection of the large ancient shield, which she placed against the lower part of the window, Rebecca, with tolerable security to herself, could •flatness part of what was passing without the castle, and report to Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants were making for the storm. Indeed the situation which she thus obtained was peculiarly favourable for this purpose, because, being placed on an angle of the main building, Rebecca could not only see what passed beyond the precincts of the castle, but also commanded a view of the outwork likely to be the first object of the meditated assault. It was an exterior fortifi- cation of no gxeat height or strength, intended to protect the postern-gate through which Cedric had been recently dismissed by Front-de-Boeuf. The castle moat divided this species of barbican from the rest of the fortress, so that, in case of its being- 356 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 1;aken, it was easy to cut off the corumunication with the main building, by withdrawing the tem- porary bridge. In the outwork was a sally-port corresponding to the postern of the castle, and the whole was surroimded by a strong palisade. Rebecca could observe, from the number of men placed for the defence of this post, that the be- sieged entertained apprehensions for its safety ; and from the mirstering of the assailants in a direc- tion nearly opposite to the outwork, it seemed no less plain that it had been selected as a vulnerable point of attack. These appearances she hastily communicated to Ivanhoe, and added, " The skirts of the wood seem lined with archers, although only a few are advanced from its dark shadow." " Under what banner 1 " asked Ivanhoe. " Under no ensign of war which I can observe," answered Rebecca. " A singular novelty," answered the knight, " to advance to storm such a castle without pennon or banner displayed. — Seest thou who they be that act as leaders ? " " A knight clad in sable armour is the most con- spicuous," said the Jewess ; " he alone is armed from head to heel, and seems to assume the direc- tion of all around him." " What device does he bear on his shield 1 " replied Ivanhoe. " Something resembling a bar of iron, and a pad- lock painted blue on the black shield." " A fetterlock and shackle-bolt azure," said Ivan- Iioe ; " I know not who may bear the device, but well I ween it might now be mine own. Canst thou not see the motto 1 " " Scarce the device itself at this distance," replied Rebecca ; " but when the sun glances fair upon his shield, it shows as I tell you." " Seem there no other leaders 1 " exclaimed the anxious inquirer. " None of mark and distinction that I can be- hold from this station," said Rebecca, " but doubt- less the other side of the castle is also assailed. They seem even now preparing to advance. — God of Zion, protect us ! — What a dreadful sight ! — Those who advance first bear huge shields, and defences made of plank ; the others foUow, bend- ing their bows as they come on. — They raise their bows ! — God of Moses, forgive the creatures thou Tiast made ! " Her description was here suddenly interrupted "by the signal for assault, which was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, and at once answered by a flourish of the Norman trumpets from the battle- ments, which, mingled with the deep and hollow clang of the nakers (a species of kettle-drum), retorted in notes of defiance the challenge of the enemy. The shouts of both parties augmented the fearful din, the assailants crying, " Saint George for merry England ! " and the Normans answering them with cries of " Un avant De Bracy ! — Beau-seant ! Beau-seant ! — Front-de-Boeuf a la rescousse J" ac- cording to the war-cries of their different com- manders. It was not, however, by clamour that the contest was to be decided, and the desperate efforts of the assailants were met by an equally vigorous defence on the part of the besieged. The archers, trained by their woodland pastimes to the most effective use of the long-bow, shot, to use the appropriate phrase of the time, so " wholly together," that no point at which a defender could show the least part of his person escaped their cloth-yard shafts. By this heavy discharge, which continued as thick and sharp as hail, while, notwithstanding, every arrow had its individual aim, and flew by scores together against each embrasm-e and opening in the parapets, as well as at every window where a defender either occasionally had post or might be suspected to be stationed, — by this sustained dis- charge, two or three of the garrison were slain, and several others wounded. But, confident in their armour of proof, and in the cover which their .situation afforded, the followers of Front-de-Bceuf, and his allies, showed an obstinacy in defence proportioned to the fury of the attack, and replied with the discharge of their large cross-bows, as well as with their long-bows, slings, and other missile weapons, to the close and continued shower of arrows ; and, as the assailants were necessarily but indifferently protected, did considerably more damage than they received at their hand. The whizzing of shafts and of missiles, on both sides, was only interrupted by the shouts which arose when either side inflicted or sustained some notable loss. " And I must lie here like a bed-ridden monk," exclaimed Ivanhoe, " while the game that gives me freedom or death is played out by the hand of others ! — Look from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware that you are not marked by the archers beneath — Look out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the storm." With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she had employed in mental devo- tion, Rebecca again took post at the lattice, shelter- ing herself, however, so as not to be visible from beneath. " What dost thou see, Rebecca? " again demanded the wounded knight. " Nothing but the cloud of arrows, fljang so thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." " That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe ; " if they press not right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the knight of the fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he THE SIEGE OF TORQUILSTONE. 357 ■bears himself; for as tlie leader is, so will his followers be." " I see him not," said Rebecca. " Foul craven ! " exclaimed Ivanhoe ; " does he blench from the helm when the wind blows highest r' " He blenches not ! he blenches not ! " said Rebecca ; " I see him now ; he leads a body of " Look forth again, Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, mis- taking the cause of her retiring ; " the archery must in some degree have ceased, since they are now fighting hand to hand. Look again, there is now less danger." Rebecca again looked forth, and almost im- mediately exclaimed, " Holy prophets of the law ! Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand The Siege. {Brawn by J. Nash.) men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. — They puU down the piles and palisades ; they hew ■ down the barriers with axes— his high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like a raven over the field of the slain. — They have made a breach in the barriers — they rush in — they are thrust back ! — Front-de-Boeuf heads the defenders ; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand and man to man. God of Jacob ! it is the meeting of two fierce tides — the conflict of two oceans moved by adverse winds." She turned her head from the lattice, as if un- ;able longer to endure a sight so terrible. to hand on the breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the progress of the strife — Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed and of the captive ! " She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, " He is down ! — he is down ! " " Who is down 1 " cried Ivanhoe ; " for our dear Lady's sake, tell me which has fallen 1 " " The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly ; then instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness — " But no — -but no ! — the name of the Lord of hosts be blessed ! — he is on foot again, and fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his single arm. — His sword is broken — he snatches an axe from a yeoman — he presses Front-de-Boeuf 358 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. with blow on blow — the giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman — he falls — he falls !" " Front-de-Boeuf 1 " exclaimed Ivanhoe. " Front-de-Boeuf," answered the Jewess ; " his men rush to the rescue ; headed by the haughty Templar — their united force compels the champion to pause— they drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls." "The assailants have won the barriers, have they not 1 " said Ivanhoe. "They have — they have — and they press the besieged hard upon the outer wall ; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavour to ascend upon the shoulders of each other— down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the Avounded to the rear fresh men supply their places in the assault. Great God ! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren ! " " Think not of that," replied Ivanhoe ; this is no time for such thoughts. — Who yield 1 — who push their way 1 " " The ladders are thrown down,'" replied Rebecca, shuddering ; " the soldiers lie grovelling under them like crushed reptiles — the besieged have the better." " St. George strike for us," said the knight, " do the false yoemen give way 1 " " No ! " exclaimed Rebecca, " they bear themsel ves- right yeomanly — the Black Knight approaches the postern wth his huge axe — the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of the battle — stones and beams are hurled down on the bold champion — he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down or- feathers." " By St. John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising him- self joyfully on his couch, "methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed." " The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca ; "it crashes — it Ls splintered by his blows — they rush in — the outwork is won — they hurl the defenders from the battlements — they throw them into the moat — O men, if ye be indeed men,, spare them that can resist no longer ! " "The bridge — the bridge wliich communicates with the castle — have they won that pass?" ex- claimed Ivanhoe. " No," replied Rebecca ; " the Templar has destroyed the plank on which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle — the shrielis and cries which you hear tell the fate of the others. Alas ! I see it is still more- difficult to look upon victory than upon battle." NOBLE POVERTY. [By Latjbekce Sterne.] town ^EFORE I had got half-way down the street, I changed my mind. " As I am at Versailles," thought I, "I might as well take a view of the I pulled the cord, and ordered the coachman to drive round some of the principal streets. " I suppose the town is not very large?'' said I. The coachman begged pardon for setting me right, and told me it was very superb, and that numbers of the first dukes, and marquises, and counts had hotels : the Count de B , of whom the bookseller at the Quai de Conti had spoke so handsomely the night before, came instantly into my mind. " And why should I not go," thought I, " to the Count de B , who has so high an. idea of English books and Englishmen, and tell him my story 1" So I seeing a man standing with a basket on the other side of the street, as if he had something to sell, I bid La Fleur go up to- him and inquire for the count's hotel. La Fleur returned a little pale ; and told me it was a chevalier de St. Louis selling pdtes. "It is impossible, La Fleur ! " said I. La Fleur could no- more account for the phenomenon than myself ; but NOBLE POVERTY. 359 f)ersisted in lii.3 story : lie liad seen tlie croix set in :gold, witli its red ribbon, he said, tied to his button-hole ; and had looked into the basket, :and had seen the pdies which the chevalier was selling. Such a reverse in a man's life awakens a better principle than curiosity : I got out of the remise, «nd went towards him. He was begirt with a clean linen apron, which fell below his knees, and with a sort of a bib that ^went half-way up his breast ; upon the top of this, but a little below the hem, hung his croix. His basket of little ]Mtes was covered over with a white ■damask napkin : another of the same kind was ■spread at the bottom, and there was a look of firoprete and neatness throughout, that one might have bought his^a^M of him as much from appetite as sentiment. He made an offer of them to neither, but stood still with them at the corner of an hotel, for those to buy who chose it, without solicitation. He was about forty-eight — of a sedate look, something approaching to gravity. I did not wonder. I went up rather to the basket than him, and having lifted up the napkin and taken one of his jy&t'es in my hand, I begged he would explain the appearance which affected me. He told me in a few words that the best part ■of his life had passed in the service, in which, after spending a small patrimony, he had obtained a <;ompany, and the croix with it ; but at the con- clusion of the last peace, his regiment being re- formed, and the whole corps, with those of some ■other regiments, left without provision, he found himself in a large world without friends, without a livre — " and indeed," said he, " without anything 1 dt this " — pointing as he said it to his croix. The poor chevalier won my pity, and he finished the scene mth winning my esteem too. The king, he said, was the most generous of princes ; but his generosity could neither relieve nor reward every one, and it was only his misfortune to be amongst the number. He had a little wife, he said, whom he loved, who did the patisserie; and added, he felt no dishonour in defending her and himself from want in this way, unless Pro-vidence had offered him a better. It would be wicked to withhold a jjleasure from the good, in passing over what happened to this poor chevalier of St. Louis about nine months after. It seems he usually took his stand near the iron gates which led up to the palace ; and as his croix had caught the eye of numbers, numbers had made the same inquiry which I had done. He told them the same story, and always with so much modesty and good sense, that it had reached at last the king's ears ; who learning the chevalier had been a gallant officer, and respected by the whole regiment, broke up his little trade by a pension of fifteen hundred livres a-year. As I have told this to please the reader, I beg he will allow rne to relate another, to please myself : the two stories reflect light upon each other, and 'tis a pity they .should be parted. I stop not to tell the causes which gradually brought the house of D'E in Brittany into decay. The Marquis d'E — - had fought up against his condition with great firmness, wishing to preserve and still show to the world some little fragments of what his ancestors had been — their in- discretions had put it out of his power. There was enough left for the little exigencies of obscurity : but he had two boys who looked up to him for light — he thought they deserved it. He had tried his sword — it could not open the way — the mount- ing was too expensive — and simple economy was not a match for it : there was no resource but commerce. In any other province in France save Brittany, this was smiting the root for ever of the little tree his pride and affection wished to see re-blossom. But in Brittany, there being a provision for this, he availed himself of it ; and taking an occasion when the states were assembled at Rennes, the marquis, attended with his two boys, entered the court ; and having pleaded the right of an ancient law of the duchy, which, though seldom claimed, he said, was no less in force, he took his sword from his side : " Here," said he, " take it ; and be trusty g-uardians of it tm better times put me in condition to reclaim it." The president accepted the marquis's sword — he stayed a few minutes to see it deposited in the archives of his house, and departed. The marquis and his whole family embarked the next day for Martinique ; and in about nineteen or twenty years of successful application to busi- ness—with some unlooked-for bequests from dis- tant branches of his house — returned home to reclaim his nobility and to support it. It was an incident of good fortune which wUl never happen to any traveller but a sentimental one, that I should be at Rennes at the very time of this solemn requisition : I call it solemn — it was so to me. The marquis entered the court with his whole family : he supported his lady— his eldest son supported his sister, and his youngest was at the other extreme of the line next his mother. He put his handkerchief to his face twice. There was a dead silence. When the marquis had approached within six paces of the tribunal, he gave the marchioness to his youngest son, and, advanc- ing three steps before his family, he reclaimed his sword. His sword was given him, and the moment he got it into his hand he drew it almost out of the scabbard : 'twas the shining face of a friend he had once given up— he looked attentively along it. 360 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. beginning at the hilt, as if to see whether it was the same, when observing a little rust which it had contracted near the point, he brought it near his eye, and bending his head down over it, I think I saw a tear fall upon the place : I could not be deceived by what followed. " I shall find," said he, "some other way to get it oif."" When the marquis had said this, he returned his sword into its scabbard, made a bow to the- guardian of it ; and, with his wife and daughter and his two sons following him, walked out. Oh, how I envied him his feelings ! MAZEPPA'S PUNISHMENT. [By Lord Btbon.] RING forth the horse ! " — the horse was brought ; In truth he was a noble steed, A Tartar of the Ukraine breed. Who look'd as though the speed thought AVere in limbs ; of his but he was wild. Wild as the wild deer, and untaught. With spur and bridle undefil'd — 'Twas but a day he had been caught ; And snorting with erected mane, And struggling fiercely but in vain. In the full foam of wrath and dread To me the desert-born was led : They bound me on, that menial throng. Upon his back with many a thong ; Then loosed him with a sudden lash — Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! Torrents less rapid and less rash. Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone ; I saw not where he hurried on : •'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, And on he foam'd — away ! — away ! The last of human sounds which rose, As I was darted from my foes, Wis the wild shout of savage laughter ; W'lich on the wind came roaring after A moment from that rabble rout : With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head. And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane Had bound my neck in lieu of rein ; And, writhing half my form about, Howl'd back my curse ; but midst the tread, The thunder of my courser's speed, Perchance they did not hear nor heed : It vexes me — for I would fain Have paid their insult back again. I paid it well in after days : There is not of that castle gate, Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left, Nor of its fields a blade of grass. Save what grows on a ridge of wall Where stood the hearth -stone of the hall p And many a time ye there might pass. Nor dream that e'er that fortress was : I saw its turrets in a blaze, Their crackling battlements all cleft. And the hot lead pour down like rain From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. They little thought that day of pain. When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash. They bade me to destruction dash, That one day I should come again. With twice five thousand horse, to thank The Count for his uncourteous ride. They play'd me then a bitter prank. When with the wild horse for my guide. They bound me to his foaming flank ; At length I play'd them one as frank^ For time at last sets all things even— And if we do but watch the hour. There never yet was human power Which could evade, if unforgiven. The patient search and vigil long Of him who treasures up a wrong. Away, away, my steed and I, Upon the pinions of the wind. All human dwellings left behind ; We sped like meteors through the sky, When with its crackling sound the night Is chequer'd with the northern light ; Town — village — none were on our track. But a wild plain of far extent. And bounded by a forest black ; And, save the scarce seen battlement On distant heights of some .stronghold. Against the Tartars built of old, MAZEPPA'S PUNISHMENT. 