THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Los ANGELES
 
 TKADITIONS 
 ABOUT ALDEESHOT. 
 
 (FAMHAII AND FARNBOROUGH.) 
 
 SECOND SERIES. 
 
 lo/xs!/ -^sibea t:oa}m 7.iysiv sr-j/zoiGiv cfj-oTa, 
 
 Hes. Deo. Gen, 27, 
 
 BY CHAELES STANLEY HEEVE 
 
 (De la Moriniere), 
 
 Author of " Love and Pride," " Don Juan jNIarried," 
 " Songs for the Army," &c., &€. 
 
 London : 
 
 S. STRAKER & SONS, 
 
 "Avenue" Works, Bishopsgate Avenue, E.G. 
 
 18S1.
 
 ?R 
 4786 
 
 !_' ix C" 4- 
 
 PBEFACE. 
 
 'Those who have read my first series of " Traditions about 
 Aldershot," published fourteen years ago, will perfectly under- 
 stand that it has been found necessary in this, a second 
 series, to pursue the same course as before, namely, to employ 
 real names, both of persons and places, only when such could 
 be done without touching the sensibilities of the present 
 .generation belonging to the localities. And now a few words 
 to the general public. 
 
 So little back as fifty years ago Aldershot parish and village 
 numbered only three hundred and fifty souls. Its manor- 
 house (now in the occupation of Captain Newcome, J-P.) 
 and three or four moderate homesteads were the only domi- 
 ciles above the rank of very humble cottages, and the Red 
 Lion Tavern was the only place of public entertaimnent. 
 
 Twenty-six years ago all became changed, as if by magic. 
 " Harlequin's wand " passed over the place, and transformed 
 it from a wilderness of gorse and furze into a populous and 
 thriving community. A Government military camp sprang 
 up ; palatial barracks for the soldiers, churches, mission 
 halls, hotels, theatres, music halls, streets of capacious shops, 
 private residences, large commercial establishments, gas and 
 water companies, with all the concomitants of civilian pros- 
 perity — all uprose within a brief space, and the once obscure 
 village of Aldershot, well paved, drained and lighted, numbers 
 hard upon twelve thousand inhabitants, who, with the twelve 
 thousand troops generally located in the camp, form a com- 
 munity of very respectable importance, seeing tliat fifty years 
 ago Aldershot laas witliout even so nincli as a name In some 
 of the county maps. 
 
 What Aldershot may be twenty-five years hence no prophet 
 may tell, but it must be for good, and it is a noteworthy cir- 
 cumstance thatj obscure as was the locality, it was yet full of 
 
 112S038
 
 n PREFACE. 
 
 romantic traditions, some of which are even more curious 
 
 than those ah'cady presented to notice, especially a few 
 
 connected with the Tichborne family, the Vernon family, and 
 
 that of the late William Cobbctt, and in relation to some of 
 
 the present scries I take the opportunity to acknowledge 
 
 my obligations to an old gentleman named Piper, late 
 
 of Farnham, and formerly a clerk in the banking firm 
 
 of Messrs. Knight, to whose antiquarian research I am 
 
 indebted for the curious semi-historical fact recorded in the 
 
 tale of " The Fox and Hounds," which even yet " stands in 
 
 evidence," a brick-and-mortar relic of three hundred years' 
 
 standing, to confront the wayfarer on the Lower Farnham 
 
 Road, linking old memories, thence to the old parish church 
 
 of Aldershot itself, as told by the chronicler. 
 
 In the hope that this present series of *' Traditions " may 
 
 find as much favour as the last, I make my bow and say 
 
 " Farewell." 
 
 C. S. Herve. 
 
 Flagstaff Villa, Grosvenor Road, Aldershot, 
 May 3, 1881.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 The Love-Stone i 
 
 Fox AND Hounds 47 
 
 The Tradesman's Daughter -ji 
 
 His Whiskers; or, the Barber-Fiend . . .119 
 
 The Death-Rose 141 
 
 The Tinker's Legacy 150 
 
 The Heir-in-tail 170 
 
 Legends of Saints and Sinners .... 215 
 
 Selections from the Versified Portion of a 
 
 Sacred Oratorio— St. John the Baptist . 311
 
 THE LOYE-STOXE. 
 
 " There be precious stones which have a sym- 
 pathy with human suffering and passions, as was 
 well known to the ancients. Worn as amulets, they 
 often acted as love spells, particularly the opal, which 
 is accredited as an antidote to malice and hatred, 
 growing bright with the smile of welcome on approach 
 of a loved object, and waxing dim, as with tears, on 
 the loved one's departure. It is even said to become 
 shattered under the downfall of rain at harvest time." 
 
 EUSEBIUS VAN DER Beke, on Lapidary Work 
 (Translated from the Dutch).
 
 THE LOYE-STONE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Long, long ago, before the village of Aldershot had 
 made its mark upon the county map, otherwise than as a 
 parish liable to poor-rates and king's taxes (for it was 
 before the time of a Lady Sovereign), even so long ago 
 as when Lord High-Admiral Clarence, the Sailor King, 
 steered the bark of Madame Britannia, who just then 
 ruled the waves not very straight, insomuch as the 
 billows of turbulence ran high, and the rocks of dis- 
 content were laid bare, not only round the " tight little 
 island " itself, but in the far East, where " John Com- 
 pany " held sway, driving us islanders into a loud cry for 
 political reform, and our Indian Empire into a terrible 
 fight for supremacy, with bold Sir Charles Napier for its 
 impending hero and Scinde for an appanage. So long 
 then ago as about the year 1830, and while yet only 
 some three or four moderate-sized houses stood within 
 hail of the parish church, a few very humble cottages 
 looked upon the enclosed piece of land now called 
 Aldershot Green, they being the property — freehold or 
 leasehold, it matters little which — of a man named Pharo, 
 Avho let those same cottages to whosoever would rent 
 them for the sum of eighteen-pence each weekly, not
 
 2 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 being at all particular as to who occupied them so they 
 paid him his dues. 
 
 It was in the best one of these dwellings that a some- 
 what mysterious couple had been living for seven 
 months, greatly exciting the wonder and curiosity of the 
 few neighbours who abode near them — " Jones " was 
 the name by which they were known — the man being a 
 comely young fellow enough about four-and-twenty 
 years of age, and his wife, an equally comely woman, 
 whose years might have numbered twenty-two, certainly 
 not more, neither of them seeming to care for associating 
 with their neighbours, and both being Avithout occupation, 
 so far as appearances went. 
 
 The occupants of the cottages nearest to this singular 
 couple were agricultural labourers, very poor indeed, 
 earning a wage of nine shillings only by the week ; while 
 the next two of their neighbours, a trifle further off, were 
 scarcely more richly endowed, the one as a vendor of 
 "small stuff," the other as a cobbler " on half- pay," as 
 he called himself, meaning thereby that he " cobbled " 
 shoes or boots for only one-half the price his work was 
 entitled to, which might be true or false according to the 
 judgment of such as paid. One, only one other neigh- 
 bour dwelt within sight of Mr. and Mrs. Jones ^^■ho, by 
 reason of propinquity, had any right at all to exercise 
 curiosity touching the ways and means of such as dwelt 
 within the small radius of his circle — this was one 
 Timothy Weazel, an army pensioner, who, by reason of 
 his being lame of one leg, blind of one eye, and deaf as 
 a post, was judged fit to enact the part of parish
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 3 
 
 constable, and was accordingly sworn in as such, at a salary 
 of " nothing a-year," payable quarterly, but with per- 
 quisites, which sometimes amounted to the sum of two 
 shillings within the twelve months, resulting from the 
 capture of a stray vagrant or so, who might have had the 
 audacity to steal a farthing turnip or to sleep under a 
 hedge without paying for his lodging. 
 
 Of these few neighbours who thought it worth while 
 to attempt solving the mystery of their more fortunate, 
 or at least more idle, co-parishioner, this Timothy Weazel 
 was certainly the most adventurous one ; partly because 
 he had plenty of time on his hands, and partly because, 
 being in the service of his Majesty, it was his bounden 
 duty to find out if treason was being hatched out within 
 his realm of observation. 
 
 Had Mr. and Mrs. Jones followed any ostensible mode 
 for obtaining a living, had the man been a carpenter, 
 a mason, or a labourer of any kind, and the woman 
 gone out on service, no remark would have been made ; 
 but the man did nothing except sleep all day, while 
 others were at work, and ramble about all night, while 
 others were in bed : the woman doing even less than 
 this, for she neither slept by day nor walked forth at 
 all, except once or so, at brief intervals, when she set 
 forth wearing a shawl ofdazzHng colours and inestimable 
 worth — such as no poor woman had a right to possess — 
 and made her way through Batchet Lea to Farnham, from 
 whence she returned, bearing such few necessaries as 
 could not be purchased nearer. 
 
 It was not known, therefore, whether Mr. and Mrs.
 
 4 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 Jones were living upon an income of their own or not 
 Be this, however, as it might, it was quite certain that 
 they hved well, even upon the fat of the land ; for upon 
 the ornamental ash-heap which decorated the front of the 
 little cottage range were found the bones of chickens and 
 other fowl — not always picked so cleanly as might have 
 been had the pickers been very poor. Broken bottles 
 also were discovered, bottles which had held spirits, or 
 even wine, such as poor people could never have in- 
 dulged in ; and more than all this, worse than all these, 
 bones of a most peculiar kind were discovered buried 
 beneath the leaves of cabbages and other vegetables — 
 bones which seemed to have been concealed for a pur- 
 pose — bones of ribs, small ribs, such as might have 
 ajDpertained to — what ? — something larger than a barn 
 door fowl, or even a turkey ; bones which — horrible to 
 suppose — might have belonged to some animal of no 
 ordinary kind, even to a small human being — a baby ! 
 The supposition was fearful to contemplate, and yet 
 Timothy Weazel did contemplate it, and even whispered 
 it, too, as he poked his walking stick into the heap of 
 cinders and vegetable refuse which formed an unsightly 
 mound in front of the cottage inhabited by the Joneses. 
 
 There was no magistrate residing in the manor house, 
 now so honourably occupied by Captain Newcome, or 
 Timothy Weazel would certainly have laid an information 
 touching this mystery. As it was, he was fain to poke 
 and fish about for more evidence, casting around his one 
 eye, hobbling on his lame leg, assisted by a stick, and 
 enquiring of the poor labourers' wives for scraps of
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 5 
 
 knowledge which might help him on. But none, or next to 
 none, could he obtain, as the only instance in which the 
 village gossips could find access to Mrs. Jones was at the 
 time when she made her daily visit to the one single 
 well, at the back of the cottages, which served for all ; 
 aiid at such time Mrs. Jones uttered no words except 
 "good morning," and that only in a tone of voice which 
 implied utter contempt for the speakers. 
 
 It must not be supposed, however, that curiosity found 
 no relief in framing for itself an occupation for Mr. 
 Jones — for, if that personage was known to be absent 
 most nights from his home, he was seen to return very 
 early in the morning with pockets in his capacious 
 velveteen coat bulging out suspiciously ; traces of blood 
 had even been noticed in his wake by Timothy Weazel 
 — not very abundant traces — little spots only — some of 
 which he had taken care to sop up with a morsel of 
 white blotting-paper, bought in Farnham for the purpose. 
 This fact, coupled with the other fact of small rib bones, 
 went far to make Timothy Weazel have terrible appre- 
 hensions that Mr. Jones was a body-snatcher, if not 
 absolutely a cannibal. He had read of vampires, too, 
 in some German story books lent him by the house- 
 keeper at the manor, and so terribly did the complication 
 of horrible thoughts affect him that he could obtain 
 no sleep of nights without the aid of a stiff glass of 
 grog, which he could but ill afford. 
 
 It may be surmised from the foregoing that Timothy 
 Weazel was a trifle weak of intellect, and such was 
 certainly true to some extent, for the silver medal which
 
 8 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 a blazing scacoal fire in that one of the two rooms which 
 constituted their parlour, kitchen and all, about the hour of 
 mid-day, with a dense fog blurring the struggling light 
 outside, whereby they had found it necessary to light a 
 couple of miserable candles, known as " dips." 
 
 Mr. Jones, or " Tommy," as his wife called him, was 
 a good-looking man, tall, well formed, and evidently 
 very strong, his shoulders being a trifle disproportionately 
 wide for his height, which touched upon six feet. He 
 was very much tanned in the face, owing to habitual 
 exposure to the weather, all but his forehead, which was 
 very fair, a circumstance due to its being almost always 
 covered with a sealskin cap, not of that peculiar kind 
 known to modern fashion, but of that old-world kind 
 popular fifty years ago, when the prevailing colour 
 Avas that of " vandyke brown," and its texture what might 
 be termed " lumpy." Perhaps the most noticeable 
 feature about Thomas Jones was his hair, of light auburn, 
 short, crisp, and curly, such as is generally represented in 
 statuary as pertaining to the athletes of the arena ; for 
 the rest, his features were good, if a little sensuous, all 
 except his eyes, which were low, sunk, and shifty. He 
 was dressed, or rather half-dressed, in an open waistcoat 
 of " cow-skin," a long and loose velveteen coat — much 
 weather-stained — a pair of corduroy unmentionables, 
 loose at the knee, and stockings of dark brown worsted, 
 his feet being shoeless. 
 
 Mrs. Jones, his " vis-a-vis " at the table, was as comely 
 as her husband, if not more so, being very plump, both in 
 face and figure, with a pair of dark eyes, over-arched by
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 9 
 
 singularly well-curved brows, an aquiline nose, a some- 
 what rounded chin, and a moudi so beautiful to look 
 upon, at a glance, that the temptation to kiss it was very 
 great indeed until that mouth, by becoming opened, 
 displayed a set of teeth so large, so dazzlingly white, and 
 so formidably regular, that they did not seem natural, 
 but the artificial exhibit of a manufacturing dentist, 
 placed there by way of advertisement, and yet they were 
 real, thirty-two in number, according to Nature's own 
 pattern. 
 
 It may seem, on description, that a very extra good set 
 of teeth could by no means be a deformity, and yet the 
 exhibition of those very incisors and molars did strike 
 the beholder with unpleasant surprise — repelling, in fact, 
 any gazer whom the beautiful lips might tempt into 
 presuming with a kiss, to retreat, " prestissimo," for 
 fear of a bite, instead of an answering caress. Apart 
 from this defect, Mrs. Jones was decidedly a lovable 
 woman, fair, inclined to plumpness, and with a head of 
 hair glossy and abundant, falling upon her sufficiently 
 uncovered bosom in rippling volume, graceful beyond 
 the reach of art. 
 
 In point of dress Mrs. Jones was decidedly deficient — 
 for the nonce, at least — for she was both stayless and 
 gownless, wearing no lower garment than a petticoat of 
 some dark woollen material, and a shawl thrown care- 
 lessly over her shoulders — very probably that identical 
 shawl which her envious female neighbours coveted 
 while they disparaged, for it was of Indian fabric, rich in 
 colour, thick in texture, and worth, at the very least.
 
 TO THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 from twenty to thirty pounds. No shoes covered her 
 plump feet, but her stockings were of silk. This pair 
 — the man and wife — were seated, as before told, at 
 their breakfast, the table whereon which was displayed 
 being worth description for the extreme singularity of its 
 appointments ; for although the table itself was of the 
 commonest material, it was covered by a damask cloth 
 •of the finest texture, and set out with a service, or part 
 service, of costly china ware, two cups, several plates, and 
 a couple of dishes, evidently the finest Worcester or 
 Derby could produce, while the tea-pot and milk ewer 
 •were of the best Sheffield plated. Within the tea-pot, 
 or rather from out it, steamed the fragrant odour of ex- 
 pensive tea, such as could not have been purchased for 
 less than seven shillings the pound, and on one of the 
 •dishes the remains of a fine hare displayed ribs of a size an 
 •quality such as might well have deceived Mr. Timothy 
 AVeazel in mistaking them for those of a young child. 
 Upon the other dish a well-browned pheasant, as yet 
 untouched by knife or fork, lay temptingly in view — 
 although, of course, cold — serving to display, as it were, 
 a superfluity of riches in the eating line of business, as 
 well as to offer a strange contrast to the otherwise 
 poverty-stricken surroundings of the room itself, con- 
 .sisting of only three Windsor chairs, a small display of 
 cooking materials, and such domestic utensils as were 
 indispensable, if it be excepted that the w^alls of the room 
 were decorated with sundry appurtenances appertaining to 
 Mr. Jones's somewhat questionable trade, such as a gun or 
 two, sundry belts and pouches, some fishing tackle, a
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. II;' 
 
 few nets used to ensnare birds, and several bags of 
 capacious make, all of which articles were either hung 
 upon nails and pegs, or ortherwise secured on shelves, 
 and covered with material of various kinds. Opening 
 from this dwelling-room might be seen the apartment 
 'devoted to slumber, and even in this might be noted 
 the same strange contrast of comparative wealth and 
 poverty, for while the bedstead was of painted wood 
 only, the bed itself seemed to consist of two feather beds, 
 heaped one over the other above a mattress, which served 
 to pile up the whole so high that a set of bed steps was 
 necessary in order to climb up to the bed itself, bed 
 linen and counterpane being all of a quality to match, 
 although whatever else the room itself contained was of 
 the cheapest and humblest, needing no description at all. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Jones had finished their breakfast — the 
 lady sitting cross-legged, in an unladylike way, before 
 the fire, which she occasionally poked with a vicious air, 
 as if in a bad temper — the gentleman (if he may be called 
 so) reading an old number of the Times newspaper, 
 covered with dirt and grease, as though it had passed 
 through many hands before reaching those of the present 
 reader. Mr. Jones had been thus employed in silence 
 for a considerable time, when suddenly he uttered an 
 exclamation, which aroused INIrs. Jones from her ab- 
 straction. 
 
 "What is it, Tommy?" exclaimed Mrs. Jones. 
 
 " Something that will bother you, as it bothers me," 
 replied Mr. Jones. 
 
 " I don't care to be more bothered than I am now^
 
 12 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 living in this i:)oking hole, with no one to associate. 
 What is it, though ? " 
 
 " Something I can't make out. Your old mistress is 
 married." 
 