3(51 No trace of man. The year before A Turkish army had march 'd o'er ; And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, The verdure fiies the bloody sod : — The sky was dull, and dim, and grey, And a low breeze crept moaning by^ — I could have answer'd with a sigh — But fast we fled away, away — And I could neither sigh nor pray ; And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain Upon the courser's bristling mane ; We near'd the wild wood — 'twas so wide, I saw no bounds on either side ; 'Twas studded with old sturdy trees. That bent not to the roughest breeze Which howls down from Siberia's waste, • And strips the forest in its haste, — But these were few and far between, Set thick with shrubs more young and green. Luxuriant with their annual leaves, Ere strown by those autumnal eves That nip the forest's foliage dead, Mazeppa's Eide. (Ih-avin by J, Kash.) But snorting still with rage and fear, He flew upon his far career : At times I almost thought, indeed. He must have slacken'd in his speed ; But no — my bound and slender frame Was nothing to his angry might. And merely like a spur became ; Each motion which I made to free My swollen limbs from agony Increas'd his fury and affright ; I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low, But yet he swerved as from a blow ; And, starting to each accent, sprang As from a sudden trumpet's clang. Meantime my cords were wet with gore. Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er ; And in my tongue the thirst became A something fierier far than flame. 2t Discolour'd with a lifeless red. Which stands thereon like stiffened gore Upon the slain when battle's o'er, And some long winter's night hath shed Its frost o'er every tombless head, So cold and stark the raven's beak May peck unpierc'd each frozen cheek : 'Twas a wild waste of underwood. And here and there a chestnut stood. The strong oak and the hardy pine ; But far apart — and well it were. Or else a different lot were mine — The boughs gave way and did not tear My limbs ; and I found strength to bear My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — My bonds forbade to loose my hold. We rustled through the leaves like wind. Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 362 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. By night I heard them on the track, Their troop came hard upon our back, With their long gallop which can tire The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire ; Where'er we flew they foUow'd on, Nor left us with the morning sun ; Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, At day-break winding through the wood. And through the night had heard their feet Their stealing, rustling step repeat. Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword. At least to die amidst the horde. And perish — if it must be so — At bay, destroying many a foe. When first my courser's race begun, I wish'd the goal already won ; Bat now I doubted strength and speed : . Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed Had nerv'd him like the mountain roe ; Nor faster falls the blinding snow Which whelms the peasant near the door, Whose threshold he shall cross no more, Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, Than through the forest-paths he past — Untir'd, untam'd, and worse than wild ; All furious as a favour'd child Baulk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — A woman piqued — who has her will. The wood was past ; 'twas more than iioovi, But chill the air, although in June ; Or it might be my veins ran cold — Prolong'd endurance tames the bold, And I was then not what I seem, But headlong as the wintry stream, And wore my feelings out before I well could count their causes o'er ; And what with fury, fear, and wrath. The tortures which beset my path. Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress. Thus bound in nature's nakedness : Sprung from a race, whose rising blood When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, And trodden hard upon, is like The rattlesnake's, in act to strike ; What marvel if this worn-out trunk Beneath its woes a moment sunk 1 The earth gave way, the skies roU'd round, I seem'd to sink upon the ground : But err'd, for I was fastly bound. My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore. And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more ; The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; I saw the trees like drmikards reel. And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. Which saw no farthar ; he who dies Can die no more thm then I died, O'ertortur'd by that ghastly ride. STRIKING ILE. [From " Tlie Golden Butterfly." By Walter Besant and James Eice.] WENT off, after I left you, by the Pacific Railway— not the first time I travelled up and down that line — and I landed in New York. Mr. Colquhoun gave me a rig out, and you, sir " — he nodded to Jack — " you, sir, gave me the stamps to pay the ticket." Jack, accused of this act of benevolence, naturally blushed a guilty acknowledgment. Mr. Gilead P. Beck made no reference to the gift either then or at any subsec^uent period. Nor did he ever offer to repay it, even when he discovered the slenderness of Jack's resources. That showed that he was a sensitive and sympathetic man. To offer a small sum of money in repayment of a free gift from an extraordinarily rich man to a very poor one is not a delicate thing to do. Therefore this gentleman of the backwoods abstained from doing it. "New York City," he continued, "is not the village I should recommend to a man without dollars in his pocket. London, where there is an institootion, or a charity, or a hospital, or a work- house, or a hot-soup boiler in every street, is the place for that gentleman. Fiji, p'r'aps, for one who has a yearning after bananas and black civilisation. But not New York. No, gentlemen ; if you go to New York, let it be when you've made your pile, and not before. Then you will find out that there air thirty theatres in the city, with lovely and accomplished actresses in each, and you can walk into Delmonico's as if the place belonged to you. But for men down on their luck, New York is a cruel place. " I left that city, and I made my way north. I wanted to see the old folks I left behind long ago in Lexington ; I found them dead, and I was sorry. Then I went farther north. P'r'aps I was driven by the yellow toy hanging at my back. Anyhow it was only six weeks after I left you that I found myself in the city of Limerick on Lake Ontario. " You do not know the city of Limerick, I dare say. It was not famous, nor was it pretty. In fact, gentlemen, it was the most misbegotten loca- tion built around a swamp that ever called itself STRIKING ILE. 363 a city. There were a few delooded farmers trying to persuade themselves that things would look up ; there were a few downhearted settlers wondering why they ever came there, and how they would get out again ; and there were a few log-houses in a row which called themselves a street. " I got there, and I stayed there. Their carpenter was dead, and I am a handy man ; so I took his place. Then I made a few dollars doing chores around." " What are chores ? " "All sorts. The clocks were out of repair ; the handles were coming off the pails ; the chairs were without legs ; the pump-handle crank ; the very bell-rope in the meetin'-house was broken. You never saw such a helpless lot. I did not stay among them because I loved them, but because I saw things." " Ghosts ? " asked Ladds, still with an eye to the supernatural. " No, sir. That was what they thought I saw when I went prowling around by myself of an evening. They thought too that I was mad when I began to buy the land. You could buy it for nothing ; a dollar an acre ; half a dollar an acre ; anything an acre. I've mended a cart-wheel for a five-acre lot of swamp. They laughed at me. The children used to cry out when I passed along, ' There goes mad Beck.' But I bought all I could, and my only regret was that I couldn't buy up the hull township — clear off men, women, and children, and start afresh. Some more champagne, Mr. Dunquerque." " What was the Golden Butterfly doing all this time 1 " asked Ladds. " That faithful iuseck, sir, was hanging around my neck, as when you were first introduced to him. He was whisperin' and eggin' me on, because he was boimd to fulfil the old squaw's prophecy. Without my knowing it, sir, that prodigy of the world, who is as alive as you air at this moment, will go on whisperin' till such time as the rope's played out and the smash comes. Then he'll be silent again." He spoke with a solemn earnestness which im- pressed his hearers. They looked at the fire-proof safe with a feeling that at any moment the metallic insect might open the door, fly forth, and, after hovering round the room, light at Mr. Beck's ear, and begin to whisper words of counsel. Did not Mohammed have a pigeon 1 and did not Louis Napoleon at Boulogne have an eagle 1 Why should not Mr. Beck have a butterfly. " The citizens of Limerick, gentlemen, in that dismal part of Canada where they bewail their miserable lives, air not a people who have eyes to see, ears to hear, or brains to understand. I saw that they were walking — no, sleeping — over fields of incalculable wealth, and they never suspected. They smoked their pipes and ate their pork. But they never saw and they never suspected. Between whiles they