 " What old mistress ? Lady Mary ? " 
 
 " The Dowager ? No. Young Miss Mabel. Your 
 late mistress, if you like that term better." 
 
 " My late mistress ! Why, you know she was married, 
 in spite of the old Dowager's teeth, to her lover, the cap- 
 tain, twelve months ago. Was I not her bridesmaid on 
 the sly ? and did she not give us these very things ? " 
 
 " Yes, you were her bridesmaid, and got fifty pounds 
 for that job ; but for all that she is married again, and to 
 that same captain ; here it is in black and white, listen — " 
 
 Hereupon Thomas Jones read from the newspaper : — 
 ^' ' Married, at the parish church of Dipple-on-the-Ware, 
 Captain Henry Turnbull, of the Honble. East India 
 Company's Service, to Miss Mabel Drinkwater, youngest 
 ■daughter of the late Sir Thomas Drinkwater, of Diply 
 Hall, Northumberland.' There !" 
 
 "What on earth can it mean? Married a second 
 time ! Re-married ! and to the same man — her own 
 proper husband ! What is the date ? " 
 
 " No date at all ; there is the mystery ; it does not 
 say when ; either a few days ago, or twelve months ; it is 
 strange, very." 
 
 " Let me see the paper." 
 
 Whereupon Mr. Jones handed over the newspaper to 
 his wife, who, after conning the announcement over and 
 over again, tiung down the paper, saying, "There is some
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. X$ 
 
 meaning in this — some stratagem to blind the old lady, 
 who, being only stepmother to the two girls, Mabel and 
 Elizabeth, had a mortal hatred of both, for reasons I 
 never could find out." 
 
 " Was it about money matters ? " 
 
 " Partly, but not entirely. She hated the two girls — 
 Miss Elizabeth, the eldest, who married during her 
 father's lifetime, and died in childbirth, and Miss Mabel, 
 too; partly because she held the control of her fortune 
 till she should be twenty-one, and partly because she 
 hated the Turnbull family in mass." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " General Turnbull, the father, had been her lover, 
 and refused her thirty years ago ; or, to make the matter 
 clearer, it is whispered that she courted the gentleman in 
 such a barefaced manner that he not only rejected her 
 love, but made her ridiculous by telling tales." 
 
 " Very ungentlemanly." 
 
 " Perhaps so, but that is the tale. It is even said 
 that she only married Sir Thomas Drinkwater in order 
 to spit her spite on the General's two sons, especially the 
 one who was courting Miss Mabel." 
 
 "A vicious old beldame. What an ass Sir Thomas 
 was to marry her, \\ith his two daughters both grown up, 
 and a son." 
 
 " Just so ; but we only guess at the mystery as yet. 
 I wish I knew where to address a letter to IMrs. Captain 
 Turnbull." 
 
 " She may write to you, perhaps. She knows your 
 address."
 
 14 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 "She knows I am liere, and under our assumed naraey, 
 as I wrote to her se\ en months ago when we had occasion 
 to play at hide-and-seek, taking the name of Jones as a 
 Wind." 
 
 " Drop that, Maiy. Let no whisper of our real name 
 be echoed about, lest harm befal us. But hark ! there 
 is a knock — a postman's knock, too, by the living 
 Jingo!" 
 
 A knock there certainly was, and ver/ much like a 
 postman's knock, only it had been made with the end of 
 a stout walking cane in place of the usual door knocker,, 
 which was conspicuously absent. 
 
 On opening the door, ]\Ir. Jones found himself con- 
 fronted by an attenuated slip of mortality in the shape 
 of one Tom Bowler, the postman of Ash district, whose 
 exceedingly thin legs and scarcely thicker body told 
 only too truly that he had much walking to do for 
 very little pay. He was accompanied also by Timoth)r 
 Weazel, to whom there had been told the wonderful news, 
 of " a letter for the Joneses." 
 
 " Mrs. Mary Jones," exclaimed the postman, " postage 
 paid." 
 
 In all probability Timothy Weazel had hoped, if not 
 expected, to catch a glimpse of the interior of the 
 cottage, but in this he was disappointed, for Mr. Jones 
 no sooner took hold of the letter than he slammed the 
 door, leaving both his visitors out in the cold, greatly to 
 their sorrow. 
 
 " For you, Molly, my dear. Shall I open it ? " 
 
 " At your peril, Tommy Jones ; give it me."
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 1 5 
 
 « 
 
 Thus saying, but not in angry mood, Mrs. Jones 
 snatched the letter, and after reading it twice, with here 
 and there an exclamation of surprise, she handed it over 
 to her husband, saying, 
 
 " It is very much as I suspected, the old Dowager, her 
 :step-mother, has given an unwilling consent to her 
 marriage at last, and the poor thing has had to get up a 
 .sham wedding in order to conceal the real one of twelve 
 months ago — read for yourself." 
 
 This being what Mr. Jones read : 
 
 My Dear Mary Trollope (otherwise Jones),— 
 
 I write to 3'ou in great trouble. My dear husband 
 is ordered off to India in hot haste on account of the war, 
 and I must accompany him, but a circumstance which you 
 may guess at stands in the way — / am abottt to become 
 /I mother, and dare not allow my dowager step-mother to 
 guess this fact, or she will perceive at once the fraud which 
 we, INCLUDING yourself, have played upon her by the 
 secret marriage of twelve months ago, in which case she 
 would have the power to alienate the fortune left me by my 
 father under his strange will. 
 
 You must now be informed that, for the last three months, 
 I have been on a visit to the only friend who, besides your- 
 self, knows my secret, and through whose kind offices I 
 mainly owe the consent, reluctantly extracted, for my mar- 
 riage, but who, most unfortunately, is also compelled to leave 
 England with her husband for the same reason as I and mine 
 must leave. 
 
 Up to this moment I have been able to keep my secret 
 from prying eyes, but cannot meet those of my step-mother, 
 nor, in fact, those of any other very dear observant friends. 
 A little clever arrangement has enabled me to get the notice 
 of my marriage announced in the Times without a date 
 attached, although all other particulars were correct — it is 
 merely undated— thereby giving the old lady, as well as 
 some others, to believe the marriage only seven days old.
 
 1 6 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 One Other little arrangement leaves me free to depart so 
 suddenly that all leave-taking may be dispensed with, thus 
 all would be well but for one terrible difficulty — / must give 
 birth to my child unknozvii to all the -world except yourself, 
 and you must help me for the sake of old times. 
 
 My plan, therefore, is this : myself and husband will reach 
 the Bush Hotel, Farnham, by post-carriage under an as- 
 sumed name on the day you receive this // all goes well. 
 I must then get conveyed to your place of residence and 
 trust to your good offices for the rest, hoping that my trouble 
 may be got well over in time to embark with my husband in 
 the transport ship, which is even now being made ready at 
 Portsmouth. Be you once again my friend in this my sorest 
 trouble, and I will requite your kindness ever more. Go or 
 send to Farnham, at the Bush Hotel, and ask for Mr. and 
 I\lrs. Smith, all further details when we meet. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 MABEL TURNBULL. 
 
 "A precious mess we are in then," exclaimed Tom 
 Jones. " Is there nothing else, women generally add a 
 postscrijDt ? " 
 
 " No — yes, see, here is a small folded paper, which I 
 did not perceive at first — and, ah, containing a bank 
 note ! ■' 
 
 " For how much — give it me ? " 
 
 Whereupon Mary Jones gave the enclosure, which 
 proved to be a note for ten pounds, with a scrap of 
 A\Titing to the effect that no expense was to be spared in 
 making arrangements for the expected issue. 
 
 " What the devil shall we do ? " interrogated Jones. 
 
 " Why, the best we can, of course." 
 
 " We have but these two rooms and these common 
 traps of furniture, nothing fit for a lady and gentleman."
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 1 7 
 
 • 
 
 " Who will, perhaps, pass themselves off as Jack and 
 Jill, being glad to put up with anything. Our bed, at 
 least, is a good one, and we have our plated tea-pot, with 
 china ware, her gift, and — " 
 
 " The devil a stick of furniture to match." 
 
 "That ten pound note will furnish all the rest." 
 
 " Only, how shall we get anything in time. Besides 
 putting our neighbours up to more than we wish them to 
 know, there's that meddling fool, the village constable, 
 will be smelling a rat." 
 
 " Let him catch one then, and eat it afterwards. 
 Tommy, you're half a fool. All we have to do is to keep 
 quiet. My old mistress and her husband will put up 
 with anything for secresy. Go to Farnham at once, 
 bring back half a dozen of good wine, some brandy, a 
 couple of fowls, and a few other matters, leaving all 
 else to me." 
 
 " How about the doctor ?" 
 
 " I forgot that. Ah ! The surgeon at Ash who 
 plaistered your head, which the keeper at Farnham 
 cracked for you." 
 
 "And for which I owe him yet, and will pay him." 
 
 " Never mind that. He, the doctor, must be called in, 
 if needful. But hark ! ^V hat noise is that ? A carriage ? ' 
 
 The sound of wheels grinding through the slush out- 
 side, and over the ash heap, immediately caused Jones 
 to open the door, before which stood a pair-horse chaise, 
 one of once famed " yellows," drawn by a tolerable 
 couple of horses, and driven by a post "boy" aDtat 70 
 years.
 
 l8 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 Few words were spoken ; all was seen at a glance ; 
 the two occupants of the vehicle were surely Captain and 
 Mrs. Turnbull ; the gentleman wearing a palpable dis- 
 guise, but not too shabby to challenge attention ; the 
 lady also wearing an extremely plain dress, shawl, and 
 bonnet ; the luggage pertaining to the two being just 
 such a modest trunk as might have been purchased for 
 half-a-dozen shillings. 
 
 Almost before the post-boy (aetat 70) could receive his 
 fee and dismissal, all of the immediate neighbours, con- 
 sisting of females only, were congregated in front of the 
 cottage, wonderstruck at sight of the vehicle, the like of 
 which no one of them had, possibly, ever seen before ; 
 and while yet the equipage was moving off, Timothy 
 AVeazel hobbled up, by the aid of his stick, no one of 
 the small congregate having caught a glimpse of the two- 
 visitors, who were only too glad to evade remark. 
 
 CHAPTER ITI. 
 
 Captain Turnbull was a fine, soldier-like man, a trifle 
 over the middle height, his face bronzed by the climate of 
 India, in which part of the globe he had passed eight 
 years, having taken a leave of nearly two years, upon 
 " urgent private business," his full period of time being 
 at an end. Mrs. Turnbull, his wife, was a tall, blue-eyed, 
 flaxen-haired, and very graceful woman ; but looked ex- 
 tremely delicate, even beyond the degree warranted by
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. I9 
 
 • * 
 
 her peculiar state of nigh approach to travail. She no 
 sooner found herself within reach of female aid than she 
 signed to Mary Jones, who lost no time in withdrawing 
 her to the bedroom, leaving the Captain to arrange 
 patters with Jones himself. 
 
 " Is this all the accommodation you can afford ? " 
 Captain Turnbull ejaculated, looking around him in 
 absolute dismay. 
 
 " It is all, sir," replied Jones. " Very humble, as you 
 see. I am afraid your lady o\"er-rated our means. Had 
 Ave received notice, something better might have been 
 •done, but we only received the letter this very morning." 
 
 " I could have wished things had been different," again 
 spoke the Captain, looking round him with a dis- 
 satisfied air. " But perhaps it is as well — have you 
 better sleeping accommodation than this room gives 
 promise for?" 
 
 "Yes, sir — two feather beds, one over the other, a 
 fireplace in the room, and all else to fit. My wife has 
 taken care of that." 
 
 " Then never mind the rest. A doctor and a nurse are 
 both to be got at." 
 
 "A doctor certainly, and a nurse perhaps." 
 
 " Your wife could possibly supply the latter help ; as 
 regards myself, I can make shift anyhow and anywhere. 
 Have you any wine ? " 
 
 " No, sir. We have only just received notice of your 
 arrival." 
 
 There is no need to report any further conversation on 
 this point. INIr. Tom Jones was immediately despatched
 
 20 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 to Farnliam for supplies ; meanwhile Mary Jones and 
 Mrs. TurnbuU settled matters to their own satisfaction, 
 the upshot being that Jones himself should vacate the 
 premises, and that Captain Turnbull should hire a 
 sleeping-room at the cottage of the parish clerk, who 
 lived in Church-lane, no one else in the neighbouring 
 cottages having a decent bed to offer. 
 
 This arrangement having been settled, Jones departed 
 on his errand and the Captain began to plan the some- 
 what peculiar campaign which lay before him, and in 
 which he felt the difficulties which any general of prudent 
 forethought would have contemplated with even reason- 
 able fear. What he had most to dread was that his v/ife's 
 confinement would not take place in time to afford her 
 recovery within the period which must elapse before, 
 the transport ship would be ready to sail. He was also 
 compelled to leave his wife for two days, at all events, in 
 her present state of uncertainty, while he himself took 
 measures for arranging her departure without being com- 
 pelled to face scrutinising eyes. 
 
 With this intention he commended his wife to the 
 charge of her former servant, and took his departure ta 
 Portsmouth at once. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It is now imperative to account for the strange situa- 
 tion in which an educated lady found herself placed, 
 through her own imprudence. Miss Mabel Drinkwater,
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 21 
 
 the youngest child of a deceased father, and step- 
 daughter of a vindictive woman, had been prevailed on 
 to marry her lover, the son of a man who had scorned 
 and rejected the love of that same vindictive woman — 
 her step-mother — -thirty years before the jDresent time. 
 Irhe marriage of Captain Turnbull and Mabel Drinkwater 
 had been private, in the hope that it could be so kept 
 until the lady was twenty-one years of age, when she 
 could claim her fortune at once, but until which time her 
 step-mother could not only retain its control, but could 
 alienate it entirely and for ever, provided the young lady 
 should marry without her consent. 
 
 The secret of the marriage had been well kept, through 
 the fact that, after the first three or four months of married 
 life, the young lady had lived apart from her step-mother 
 at the residence of a confidential friend, until the war in 
 India summoned both husbands to the East, when cir- 
 cumstances compelled recourse to further artifice. What 
 that artifice was need not be told, but it was sufficient to 
 secure the assent of the Dowager Lady Drinkwater to a 
 marriage between Captain Turnbull and Mabel — grudg- 
 ingly given, it is true, and only on condition that her 
 fortune of ten thousand pounds should not be paid over till 
 the young lady was fully of age, leaving the position thus : 
 If it should be discovered that a marriage had actually 
 taken place before permission was accorded, the Dowager 
 Lady Drinkwater could withhold her fortune altogether, 
 if she so pleased. 
 
 Captain TurnbuU's plan, therefore, was to make it 
 appear that his marriage was the result of permission just
 
 2 2 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 given, and not a fact of earlier date — a matter which 
 rendered it imperative that his wife should not be too 
 closely observed previous to her actual departure. He 
 had even arranged for all to proceed, as designed, when 
 the present " contretemps " arrived, leaving but one ex- 
 treme difficulty yet to meet — Lady Drinkwater insisted on 
 taking farewell of her step-daughter at the last moment of 
 departure, and this difficulty had to be faced. 
 
 Shortly after the Captain's departure, Jones came back 
 from Farnham with the necessary supplies, and, at his 
 wife's order, took up his temporary residence at the 
 " Red Lion " Inn, hard by, where he was well content to 
 stay; and Mrs. Captain Turnbull made herself as com- 
 fortable as she could with her confidante, Mary Jones, 
 after a manner well known to the gentler sex, but 
 mysteriously dark to the rougher portion of humanity. 
 
 The two sate by the fireside, more like companions 
 than mistress and maid ; for complicity in deceit had 
 partially broken down the barriers of rank between them. 
 It was thus that in the course of conversation, Mary 
 Jones, glancing, as is common among her sex, at the 
 third finger of Mrs. Captain TurnbuU's left hand, took 
 notice of a somewhat remarkable ring which that lady 
 w^ore as a guard to her wedding ring. This ring, of some- 
 what thick gold, rather clumsy in its make, contained 
 one single stone, of very curious appearance ; it was not 
 at all a handsome stone, almost the reverse in fact, 
 somewhat between an indifferent opal and the stone 
 known as a " cat's eye," neither bright nor dull, neither 
 transparent nor opaque.
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 25 
 
 " That is a very curious ring you wear as a guard," 
 exclaimed Mary Jones. 
 
 "Yes," replied Mrs. Captain Turnbull, "it is very 
 curious — more so than I can well describe. It was 
 given to my husband's father many years ago by a Fakir, 
 and is one of two only which were said to have been 
 stolen from the Taj Mahal." 
 
 " It is not pretty." 
 
 "You are right — it is not pretty; but it either 
 possesses, or we fancy it possesses, a singular virtue — 
 that of looking bright when a loved object is near, and 
 growing dull when that loved object is distant. We call 
 it a ' Love-Stone.' " 
 
 " Is it, then, a charm ? " 
 
 " It would have been thought so in old times. My 
 husband gave it to me as a love token. It was worn by 
 his own mother, and is never to pass out of my possession 
 except as a heirloom. I may not take it off, but you 
 can look at it. See, it is now dull, because my husband 
 is far off. Had he been near, it would have looked much 
 brighter." 
 
 "A fancy, of course — merely a fancy." 
 
 " Perhaps, and yet I like to beheve it a fact, a kind of 
 sympathetic link between us as husband and wife ; but 
 enough of this, let us converse on some other subject." 
 
 With this the conversation ended, so far as concerns 
 this narrative, and for the whole of that day, and the next 
 beyond, nothing transj^ired of importance, but on the 
 following day something did transpire, for it was found 
 necessary to send for the surgeon from Ash, who came
 
 24 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 at the summons of Jones, as ([uickly as possible — not, 
 however, before Mrs. Turnbull, in ahiiost frantic joy, told 
 her companion that the Captain was on his way back ; 
 " for see," she exclamed, " my ring is becoming bright. 
 He is near — he is near ! " 
 
 Strange to tell, this proved the fact. Captain Turn- 
 bull had left Portsmouth that very morning, and even 
 while his footsteps neared the door of the cottage, where 
 already appeared the doctor's carriage, he knew that he 
 had become a father, and, as he hoped, a haj^py one ; 
 but of that — to come. 
 
 As, it does not concern the intents of our story to 
 record the anxieties of alternate hope and fear attendant 
 upon an event of this kind, or the raptures of a mother 
 in the first happiness of her maternity, with the pride and 
 joy of a father on such occasion, it is only necessary to 
 state that the child was a girl, that the mother was pro- 
 nounced "as well as could be expected," and that no 
 misfortune of any kind threw a cloud over the aspect of 
 affairs until the sixth day after this joyful event, when the 
 very worst possible misfortune took place — the Captain's 
 ship was ordered off within four-and-twenty hours. The 
 Dowager Lady Drinkwater was at Portsmouth awaiting 
 the arrival of her step-daughter, and the Captain, Avith 
 his wife, must appear together, or the plot would be 
 discovered ; for, as a confidential friend intimated, some 
 kind of suspicion had already found Us way into the 
 Dowager Lady's mind. 
 
 Here was a difficulty to be faced. Either Mrs. 
 Turnbull must go on board in her precarious state, or be
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 2$ 
 
 left behind. This last alternative the poor wife utterly 
 rejected, while the surgeon put his veto on the former 
 alternative ; and then, as regarded the child ? It could 
 perhaps be smuggled on board in the arms of some other 
 female passenger ! These and other considerations had 
 'to be discussed in brief time, Mrs. Turnbull declaring 
 that go she would, be the risk what it might ; while her 
 husband was for making a clean breast of it, and acknow- 
 ledging all to the Dowager, when Mary Jones made a 
 proposition. If Mrs. Turnbull positively determined on 
 going with her husband at all risks, she, Mary Jones, 
 would take charge of the child for twelve months, and 
 then send it over to India in care of a competent nurse, 
 at the Captain's decision. 
 
 This was a terrible trial to the poor mother, 
 but yet appeared the most sensible plan to be adopted- 
 Mrs. Turnbull could surely trust her old and attached 
 servant, and, by so doing, could avoid all further diffi- 
 culties. 
 
 After a severe mental contest, this plan was agreed 
 upon, it being arranged that the Joneses, man and wife, 
 should remove to some better locality at the earliest 
 time, intercommunication being arranged through a 
 London banker, who would supply money, to the extent of 
 fifty pounds, until further orders came from India, whither 
 the Captain and his wife were bound. 
 
 There was no time for further arrangements, not even 
 for baptising the child. Mary Jones was to get the 
 infant christened, after its mother " Mabel," and with 
 this proviso the sadly troubled parents took a long 
 
 B
 
 26 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 embrace of their infant, scarce daring to contemplate 
 either its future or their own. 
 
 Seven days after their first arrival at Aldershot, the 
 afflicted couple arrived at Portsmouth, the poor mother 
 very feeble, but keeping up appearances sufficiently well 
 to disarm her step-mother of any suspicion she might have 
 entertained. A cold embrace followed, and in an hour 
 the whole detachment of officers, wives, and a few private 
 soldiers departed for their destination, Mary Jones being 
 left in charge of the infant all by herself, her husband 
 having somewhat strangely absented himself for three 
 whole days, giving no reason for so unusual an 
 occurrence. 
 
 CHAPTER v. 
 
 On the evening of the fourth day following this event, a 
 very singular occurrence took place at the Farnham 
 Workhouse. It was eight o'clock on a very dark night,, 
 when a loud ring was heard at the outer gate, and was 
 somewhat slowly attended to by the official appointed 
 for such service. On opening the door the surly janitor 
 observed no one in wait. 
 
 With a deep curse he was about to close the door, 
 when a muffled cry arrested his attention, and on turning 
 his ear towards the bell-handle he found hanging to it a 
 basket, from which issued the cries or sound he had
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 27 
 
 * 
 
 noticed. A suspicion seized him at once — it was the cry 
 of a child — and on taking down the basket, which was 
 of an ordinary kind, such as was used in marketing by 
 persons of the lower sort, he found, carefully wrapped 
 up, an infant about two weeks old, crying out lustily for 
 its appointed food. 
 
 " Devil take the brat " was the official's first exclama- 
 tion, " I suppose I must take it in, or be hauled over the 
 coals if I leave it to freeze this bitter cold night." 
 
 Thus saying, the porter carried his little burthen to the 
 master, who, with a benediction scarcely more polite than 
 that of his underling, consigned the " little stranger," by 
 no means a welcome one, to the matron of the establish- 
 ment, who happened at that moment to be in the in- 
 firmary upon the unpleasant duty of watching the last 
 moments of a dying female pauper ; this poor woman, a 
 ■"casual" and nameless, had only a few nights before 
 given birth to a girl child, and was then in extremis, with 
 the chaplain of the workhouse endeavouring to ascertain 
 who she was, as also, it is to be hoped, giving her 
 Christian consolation on her death-bed. The infirmary 
 was a long room, having in it somewhere about a dozen 
 beds, fourteen inches apart only, six on each side, with 
 three feet of space doA\Ti the middle ; at the far end was 
 a large fireplace, something like a kitchen range, with 
 several saucepans and other culinary utensils, some of 
 them in use ; there was a stifling atmosphere in the 
 place, every window being closed and no ventilation 
 whatsoever. All the beds seemed occupied, and a 
 few moans, with half-suppressed cries, gave token of 
 
 B 2
 
 28 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 suffering among the patients, all of whom were, of 
 course, women. 
 
 In addition to these, three other females were present, 
 two of them pauper nurses, and the third, a stout and 
 important looking individual, was the matron of the 
 workhouse, evidently much " put about " that one poor 
 sufferer, in the bed nearest to the fireplace, was some- 
 what too long about dying. 
 
 Sitting close to the fireplace was a tall, slight gentle- 
 man, whose long black coat, square cut waistcoat, and 
 white neckcloth pronounced him the clergyman ; but, if 
 such, he was an extremely unsympathising one, for 
 although the jDOor sufferer close by him was evidently at 
 death's door, he made no effort to administer con- 
 solation to her — perhaps he had already so done. At 
 all events, the poor dj'ing woman seemed past all ne- 
 cessity, and yet contrived, although speechless, to hug 
 the half inanimate form of a young child close to her 
 bosom. As for the two nurses, they appeared to know 
 that they were powerless for good, although one of them 
 had just busied herself with the concoction of some 
 mutton broth which she placed in a basin on the table. 
 
 It was at this juncture that another pauper nurse came 
 in, bringing the hamper basket containing that little child 
 whom the porter had found attached to the bell-handle. 
 
 " What is that you are bringing in ? " queried the 
 matron. 
 
 " Please, mum, it's another little innocent," replied the 
 woman. 
 
 " What ! anot'i:r brat ? Whose is it now ? "
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 29 
 
 * ' 
 
 " Please, mum, I don't know. Old Tom, the porter, 
 found it hanging to the door-bell." 
 
 On this explanation, the bag was opened by one of 
 the nurses, and found to contain a young female child, 
 small and weakly, apparently only a few days old, 
 wrapped carefully up in flannels and other clothing, with 
 a piece of paper attached to the basket itself, pinned on, 
 and with the following directions : — 
 
 " To be called Mabel, and taken good care of for a 
 few weeks, when it will be called for by its parents, or 
 some one authorised to do so. Tied up in the child's 
 dress will be found three sovereigns." — Signed, X.Y.Z. 
 
 This writing, which was in a fiir hand and upon fine 
 paper, clearly indicated that some curious necessity had 
 occasioned the present proceeding; the money also 
 proved that no absolute pauper was concerned in the 
 transaction. 
 
 If there is any one thing in the world more than 
 another calculated to attract the attention of women, 
 it is the sight of a young child, a baby, and most par- 
 ticularly a baby girl. In the present instance all else 
 was forgotten ; three or four sick patients raised their 
 heads to catch a glimpse. The matron, somewhat 
 mollified by the knowledge that money was to hand, 
 caused the child to be at once stripped and examined to 
 see if any special marks were upon it, also in order to 
 draw some conclusions, if possible, from the wrappings 
 which half-filled the basket, but no marks were on the 
 child's body, and the linen, together with the basket, 
 told nothing of import.
 
 30 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 " It is a very weakly child," said one of the nurses. 
 
 " Much the same as the other," replied her companion, 
 taking the dying pauper's child from its mother. 
 
 *' They are much of a muchness, sure enough," inter- 
 posed the matron ; " put them together and see which 
 is the tallest." 
 
 Upon this the first of the two nurses took off the 
 pauper child's clothing, and placed the two girls together 
 on the outside of that bed occupied by the dying woman, 
 who, uttering a cry, caused the matron to hasten to the 
 side of the bed, as also did the clergyman, who, it 
 appeared, had been waiting for a special purpose. 
 
 " Get her to tell me by what name I shall baptise the 
 child," were the first words spoken by the rev. gentleman, 
 who, it appeared, had been for some time waiting to 
 christen the child, which was not expected to live many 
 hours. 
 
 " Her name is Alice," feebly spoke the dying woman. 
 
 "And your own name?" asked the clergyman. 
 
 " Gray," replied the woman. 
 
 " Married ?" again questioned the clergyman. 
 
 But before any further reply could be uttered, the poor 
 woman turned sadly on one side, breathed heavily for 
 a few moments, and with one long sigh expired. 
 
 " It is all over," exclaimed the clergyman, in accents 
 of relief; " cover her up, please, and now let me finish 
 my business and go." 
 
 " What business, parson ?" asked one of the nurses, 
 somewhat pointedly. 
 
 " Business - ahem," replied he, " to perform the
 
 THE LOVE-STONE, 3 1 
 
 ceremony of baptism, a very sacred rite, a sacrament — 
 ahem ! you understand" 
 
 " Yes, parson, on one of them two, or both ?" 
 
 " May as well kill two birds with one stone," exclaimed 
 the matron ; " one of them is to be called Alice, the 
 other, as that paper says, Mabel. Do the job at once, 
 and make an end of it. I hate stopping in the room 
 with a dead body." 
 
 " So be it then, I will baptise the two ; send for a 
 godfather, and any one of you women will serve as 
 godmother." 
 
 " Old Tom will do — call him. He has been godfather 
 to some fifty others, and will serve for fifty more." 
 
 Old Tom, the porter, was speedily summoned, and 
 one of the nurses, whose name was Bunch, volunteering 
 to stand godmother, the "ceremony" of baptising the 
 two children was about to proceed, but by no means 
 after the fashion of that ceremonial at a place of worship ; 
 tor the clergyman was gownless (or surpliceless), the 
 sponsors were by no means in holiday attire, the two 
 children were stark naked, there was no book in the 
 hands of the officiating clergyman, and there was no 
 " font;" but in lieu of other arrangements a common deal 
 table stood before the fireplace, with a basin on it con- 
 taining some liquid or other. 
 
 " Bring me some water," demanded the clergyman ; 
 "stay— here is some beside m;," h^ continued. 
 
 " That ain't water, that's mutton broth," exclaimed 
 Nurse Bunch. 
 
 " Mutton broth, is it ? " exclaimed the clergyman ;
 
 32 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 " tut, tut, never mind, we will suppose it water instead." 
 " It's thin enough for water, anyhow," muttered the 
 other nurse- 
 
 The ceremony of baptising the two children then took 
 place, the one being called " Mabel," the other " Alice," 
 after which the clergyman put on his hat, and departed 
 as quickly as possible, followed by the porter, leaving 
 the matron and nurses to perform their several duties 
 both to the living and the dead, but not before Nurse 
 Bunch had muttered to herself the following dreadfully 
 vulgar words, " Blowed if I don't think Parson has given 
 the ^vrong names to the two blessed babbies — humph ! " 
 
 Early next morning an awful rumour was afloat ; a 
 murder had been committed in the vicinity of Farnham 
 Park, in the preserves of the Bishop. It was a game 
 keeper who had been shot, presumably by poachers. 
 Suspicion fell upon a certain man named Jones, who 
 resided close to Aldershot Green. Two constables from 
 Farnham, being dispatched with orders to see into the 
 mystery, were led by Timothy Weazel to the residence of 
 the Joneses, where no Joneses were to be found, but in 
 lieu thereof such articles of furniture only as could not 
 have been readily carried away in hasty flight, such as 
 the bed, bedding, a table, some chairs, and a few other 
 chattels of little value, rendering it perfectly clear that 
 the murderer and his wife, Jones, alias Trollope, had 
 escaped in time to avoid apprehension, as ultimately 
 proved to be a fact, not merely for a time, but for all 
 time, fifteen years having afterwards passed away without 
 any clue being found to their whereabouts.
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 33 
 
 Our tale, must now fall into reticence for a long period, 
 the filling up of which with detail would only be 
 unnecessarily tedious, leading up only to a sequence which 
 will sufficiently explain itself in a following chapter, 
 wherein the " love-stone " will enact its part sufficiently 
 'well to account for its title, but needing only a few con- 
 necting links to carry over a hiatus of fifteen years. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Notwithstanding a hiatus of fifteen years, it is neces- 
 sary to afford several links of connection between the two 
 portions of narrative in order to bring them into proper 
 sequence of connection. 
 
 Mrs. Captain TurnbuU never reached India, but died 
 on the voyage, in consequence of the delicate state of 
 health which necessitated her embarkation too soon. 
 The Dowager Lady Drinkwater also met her death in a 
 few montlis, through misadventure, having been thrown 
 out of her carriage, when she fell on one side and 
 crushed her ribs into her lungs. She did not, however, 
 die until she had learned the trick imposed on her by 
 her step-daughter, whose fortune of ^10,000 she alienated 
 from Captain Turnbull, in accordance with the provisions 
 of the late Admiral's will. 
 
 Captain Turnbull, overpowered with grief at the death 
 of his wife, found himself ordered off to the scene of war,
 
 34 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 and not at all likely to be otherwise employed for some 
 years to come. Newspapers were not then, as now, com- 
 monly transmitted to distant climes, and the one special 
 news from Aldershot which might have arrested his 
 attention came not to hand. 
 
 Being much embarrassed through many circumstances, 
 he decided on allowing his infant child to remain in the 
 charge of Mrs. Jones for possibly a few years to come, 
 and accordingly directed a letter to Messrs. Cox and 
 Greenwood, his bankers, whereby they were empowered 
 to pay Mrs. Mary Jones the sum of fifty pounds every 
 six months, on her appearing at their office with the child 
 in her arms, and forwarding, through them, a half-yearly 
 account of the said child's health. 
 
 Tn accordance with this arrangement, every six months, 
 for the space of four years, Mary Jones presented herself 
 at the Banking Establishment of Messrs. Cox and Green- 
 wood, bearing in her arms a young child, received the 
 sum of fifty pounds, and deposited, for transmission, a 
 letter containing satisfactory news. 
 
 At the end of four years. Captain TurnbuU, anxious to 
 know what his child was like, commissioned her nurse to 
 obtain a likeness of it painted on ivory, and received 
 accordingly, at the expiration of another six months, a 
 locket portrait, purporting to be the likeness in question 
 — at which he was very much both surprised and annoyed. 
 He therefore on the next occasion wrote to jSIrs. Jones, 
 as follows : —
 
 the love-stone. 35 
 
 • Mrs. Mary Jones,— 
 
 I received, per last post, a miniature portrait, the 
 sight of which tills me with surprise and disapointment, 
 compelling me to imagine that you have made a strange 
 mistake. My late wife's eyes were blue, and her hair 
 of light golden tint, so far as I had judgment to observe. My 
 ♦infant girl had also blue eyes, and the promise of very light 
 hair, while the portrait you send me represents a child with 
 hazel eyes and jet black hair ! What can it mean? have you 
 sent me a wrong picture by mistake ? Explain by return of 
 post, or I must take measures to have the matter investigated 
 through the agency of a friend, 
 
 J. A. TURNBULL, 
 
 Captain R.E.I.CS. 
 
 The return post brought no letter of explanation to 
 Captain Turnbull, and on the arrival of the next period 
 of six months, no Mrs. Mary Jones applied to Messrs. 
 Cox and Greenwood for the customary fifty pounds — 
 nor at any further time, also. 
 
 Greatly embarrassed how to proceed in this matter, 
 Captain Turnbull at length obtained the services of a 
 lady returning to England, a widow named Williams, 
 whose home was in the neighbourhood of Aldershot, at 
 Batchet Lea. Acquainting this lady with the history of 
 his case, omitting no one particular, that lady, on arriv- 
 ing at her home, was put into possession of all the parti- 
 culars known concerning the murder at Farnham, the 
 flight of Jones, and the suspicious circumstance of a 
 young female child having been left in a basket at the 
 gate of Farnham Workhouse.
 
 30 THE LOVF-STONF. 
 
 Putting all those circumstances together, the widowed 
 lady took her way to Farnham Workhouse, where she 
 was made acquainted with all the particulars which could 
 be given ; the clothes, the basket, and the written paper 
 which accompanied the child were shown, leaving little 
 doubt that the infant in (question was really the daughter 
 of Captain and Mrs. Turnbull ; as also, that whatever 
 child Mrs. Mary Jones had borne in her arms at the 
 Bank of Messrs. Cox and Greenwood was surreptitious. 
 
 Next came the terrible intelligence that the child 
 baptised " Mabel " had died three weeks afterwards, and 
 was buried in Aldersliot Churchyard. 
 
 This intelligence, being forwarded to Captain Turnbull 
 in India, put a climax to his misfortunes, and for the 
 time being directed all his thoughts and ambition to the 
 fortunes of war, in which service he continued, rising 
 step by step, till he attained the rank of Major-General, 
 when he deteniiined on retiring upon his laurels to the 
 land of his birth, a soured man, with no object in life 
 except to die in peace, for he had loved his late wife too 
 well to ever contemplate seeking another. 
 
 On arriving at Southampton, after a long and weary 
 voyage, General Turnbull reported himself, and remain- 
 ing three days only in London, determined on paying one 
 visit to the scene of his early misfortune, and learning if 
 anything further remained to clear up the mystery of his 
 child's disappearance, or of its identification with the 
 infant left at Farnham Workhouse. 
 
 His first attempt was made at Aldershot Green, where 
 he iound the cottage once tenanted by Thomas Jones
 
 THE LOVE-STONE, 37 
 
 and wife in the occupation of strangers who knew 
 nothing; Timothy Weazel, late parish constable, had 
 received his last pension, and no one of the old tenants 
 knew aught of Thomas Jones, nor did any report of 
 assize or sessions tell of his conviction or whereabouts. 
 ' Farnham Workhouse was next visited, but all its old 
 officials had gone to other parts or other occupations ; 
 some, even, to another world. 
 