praised the Lord for sending them a fool like me, something to talk about and some- body to laugh at. They wanted to know what was in the little box ; they sent children to peep in at my window of an evening and report what I was doing. They reported that I was always doing the same thing ; always with a map of Limerick City and its picturesque and interestin' suburbs, staking out the ground and reckoning up my acres. That's what I did at night. And in the morning I looked about me and wondered where I shoidd begin." " What did you see when you looked about 1 " " I saw, sir, a barren bog. If it had been a land as fertile as the land of Canaan, that would not have made my heart to bound as it did bound when I looked across that swamp ; for I never was a tiller or a lover of the soil. A barren bog it was. The barrenest, boggiest part of it all was my claim ; when the natives spoke of it they called it Beck's Farm, and then the poor critturs squirmed in their chairs and laughed. Yes, they laughed. Beck's Farm, they said. It was the only thing they had to laugh about. Wall, up and down the face of that almighty bog there ran creeks, and after rainy weather the water stood about on the luorasses. Plenty of water, but, a curious thing, none of it fit to drink : no living thing except man would set his lips to that brackish, bad-smelling water. And that wasn't all ; sometimes a thick black slime rose to the surface of the marsh and lay there an inch thick ; sometimes you came upon patches of ' gum-beds ' as they called them, where the ground was like tar, and smelt strong. That is what I saw when I looked around, sir. And to think that those poor mean pork-raisers saw it all the same as I did and never suspected ! Only cursed the gifts of the Lord when they weren't laughing at Beck's Farm." " And you found— what 1 Gold 1 " " No ; I found what I expected. And that was better than gold. Mind, I say nothing against gold. Gold has made many a pretty little for- tune " "Little!" " Little, sir. There's no big fortunes made out of gold. Though many a pretty viUa-location, with a tidy flower-garden, up and down the States, is built out of the gold-mines. Dimonds again. One or two men likes the name of dimonds ; but not many. There's the disadvantage about gold and dimonds that you have to dig for them, and to dig hard, and to dig by yourself mostly. Americans do not love digging. It is the only occupation that they air ashamed of. Then there's iron, and there's coals ; but you've got to dig for them. This great airth holds a hundred things covered up for them who know how to look and do not 364 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. mind digging. But, gentlemen, the greatest gift the airth has to bestow she gave to me — abundant, spontaneous, etarnal, without bottom, and free." "And that is " " It is Ile." ***** " It is nearly a year since I made up my mind to begin my well. I hieio it was there, because I'd been in Pennsylvania and learned the signs ; it was only the question whether I should strike it, and where. The neighbours thought I was digging for water, and figured around with their superior "Ladd's Cocoa, the only perfect fragrance." "Shut up, Ladds," growled Jack ; "don't inter- rupt." " I say, to you two young aristocrats a farmer's dinner in that township would not sound luxurious. Mine consisted, on that day and all days, of cold boiled pork and bread." " Ah, yah ! " said Jack Dunquerque, who had a proud stomacL " Yes, sir, my own remark every day when I sat down to that simple bancjuet. But when you are hungry you must eat, murmur though you will for ' The neighbours thought I was digging for water.' intellecks, because they were certain that the water would be brackish. Then they got tired of watching, and I worked on. Boring a well is not quite the sort of work a man would select for a pleasant and variegated occupation. I reckon it's monotonous ; but I worked on. I knew what was coming ; I thought o' that Indian squaw, and I always had my Golden Butterfly tied in a box at my back. I bored and I bored. Day after day I bored. In that lonely miasmatic bog I bored all day and best part of the night. For nothing came, and sometimes qualms crossed my mind that perhaps there would never be anything. But always there Avas the gummy mud, smelling of what I knew was below, to lead me on. " It was the ninth day, and noon. I had a shanty called the farmhouse, about a hundred yards from my well. And there I was taking my dinner. To you two young English aristocrats " Egyptian flesh-pots. Cold pork was my dinner, with bread. And the water to wash it down mtli was brackish." "And while you were eating the i^ork," said Ladds, " the Golden Butterfly flew down the shaft by himself, and struck oil of his own accord." " No sir ; for once you are wrong. That most beautiful creation of Nature in her sweetest mood — she must have got up with the sun on a fine summer morning — was reposing in his box round my neck as usual. He did not go clown the shaft at all. Nobody went down. But some- thing came up — up like a fountain, up like the bubbling over of the airth's eternal teapot ; a black muddy jet of stuff. Great sun! I think I see it now." He paused and sighed. " It was nearly all Ile, pure and unadulterated, from the world's workshop. Would you believe it, STRIKING ILE. 365 gentlemen 1 There were not enough bar'ls, not by- hundreds, in the neighbourhood all round Limerick City, to catch that He. It flowed in a stream three feet deep do^^^l the creek ; it was carried away into the lake and lost ; it ran free and uninterrupted for three days and three nights. We saved what we could. The neighbours brought their pails, their buckets, their basins, their kettles ; there was not a utensil of aliy kind that was not filled with He, from the pig's trough to the child's pap-bowl. Not one. It ran and it ran. When the first flow subsided we calculated that seven millions of bar'ls messing. That was why the He ran away and was lost while I ate the cold boiled pork. Perhaps it's an interestin' fact that I never liked cold boiled pork before, and I have hated it ever since. " The great spurt sub.sided, and we went to work in earnest. That well has continued to yield five hun- dred bar'ls daily. That is four thousand five hundred dollars in my pocket every four and twenty hours." " Do you mean that your income is nine hundred pounds a day ? " asked Jack. " I do, sir. You go your pile on that. It is more, but I do not know how much more. Perhaiis it's The neighbours brought their pails, their buckets, their basins, their kettles." had been wasted and lost. Seven millions ! I am a Christian man, and grateful to the Butterfly, but I sometimes repine when I think of that wasted He. Every bar'l worth nine dollars at least, and most likely ten. Sixty-three millions of dollars. Twelve millions of pounds sterling lost in three days for want of a few coopers ! Did you ever think, Mr. Dunquerque, what you could do with twelve millions sterling ? " " I never did," said Jack. " My imagination never got beyond thousands." " With twelve millions I might have bought up the daily press of England, and made you all republicans in a month. I might have made the Panama Canal ; I might have bought Palesteen and sent the Jews back ; I might have given America fifty ironclads ; I might have put Don Carlos on the throne of Spain. But it warn't to be. Providence wants no rivals, meddling and twice as much. There are wells of mine sunk all over the place ; the swamp is covered with Gilead P. Beck's derricks. The township of Limerick has become the city of Rockoleaville — my name, that was — and a virtuous and industrious population are all engaged morning, noon, and night in fiUin' my pails. There's twenty-five bars, I believe, at this moment. There are three meetin'-houses and two daily papers, and there air fifteen lawyers." " But the oil may run dry." " It has run dry in Pennsylvania. That is so, and I do not deny it. But He will not run dry in Rockoleaville. I have been thinking over the geo- logical problem, and I have solved it, all by my- self. What is this world, gentlemen ? " " A round ball," said Jack, with the promptitude of a Board schoolboy and the profundity of a Wool- wich cadet. " Sir, it is like a great orange. It has its outer 366 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. rind, what they call the crust. Get through that crust, and what do you find 1 " " More crust," replied Ladds, who was not a competition-wallah. " Did you ever eat pumpkin-pie, sir 1 " Mr. Beck replied, more Socratico, by asking another question. "And if you did, was your pie all crust 1 Inside that pie, sir, was pumpkin, apple, and juice. So inside the rind of the earth there may be all sorts of things : gold and iron, lava, diamonds, coals ; but the juice, the pie-juice, is He. You tap the rind and you get the He. This He will run, I calculate, for five thousand and fifty-two years, if they don't sinfully waste it, at an annual consump- tion of eighteen million bar'ls. Now that's a low estimate when you consider the progress of civili- sation. When it is all gone, perhaps before, this- poor old airth will crack up like an empty egg." This was an entirely new view of geology, and it required time for Mr. Beck's hearers to grasp the truth thus presented to their minds. They were silent. " At Rockoleaville," he went on, " I've got the pipe straight into the middle of the pie, and right through the crust. There's no mistake about that main shaft. Other mines may give out, but my He will run for ever." " Then we may congratulate you," said Jack., "on the possession of a boundless fortune." " You may, sir." BARDELL AGAINST PICKWICK. [From "The Pictwick Papers." By Chakles Dickens.] |R. JUSTICE STARELEIGH was a most particularly short man, and so fat, that he seemed all face and waistcoat. He rolled in, upon two little turned legs, and having bobbed gravely to the bar, who bobbed gravely to him, put his little legs underneath his table, and his little three-cornered hat upon it ; and when Mr. Justice