 The records of the establishment told only that, fifteen 
 years ago, one child named " Mabel Gray " had died, 
 aged five weeks ; and that another child named "Alice 
 Gray " had been educated on the establishment, till she 
 had been taken away on service, at the age of fourteen, 
 by a lady who resided at Ash. 
 
 This information, though tolerably precise, was yet not 
 quite satisfactory. Was the child named Mabel Gray in 
 truth Mabel Turnbull } He must try to find the clergy- 
 man who christened the child, and therefore made his 
 way to the parish of Cove, to which the rev. gentleman 
 in question had been transferred. 
 
 There he found him, and learned that, no name having 
 been signified on the paper which accompanied the 
 infant left at the workhouse gate, the name of " Gray " 
 had been given to it, because it was the first which 
 suggested itself, being the same name as that given to the 
 pauper child named Alice. Further than that he knew 
 nothing ; he had no occasion to deal with other than the 
 more advanced children of the place, and had given up 
 the chaplaincy five years later. The surgeon at Ash was 
 next sought, but he was dead.
 
 38 THE LOVE-STONE, 
 
 As a last resource General TurnbuU advertised for 
 weeks in every daily paper, calling upon one " Mary 
 Trollope" (the real name of Mary Jones) to learn " some- 
 thing to advantage," but nothing resulted from this. 
 
 Worn, weary, and utterly wretched, but still dissatisfied 
 with all he had attempted to learn, the unfortunate 
 General made his way to Ash once more, in order to find 
 the lady who had received the pauper girl, Alice Gray, 
 into service; but there again he met with failure, that 
 lady having "passed over to the majority" six months 
 ago, and the young girl had disappeared. 
 
 Mrs. Williams, the widow of a brother officer, and 
 who, while residing at Batchet Lea, had made the first 
 inquiries at Famham Workhouse several years ago, was 
 abroad, and married again, only three months before. 
 
 Thus, with eveiy clue lost, the world-worn man, with 
 no relative living — for all his brothers had fallen, either in 
 their country's service or otherwise — returned to London, 
 took lodgings in the vicinity of Hanover Square, joined 
 the Oriental Club, and for nigh upon twelve months 
 passed the whole of his time at that establishment, in the 
 society of those who, like himself, had passed the greater 
 portion of their days in the East. 
 
 Scarce more than forty-three years of age, he at one 
 time thought of "purchasing a ticket, once again, in the 
 grand lottery of marriage," as some heartless cynic has 
 expressed it. He was conscious of tolerably good looks, 
 was also well off, and his rank as Major-General, at an 
 earlier age than is usual, gave him a certain position in 
 society by no means to be despised by the gentler sex ;
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 39 
 
 * 
 
 but then — he felt none of that longing desire for female 
 companionship which had possessed him in early life ; 
 also, he had never ceased to mourn for her he had so 
 deeply and romantically loved — and lost. 
 
 Strange, too, as it might seem, the only living relative 
 of his late wife, the present baronet. Sir Thomas Drink- 
 water, he had never seen, that gentleman having left the 
 military service and taken to diplomacy, finding his 
 occupation at the Court of Russia, where he was likely 
 to remain. 
 
 It was thus, dwelling on his utter loneHness ■ in the 
 world, save for the companionship of his Oriental friends, 
 that he one day turned his thoughts back to the locality 
 of his great misfortune — the loss of his child. He would 
 revisit the district of Aldershot, and re-investigate every 
 material point. Fortunately for this purpose, he had 
 learned that the Mrs. Captain Williams of former days, 
 but now a Mrs. Colonel Baldwin, wife of a retired 
 officer in the Royal service, had returned to her old home 
 at Ratchet Lea, and would, he was quite sure, give him a 
 friendly welcome. 
 
 Twelve months, therefore, after his former visit to Aider- 
 shot, General Turnbull made his way by coach to the 
 " Bush " Inn, Farnham, and from thence in a hired fly 
 to Batchet Lea, where he found a hearty welcome, 
 with an invitation to remain as long as he might find 
 convenient. 
 
 Colonel Baldwin was one of those unlucky gentlemen 
 who, entering the Royal service without interest of any 
 kind, had attained his rank only by the slowest possible
 
 40 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 Steps — he had retired with only the brevet rank, at fifty 
 years of age — and had lived on his half-pay only until 
 his marriage with Mrs. Williams, whose little property at 
 Batchet Lea enabled him to keep up his position very 
 much better than heretofore. He and his wife had left 
 England immediately alter their marriage, and had re- 
 turned only within the last fortnight. 
 
 Dinner having been announced, almost immediately 
 after his arrival at Batchet Lea, General TurnbuU had 
 no opportunity for conversing with Mrs. Colonel Bald- 
 win until after withdrawal to the lady's symposium — the 
 tea-table — when, seated by the side of a comfortable 
 fire, and a little at a loss how to begin his inquiries, he 
 unconsciously performed an act which was familiar to 
 him — that of rubbing his hands together — after that 
 described by Thomas Hood as " washing his hands with 
 invisible soap and imperceptible water." This action^ 
 by no means an uncommon one, had, in this instance, 
 an uncommon result, for it caused him to start suddenly 
 and utter a slight exclamation, followed by a repetition 
 of the act with increased energy. 
 
 "You seem uneasy. General ; do you feel your hands 
 cold that you rub them so persistently ? " queried Mrs. 
 Colonel Baldwin. 
 
 " Not cold," replied the General, " but somewhat 
 astonished, indeed, almost frightened." 
 
 " How ! what mean you ? " questioned Colonel 
 Baldwin. 
 
 "I can scarcely explain," replied the General, "I believe 
 I am a superstitious fool, and do not know what I am about."
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 41 
 
 Hereupon, General Turnbull, with some trepidation of 
 manner, took off his ring — that same ring which has 
 formerly been alluded to as the one possessed by the 
 General's late wife, as containing a " love-stone." 
 
 Taking this ring off his finger and rubbing it carefully 
 with his handkerchief, the General once more uttered an 
 exclamation and fell back in his chair, without life or 
 motion to all appearance. 
 
 As a matter of course, the utmost surprise was felt by 
 host and hostess at this inexplicable event ; a glass of 
 wine, immediately tendered, was thrust away with a cry 
 of " Water, water." 
 
 Water, immediately supplied by the Colonel, somewhat 
 relieved the sufferer, who, on recovering himself^ 
 tendered such explanation as he could afford, being very 
 nearly the same as that given, on a former occasion, by 
 the General's late wife. That ring, containing a curious- 
 looking stone, was accredited with a singular suscepti- 
 bility — that of becoming somewhat lustrous in the close 
 vicinity of an object beloved by its wearer, while it re- 
 mained without lustre otherwise. General Turnbull had 
 never quite believed in the superstition to which this 
 gave rise, neither had he quite rejected it. He knew 
 that his father, who had received the gift from a Fakir 
 to whom he had rendered a great service, did believe ia 
 its strange virtue, also that his late wife had believed in 
 it; but as for himself, he had simply thought that friction, 
 or possibly friction and heat combined, had produced 
 the effects recorded. 
 
 He had taken the ring off his wife's finger after her
 
 42 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 death, and worn it ever since without having at any time 
 seen its duhicss pass off, or any degree of l)riUiancy 
 attach to it until this very evening, and now it was bright 
 ahnost as a ruby. 
 
 " I could almost believe the spirit of my dear wife is 
 present," exclaimed the General, " and thus I salute the 
 token." 
 
 With this, General Turnl)ull kissed the insensate 
 stone, replaced it on his finger, and remained silent, in a 
 species of ecstatic reflection. 
 
 After a few minutes given to the absorbed General's 
 embarrassment, Mrs. Baldwin addressed him — 
 
 " I never, of course, saw your late wife ; have you any 
 portrait of her, or memorial of any kind, by which I 
 could know what she was like ? " 
 
 "I have her miniature here," replied the General, 
 taking a locket, with a ribbon attached, from his breast 
 and handing it for inspection. 
 
 " Why, as I live, it is the veiy image of my little wait- 
 ing maid, Amelia Goldney ! " exclaimed that lady. 
 
 " How— what ! " almost shouted the General. " A 
 little maid, with blue eyes and golden hair— at what age, 
 at what age ? " 
 
 " Sixteen, or thereabout," replied Mrs. Baldwin. " I 
 took her from service at Ash, and have partly educated 
 her. She is up stairs even now." 
 
 " May the great God of Heaven be thanked for all 
 mercies!" exclaimed the General, falling on his knees. 
 "For, as I am a living man, that little maid is my 
 lost daughter, and the mystery of this ring is true."
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 43 
 
 On hearing this, Mrs. Baldwin hastily withdrew, and 
 in a few moments, during which her husband had the 
 greatest difficulty in calming the agitation of his guest, 
 that lady returned, leading in a graceful young woman, 
 with the exact features, eyes, and hair of the miniature 
 portrait just shown. 
 
 The scene which ensued baffles all description. Some 
 attractive force appeared to draw the elderly gentleman 
 and the young girl together, a degree of force not quite 
 equal perhaps, for that on the part of the elderly man 
 was the force of hope, if not of conviction, that he was 
 embracing his daughter, while that of the young girl was the 
 force of an attracting sympathy which forbade her to rebel 
 against the embrace of a strange man, even though she knew 
 him not, and would certainly have repelled a younger one. 
 
 Astonishment, hope, joy, and embarrassment followed 
 each other, and seized on all alike in different degrees 
 before anything like an explanation could take place with 
 a view towards better knowledge. 
 
 Colonel and Mrs. Baldwin left the General and the 
 young maiden together for awhile, during which period 
 the latter named recited the brief history of her life, 
 telling that from her earliest recollection of time she had 
 been well treated in the Farnham Workhouse, where she 
 had received ordinary education until, after being some- 
 what advanced, she had gained extra knowledge through 
 being engaged as teacher under the preceptress of the 
 institution, when she was in a manner forced to enter 
 upon service, according to new rules introduced by the 
 Poor-Law Guardians.
 
 44 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 She had, in accordance with such rules, been engaged 
 by a lady at Ash, who also treated her with kindness, 
 but died within three months, leaving the little waif to 
 shift for herself. 
 
 This she set about doing by first changing her name to 
 Amelia Goldney instead of Alice Gray, in the hope of 
 concealing her " workhouse brand." 
 
 It was thus she entered the service of Mrs. Colonel 
 Baldwin, who, finding her above the common capacity, 
 had still further advanced her education in twelve 
 months' travel, which brought her brief history up to the 
 present time. 
 
 With the innate conviction that Amelia Goldney, 
 otherwise Alice Gray, was in reality his child, in despite of 
 opposing circumstances, General Turnbull determined on 
 probing facts to their uttermost depth. 
 
 He questioned the young girl as to her earliest recol- 
 lections, which, it seems, turned on a nurse whose name 
 was Bunch, one who had been extra kind to her, but 
 who had left the workhouse on being found heiress to a 
 small property. 
 
 This woman had left the neighbourhood, but the 
 Colonel determined on advertising for her whereabouts 
 in all speed. 
 
 The advertisement, inserted at once, produced its 
 effect, and better effect than could have been anticipated, 
 for it obtained reply not only from Nurse Bunch, but 
 from Mary Trollope, who, noting the application to be 
 made to General Turnbull, thought it best to relieve her 
 conscience by telling the truth.
 
 THE LOVE-STONE. 45 
 
 Giving priority to her statement, it came to pass that 
 on the very day after the departure of Captain TurnbuU 
 and lady for India, Tom Jones had fired on a game- 
 keeper who had detected him in the act ot poaching. 
 He had been recognised by the dying man, and, knowing 
 •it would be impossible to escape otherwise than by flight, 
 had so done, accompanied by his wife, who, not choosing 
 to encumber herself with an infant, had left it at the 
 workhouse, as explained before. Her after life had been 
 unfortunate. Jones had evaded detection by changing 
 his name and occupation as well ; he had turned sober, 
 and found occupation at the London Docks, but fell off 
 the quay and was drowned before the expiration of twelve 
 months. Mrs. Jones, otherwise Trollope, had sought to 
 keep up the falsehood of her position by receiving the 
 Captain's pay just so long as possible without incurring 
 the risk of detection, hiring a child for her half-yearly 
 receipt of money at the bank, and purchasing the minia- 
 ture of the Captain's supposed infant from the show-case 
 of an artist in the Strand, but making the fatal mistake 
 of choosing one with dark eyes and hair in place of one 
 with blue eyes and flaxen curls, thus rendering all further 
 application for money dangerous. 
 
 The unfortunate woman, not truly so wicked as she 
 seemed, had also caused inquiries to be made at Farnham 
 Workhouse, where she learned the same tale as others 
 had learned, never doubting that her patron's child had 
 really died as reported. Her after life had been one 
 continuous downfall, bringing with it misery, remorse, 
 and repentance, until the Captain's, or rather the
 
 46 THE LOVE-STONE. 
 
 General's, last advertisement, by offering her an oppor- 
 tunity to somewhat relieve her overburthened conscience 
 with confession of her crime. 
 
 Nurse Bunch, on her part, made no mystery of what 
 she knew, but at once explained tliat it was the pauper 
 child wliich had been baptised in the wrong name of 
 " Mabel," and died, while the newly arrived child had 
 been baptised " Alice " by mistake, and which lived on 
 in perfect health up to the time of Nurse Bunch's 
 departure from the union by reason of a legacy which 
 rendered her independent. 
 
 A comparison of notes and dates between the union 
 officials, IMary TroUope, and Nurse Bunch left no more 
 to be explained, nor was there need, for an instinctive 
 conviction filled the heart of General TurnbuU that his 
 own true daughter existed in the person of that blue-eyed 
 flaxen-haired maiden whom chance, or Providence, had 
 brought to his arms and his heart through the agency of 
 his "love-stone" ring, which from thenceforth became a 
 treasure of inestimable value, never again losing its 
 brightness, but whether in accordance with the fact that 
 he and his daughter never again parted, or because of 
 the constant friction to which it became subjected in 
 constant wear, is not quite certain ; he, nevertheless, 
 believed in its virtue, and that v/as enough. 
 
 More need not be told, save that General Turnbull 
 caused his daughter to be well educated, and found her a 
 worthy husband in due course, without vv'hich climax to 
 a narrative no discreet historian would dare to face his 
 lady readers, even in print, and so, with a tale thus 
 pointed, ends the mystery of " The Love-stone."
 
 THE FOX AND HOUXDS. 
 
 " Interdum vulgus rectum videt." 
 
 Horace,, 2 Ep. 
 
 * 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 On the extreme verge of Aldershot parish, looking 
 southward towards Farnham, and within a few hundred 
 yards of the running stream which separates the county 
 of Hampshire from the county of Surrey, there stands an 
 ancient domicile more than three hundred years old, 
 which, in its palmy days, was of aspect very different from 
 that of its present seeming. It now stands low, but once 
 stood much above its present level, with diamond-paned 
 windows, and a porch over its door, both of which have 
 yielded place to an ugly change, rendering its long low 
 frontage more venerable than picturesque, but even yet 
 giving evidence of respectable solidity in the beams of 
 staunch oak which not only support its roof-tree, but in 
 transverse length show how much more our old builders 
 valued convenience than ornament. 
 
 This unpretentious domicile, with its roof of semi- 
 circular tiles as perfectly intact as on the day of erection, 
 is now divided into several portions, under separate 
 tenants, but was once the residence of well-to-do 
 persons whose very names, like unto their belongings, 
 have fallen into low estate, after the manner of sublunary 
 things in general and family reputation in particular. 
 
 To the inhabitants of both Aldershot and Farnham
 
 40 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 this certainly remarkable tenement, located in what is- 
 now called the " Dog Kennels," is well known as a 
 hostelry of the very simplest note, under the title of the 
 " Fox and Hounds," probably on account of association 
 with the " Kennels " at one time on the spot or near it ; 
 be this as it may, the old hniise itself is now, and has 
 been for at least twenty years, tenanted by an honest 
 man named Browning, who dispenses good ale, brewed 
 from Hampshire malt and Farnham hops, for the delecta- 
 tion of such wayfarers as may choose in summer time to 
 take shelter under its arboured benches, or in winter 
 time to seek the warmth of its cosy old-fashioned ingle- 
 nook ; yet, in all probability, such wayfarers little heed 
 or know that the unpretending " house of call " has been 
 the locale of an incident strangely mixed up with the 
 history of this realm, albeit one of little note as regards 
 its importance. 
 
 Old houses have almost always a history attached, 
 even the very humblest among them, and it is to the. 
 persistent inquiries of travellers that curious facts are 
 brought out which might else have lain concealed from 
 public knowledge, even though their evidence lay almost 
 beneath our very eyes, but to be brought to light by 
 means of questioning old men, or still oftener old 
 women, who tell the tales told to them by their pre- 
 decessors — a kind of oral history which escapes books, but 
 yet is as much the true history as the Epics of Homer or the 
 Ballads of the ancient Scalds, who Avere, in all probability, 
 not much better than the old crones of to-day, so far as 
 veracity is concerned.
 
 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 49 
 
 It is to the prattle of sundry old men and women, 
 together with the semi-historical record of an old bank 
 clerk, named Piper (who was pensioned off by the 
 eminent banking firm of Messrs. Knight, at Farnham), 
 that the material of the following tale has been furnished, 
 and is now given in a connected form as thus chronicled. 
 
 There is scarce any period of ^English history within 
 the last two hundred years, or even more, concerning 
 which so many divers accounts have been rendered as 
 that which brought about the restoration of the Stuarts. 
 
 Lord Macauley, the greatest historian of modern 
 times, whose diligence of research was nearly as great as 
 that of the learned Gibbon, has exposed many fallacies of 
 quasi-historic tradition, but still left much undone for 
 minor investigators and less learned critics. The rights 
 and wrongs of the wherefore, touching the return of King 
 Charles the Second to the realm of his " martyred " 
 father, is one of the crooked facts which it behoves 
 modern investigators to //// straight. 
 