Stareleigh had done this, all you could see of him was two queer little eyes, one broad pink face, and somewhere about half of a big and very comical-looking wig. The judge had no sooner taken his seat, than the officer on the floor of the court called out " Silence ! " in a commanding tone, upon which another oflScer in the gallery cried " Silence ! " in an angry manner, whereupon three or four more ushers shouted " Silence ! " in a voice of indignant remonstrance. This being done, a gentleman in black, who sat below the judge, proceeded to call over the names of the jury ; and, after a great deal 0? bawling, it was discovered that only ten special jurymen were present. Upon this, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz prayed a tales; the gentleman in black then proceeded to press into the special jury two of the common jurymen ; and a greengrocer and a chemist were caught directly. " Answer to your names, gentlemen, that you may be sworn," said the gentleman in black. "Richard Upwitch." " Here," said the greengrocer. "Thomas GroflJn." "Here," said the chemist. " Take the book, gentlemen. You shall well and truly try — " "I beg this court's pardon," said the chemist. who was a tall, thin, yellow- visaged man, "but Z hope this court will excuse my attendance." " On what grounds, sir 1 " said Mr. Ju.stice Stareleigh. " I have no assistant, my Lord," said the chemist. " I can't help that, sir," replied Mr. Justice Stareleigh. " You should hire one." " I can't afford it, my Lord," rejoined the chemist. " Then you ought to be able to afford it, sir,"" said the judge, reddening ; for Mr. Justice Stare- leigh's temper bordered on .the irritable, and brooked not contradiction. " I know I ought to do, if I got on as well as I deserved, but I don't, my Lord," answered the chemist. " Swear the gentleman," said the judge peremp- torily. The officer had got no further than the "You shall well and truly try," when he was again, interrupted by the chemist. " I am to be sworn, my Lord, am I '? " said the chemist. " Certainly, sir," replied the testy little judge. "Very well, my Lord," replied the chemist, in a resigned manner. " Then there'll be murder before this trial's over ; that's all. Swear me, if you please, sir ; " and sworn the chemist was, before the judge could find words to utter. "I merely wanted to observe, my Lord," said the chemist, taking his seat with great dilibera- tion, " that I've left nobody but an errand boy in my shop. He is a very nice boy, my Lord, but he is not acquainted with drugs ; and I know that the prevailing impression on his mind is, that , BAEDELL AGAINST PICKWICK. 367 Epsom salts means oxalic acid ; and syrup of senna, laudanum. That's all, my Lord." With this, the tall chemist composed himself into a comfortable attitude, and, assuming a pleasant expression of countenance, appeared to have pre- Ijareol himself for the worst. Mr. Pickwick was regarding the chemist with feelings of the deepe.st horror, when a slight sensation was perceptible in the body of the court ; and immediately afterwards Mrs. Bardell, supported by Mrs. Cluppins, was led in, and placed, in a drooping state, at the other end of the seat on "which Mr. Pickwick sat. An extra-sized umbrella was then handed in by Mr. Dodson, and a pair of pattens by Mr. Fogg, each of whom had prepared a most sympathising and melancholy face for the occasion. Mrs. Sanders then appeared, leading in Master Bardell. At sight of her child, Mrs. . Bardell started ; suddenly recollecting herself, she kissed him in a frantic manner ; then relapsing into a state of hysterical imbecility, the good lady requested to be informed where she was. In reply to this, Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sander.", turned their heads away and wept, while Messrs. Dodson and Fogg entreated the plaintiff to compose herself. Serjeant Buzfuz rubbed his «yes very hard with a large white handkerchief, and gave an appealing look towards the jury, while the judge was visibly aifected, and several of the beholders tried to cough down their emotions. "Very good notion that, indeed," whispered Perker to Mr. Pickwick. "Capital fellows those Dodson and Fogg ; excellent ideas of effect, my dear sir, excellent." " Bardell and Pickwick," cried the gentleman in Tjlack, calling on the case, which stood first on the list. " I am for the plaintiff, my Lord," said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz. " Who is with you, brother Buzfuz 1 " said the judge. Mr. Skimpin bowed to intimate that he -was. "I appear for the defendant, my Lord," said jVIr. Serjeant Snubbin. " Anybody with you, brother Snubbin 1 " in- quired the court. "^Ir. Phunky, my Lord," replied Serjeant Snubbin. " Serjeant Buzfuz and Mr. Skimpin for the plaintiff," said the judge, writing down the names in his note-book, and reading as he wrote ; " for the defendant, Serjeant Snubbin and Mr. Monkey." "Beg your Lordship's pardon, Phunky." " O, very good," said the judge ; " I never had the pleasure of hearing the gentleman's name before." Here Mr. Phunky bowed and smiled, and the judge bowed and smiled too, and then Mr. Phunky, blushing into the very whites of his eyes, tried to look as if he didn't know that every- body was gazing at him ; a thing which no man ever succeeded in doing yet, or in all reasonable probability, ever will. " Go on," said the judge. The ushers again called silence, and Mr. Skimpin proceeded to " open the case ; " and the case appeared to have very little inside it when he had opened it, for he kept such particulars as he knew completely to himself, and sat down, after a lapse of three minutes, leaving the jury in pre- cisely the same advanced stage of wisdom as they were in before. Serjeant Buzfuz then rose with all the majesty and dignity which the grave nature of the pi'O- ceediugs demanded, and having whi.spered to Dodson, and conferred briefly with Fogg, pulled his gown over his shoulders, settled his wig, and addressed the jury. Serjeant Buzfuz began by saying, that never, in the whole course of his professional experience — never, from the very first moment of his applying himself to the study and practice of the law — had he approached a case with feelings of such deep emotion, or with such a heavy sense of the respon- sibility imposed upon him — a responsibility, he would say, which he could never have .supported, were he not buoyed up and sustained by a con- viction so strong, that it amounted to positive certainty that the cause of truth and justice, or, in other words, the cause of his nurch-injured and most oppressed client, must prevail with the high- minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he now saw in that box before him. Counsel always begin in this way, because it puts the jury on the very best terms with them- selves, and makes them think what sharp fellows they must be. A visible effect was produced immediately ; several jurymen beginning to take voluminous notes with the utmost eagerness. " you have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen," continued Serjeant Buzfuz, well knowing that, from the learned friend alluded to, the gentleman of the jury had heard ju.st nothing at all — " you have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen, that this is an action for a breach of promise of marriage, in which the damages are laid at £1,500. But you have not heard from my learned friend, inasmuch as it did not come within my learned friend's province to tell you, what are the facts and circumstances of the case. Those facts and circumstances, gentlemen, you shall hear detailed by me, and proved by the un- impeachable female whom I will place in that box before you." Here Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, with a tremendous emphasis on the word " box," smote his table with a mighty sound, and glanced at Dodson and Fogg, who nodded admiration of the Serjeant, and indignant defiance of the defendant, 368 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. " The plaintiff, gentlemen," continued Serjeant Buzfuz, in a soft and melanclioly voice, " the plaintiff is a widow ; yes, gentlemen, a mdow. The late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of the royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford." At this pathetic description of the decease of Mr. Bardell, who had been knocked on the head with a quart pot in a public-house cellar, the learned Serjeant's voice faltered, and he proceeded with emotion, " Some time before his death, he had stamped his likeness upon a little boy. With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world, and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell Street ; and here she placed in her front parlour-window a written placard, bearing this inscription — ' Apart- ments furnished for a single gentleman. Inquire within.'" Here Serjeant Buzfuz paused, while several gentlemen of the jury took a note of the document. " There is no date to that, is there, sir "i " inquired a juror. " There is no date, gentlemen," replied Serjeant Buzfuz ; " but I am instructed to say that it was put in the plaintiff's parlour-window just this time three years. I entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this document — 'Apart- ments furnished for a single gentleman ! ' Mrs. Bardell's opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable equalities of her lost husband. She had no fear — she had no distrust — .she had no suspicion — all was confidence and reliance. ' Mr. Bardell,' said the widow ; ' Mr. Bardell was a man of honour — Mr. Bardell was a man of his word — Mr. Bardell was no deceiver — Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself ; to single gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for consolation — in single gentle- men I shall perpetually see something to remind me of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first won my young and untried affections ; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.' Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse (among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen)— the lonely and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlour- window. Did it remain there long'? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill had been in the parlour- vrindow three days — three days, gentlemen— a Being, erect upon two legs. and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's house. He inquired within ; he took the lodgings ; and on the very next day he entered into possession of them. This man was Pickwick — Pickwick the defendant." Serjeant Buzfuz, who had proceeded with such volubility that his face was perfectly crimson, here paused for breath. The silence awoke Mr. Justice Stareleigh, who immediately wrote down some- thing with a pen without any ink in it, and looked unusually profound, to impress the jury with the belief that he always thought most deeply vsdth his eyes shut. Serjeant Buzfuz pro- ceeded : " Of this man Pickwick I will say little ; the subject presents but few attractions ; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentle- men, the men, to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness, and of systematic villanj^." Here Mr. Pickwick, vdio had been writhing in silence for some time, gave a \dolent start, as if sorhe vague idea of assaulting Serjeant Buzfuz, in the august presence of justice and law, suggested itself to his mind. An admonitory gesture from Perker restrained him, and he listened to the learned gentleman's continuation with a look of indignation, which contrasted forcibly with the admiring faces of Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders. "I say systematic villany, gentlemen," said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking through Mr. Pickwick, and talking at him ; " and when I say systematic villany, let me tell the defendant Pickwick if he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it would have been more decent in him, more becoming, in better judgment, and in better taste, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or dis- approbation in which he may indulge in this court will not go down with you ; that you will know how to value and how to appreciate them ; and let me tell him further, as my Lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be intimidated, nor bullied, nor put down ; and that any attempt to do either the one or the other, or the first, or the last, will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson." This little divergence from the subject in hand had of course the intended effect of turning all eyes to Mr. Pickwick. Serjeant Buzfuz, having partially recovered from the state of moral eleva- tion into which he had lashed himself, resumed ; " I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years Pickwick continued to reside constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. 370 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. Barclell's house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, during the whole of that time, waited on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washerwoman when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for "wear, when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you that, on many occaaions, he gave halfpence, and on some occasions even sixpences, to her little boy ; and I shall prove to you, by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert, that on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and, after inquiring whether he had won any alley tors or commoneys lately (both of which I understand to be a particular species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town), made use of this remarkable expression — " How should you like to have another father?" I shall prove to you, gentlemen, that about a year ago, Pickwick suddenly began to absent, himself from home, during long intervals, as if with the intention of gradually breaking oif from my client ; but I .shall show you also, that his resolution was. not at that time sufficiently strong, or that his better feelings conquered, if better feelings he has, or that the charms and accomplishments of my client prevailed against his unmanly intentions ; by proving to you, that on one occasion, when he returned from the country, he distinctly and in terms, offered her marriage ; previously, however, taking special care that there should be no witnesses to their solemn contract ; and I am in a situation to prove to you, on the testimony of three of his own friends — most unA^olling witnesses, gentlemen — most unwilling witnesses — that on that morning he was discovered by them holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by his caresses and endearments." A visible impression was produced upon the auditors by this part of the learned Serjeant's address. Drawing forth two very small scraps of paper, he proceeded : "xlnd now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed between these parties, letters which are admitted to be in the hand- writing of the defendant, and which speak volumes indeed. These letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They are not open, fervent, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the language of affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly, underhanded communications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched in the most glowing language and the most poetic imagery — letters that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eye — letters that were evidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first : — 'Garraway's, twelve o'clock. Dear Mrs. B. — Chops and Tomata sauce. Yours, Pickwick.' Gentle- men, what does this mean 1 ' Chops and Tomata sauce. Yours, Pickwick ! ' Chops ! Gracious heavens ! and Tomata sauce ! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away by such shallow artifices as these ? The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious — ' Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home till to-morrow. Slow coach.' And then follows this very, very remarkable expression — ' Don't trouble yourself about the warming-pan.' The warming-pan ! Why, gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan 1 When was the peace of mind of man or woman broken or dis- turbed by a warming-pan, which is in itself a harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of domestic furniture ? Why is Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire — a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and which I am not in a condition to explain ? And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean 1 For aught I know, it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unciuestionably been a criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wJieeLs, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will very soon be greased by you ! " Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz paused in this place, to see whether the jury smiled at his joke; but as nobody took it but the greengrocer, whose sensitiveness on the subject was very probably occasioned by his having subjected a chaise-cart to the process in question on that identical morning, the learned serjeant considered it ad- visable to undergo a slight relapse into the dismals before he concluded. " But enough of this, gentlemen," said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, " it is difficidt to smile with an aching heart ; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are awakened. My client's hopes and prospects are ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down — but there is no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and repass — but there is no invitation for them to inquire within or without. All is gloom and silence in the house ; even the voice of the child is hushed ; his infant sports are disregarded when his mother weeps ; his ' alley tors ' and his ' commoneys ' are alike neglected ; he forgets the long familiar cry of ' knuckle down ; ' and at tip-cheese, or odd and even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen. AT THE ALMA. 371 Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell Street — Pickwick, who lias choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward — Pickwick, who conies before you to-day -^vith his heartless toiiiata sauce and warming-pans — Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemen — heavy damages, is the only punishment with which you can visit him ; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathising, a contemplative jury of lier civilised countrymen." With this beautiful peroration, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice Stareleigh woke up. AT THE ALMA. [From " The Adventures of Dr. Brady." By William Howaed Kcssell.] HEPiE must be a great change wrought in man's nature before he ceases to revel i| in war — not always in the heat of battle, ^((^ which may find dross where the metal seemed purest — but in the enterprise and adventure of campaigning. It is a new sensation to find you are in danger from men you have never seen — who owe you no ill-will, whom you are bound to kill if you can — and to know that you vnll be honoured by all your fellows for doing the work. Most men must have the backs of their heads removed and some other matter put in place of the present grouting ere they cease to delight in such homicide ; and we may despair, I fear, of ever welcoming the advent of the day when a nation shall be brought to the bar of public opinion and condemned for murder because it has waged war — above all, successful war. I stood on a sand-hill, and saw the army move from the beach towards the enemy. It was a sight which fil'ed one's throat and made the heart swell — mine, although I had been working among the sick, and had sent off my last boatful of hope- less sufferers to the ships. The freshness of the morning air, the life and animation of the march, the swarming transports, and their fluttering signals and flapping canvas ; the stately pro- cession of the line-of-battle ships and frigates, as they moved on with their advance-guard of swift steamers ; the