 On the landing of Charles Stuart, sallow faced, and 
 sardonic of feature, but yet designated " the merry 
 monarch," the Royalist historians, or, as they were called, 
 " Cavaliers," did their best to make appear that a loyal 
 love for the old dynasty was at the root of public 
 rejoicings, and the acclamations which greeted his " Most 
 Sacred Majesty" on his first appearance seemed to give 
 colour to that assertion ; well-instructed politicians 
 being at the same time fully assured that it was upon the 
 surface of things only that this welcome was accorded, 
 the true reasons lying far beneath that surface.
 
 50 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 Many circumstances occurred to bring about a some- 
 what sudden change. During the Protectorate of OHver 
 Cromwell almost everything in the shape of public recrea- 
 tion was prohibited. Long faces, long homilies, square 
 cut clothes, cropped hair, and a nasal twang of speech 
 prevailed so uniformly throughout the land that a broad 
 grin, a short speech, a well-cut doublet, and a merry 
 wink of the eye were all little short of treason to the 
 ruling powers. Not only were stage-plays obstinately 
 prohibited, but almost ever}' kind of popular amusement 
 was suppressed, bear-baiting, cock-fighting, wrestling, 
 and even the innocent IMay-pole, vetoed by the 
 sad-faced, crop-headed Puritans, whose hypocritical 
 assumption of religion threw a gloom over society to 
 such an extent that a re-action of some kind became 
 inevitable, in the course of human nature and a rational 
 course of events, whicli else — like an overstrained bow — 
 had broken with a crash. 
 
 So long as the strong arm of Cromwell swayed the 
 multitude, no man dared rebel. But no sooner did the 
 weak arm of his amiable but feeble-hearted son attempt 
 to rule than the multitude uprose in its strength, as a 
 strong horse might throw off its rider, and the landing of 
 King Charles became a sudden excuse for all licence of 
 action, beyond even the uttennost bounds of decent 
 thought and outward propriety of demeanour. Long 
 faces relaxed into unseemly mirth, the churches were 
 deserted, velvets and brocade took the place of sad- 
 coloured clothing, ringlets and love-locks resumed their 
 supremacy, stage-plays and all other public amusements
 
 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 5 1 
 
 » * 
 
 became resuscitated, and a saturnalia of modified 
 kind prevailed almost everywhere, except among a 
 minority of the Puritans, who, more conscientious than 
 the rest, still held to their flag, and their conventicles — 
 a kind of middle class between the nobles, who were all 
 Royalists, and the lower stratum of society, who were 
 almost to a man heartily sick of RepubHcanism, because 
 of its restrictions. 
 
 Once upon the throne of his ancestors, King Charles 
 the Second gave full rein to the licence of his own party, 
 sneering at religion and openly defying the moralities of 
 life, greatly to the scandal of his Parliament, which was 
 still composed of pretty nearly as many men of the 
 Puritan party as of the Royalist — Whigs and Tories 
 had not been invented, but there was still a Government 
 clique and an Opposition, who fought against each other 
 as in modern time. 
 
 Party spirit asserted itself on all occasions, and the 
 " merry monarch " had not occupied his high position 
 many years before the Parliament divided itself into two 
 factions, so to be called, on the religious question. An 
 open disregard of the Sabbath had scandaHsed the 
 religious, or Opposition party, just at the time when "his 
 Most Sacred Majesty" had begged for a subsidy of 
 eighty thousand pounds, nominally to pay his private 
 debts, but most particularly to pay the expenses of his 
 concubines, among whom " De Quarrielles," just made 
 Duchess of Portsmouth, was the principal ; and Eleanor 
 Gwfnn, a dairymaid and actress, was of secondary con- 
 sideration. Mademoiselle de Quarrielles, had been, as was
 
 S~ THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 supposed, i)urposely sent over by the King of France 
 for political purposes, and had become extremely un- 
 popular, while Eleanor Gwynn was by no means disliked 
 by the people at large, who looked upon the "gallantries " 
 of those above them with a gentle eye. 
 
 King Charles, as herein stated, had asked his Parlia- 
 ment for a subsidy, which had been refused, greatly to 
 the discomfiture of his Majesty's friends and advisers, 
 chief among whom was the witty but notorious Rochester, 
 who, being a Peer of the Realm, hoped to influence the 
 Parliament if ever an opportunity occurred for the 
 attempt. Meanwhile, so equally balanced were the two 
 parties of the House in respect of a Bill framed for 
 preserving the sanctity of the Sabbath, that a few of 
 the more sober advisers of the King counselled ac- 
 quiescence with the demands of the "Sabbatarians," 
 as they were called, but to this his Majesty demurred, 
 saying " Why should poor devils who work hard during 
 six days of the week be prevented from enjoying them- 
 selves on the seventh day ? " 
 
 Touching this matter, it must be remembered that King 
 Charles, during his long stay on the Continent, had most 
 probably framed his ideas upon the customs prevailing in 
 France, where, after morning Mass, the commonalty took 
 relaxation to themselves for the remainder of the day. 
 It was even suspected that he was a Catholic at heart, 
 some even stigmatised him as an Atheist, or at best a 
 Deist (Infidel being the more chosen word), but, as he 
 at least professed Protestantism, his friends thought it 
 expedient to assume that he was a sound Churchman,
 
 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 55 
 
 » ' 
 
 and, with the exception of Rochester, Buckingham, and 
 a few others, advised his consent to the framing of an 
 Act whereby the religion of the State should become 
 more perfectly recognised in the observance of " The 
 Lord's Day." 
 
 This advice of the moderate faction prevailed so far as 
 to enable an Act to be framed for the purpose so in- 
 tended. But to this his Majesty still refused assent, 
 out of revenge for the refusal to which he had been sub- 
 mitted in the matter of his subsidy. 
 
 Egged on to expense by his lavourite Rochester, and 
 bled of his cash to the uttermost by his favourite mistress, 
 De Quarrielles, whom his enemies described as a 
 "jewel-eater," he became terribly in debt, having raised 
 loans from the citizens of London, which he could not 
 repay, and is suspected of having filched certain dia- 
 monds from the Crown to make a necklace for the 
 Duchess of Portsmouth, and of having had recourse to a 
 certain Lombardy merchant in a manner extremely 
 objectionable. 
 
 It was at this juncture that the Earl of Rochester 
 evolved out of his inner consciousness the following plan, 
 or at least we may suppose it to have been such, know- 
 ing the issue which resulted as a consequence, after the 
 following manner in a conversation. 
 
 " Would it not be best for your Majesty to comply 
 with this Act of your faithful Parliament, by throwing a 
 sop to Cerberus ? " queried the earl. 
 
 " How now," replied the monarch, " what mean you ? " 
 
 " As the price of the subsidy refused before — your
 
 54 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 sign manual for eighty thousand pounds — shall it be so, 
 Rowley?" 
 
 " Odds fish ; a capital idea ! Only will the Parliament 
 swallow that bait ? " 
 
 " Hungry gudgeons will swallow a worm. Let your 
 Majesty signify to your faithful people that you are 
 deeply concerned for the errors of your ways and anxious 
 to reform. Tell them you will go to church thrice 
 on a Sunday, once every week-day, renounce high play, 
 give up the wine-cup, send your mistresses — how many 
 are there? — a dozen ! well — to a nunnery or elsewhere- 
 cut your Royal hair short, wear a sad-coloured jerkin 
 and renounce Genoa velvet. The fools will believe you, 
 and—" 
 
 " Pay me eighty thousand pounds for laughing at their 
 credulity ! Odds fish, but I would do it, only that I do 
 not think my faithful people are such asses ! " 
 
 "Your Majesty's faithful people are of that breed, and 
 will cross the pons asinoriim of your Royal word with 
 alacrity — give them but the chance, Rowley ! " 
 
 "As like as not, only — odds fish — who takes our Royal 
 word nowadays? Not our loyal citizens of London — not 
 our worthy merchant of Lombardy — not even our bosom 
 friend, the Earl of Rochester, who insisted on our 
 Royal sign manual in discharge of a trifling loss at 
 ecarte, eh ! " 
 
 " How now, Rowley ! dost fling thy autograph in my 
 face, that hath given thee mine for a thousand pounds ? " 
 
 " Which are even yet unpaid — go to ! But touching 
 this matter of the subsidy, dost think the bait will take ? "
 
 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 55- 
 
 '^Ot a surety, yes ! — my liege, my Rowley, my sire, my 
 iriend, my worshipful companion in all iniquity — ye§ ! I 
 know a way to make the fish bite. I have a rod in 
 pickle, a line strong enough to catch a whale, and a hook 
 sharp enough. in all probability to— to— " 
 
 ■^'Away mth your probabilities ! Show us a certainty, 
 and we will comply with any requisition. Will your fish 
 swallow a king's word for bait that has thrice befooled 
 them; expound." 
 
 " Verily they \vill, an the bait be well garnished. I 
 have a plan in this my noddle which cannot fail, call me 
 a fool else." 
 
 " Say a knave, rather." 
 
 " Yes, RoAvley, even so ! The Knave of Trumps, 
 which shall win eighty thousand pounds at one swoop. 
 Ha, ha !" 
 
 " So be it then, work your will — play your game out, 
 the stakes are worth some risk. Only pledge not our 
 Royal word beyond our Royal keeping — humanity is 
 fallible." 
 
 "What does my Rowley mean? What are pledges 
 made for but to become broken ? " 
 
 "A man's pledge, but not a king's." 
 
 " Diabolus ! — an I make thee out a saint to Parlia- 
 ment, let the Parliament hold fast the pledges, for it is 
 they will accept it, and the acceptor pays the bill." 
 
 " As thou wilt, as thou wilt. We would fam be honest, 
 an it costs not too much. Once for all, I am a king, 
 remember ! " 
 
 " Such was the last word of your Royal sire, but — "
 
 56 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 "Silence ! Dare but utter that word again, and—" 
 Thus ended the colloquy, or after such fashion it may 
 have ended, for certain it is that Rochester's advice pre- 
 -\-ailed. King Charles, who had no more religion in his 
 soul than a cabbage has gold in its heart, gave his sanc- 
 tion to the famous "Act" which even now retains its 
 sway. He received his subsidy ; Louise de Quarrielles 
 received a " carcanet of pearls," worth seven thousand 
 pounds ; Mistress Nelly Gwynn received a gilded tablet, 
 with the Royal effigy, painted by Hudson ; the Duke of 
 Buckingham, the Earl of Rochester, and other Court 
 fivourites received a modicum of repayment. A few 
 others, including a certain merchant banker, nigh to 
 "*• the Temple," received their dues, and all went " merry 
 as a marriage bell " while the money lasted, and the King 
 laughed in his sleeve behind the screen of his pew in the 
 Chapel Royal at St. James's Palace, while the Reverend 
 Boanerges StrongpuU declaimed against the iniquities of 
 the lower orders throughout the land. 
 
 Meanwhile the " Act '' itself gave only mixed satisfac- 
 tion to a few, and general dissatisfaction to very many 
 who, not knowing its exact provisions, had conceived ex- 
 traordinary ideas upon the subject — many believing that 
 the said Act empowered churchwardens to drive persons 
 to church, like a flock of sheep, and that individuals re- 
 belling against the Act could be subjected to extreme 
 penalty, such as a fine for the first rebellion, imprison- 
 ment in the stocks or pillory for the second, and to be 
 hanged, drawn, and quartered for a third. Verj^ few 
 persons being able to read or write, the provisions of the
 
 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. C. 
 
 Act were banded from mouth to mouth, with additions 
 according to the reciter's fancy, till the public ire was 
 excited up to a pitch of frenzy in certain districts where 
 a few parishioners were escorted to church by the 
 churchwardens in ignoble procession, whereby the rabble 
 booted and hissed to little edification of the law or its 
 abiders, Farnham being one of the first localities 
 wherein the law was met, not merely by defiance, but 
 in a spirit of ridicule, as will be found in the next 
 chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It was on a Sunday, early in the month of February, 
 1675, that a couple of well-to-do townsmen had been 
 escorted to the parish church againsi their will, and, 
 therefore, in custody, "so to say," of the churchwardens, 
 who were enjoined by " the Act " to compel attendance — 
 nolens volens — it being understood or misunderstood that 
 neither the halt, the blind, nor the imbecile were 
 exempted from such attendance. 
 
 As regarded the present instance, it was shrewdly 
 suspected that the two townsmen in question were parties 
 to their own contumacy, with intent to make the law 
 resisted by others. Be this as it rnay, the rabble took 
 the matter in a way peculiar to its own humorous fancy, 
 and seizing hold of a soldier with two wooden legs, as 
 c
 
 58 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 also a gibbering idiot — both of whom were incapacitated 
 from obeying the law — placed them in the double stocks, 
 which then found place at the west end of the market 
 hall — that very market hall or town hall which was only 
 lately demolished, and replaced by the present erection. 
 
 While these two unfortunates were thus placed, a mob 
 surrounded them, alternately hooting and hissing, pelting 
 with rotten eggs, and plying them with drink until the 
 popular clamour became so uproarious that serious 
 mischief seemed imminent, and it was feared that the 
 houses of the churchwardens would be attacked. Nothing 
 of the kind, however, took place, and up to the hour of 
 five o'clock, before it was quite dusk, the effervescence of 
 the multitude had resulted in drunkenness and threats 
 only — the poor wooden-legged soldier being rendered 
 insensible through the strange kindness of his friendly 
 enemies and strong drink. 
 
 Leaving the multitude to its folly, our scene changes 
 to the high road from Portsmouth to London, through 
 Farnham, where, at the outskirts of the latter, a small 
 cavalcade was seen approaching. 
 
 Two horsemen, in a sort of plain livery, with leathern 
 belts round their waists, rode in advance before three 
 females, also on horseback, with Pillion saddles, and 
 warmly attired in a fashion Avhich proclaimed them above 
 the common rank. The centre one of these three was 
 muffled up to the eyes, and rode her strong serviceable 
 palfrey in a way that indicated fatigue. Her two female 
 companions were both young and pretty, but neither of 
 them so heavily clad, nor so slow of movement as their
 
 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 59 
 
 fnistress, but, on the contrary, sat easily on their horses, 
 appearing full of life and spirit. Behind them followed 
 two armed men, evidently retainers, in steel corselets over 
 their leathern jerkins, and with clumsy-looking horse 
 pistols in their holsters, ready to defend those whom they 
 served, as well as themselves if necessary. 
 
 Turning towards one of her handmaidens, for such 
 they were, the lady who appeared chief of the party said, 
 in a feeble voice, " Methinks, if yonder town be Farn- 
 ham, or Fearnham, I must needs rest me there, for I am 
 a-weary, a- weary of this long travel." 
 
 "Assuredly, Mistress Nell, it is needful you should, 
 considering your condition," replied the handmaid so 
 addressed. 
 
 " And yet it was planned for us to reach Guildford, 
 according to what Master Vernon advised," interposed 
 the other handmaiden. 
 
 " Master Vernon should have met us ere this," again 
 spoke the principal female, whom it is unnecessary to 
 keep in disguise, for she was Mistress Eleanor Gwynn, 
 the King's favourite and least disreputable concubine, 
 then on her journey towards London for her accouche- 
 ment. 
 
 " Master Vernon is, maybe, better engaged than in 
 keeping troth with three distressed women," interrupted 
 the first speaker ; when Mistress G\\Tnn, who had 
 looked anxiously before her, suddenly exclaimed — 
 
 " Ah ! If I mistake not, that is he who approaches 
 €ven now, and see — see — he Yraves us back mth his hand, 
 what can it mean ? " 
 c 2
 
 6o THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 It was indeed Master Vernon who approached on 
 horseback, and in evident trouble. This young gentle- 
 man, a tall handsome lad of some twenty summers, was 
 the son of a Royalist landholder, residing at a mansion 
 between Batchetlea and Aldershot, at which house the 
 unfortunate Monarch Charles the First had once slept on 
 his passage from Carisbrook to London, and where, as 
 legend tells, he left his night cap, as a souvenir, having 
 nothing else in his possession to leave. 
 
 Master Vernon, like his father before him, was a 
 staunch Cavalier, and felt no degradation in bestowing 
 knightly service on his King's mistress, particularly as he 
 had admired Mistress Nelly for her good looks and good 
 temper some twelve months before this time, ivhen she 
 had advanced his suit for Lieutenancy in the King's 
 Guard. Living almost close to Farnham, he had been 
 commissioned by the King to superintend the escort of 
 Mistress Nell from Farnham to Guildford, and was about 
 so to do when he was made aware of the mob rising in 
 the former place, as evinced by his present warning back 
 of the cavalcade. 
 
 In a few moments, Master Vernon came up to the 
 party, and, doffing his plumed beaver, intimated that mis- 
 chief was afloat in the direction of Farnham, which it 
 would be best to avoid by taking some bye-path, instead 
 of passing through the main thoroughfare, the people 
 being riotously inclined. 
 
 " They will surely not harm three poor women, sore 
 tired with travel," spoke Nelly Gwynn, 
 
 " They are mad with drink and excitement," replied
 
 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 6 1 
 
 Master Vernon, " suffer me to lead your palfrey by a road 
 I wot of, and all may be secure." 
 
 With this, he personally took Mistress GA\7nn's horse 
 by the bridle, and led the cavalcade through a path on 
 the eastern side of the town, passing behind the parish 
 church so as to escape those parts of the town inhabited 
 by the richer sort, and through a sparsely inhabited 
 neighbourhood Avherein the very poorest herded together. 
 It was in that line of path wherein there yet stands the 
 birthplace of William Cobbett, but whether that hostelry 
 was then in existence is not quite certain, while it is yet 
 possible that two or three of the meaner class of dwell- 
 ings now extant might have been just erected. It Avrs 
 while passing along this route, and at a point correspord- 
 ing with the Market-place, that loud shouts were heard in 
 the distance, indicating that the mob was still in the 
 ascendant, although dusk had begun to fall. 
 
 While the attention of the little party was for a moment 
 arrested, the sound of approaching feet drew near, and 
 Master Vernon, thinking it wisest to lie perdu for a time, 
 drew his convoy into a place of concealment behind some 
 brushwood conveniently near, and from which ambush 
 he could see whatever might be about to happen. 
 