perfect order in which each scarlet oblong took up its place, as brigade after brigade formed, and the divisions extended and spread out over the rolling downs, fragrant with flowers and deep with pasture ; the galloping aides, riding from one bright patch of horsemen to the other— the dark masses of the artillery, the black fringe of the Rifles rolling before the wave as it swept over the plain ; on our left the cavalry moving in the light of their own helmets, sabres, and lance- points, the dun-coloured crowd of camp-followers, and the scanty arabas — all formed a picture — ah, no ! — formed a real body and soul of war, which was beautiful and terrible enough to justify the love and pride of kings ! Did I think of my vocation then 1 Not one bit ! I longed to ride with that whirling cavalry, or to march at the head of an obedient column. Why am I obliged to attend to the miserable driver whose leg has just been crushed by the wheel of a gun, and who will never mount horse again or join his comrades of the R.H.A. 1 It is a descent from Pegasus, and it does me good to touch the hard ground of matter-of-fact duty again. And when at last my turn came to move off vith my dear old Tigers,, all my enthusiasm was nigh smothered in the heat of the sweltering ranks ; for after many days of sea-carriage, the noblest heroes, packed close in ships, and destitute of water, will in tight cloth clothes .swelter, to say the least of it, under a Crimean September sun. I had acquired tli» right to purchase a horse. The cavalry swept in some Avretched creatures one morning, and a Tartar whose mind was much perturbed by fear respecting the genuineness of British sovereigns — he tested them, in British fashion, with his teeth — sold me a soliped which certainly had died of age and muscular imbecility but for hard spurring and the excitement around him. The Brighton downs (not quite so sharply accentuated) with a bluer sea and flowers springing in the grass in greater profusion than at home — this is what we are marching over in that ordered array from which the blaze of the sun is flashed back at every step in rays innumerable. But before us, and away towards the broad bands of rising ground purpled in the distance, and gradually heaping tier over tier till they are lost in the blue peak of the Tchatir Dagh, there ascend, reddening at the base, pillars of smoke in the still air — now black — now whitening as they die out. The Cossack has been busy with the torch, and he is preparing our welcome of fire and ashes ! Hour after hour we move on. It is a slow march, for the men must halt now and then to rest ; and it is needful to keep the order of our advance. During one of these breaks, when air 372 GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. army is resolved into myriads of units, when arms are piled, packs shifted, pipes lighted, and a hum which is the laughter and shouting of thousands all together swells over the plain, I rode on with Major Hood towards our cavaby, which was covering our front very prettily with its Light Brigade. We came to a narrow, sluggish, ditch- like stream groping through a fat meadow on its way to the sea. By the side of the road close to the bridge were the remains of a whitewashed farmhouse blackened by the smoke of the hayricks and outhouses, and charred by the heat so that the planks of the roof had crumpled up and broken away from the eaves. The major was a man of forethought. " The cavalry can't have had time to rnmmage this place. Let us go in and see if the Cossacks have left anything." We dismounted, hitched up our horses at the door of the Post Station of Buljanak, and entered the house. Room after room — it was all the same — furniture broken — drawers open and empty — scattered articles of clothing— every mark of hasty flight. As we opened one. door, a cat charged furiously between our legs and was followed by a kid, but in an instant a shot from Hood's revolver rolled the latter over. " There's our dinner for a couple of days, my lad ! I'm not sure we ought to have let pussy go, for cat's meat may be a delicacy if the Cossacks have their way. Now I'll just make our kid portable, and do you go on and try your luck. Don't spare anything eatable." I descended into the court ju.st as Standish bounded round the corner in pursuit of a wounded guinea- fowl, with a smoking pistol in his hand, and ran it to death in the embers of a hay-rick. " There," he exclaimed, " a few turns more and it would be roasted, feathers and all. Cam- paigning makes a fellow very hungry and dreadfully unprincipled. What a joke we think all this is !— but how savage we'd be if the French were potting our domestic animals about Clapham Common ! " And we three marauders pricked along the plain with our jilunder in our wallets till we got nigh the line of the cavalry skirmishers which had just halted in a hollow. On the ridge in front of them there was a dotted line of horsemen, which advanced towards us. As they came nearer, the long ilagiess lances and the round bullet-like heads of the Cossack horse were made manifest. "The canaille have got something behind them," said Hood, " as we shall see presently." The Cossacks came on bravely waving their lances, and their lively little horses curvetted prettily down the slope. Then came a tiny puff of smoke from one, and then another popped off his carbine, and the fire ran from one to the other along their line, and their horses pranced and kicked about more friskily than ever. Our skirmishers answered, and in their ranks too was equal commotion, and much gambadoing, buck- jumping, and rearing ; but no one was hurt, and the result of the spattering of small-arms was, now and then a little dust knocked up from the dry ground, or a singing in the air as a bullet wandered on its errand. " It's a capital illustration of the value of cavalry fire," said Hood. "But look, there they are in earnest ! " He pointed to the hill in front, and there indeed rose in sight a forest of lances. Next there appeared a dense mass of horse, which halted on the sky-line in three divisions ; the centre dark blue, the right white, and the left a light grey. " Ho ! ho ! my lads, I thought so," continued the major. " There is my Lord Cardigan and his Brigade, but whei'e are his guns 1 These fellows will soon let us have a taste of their iron." Our skirmishers were falling back. The Cossack line followed them with derisive cheers. Suddenly the centre square of dark blue on the ridge shook itself out, and opening right and left uncovered eight black specks on the hill. Out flew from one of them a fat puff of white smoke, and ere one could count twice a sharp swishing sound heralded but an instant in advance the visit of the round shot, which pitched right under my pony and covered the major and Standish with a violent shower of earth, small stones, and dust. "We are right in the line of their fire on the cavalry ! They take us for the staff, perhaps, owing to this gentleman's .splendid gold band. Come over to the left flank," advised our Mentor, who never stopped puffing his cigar for a moment. And as he spoke a shell burst over us, and I heard the singing of the fragments ; and swish came another .shot ! and whizz ! whizz ! whizz ! shot after shot all around us ! But Hood was imperative against any rapid movement. " No cantering ! No galloping ! A quiet trot to the flank, if you plea.se, gentlemen." It was now a very pretty sight indeed. The cavalry was slowly falling back, wheeling in alter- nate squadrons, with face to the enemy as they retired, whilst the Russians pressed forward with their guns as if to come down on us ere the Brigade could reach the cover of its artillery and the advancing army. In the distance behind us appeared the British, moving on like Atlantic rollers, and tracing the green plains with bands of scarlet and white ; and through the dust-clouds which came up from the tramp of horses and the wheels of bounding gun-carriages we could make out the artillery hastening to the rescue. The Russian guns ceased not to ply the cavalry, and here and there a horse fell or the ranks shook for a little as the missile found a victim. But the tables were soon turned on the enemy — a British AT THE ALMA. 373 "battery uulimbered close to us, opened fire, and, seconded by another, soon cliecked the Russian horse and forced them to gather up their guns. Presently they vanished over the hill again, and were seen no more. " What was it all about, sir 1 " puffed a stout Eifle captain, very red in the face from running along with his company, into which the last Russian round shot rolled slowly, to the great damage of a poor terrier, which ran at it, and lost all his teeth in consequence. "Are we engaged with the enemy ? " for help and mercy ; all mingled together, with a crackling and hissing of flames from burning villages, and a ringing treble of musketry ; this was the music to which the play was going, the actors terribly in earnest, some only caring to get away if they could, others only anxious to kill or be killed, so that the agony were over soon. With faces blackened with powder and eyes staring wildly, and teeth clenched and with tongues lolling out, the men pressed up the .slopes, some loading and firing coolly, others mechanically, moving on with very little formation towards the grey-coated At the Alma. ( Drawn by J. Bell,) "It was near being a surprise of our cavalry, that's all, sir," replied Hood. "More by chance than good guidance it wasn't. But the lads behaved beautifully." The armies halted for the night soon afterwards, •close to the banks of the little stream. And now here was I, on a sunshiny warm after- noon on a lovely autumn day, toiling up a hill which might have been a ridge removed from the infernal regions with all its demon population ! Tumult, indescribable and infinite ! the noise of cannon, for which there is no word, for it is not a roar, nor is it thunder ; the scream of shells, the rush of shot, the deadly song of the leaden birds in continuous flight around, the storm of human voices in all the variety