 This, then, is what occurred — through Downing-street 
 there came some two dozen half-drunken townspeople of 
 the lower sort, two among them bearing in 'their arms 
 what appeared to be the lifeless body of a man, yet by 
 no means after the solemn procession of a funeral party ; 
 quite otherwise, for the bearers of that burthen were 
 chaunting a sort of drunken chorus, intermixed with shouts,
 
 62 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 anything but sad or solenin. Onward they came, the 
 disabled or dead man and his bearers, until they reached 
 a low hovel having but one window, and a door which, 
 on being examined, was found to be locked. Whatever 
 may have been the intention of these men, it became 
 arrested on the sudden, for a ruddy gleam in the sky, 
 over the Market-place, and distant cries of " Fire, Fire," 
 caused the bearers of the supposed corpse to place their 
 burthen suddenly on the ground, while others exclaimed 
 " They are burning the stocks, they are burning the pil- 
 lory ! Let us go and see." 
 
 On this, all save two of their number scampered off up 
 Downing-street, while the remaining couple somewhat 
 hurriedly placed the seemingly dead body, which was no 
 other than that of the poor wooden-legged soldier, not 
 dead, but certainly dead-drunk, and clothed in a very old 
 regimental coat, up against the doorway of the hovel 
 before mentioned ; but, as the poor fellow could not be 
 made to stand upon his two wooden appendages, he was 
 perforce placed sitting way, propped in an angle of the 
 door, and so left while his friendly tormentors scampered 
 off at the heels of their brethren to see the fire, which 
 now began to rage furiously. 
 
 Touched with pity at the sight of an old soldier in such 
 unworthy plight, Mistress Nell bade Master Vernon see 
 after his condition, not knowing whether he was yet alive 
 or not. " Is the poor man dead ? " she asked. 
 
 On which Master Vernon dismounted, and very soon 
 perceived that the poor fellow was yet alive, though in 
 some danger of dying from neglect.
 
 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 63 
 
 " No, lady," said Master Vernon, " the poor fellow is 
 not dead, but little short thereof. I know him well. He 
 fought with my father at Marston Moor, but has no 
 other means of living than charity. I have helped him at 
 times myself, and will do so now." 
 
 Thereupon the speaker called on a trooper, one of 
 Mistress Nelly's guard, to dismount, and with his assis- 
 tance raised the poor man from his dangerous attitude, 
 and sought means of forcing the door at that hovel which 
 he rightly believed to be his dwelling place ; it required 
 but little force to make entrance, just as a dirty lad came 
 up and told that his grandmother, who had charge 
 of the poor fellow, would soon be there to put him to 
 bed. 
 
 "He has a bed, then, to lie in?" interrogated the 
 speaker. 
 
 " Yah ! " replied the lad. " Granny takes off his legs, 
 and pokes him in there," pointing to a dark hole at the far 
 extremity of the hut. 
 
 " Why does she take off his legs ? " 
 
 '"Case he main't walk off when he don't ought to,'' 
 replied the lad. 
 
 Scarcely had these words been spoken than an old 
 beldame hobbled up, and, making her obeisance to " the 
 gentry," stated that she received one penny per day from 
 the parish parson for attending the old man. 
 
 " And what for his keep ? " interrogated Mistress Nell. 
 
 "Nowt," shortly replied the old woman, "sometimes 
 one gives him a crust, and sometimes a bowl of milk." 
 
 "And is that all?" exclaimed Nelly, while Master
 
 64 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 Vernon and the trooper conveyed the poor man inside the 
 hut, followed by the old woman. 
 
 It was then that Mistress Nell, with tears in her eyes, 
 fumbled for a satchel which usually did duty for a purse 
 in those times ; but finding in it only two silver groats, 
 turned, with a burning blush, to Master Vernon, who 
 had just emerged from the hut, saying, ""For a poor lost 
 woman's sake, bestow your charity on yon maimed 
 defender of his country. Shame on England's King that 
 such should be, and yet," here she spoke less harshly, 
 " it is not all the King's fault, for his heart is noble, 
 alack ! alack ! " 
 
 " I have already done what I could ; but see ! Hark ! 
 The mob ; the drunken wretches are still at their wild 
 work and approach this place. We must fly — perhaps 
 for our lives — on ; follow me, we may yet reach Vernon 
 Court ere the night becomes dark." 
 
 Obeying this command, the little party of eight pricked 
 on, but not before some dozen of the rabble had caught 
 sight of them ; and, having had an inkling that one of the 
 King's mistresses was on the road, set up a shout, crying, 
 " 'Tis the King's leman ! let us pull her from her horse, 
 why should she ride while we are afoot ? " 
 
 Timid by nature, and fatigued with travel, beside 
 labouring under the still greater trouble of impending 
 maternity, poor Mistress Nelly G\\7nn had great diffi- 
 culty in keeping her Pillion saddle. She felt terribly 
 alarmed, but nevertheless held her way, followed by 
 shouts from the mob, who, although not like herself 
 mounted, yet contrived to keep pace with the party, and
 
 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 65 
 
 were only forced back, as a last resource, by one of the 
 two armed followers discharging his piece in the air 
 over their heads. 
 
 It soon became apparent that if aid were not forth- 
 comino- very, very soon a catastrophe would occur, and 
 at length Master Vernon found himself compelled to 
 restrict the pace, himself leading Mistress Nelly's horse 
 by the rein, while the two serving men pricked on 
 cautiously before crossing the litde river at a ford nigh 
 to where the brewery of Messrs. Barrett now looks down 
 upon the shallow waters. 
 
 Having crossed, the entire cavalcade took to a foot 
 pace, choosing the nearest route it could towards Vernon 
 Court, to which place he determined on conveying the 
 party, though not without some misgivings as regarded 
 his lady mother, whose strict notions of propriety would 
 rise in arms against such intrusion, but as he still 
 pondered, "I must e'en risk it, or worse may ensue." 
 Darkness had now fallen ; the roadway was but a bridle 
 path, and the mud over their horses' fetlocks; worse than 
 even this, rain was beginning to fall, ploughed fields and 
 ugly ditches had to be crossed in order to make a near 
 cut to their proposed destination, known only to Master 
 Vernon himself, who unfortunately became so engrossed 
 by his charge that he neglected to direct the attention of 
 the two serving men who pricked on before. Half-an- 
 hour's blundering advance soon told that the right way to 
 Vernon Court had been missed, and it was only on 
 reaching the vicinity of a noble elm tree that Master 
 Vernon knew that he was touching upon the small
 
 66 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 village of Wcyburne, an almost desolate spot, having 
 little claim in those days to the title of village, insomuch 
 as it consisted of three houses only, and those of the 
 humblest description. 
 
 He felt thoroughly non-plussed ; not one of the three 
 small tenements could afford the accommodation he 
 needed for his helpless charge, who now fairly declared 
 herself unable to proceed further ; the rain too began to 
 fall heavily, and it was only through seeking shelter be- 
 neath the friendly elm that the three poor females could 
 avoid becoming wet through. 
 
 All at once Master Vernon, who knew the prominent 
 features of the country pretty well, remembered that a 
 goodly sized homestead was located at a spot just beyond 
 the running stream, some two or three hundred yards 
 further on. 
 
 It was the residence of a grim Puritan yeoman, whose 
 political opinions were, of course, adverse to the Royal 
 cause ; but what matter ? — he would surely not refuse 
 succour to three helpless females in dire need, especially 
 as there was no necessity to tell who they were. At all 
 risks the attempt must be made ; the two troopers kept 
 in the background, as well as the two serving men, 
 Master Vernon and the three females alone showing 
 themselves. Before, however, taking this step he debated 
 with Mistress Nelly and her two companions on the advi- 
 sability of asking shelter at the great house called "The 
 Manor " almost close by, the same now tenanted by 
 Mrs. Knight, but then in the occupation of a Royalist 
 gentleman, notorious for gay living. Somewhat to his
 
 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 67 
 
 * 
 
 astonishment all three of the females objected to this, 
 saying they would rather seek the needed hospitality 
 at a humbler place ; and, such being their wish, Master 
 Vernon at once proceeded towards the former locality 
 with all possible speed. 
 
 Crossing the little brook, or running stream before 
 alluded to, the little party arrived at a sudden turn in the 
 roadway, and immediately found themselves before a 
 low roofed house of two stories only, but encompassed by 
 a mass of foliage and outbuildings indicative of comfort 
 if not opulence, but without any sign of life about it, for 
 every window was in darkness. 
 
 " I fear me the house is untenanted," cried the elder of 
 the two attendants upon Nelly, " and if so the Lord 
 have mercy upon us." 
 
 " We will try the effect of a summons," exclaimed 
 Master Vernon, who, calling one of the outriders to hold 
 Nelly's horse, went forthwith to the door of the house, 
 and, finding no knocker or bell, gave a sonorous 
 " Halloa," accompanied by sundry blows with his riding 
 whip, and was right well pleased to find the door opened 
 by a female serving person in lieu of a male. A pre- 
 liminary question soon brought forth Mrs. Grimshaw, 
 housekeeper to the owner of the place, who was away in 
 Flanders, on the Commissariat Department of the King- 
 dom, despite his Puritan attachment to the late Common- 
 wealth. 
 
 Mrs. Grimshaw was a very severe looking personage of 
 the hardest possible type, and in the ugliest possible
 
 63 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 costume, black from top to toe, square built, and diminish- 
 ing downward ; she might almost have been likened to a 
 coffin standing upriglit, with its silver name plate for a 
 face, so white were her features, and so black and scanty 
 her robe. 
 
 At the first glance of this personage. Master Vernon 
 conceived his errand to be fruitless, but in this he was 
 fortunately mistaken, for Dame Grimshaw was more 
 kindly in her nature than in her looks; and, after hearing 
 all which it was intended she should hear, consented to 
 afford the three women all possible assistance in the 
 extremity of their need, as also granting permission for 
 their attendants to quarter themselves in the stabling as 
 best they might. 
 
 Nor had this arrangement been effected one moment 
 too soon, for the long and uneven travel from Portsmouth, 
 together Avith the fright encountered at Farnham, had 
 brought on the travail of labour before its time, and it 
 became immediately necessary to obtain the help of a 
 qualified surgeon. One of the troopers was at once 
 despatched back to the town from which he had so lately 
 ridden, with orders to bring the first medical man he 
 could find, " post, post haste," while the other trooper 
 was sent forward to Guildford with directions to bring 
 back a proper conveyance for Mistress Gwynn, whereby 
 h'jr journey might be continued when practicable. 
 
 Meanwhile an event was occurring above stairs, which 
 could not await the surgeon's arrival, and an old woman 
 of the neighbourhood, known as " Mother Squalls," was 
 summoned at top speed for the occasion.
 
 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 69 
 
 This "Mother Squalls," the "wise woman" of the 
 district, was a noted character in her way, a sort of 
 rural "Sairey-Gamp," without whose assistance in the 
 parish very few young persons were permitted to enter 
 the world, and very few old ones to go out of it. She 
 and her ugly cub of a son, known as " Jem May " (for 
 Squalls was a professional name only), occupied a shanty 
 in a field close by, where he did odd jobs with the spade 
 and pick at anyone's command. This " Mother Squalls " 
 was clever in her way, and could, at a pinch, concoct all 
 sorts of abominable mixtures from herbs for killing or 
 curing, as luck might ordain. Called in at a pinch, she 
 performed her duties as midwife skilfully enough, but 
 only to usher into the world a dead child of the masculine 
 " persuasion," who, had it lived, might have called itself 
 " Prince," with a bar-sinister on his escutcheon, and a 
 right of sway over broad lands, but, being born dead, 
 was nothing ! Immediately after this event came the 
 surgeon from Farnham, who, finding his aid unneces- 
 sary, turned back again in a " huff," merely saying — as he 
 contemplated the little corpse — " Bury that clod in some 
 ditch ; dare not to place it in consecrated ground ; 'tis 
 but a lump of clay." 
 
 Master Vernon was about to utter an indignant 
 protest, but, knowing the law, restrained himself in time, 
 and taking counsel of the assembled females, agreed that 
 the little body of his King's child should be enclosed in 
 a box, and consigned to its mother-earth at midnight, by 
 the aid of Mother Squalls's son, who was used to work 
 with pick and spade in the grounds nigh at hand.
 
 70 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 This son of " ^Mother Squalls," ugly as base-born, but 
 known as " Jem IMay" after his reputed father, and other- 
 wise designated '" the ugly cub," was a character in the 
 neighbourhood ready for any ugly job ; only five feet in 
 stature, with a white pasty face, a bullet head, and a 
 thatch of dark hair over his upper lip, he delighted in any 
 transaction which savoured of mystery or concealment, 
 and would indeed have preferred crime, nature having 
 fashioned him in her surliest mood. 
 
 With a grunt of satisfaction at the prospect of earning 
 a few coins, Jem May contrived to extemporise a coffin 
 out of a small trunk, wherein, amidst the tears of three 
 poor females — one of them a mother — the tiny corpse of 
 a still-born princelet was deposited, and, as decently as 
 tender hands could minister, laid out in humble state for 
 consignment to the earth. 
 
 Between the hours of twelve and one, with a bright 
 moon shining after the overpast storm, Master Vernon, 
 accompanied by " the ugly cub," Jem May, bearing his 
 little burthen under one arm, and a serviceable pick and 
 mattock under the other, wended their silent way to the 
 nearest churchyard, which happened to be that of Alder- 
 shot village, only one mile distant, and in which, despite 
 all prohibition, he determined on buiying the unbap- 
 tised relic of humanity, his King's son, if only a clod. 
 
 Accordingly, selecting a favourable spot immediately 
 beneath a moderately sized yew tree, nearly facing the porch 
 of the sacred edifice itself, full six feet deep a grave was 
 dug, and in it as carefully as possible was lowered doAvn the 
 homely coffin, but without any prayer, for Master Vernon
 
 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. J I 
 
 having violated one ceremony of the Church by his 
 present act, refrained from any second, and would have 
 left ashes to meet ashes and earth to meet earth without 
 further ceremony, but that as the first spade full of soil 
 fell hollow upon the box, he bethought him of one little 
 ■ office which might not be in the wrong. Stripping off 
 his cloak of Genoa velvet, he flung it down by way of a 
 pall, muttering to himself" My Sovereign's offspring shall 
 yet lie royally covered, if only at the cost of a poor gentle- 
 man's cloak." 
 
 This done, and the grave covered, so as to hide all 
 appearance of its having been made, Master Vernon 
 cast one parting glance upon the grey church tower and 
 hastened away, followed by his unsightly companion, 
 whose hideous grin of satisfaction at the receipt of a 
 golden coin was in truth an ugly comment on the deed 
 just done. 
 
 A couple of hundred years have passed on. That 
 spreading yew tree, now a mighty patriarch, even yet 
 overshadows that lowly grave, and if within the notice of 
 present time that tree should become uprooted, full six 
 feet deep may chance to be found, if earth and time yet 
 spare a relic, the small bones of a King's child that knew 
 not earthly pomp nor sacred rite, nor haply found its 
 resting-place a whit less honourable than those marked 
 by sepulchral stone, or humbler marked by arching sod, 
 neath which " the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." 
 
 Immediately after this event Master Vernon rode over 
 to London, where in some trepidation he communicated 
 all facts to his Majesty, who exonerated him from all
 
 72 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 blame, the more particularly for his having guarded the 
 secresy of Mistress Gwynn from the prying eyes and 
 scandalous tongues of the neighbourhood, for, strange to 
 tell, that secret \vas kept, even though six females, to 
 say nothing of as many males, were parties to the tran- 
 saction in some way or other. As a matter of course the 
 two outriders and the two troopers who formed the 
 escort were perfectly well informed, but being well paid 
 also, were too wise to break faith; while Dame Grimshaw, 
 the hard-looking but soft-headed Puritan guardian, had 
 her own reasons for keeping silence — even if her sus- 
 picions had rebelled. 
 
 In brief space Mistress Nelly Gwynn was ready to 
 resume her journey, for ladies at that period were hardier 
 than now, and five days after the misadventure that little 
 cavalcade took the road to Guildford in the same order 
 as before, and were met at that place by an escort from 
 London of more convenient kind, for the King was very 
 considerate as regarded the well being of his several 
 favourites. Mistress Nelly being at that moment the 
 principal one. 
 
 Seven years after this event. Master Vernon, then a 
 captain who had won laurels in a campaign against the 
 Dutch, waited upon his Majesty the King, who promised 
 him an advance if he would attach himself to the Court, 
 but this our young hero declined, preferring to follow his 
 military career, and ultimately finding both a beauti- 
 ful wife and an ample position in the Avorld without 
 cringing to any political party whatsoever. 
 
 Once only afterwards did he see Mistress Nelly
 
 THE FOX AND HOUNDS. 75 
 
 Gwynn, who, of all the King's numerous favourites, was 
 the best loved and most deserving. She was residing in 
 a private lodging close to Whitehall, where the King was 
 accustomed to visit her and to play with his little son, 
 then six years of age, and concerning whom the following 
 is reported, but with what truth it is impossible to 
 vouch : — 
 
 The little fellow so troubled his Majesty with playful 
 tricks that his mother drew him away, saying, "Come 
 away, you little bastard ! " 
 
 " Nay," spoke the King, " don't call him by such a 
 name ; " on which Mistress Nelly exclaimed — 
 
 " It is all the name your Majesty has given him ! " 
 
 " We will change all that," once more spoke the King,. 
 and did so, for the child was named Beauclerc, and 
 ultimately became Duke of St. Albans, with a fair 
 estate. 
 
 For many years Mistress Nelly Gwynn retained the 
 favours of her Ro>al Master, outliving his fickle fancy for 
 Mrs. Davis, Louise de Quarrielles, and some dozen other 
 Court beauties, many of whom look down from the 
 canvasses of Lely and other artists on the walls of 
 Hampton Court. 
 