of sound of which they are capable — command, angry urgence, pain, impreca- lion, hate, furious outcry, and passionate appeals columns posted above. I could see their brass- spiked helmets flittering about as the gunners loaded and fired, and the figures of the men, as they sponged out and rammed home, stood out distinctly against the snowy folds of smoke from the guns. To see a man fall gently forward on his face and hands as though he had tripped on a stone and would get up immediately, and yet to know he would never stir more, — to see another spring up in the air, drop his firelock, clap his hand to his heart, and plump into the grass, — to see a man pirouette and reel and drop, and try in vain to rise, — to see a man tumble and roll over again and again like a rabbit shot in full run, — to see a man stagger, lean against his musket, slowly incline himself to the ground and there lean on his arm whilst one hand pressed the wound, — to see a man topple abruptly and then crawl away, 374 GLEANINGS PROM POPULAR AUTHORS. dragging a broken leg behind liim, — to see a body- stand for a second ere it fell, witlioiit a head, or the trunk and head lying legless, — to see in the line of a rush of grape a track of dead and dying, just as small birds are cut down in winter-time by boys in a farm-yard — this was in a few minutes quite familiar to me, and was far less terrible than one glimpse of some terror-stricken wretch as, in fear of being trodden to death, he sought to creep away to a quiet place to die ; or the mute i-uploring faces of the wounded who all at once felt their part in the day was over. I was going I knew not where, for my orders had been of the vaguest. I was to place myself wherever the divisional medical officer might appoint. But he was not visi ble anywhere. And as to " wherever my services were needed," why, there was a fair field anywhere. But it was quite evident I was not on the right track at present, as I was too much in the way of glory, and had no right to its favours. Old Bagsliaw (he used to be so civil) shouted, "What are you doing here, sir? Go back to the rear at once, sir ! " as, waving his sword and mounted on a weak-legged Turkish pony, he led the Bengal Tigers over the broken-ground. Major Savage, a grey-haired, melancholy veteran, who was much oppressed by Mrs. Savage and many tyrannical children, was quite another being. He curvetted about on a lumbering commissariat cai't- horse, roaring, "Now then, that 'ere number one company, whatever's the reason you don't close hup, Captain Wilmot? Forerds, number one company — forerds ! Hincline your left a little forrerder, number two. That's it, my lads ! " — and so passed on. I saw the Tigers halt in an irregular line and open fire fiercely to check a grey block of helmeted infantry which came gravitating down the slope of the hill. In another second a lum- bering commissariat-horse came plunging past me, flinging up its great heels and making for the river. Bagshaw was quite right — I could be no use where I was. There was no one to help me to dress a wound or to carry away a wounded man, and I turned down towards the Alma, skirting the flaming village, and threading my way amongst the bodies, or avoiding the advancing battalions. The din was loud as ever, but a word of command, or a cry of pain can be heard through all the uproar of battle. To the right of the burning houses De Lacy Evans, with a small stafl^, was scanning the progress of the action on our left through his glass. He saw that the Light Division, though they had drawn the teeth of the Russians, were broken and overmatched. "Steele," he exclaimed, " ride over to his Royal Highness, and say I think the First Division should advance at once." Down, pouring solidly towards the stream, came the granite-like columns of the Muscovite ; and then through the eddying smoke the bear- skins of the Guards drew in sight, amid the foUage of the vineyards, and the river was- dammed by that living wall. They arrested and gathered up the stubborn debris of the gallant Light Division. Soon the gentle slope was seamed by black and scarlet bands, belted with musket flashes and bayonets. On the left of the Guards we could just catch through the trees the bonnets of the Highlanders ; behind them, motionless, part of the Light Division in square. Further on the left, out on the plain, were all our cavalry. Behind us, in splendid order, was advancing the Third Division. A group of officers has just passed down to the river close by ; a one- armed man, in blue frock-coat and cocked hat with white plume — we all know who he is — cantering gallantly and gaily, straight for the banks crested with Russians, as if he were at a review, leading his staff to do battle. On our right, the French are clustering on the hills and knolls, and fight under the thick vapour of their ever-rolling musketry. The general of the Second Division has galloped with his staff by the burning village to his men, who are engaged in desperate conflict with the enemy on the right of the- Guards. Wherever I turn there is work for me. Strange enough, but true ! In the midst of all the clamour and smoke, the swallows were swoop- ing about in the most unconcerned manner possible, rejoicing may be in the great embarrass- ment of the flies ! Once, indeed, a very large bird of that description, as I thought, took ofi' a piece of my hat ; and I learned that bits of shell may be mistaken for swallows when there is much smoke about. Everywhere cries for help, or mute looks of entreaty — lint ! and bandage ! and tourniquet I And for ever that roar incessant, and with all the monotony of death in its tone ! Is it never to end I Presently there came a break in the storm — a few fitful outbursts as violent as the intensest roll of musketry — then a booming of cannon — it rolls- further and further, then dies out — then come dropping shots — another rolling fire, and — " What is that ? " A ringing cheer ! Oh, such a cheer ! It is the wild hurrah of ten thousand men as they stand victorious in the sloppy grass, amid the dying and the dead, on the ridge of the Alma. And far away in the distance we hear the fanfare of the trumpets and the triumphant rattle of the drums of the French, whose dark masses crown the summits of the cliffs as the declining sun falls on the sheen of arms, and touches eyelids which will never open to its rays again. When the soldier's work is done the surgeon's begins. Let me spare my readers that night of horrors. I feared every moment to behold the face of -some old friend. I dreaded lest I should encounter the look of Gerald Desmond^ as the- THE BLIND LINNET. 375 ■wounded were borne into the barn wliicli formed the operation room and hospital. But he was safe. " Captain Desmond, I can assure you, is not touched," said poor old Bagshaw ; '' I saw him at the General's quarters as they were moving me down here after all was over. It was a confounded shame to leave us without supports — a regular massacre, sir. I will talk sir — if it's my last word, I will say it was shockingly mulled. My dear old Tigers ! — we've had a dreadful mauling, but if you doctors can save my leg I'll live to command them again, please God. I defy that rascal who has been persecuting me all my life to stop my promotion this time ! I've done him now ! " And we did save old Bagshaw's leg, and he lived to command the Tigers at Inkerman and in the trenches, till he received a wound beyond our skill to cure, for his leg was carried off with the sharpest precision, and he may now be seen stumping down Pall Mall of a warm afternoon to his club, to expatiate on the "confounded shames" to which he is still exposed by his unknown perse- cutor, in the matter of regimental colonelcies. THE BLIJSTD LINNET. [By EOBERT Ettchanan.] fHE sempstress's linnet sings At the window opposite me ; — ^-^ It feels the sun on its wings. Though it cannot see. Can a bird have thoughts 1 May be. The sempstress is sitting. High o'er the humming street. The little blind linnet is flitting Between the sun and her seat. All day long 37G GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. She stitches wearily there, And I know she is not young, And I know she is not fair ; For I watch her head bent down Throughout the dreary clay. And the thin meek hair o' brown Is threaded with silver grey ; And now and then, with a start At the fluttering of her heart. She lifts her eyes to the bird, And I see in the dreary place The gleam of a thin white face. And my heart is stirr'd. Loud and long The linnet pipes his song ! For he cannot see The smoky street all round. But loud in the sun sings he, Though he hears the murmurous sound : For his poor blind eye-balls blink. While the yellow sunlights fall. And he thinks (if a bird can think) He hears a waterfall, Or the broad and beautiful river ^Yashing fields of corn, Flowing for ever Through the woods where he was born ; And his voice grows stronger, While he thinks that he is there. And louder and longer Falls his song on the dusky air. And oft in the gloaming still. Perhaps (for who can tell ?) The musk and the muskatel, That grow on the window sill Cheat him with their smell. But the sempstress can see How dark things be ; i How black through the town The stream is flowing ; And tears fall down Upon her sewing. So at times she tries. When her trouble is stirr'd, To close her eyes. And be blind like the bird. And then, for a minute, As sweet tilings seem, As to the linnet Piping in his dream 1 For .she feels on her brow The sunlight glowing, And hears nought now But a river flowing — A broad and beautiful river, Washing fields of corn, Flowing for ever Through the woods where she was born \ And a wild bird winging Over her head, and singing ; And she can smell The musk and muskatel That beside her grow, And, unaware, She murmurs an old air That she used to know ! EDITIONS OF THE POETS. Messrs. Hotjghton, Mifflin & Co. invite atten- tion to their editions of the leading ENGLISH AND AMERICAN POETS, as follows -.— HOUSEHOLD EDITION. 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