 It is recorded that on his deathbed King Charles, after 
 partaking of the Sacrament from a Catholic priest, and 
 apologising for being so long in dying, uttered, in his last 
 moments, " Don't let poor Nelly starve ! " thereby 
 committing her to the good will of an unpitying world, 
 which, if it did not absolutely let her die of w^ant, did 
 allowher to linger in great poverty, until certain personages
 
 74 THE VOX AND HOUNDS. 
 
 in guardianship of the young Duke of St. Albans pre- 
 vented a national scandal. It would be, of course, an 
 affront to public morality if any writer should dare to 
 eulogise a Royal courtesan as an honest woman, and yet 
 — and yet — may she not have been a good woman 
 instead ? For is she not accredited with having been the 
 instigator of that noblest national charity, Chelsea Hos- 
 pital? And, if so, is it too much to assert that her 
 thoughts may have been impelled thereto by the sight of 
 that poor wooden-legged soldier, whose pitiable condition 
 fell beneath her eyes during that evening of terror and 
 affright, when passing through Farnham, she found her 
 journey arrested, in woman's saddest hour of travail, at 
 '^The Fox and Hounds."
 
 THE TEADESMN'S DAUGHTEE. 
 
 * " Pudet hcEC approbia nobis, et did potuisse, et non 
 
 potuisse refelli." 
 
 Ovid, M. i. 
 
 chapter i. 
 
 The establishment of a military camp at the hitherto 
 obscure "village" of Aldershot has done much to 
 disabuse the civilian public of many fallacies touching 
 "the service," and, upon the whole, reflected great credit 
 upon the British soldier, both in the commission and in 
 the ranks ; but still without letting in the full light of 
 publicity on certain dark corners even yet shrouded by 
 exclusiveness or partially veiled by reserve. 
 
 It is upon one of these half-hidden mysteries that the 
 following narrative will be found to hinge, the date being 
 only a little in advance of that period which brought 
 about the abolition of purchase, under the auspices of 
 Lord Cardwell, at which time a certain cavalry regiment 
 was stationed at Aldershot, and quartered in the West 
 Cavalry Block — we will call it the " Ninety-ninth 
 Hussars." 
 
 It must be well known to the world at large that 
 commissioned officers in her Majesty's service are all — 
 like civilian officers in the law — gentlemen " by Act of 
 Parhamentj" and not vierdy gentlemen, but perfectly 
 equal gentlemen, the honorary colonel and the junior 
 sub-lieutenant being equally entitled to presentation at
 
 76 THE TRADESMAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Court, and their Avives alike eligible, with permission, by 
 courtesy, of the Lord High Chamberlain, who is sup- 
 posed to know "who is who," and admit or reject at 
 option. 
 
 It is also, presumably, well known that there are 
 officers in a regiment who, although gentlemen by virtue 
 of their commissions, are frequently not exactly such 
 within the full "meaning of the Act," to borrow a law 
 phrase, but who are somewhat unfelicitously termed 
 "rankers" in military parlance, having been raised from 
 the position of sergeant or sergeant-major through simple 
 merit and efficiency ; such officers, in ca\'alry regiments, 
 being the " Quarter-master," " Riding-master," and 
 " Veterinary Surgeon," familiarly termed the " vet," 
 besides, occasionally, others, instructors in various 
 branches of regimental practice — even the paymaster or 
 adjutant at times. 
 
 There are also certain officers in the service termed 
 " non-combatants " * — the parson or chaplain, of course, 
 the surgeons, of necessity, and some others whose 
 technical avocations employ them elsewhere than in the 
 attacking column ; these three classes of combatants, 
 non-combatants, and working officers forming the 
 
 * This term must be accepted with much reservation. In 
 the British army there are no actual non-combatants in the 
 field of action, except the surgeons and the cliaplains, BUT 
 in the instructional camp and elsewhere at home, the adjutant, 
 quartermaster, paymaster, and instructors have quite enough 
 to employ them without fighting imaginary foes on parade or 
 ■elsewhere. The term " working ofhcers " appearing a little 
 ''infra dig " they prefer being called " non-combatants."
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 77 
 
 commissioned staff or back-bone of every regiment in 
 the service. 
 
 As a corollary to the above, while all the male 
 constituents of the commissioned staff are equal in a 
 society point of view, the female constituents are not to 
 be rashly included, for sufficient reasons tolerably obvious, 
 the wives of " rankers " being too frequently uneducated 
 women, quite unfitted for society communion with the 
 highly cultivated wives who almost exclusively form the 
 •" lady-staff," and who, by virtue of their influence over 
 their husbands, exercise a degree of power far beyond 
 _general appreciation. Thackeray, in one of his clever 
 novels, records somewhat like the following : " The 
 regiment goes out in command of the Major, and the 
 Major goes out under command of — his wife ;" a slight 
 matter, as may appear on the surface, but by no means 
 such in a deeper sense ; for is not a woman, although 
 often at the root of mischief, still more often the incentive 
 to a thousand acts of devotion and gallantry, which had 
 else lacked a strong motive power ? 
 
 Having thus glanced at the social constitution of the 
 regimental system in general, it is time to note that of the 
 " Ninety-ninth Hussars " in particular. 
 
 This noble corps, relegated to Aldershot about a dozen 
 years ago, was under the command of Lieut.-Colonel 
 Busby, a veteran officer of sixty years' service, who had 
 won his laurels most deservedly, attaining his rank by 
 slow degrees only, and without purchase ; but being of no 
 family himself, while accidentally in command of an 
 aristocratic regiment, he confined himself strictly to the
 
 78 THE tradesman's daughter. 
 
 duties of his position, and, together with his unassuming 
 wife, mingled as Httlc as possible with general society, 
 his "locum tenens" in that respect being Major Bexfield, 
 a veteran of thirty-five years old, who, being extremely 
 rich, had purchased his every step over half-a-dozen 
 senior captains. 
 
 Major Bexfield stood four feet eleven inches in his regi- 
 mental jack-boots, but, as he was in the habit of stating, 
 " could make himself as tall as anyone else by standing 
 on his cash box," and this was true. If, however, the 
 Major was short in person, he had taken measures ot 
 counterpoise by marrying a very tall wife, to wit, the 
 Honble. Matilda Dashwood, the penniless daughter of an 
 Irish peer, the couple being well matched — as opposites 
 — for both were proud — the one of his money, the other 
 of her birth. 
 
 It was a singularity of the Major's to overburthen his 
 brother officers with presents, ostentatiously bestowed. 
 He had presented the regiment with a " drag" and four 
 splendid bays ; he had presented the mess with an 
 enormous salver, worth several hundred pounds, too 
 heavy for one footman to carry, and with his name and 
 presentation elaborately graven thereon ; he had pre- 
 sented the senior captain's wife with a cradle of silver 
 wirework, a fac-simile to one lately presented to the 
 Lady Mayoress ; and he had presented the junior cornet 
 with the ugliest bull-dog in all creation, a couple of 
 bloodhounds, and no less than three terriers, all warranted 
 lineal descendants from the famous rat catcher, " Billy," 
 all of which the luckless cornet was compelled to keep^
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 79 
 
 although his income reached a bare five hundred pounds 
 beyond his pay. 
 
 As for the Honourable Mrs. Major Bexfield, no pen can 
 do justice to her manifold qualifications as a ruler in 
 society. Tall, handsome, and showily accomplished, it 
 was an apparent mystery why she had allied herself as she 
 did, but the secret lay in her love of domination. The 
 Major's small person and large purse offered a dual realm 
 over which she could reign as queen. Her pride was 
 her sceptre, and "caste" one of her imperative laws, 
 through which she hoped to govern the little community 
 under her sway. 
 
 Of the officers composing the Ninety-ninth Hussars, the 
 four senior captains were all married to ladies of birth 
 and position ; one lieutenant and one cornet, fortunately 
 a rich man, were also married in their own sphere, the 
 rest being all single, and numbering eighteen or twenty 
 at the regimental mess. 
 
 " Place aux dames." Of the ladies who formed the 
 "lady-staff" little need be told, except that, being 
 " ladies " in every sense of the word, they conformed to 
 the usages of society while tacitly under the banner of 
 their recognised commandress, the Major's wife, who 
 somehow or other contrived to exercise a dominion not 
 always in accord with good taste or charitable feeling. 
 But of this anon. 
 
 As regards the gentlemen under feminine command, 
 they were all gentlemen, both by education and self- 
 control ; but, somehow or other, all under the influ- 
 ence of caste and society law, professing absolute
 
 8o THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 independence, but practising absolute obedience to forms 
 and customs ; all, except one, in the person of a young 
 cornet, well born and well off, who, being troubled with 
 an over balance of modesty, was a little snubbed and a 
 good deal laughed at accordingly, his christened name of 
 "Augustus Muff" being a peg on which many jokes 
 were pinned. 
 
 Concerning the regiment in general, one other little 
 peculiarity remains to be noted, this one being not 
 peculiar to the ninety-ninth alone. It was a " Lex non- 
 scripta " that any officer degrading himself by marriage 
 beneath his " caste " should immediately " sell out " or 
 " be sent to Coventry," this latter alternative being so 
 intolerable that the former was generally accepted as the 
 lesser of the two, and had been lately so accepted by the 
 senior lieutenant, who had had the audacity to marry a 
 governess, so beautiful and so highly accomplished that 
 the female conclave of the regiment barred her out, as well 
 as her husband. 
 
 It was at the dismissal of parade one fine morning in 
 June that Colonel Busby made known to the Major, 
 who made known to the Senior Captain, who forthwith 
 made known to every other officer in rank succeeding — 
 rankers excepted — that a communication awaited them, 
 m massf, at the Colonel's quarters one hour after lunch 
 time, three o'clock sharp. 
 
 Great was the astonishment of all regarding the matter. 
 What could it mean ? A special order from the 
 Lieutenant-General commanding the division, or a 
 private communication from the Horse Guards ?
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 8 1 
 
 Conjecture was at the highest, but obedience im- 
 perative. 
 
 The Colonel's drawing-room on the first floor of a 
 block-end house, a handsome apartment, was found to 
 "hfi arranged board-room fashion ; a long table in the 
 centre, surrounded with chairs, pen, ink, and paper being 
 provided as for a court-martial. 
 
 A few moments after all had arrived, the Colonel 
 presented himself, wearing a countenance as impenetrable 
 as that of the Sphinx. 
 
 " Something up," whispered the Senior Captain, and 
 something was " up." 
 
 After all had seated themselves. Colonel Busby at the 
 table-head, and Major Bexfield at his right hand, an 
 ominous silence prevailed, during which the fever of 
 expectancy was at its highest. 
 
 At length the Colonel uprose from his chair, and spoke 
 as follows : — 
 
 " Gentlemen, — I have a communication to make 
 which gives me some trouble. I had intended to put it 
 into some form of my own concocting, but after con- 
 siderable thought, have elected to read the said com- 
 munication, with permission of its author." 
 
 A dead silence continued to reign unbroken, until 
 the Colonel resumed — 
 
 "You remember, gentlemen, the date of Captain Ent- 
 wistle's departure on special leave, urgent private affairs." 
 
 " Certainly," responded several voices. 
 
 "Well," resumed the Colonel, " it was this day month, 
 and his leave expires to-morrow."
 
 82 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Nothing wrong happened to him, I hope, " exclaimed 
 the Senior Lieutenant. 
 
 " Something has happened," again the Colonel spoke. 
 
 " No accident, I hope ? " 
 
 " Not thrown from his horse, surely, and broken his 
 collarbone?" 
 
 "Not dead, I hope?" 
 
 " Neither of these things, but he has done something."' 
 Here the Colonel hesitated as to what should follow next 
 in evident embarrassment. 
 
 " Surely an honourable man like Entwistle can have 
 done nothing wrong," exclaimed the Senior Captain. 
 
 "Wrong or right, gentlemen, you must judge for 
 yourselves ; all I can tell you is that he got married." 
 Thus saying. Colonel Busby reseated himself 
 
 " Is that all?" exclaimed several voices, simultaneously. 
 
 "Aye all! and enough too," spoke Major Bexfield, 
 " when you know how." 
 
 Hereupon Colonel Busby produced from his breast 
 pocket an official looking letter, which he handed to 
 Major Bexfield with the curt words " read it," and the 
 Major did read it, in a sonorous voice, as follows : — 
 
 My Dear Colonel Busby,— 
 
 I have a communication to render yourself and my 
 brother officers, which circumstances make more convenient 
 by letter than by word of mouth ; the briefest possible form 
 will suffice for the occasion, and must thus be rendered. 
 
 I have married a young and Iseautiful woman, who is highly 
 accomplished and endowed by nature with every charm of 
 person and mind calculated to render a man happy, but she 
 is a tradesman's daughter, and therefore, according to the 
 unwritten code of military society, disqualified from inter- 
 course with the ladies of my comrade officers. 
 
 In this dilemma I feel bound to acknowledge that, while I
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 83 
 
 «■' 
 
 must feel deeplv the disqualification in my own peculiar case, 
 I cannot quarrel with the law which imposes it, but, having a 
 deep love for my profession, and deeming cowardice ittany 
 form a breach of manly honour, I have elected to remain m 
 the regiment, and to face the consequences, whatever such 
 
 may be. , r -, ^ 1. 
 
 My object in addressing you is therefore to lay, through you, 
 my case before my brother officers, and to acquaint them that, 
 while I am sure no ungenilemanly obstacle will be thrown in 
 my way, I will refrain from accepting their discontent in a 
 hostile sense, believing it to be founded on a mistake which 
 time will rectify ; also that my wife will neither seek nor shun 
 society, having, like myself, to defend a post of danger which 
 we hold as a post of honour against even the world in arms. 
 
 I shall therefore meet my comrades as though nothing had 
 happened, abiding by the colours of my country, my honour, 
 and my conscience. 
 
 I have the honour to assert myself, dear Colonel Busby, 
 Your Servant to Command, 
 
 REGINALD ENTWISTLE. 
 
 " Now, gentlemen, what do you think of that ? " ex- 
 claimed the Major, after reading the document, and 
 " flouncing" it down upon the table. 
 
 "I don't know what to think," responded one voice in 
 2l puzzled tone. 
 
 " Nor I," echoed another. "What say you, Colonel? " 
 
 But Colonel Busby only shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "What do you think of it yourself, Major?" cried the 
 Senior Captain. 
 
 " It is not what I think of it," replied Major Bexfield, 
 " but what the ladies will think. I must consult Mrs. 
 Bexfield." 
 
 Mrs., the Honourable, lady in question, was consulted 
 accordingly, but what the Honourable Mrs. Major 
 Bexfield decided upon must be rendered in a separate 
 chapter.
 
 b'4 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Captain Reginald Entwistle had married a grocer's 
 daughter, and this was the manner of it. 
 
 Six months before the commencement of this narrative 
 he had left Aldershot to spend his Christmas leave at 
 Leamington with some hunting friends, but while on his 
 road, and stopping at Daventry, he bethought him of a 
 distant connection residing close by whom it was a matter 
 of duty to "look up," especially as this distant relative, a 
 Dowager Countess, was one from whom he had expecta- 
 tions, and who was also guardian to a certain young lady 
 in whom he was interested. He accordingly made a 
 detour and presented himself — -quite unexpectedly — to 
 Lady Penrose at her snug Httle domain, "The Hollies." 
 
 Lady Penrose, a buxom and well jointured widow, was 
 delighted to see him, and introduced him to not one 
 young lady alone, but to two young ladies — foster 
 sisters — both of whom were beautiful in opposite styles ; 
 but which of the two was the one he sought did not at 
 first transpire. 
 
 Lady Penrose herself was childless, but her only sister, 
 dying in childbed while on a visit at the Hollies eighteen 
 years ago, had left her guardian to a little girl whom she 
 vowed to support and educate as her own. 
 
 Fortunately it happened that a neighbouring grocer's 
 wife was qualified to nourish the infant, and did so, in 
 conjuncture with her own, until such time as it was 
 thought proper to separate the litde ones, bringing the 
 young aristocrat home, and leaving the plebeian with its
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 85 
 
 humble relative ; but against this a demurrer was put in. 
 The two infants refused to be separated, and why ? — no 
 one could tell. Perhaps it may have been through some 
 unfathomed mystery of nature, through imbibing the same 
 lacteal nourishment, or perhaps not, but, at all events, 
 the fact remained. The two children, while separated, 
 pined and pined away till they almost pined out of the 
 world, when, as a last resource, the physician advised 
 bringing them together again as the only means of saving 
 their lives. This was accordingly done, little Madeline 
 Gitton, the plebeian grocer's child, and little Elizabeth 
 Aston, the aristocrat, sharing the same home at " The 
 Hollies " with consent of the grocer's wife, until in course 
 of time Lady Penrose became as fond of the grocer's 
 child as of her own niece, and this affection being mutual, 
 it followed that Lady Penrose finally adopted the little 
 plebeian, by parental acquiescence, and the two foster 
 sisters became henceforth as twins, educated and petted 
 alike by governesses and guardian, till at the age ot 
 eighteen years Elizabeth Aston and Madeline Gitton 
 bloomed into womanhood, the two loveliest maidens in 
 all Warwickshire, which, to those who know that county, 
 means a great deal indeed. 
 
 Elizabeth Aston was a brunette, tall, with dark hazel 
 eyes, a bloom on her cheek like that of an October 
 peach, and a figure which put the Hebe of Canova to 
 absolute shame. IMadeline Gitton was a blonde, with 
 the stereotyped "wealth" of golden hair, the com- 
 plexion of a blush rose, and the figure of a Hindoo 
 maiden carrying a waterjar. Her head well poised, her
 
 86 THE tradesman's daughter. 
 
 shoulders well thrown back, licr bust well rounded, and 
 her supple waist not all too fine for grace while yet enough 
 for beauty of action. 
 
 Opposite in style of loveliness, the two girls were equally 
 opposite in their mental ideas, for it was the plebeian 
 maiden who was proud, and the aristocrat who was 
 humble ; Madeline Gitton being extremely sensitive on 
 account of her lowly birth, while yet fierce in its defence, 
 yielding the utmost deference to her parents, whom she 
 constantly visited, and giving warmest love to her two 
 brothers and one sister, whom she helped to educate 
 during one day in every week which she dedicated to her 
 natural home. 
 
 Elizabeth Aston, on the contrary, was all humility, all 
 softness, all sweetness, and all submission ; she did not 
 know what pride meant, least of all pride of birth ; her 
 chosen friends, after her aunt, foster sister, and governess, 
 were the poor people of the village, her favourite flower 
 the lily of the valley, and her chief pla3Tnates a couple of 
 turtle doves, whom she had taught to fly about wherever 
 she went in loving companionship. 
 
 Educated in the strictest seclusion by their governess 
 and a few masters called in from the neighbourhood, the 
 two maidens had mixed with no society except at the 
 houses of friends; of course they had never been fomially 
 "introduced," but had been always received by their 
 neighbours on an equality goodnaturedly accorded to a 
 couple of beautiful girls reared under the guardianship 
 of a titled lady known to all, no thought being given to 
 ulterior possibilities.
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 87 
 
 This little insight to society had, however, awakened in 
 the minds of both maidens a certain kind of dreaminess 
 concerning the future which greatly troubled the trades- 
 man's daughter, and set her thinking. Now, when young 
 ladies begin to think of anything beyond the present, they 
 become dangerous, in a certain sense, if not to others, 
 certainly to themselves, and it was thus with Madeline 
 Gitton, who began to speculate concerning her own 
 future. What would become of her when the halcyon 
 days of her probation should pass away ? — when her 
 friend and companion should emerge from the obscurity 
 of youthful training into the bright light of social eleva- 
 tion, thereby taking that part in the world for which she 
 was bom, and had a rightful claim to enter ? 
 
 So soon as Miss Elizabeth Aston, heiress to a moderate 
 estate, should become formally "introduced" as Lady Pen- 
 rose intended, she must attract admirers, lovers, perhaps, 
 and, as a matter of consequence, be married. 
 
 Yes, married ! — become separated from her, the com- 
 panion of her childhood, and then what else ? 
 
 It is certainly very foolish of young ladies, not out of 
 their teens, to harp upon the word "marriage," the con- 
 sideration of which is not among " Mangnal's questions," 
 but so it is, and probably ever will be. The thinking, 
 too, on marriage, even with respect to one's friend and 
 companion, often comes back to the word " self," just as 
 the Indian toy called "boomerang" returns to the 
 thrower who aims it at someone else. 
 
 From contemplating the possibility of marriage, as 
 regarded her friend, Miss MadeHne Gitton began to ask
 
 S8 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 herself wliat possibility of marriage awaited her, when 
 she should be thrown back upon her own natural position 
 as a mere tradesman's daughter, with the education and 
 aspiration of one befitting a higher sphere. 
 
 Of course this was wrong, in one sense, if right in 
 another. Wrong for any young lady to dream of mar- 
 riage before having learnt what love meant ; but right to 
 prepare herself for a life change which might otherwise 
 break upon her with a too sudden force. Should she be 
 compehed to return to her parents' home, which, by the 
 bye, was now a thriving establishment, she would have 
 to mingle with companions and visitors of a stamp much 
 below what she was accustomed to, with young men 
 whose ideas and aims were by no means in unison with 
 her own ; for she had already formed her ideal of a 
 possible helpmate who should raise her up to a better 
 position. He must be tall, because she was of middle 
 height only. He must be dark, because she was fair, and, 
 if possible, a soldier, because he would help her to fight 
 her way upward to the station she aspired to fill ; but 
 whence he should come, and when, was all an idle dream. 
 Through the kindness of Lady Penrose, Madeline 
 Gitton's only brother, a youth two years older than her- 
 self, had been educated at a public school, and through 
 the same influence had been received as a cadet at Sand- 
 hurst College ; her two sisters had also been fairly edu- 
 cated at a good boarding school, and both her father and 
 her mother had, under the influence of good times and 
 thriving trade, become exceedingly presentable personages 
 and looked far above their station in life — nature having
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 89 
 
 fashioned them upon her best mould, but for all this the 
 gulf between plebeian trade and aristocratic position was 
 one not to be bridged over, and this acknowledged fact 
 jarred against those emotional hopes which education 
 had fostered, and often made her very, very sad indeed, 
 for her pride was innate while yet so peculiar as almost 
 to contradict itself 
 
 Lady Penrose had in contemplation to take a town 
 house in the forthcoming winter, and had already begun 
 to feel embarrassed concerning her adopted ward 
 Madeline — for whom she had always intended to make 
 some provision — when Captain Entwistle's unexpected 
 visit suddenly brought matters to a climax. 
 
 The two young ladies, Elizabeth Aston and Madeline 
 Gitton, were engaged on a duet at the piano when the 
 gallant soldier was admitted, and the brief introduction 
 of " My niece and ward " gave him to understand 
 only that two beautiful girls were before him, but which 
 the niece and winch the ward did not transpire. 
 
 By some sympathetic attraction Captain Entwistle and 
 Madeline Gitton sought each other's eyes, and in them 
 saw their fate. It was a genuine case of " love at 
 first sight ; " the tall dark Captain, with the massive black 
 curly hair and heavy moustache, found his ideal opposite in 
 the blonde maiden with the golden hair, and both felt 
 the magnetic influence Avhich drew them together. 
 
 As this is not by any means a love story, and as its 
 chief event is chronicled on the title-page, it is not 
 necessary to give the details of our hero's wooing. A 
 few simple facts are enough, and they are these : Captain 
 
 D
 
 90 THE TRADESMAN S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Reginald Entwistle, six-and-twenty years of age, with a fair 
 income and no near relative to control him, had grown 
 somewhat tired of steeplechasing, billiard playing, and 
 mess-room slang, and began to long for those home 
 pleasures and that companionship which is only to be 
 found in the marriage state ; he had even contemplated 
 very slightly perhaps, the possibility of finding in Lady 
 Penrose's niece an attraction towards his hopes, for he 
 had seen her as a mere child, together with the youthful 
 Madeline ; but then, as even now, without knowing 
 which was which. 
 
 As a matter of course the mistake of a moment was 
 speedily rectified, but the arrow which sped from the 
 bow of fate, had hit the target, and the shot scored ; 
 witli what ultimate result was yet hidden in the future ; 
 but so immediate and unmistakable was the fact that 
 none could deny it, or fail to see with what precision 
 the blow was struck. 
 
 Three persons were thus placed in a kind of im- 
 broglio, or indeed four, Lady Penrose being the first 
 to form calculations thereon, seeing at once the possi- 
 bility of providing for her adopted ward in a manner 
 to cut the Gordian knot of difficulties regarding her future 
 destination. It was in the same light as well that 
 Elizabeth Aston saw the probabilities of her playmate's 
 satisfactory elevation — a pleasure greatly mitigated 
 through the loss of her companionship. But it was to 
 the enamoured pair that the real difliculties of the case 
 appeared formidable, both alike having pride to con- 
 tend with, although of different kinds.
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 9 1 
 
 Captain Entwistle at once saw his bugbear in regard 
 to the well-known laws of exclusiveness prevailing in 
 militaiy society, and at first debated the expediency of 
 "selling out," as the prudent dog is said to anticipate 
 a kick by voluntary exit ; but a deep love of his pro- 
 fession intervened and a sense of shame at the notion 
 of evading danger by cowardice over-ruled all else, and 
 he determined on braving all. 
 
 As to the lady, she was still more embarrassed, 
 and made no scruple of avowing her mental struggles 
 of pride against pride — of that pride which does not 
 ape humility, but soars above it. As, however, the result 
 has already been chronicled let it so be, and enough — 
 Captain Reginald Entwistle, of the Ninety-ninth Hussars, 
 left the house of Lady Penrose the affianced husband 
 of JNIadeline Gitton — the wedding to come oif in six 
 months' time, with Miss EHzabeth Aston for one principal 
 bridesmaid — and the grocer father to give away the 
 bride. 
 
 As to Captain Entwistle's friends at Leamington, 
 they had to hunt without him, and it is upon record 
 that while one lover of the pigskin achieved a broken 
 collar-bone, and one other a couple of broken ribs, 
 the luckiest of them all gained but one poor fox's 
 "brush," which he carried off in triumph. So that he 
 who stayed behind and gained a lovely woman for a 
 bride obtained, certainly, the best of it, or Fortune's 
 frolic belies herself. 
 
 D 2
 
 92 THE TRADESMAN S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 On the morning following his letter, Captain Entwistle, 
 after having previously reported himself, made his appear- 
 ance on parade as usual, shaking hands after a somewhat 
 formal fashion with such as immediately came in contact 
 with him, but it was a ceremony and nothing else. 
 
 The act of " shaking hands " has long been considered 
 and argued on touching its value as an indicator of 
 friendly feeling, from the presentation of a single finger 
 to the warm and powerful grasp of redhot friendship. 
 Clever observers have accurately and nicely indicated 
 every gradation, except one, and that one the kind of 
 hand shaking which responded to Captain Entwistle, for 
 the touch he met was neither that of friendship nor abso- 
 lutely freezing ceremony, but rather that of pity and 
 commiseration — it was, in truth, accepted as such, pre- 
 cisely as anticipated, but yet it inflicted a pang, setting, 
 as it were, a seal upon some mental contract v.-hich the 
 endorser was compelled to admit as valid. 
 
 Parade being over, and the order of the day complied 
 with. Captain Entwistle was about to seek his regimental 
 quarters, still retained, when he was met by the young 
 shame-faced cornet, previously named as Mr. Muff, who 
 for the nonce appeared to have lost his hesitating 
 manner, and addressed our hero thus, after a hearty shake 
 of hands — 
 
 " My dear sir, allow me to be the first to congratulate
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 93 
 
 you on your marriage, and to solicit the honour of a first 
 introduction to your wife." 
 
 This spontaneous address from one whom he had 
 scarcely ever noticed before that time came most oppor- 
 tunely to calm the unrest which had taken possession of 
 the Captain, who, nevertheless, thought it most politic to 
 reply with some little reserve. 
 
 " Many thanks, my dear sir ; but, without refusing for 
 the present, allow me to thank you most kindly, while I 
 propose to wait awhile pending certain arrangements 
 which may transpire." 
 
 " Must it be so ? " replied the young cornet. 
 
 "For the present — yes." 
 
 Whereupon Mr. I^Iuff appeared as if some happy 
 thought had come across his brain, and after some little 
 hesitation he again spoke. 
 
 " Ah ! I think you fancy a lady friend would do better 
 service, if so, and you will let me be the first to be 
 honoured with an introduction, I — I — I have a dear 
 little sister who will come to see me in a few days, and 
 she will accompany me." 
 
 " Thanks, a thousand times. Come with me now, and 
 suffer me to appreciate your friendship as it deserves." 
 
 With this understanding they parted, but only to meet 
 again in the evening, when a well-appointed pony chaise 
 conveyed them to Laurel Villa, a sequestered residence 
 which the Captain had secured, near Upper Hale, where 
 a recJmxhe dinner awaited them, presided over by the 
 Captain's wife. 
 
 Having mainly disposed of the gentlemen appertain-
 
 94 THE tradesman's daughter. 
 
 ing to this narrative, it is now the ladies' turn to show 
 their mettle, or rather their metal, whether as gold, silver, 
 copper, or steel, the latter being imminent, judging from 
 the cruel light which flickered forth from the eyes of the 
 Honourable Mrs. Major Bexfield, as she assumed her 
 place as president of the conclave held at her quarters, 
 for the proposed ostracism cf the regimental interloper^ 
 Mrs. Captain Entwistle. 
 
 Long and stormy was the meeting, held under lock and 
 key, of six or seven irate females, whose dignity, if not at 
 stake, was to be upheld by force of arms feminine, but 
 not the less deadly, for reputations' sake. 
 
 Mrs. Colonel Busby, be it told, was not of the party 
 thus constituted to regulate the board of green cloth 
 debates on this occasion, being somewhat timid, as well 
 as greatly in awe of the Major's honourable yet bellicose 
 wife. Had she any will of her OAvn, she would have 
 welcomed any new comer in the regimental little world 
 with pleasure, but she had no will of her own, and the 
 Colonel, her husband, was glad to see her neutral in all 
 matters concerning the etiquette of her position. So that 
 the ladies before enumerated had it all their own way, 
 but as nothing publicly transpired, the tactics agreed on 
 between them can only be gathered from the result as- 
 became speedily seen. 
 
 Major Bexfield was rich, even ostentatiously so, and 
 it was therefore no surprise to the regiment when a 
 splendid ball was announced to take place in the mess- 
 room, where all expenses would be defrayed by the 
 Major.
 
 THE TRADESMAN S DAUGHTER. 95 
 
 Laurel Villa, the residence Captain Entwistle had 
 engaged for his newly-made wife, was a somewhat exten- 
 sive mansion, surrounded by trees, and having a coach- 
 house, with stabling for several horses, a much larger 
 place than absolutely necessary, but the only one avail- 
 able at the time wanted ; for the moment there were but 
 a couple of milk-white ponies occupying the stables, and 
 a low basket carriage capable of seating four persons, 
 and in this it was the bride's delight for the first few 
 days of her residence to explore the scenery of the 
 neighbourhood, attended by one liveried servant only in 
 the back seat. 
 
 On one of these occasions, while driving past Anglesea 
 House, her ponies were startled by the abrupt exit of 
 three mounted officers from the entrance gate, and 
 swerved from their course so as to threaten danger. One 
 of these three was Cornet Muff", who instantly dis- 
 mounted, and, rushing to the ponies' heads, brought the 
 animals to a standstill before the servant could descend 
 from his perch behind. A little scene then ensued, 
 ]\Irs. Captain Entwistle thanking her gallant rescuer, 
 Avhose deferential bow and general demeanour bore 
 evidence of his deep respect, but the other two gentle- 
 men — they were the senior captains — neither inclined their 
 heads nor otherwise took notice, seeing that all danger was 
 averted, but leisurely sauntered on, thinking their com- 
 panion would overtake them, instead of which they were 
 somewhat astonished to find that he did not so do, but 
 cantered on beside the pony carriage in the direction of 
 Hale ; the truth being that his former introduction gave
 
 g6 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 him the privilege of acquaintanceship to see the lady 
 safe home after the fright she had encountered, while 
 she, noting the utter absence of sympathetic courtesy on 
 the part of his companions, did not fail to score the 
 incident itself as "cut number one; " number two follow- 
 ing the next day afterwards, as follows : — 
 
 Mr. Muff (it is not the fashion to place a military title 
 before the name of any gentleman under the rank of 
 captain) had been a second time invited to dinner at 
 Laurel Villa, and the little party of three were enjoying 
 themselves over an excellent dessert, when a post letter 
 was delivered, the reading of which by Captain 
 Entwistle appeared to disturb him somewhat. 
 
 " Cut number two," he exclaimed, handing the missive 
 to his wife, who, after flushing up to the roots of her hair, 
 passed the letter on to Mr. Muff, with a request that he 
 too should read it. 
 
 The contents of the letter was a " card " merely, that 
 card being a ticket or voucher for the forthcoming 
 '^ball," requesting the honour of Captain Entwistle's 
 company, &c., &c., but making no mention of his wife, the 
 existence of whom was thereby ignored. 
 
 This " cut number two " was rendered the more insult- 
 ing through having been made through the post instead 
 of, as etiquette required, by special messenger. 
 
 " Suffer me to answer it," entreated Mrs. Entwistle. 
 But " No," responded that gentleman, " it is my business 
 to respond, and I will do so." 
 
 " Captain Entwistle has the honour to return the enclosed 
 voucher to the Honourable Mrs. Major Bexfield, feeling
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 97 
 
 * ' 
 
 assured that his name must have been placed by mistake 
 for that of some more fortunate individual." 
 
 This missive, despatched by servant, reached its desti- 
 nation of course, and, being as unanswerable as polite, 
 failed not to effect its purpose. 
 
 As to the ball itself it was an utter failure, one half of 
 the invited having discovered that ill health or domestic 
 necessity compelled them to decline. Either the Hon. 
 Mrs. IMajor Bexfield's generalship was in fault, or the 
 troops under her command were beginning to mutiny. 
 Certain it is that a report began to spread touching the 
 exceeding beauty of a certain lady who drove a couple 
 of milk-white ponies, and the gentlemen, at least, were 
 beginning to ask each other if the war of " caste " was 
 altogether as dignified as had hitherto been considered ; 
 but, as they were still under feminine control, they dared 
 not openly rebel. 
 
 It was a few days only after this incident that Mr. 
 Muff prevailed on his sister to pay him a visit. He at 
 first intended taking apartments for the young lady and 
 her maid, but at the solicitation of Mrs. Entwistle she 
 was welcomed, most affectionately, to a home at Laurel 
 Villa, and proved a great acquisition to the young bride. 
 She was, like her brother, very fair, Avith light hair, and a 
 tall, elegant figure; scarcely, perhaps, beautiful, but 
 graceful in the extreme, highly accomplished, and 
 devotedly attached to her brother. A firm friendship 
 was speedily cemented between the two young ladies, 
 who together disported themselves in the little pony 
 carriage to their hearts' content, winning the admiration
 
 98 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 of an observant neighbourhood, alike with rich and poor^ 
 but very particularly on both sides in consequence of an 
 industriously circulated report, not exactly trouble, con- 
 cerning the '' scandal " brought about in H.M.'s 99th 
 Hussars, whereby the high dignity of a " crack " regiment 
 was insulted, &c., &c. ; a weapon of alleged "scandal," 
 which somehow or other cut with a double edge — some 
 praising the Captain's "pluck," others solemnly deploring 
 the loss of prestige which must inevitably attach to an 
 illustrious corps on the event of a non-expulsion of its 
 offending member. 
 
 Meanwhile an under-current of events made its way 
 through the regiment itself, wherein the female element 
 took its own peculiar way, headed of course by the 
 Honourable Mrs. Major Bexfield, who in her bitter 
 animosity of "caste" seemed to forget that the best 
 evidence of positional worth is its disdain of all petty 
 meanness ; her conspicuous failure with regard to the 
 ball serving to exasperate her beyond all decent bounds^ 
 so much so indeed that her very closest adherents began 
 to think of falling off from their allegiance inconsequence 
 — one especial cause having an influence of its own in 
 the following respect. 
 
 The married officers of a cavalry regiment almost in- 
 variably reside out of quarters, excepting the colonel and 
 major, whose allotted rooms are sufficient for their accom- 
 modation. Now, it so happened that in the first heat 
 of irritation at the demerits of Captain Entwistle, the 
 ladies of the offended clique so pestered their lords with 
 requisitions to aid and abet them in the coming struggle
 
 THE TRADESMAN S DAUGHTER. 99 
 
 It 
 
 that, Avithout exactly dreading a series of "Caudle" 
 lectures, they singularly enough took to absenting them- 
 selves from the " family mess," and took to joining the 
 "*• regimental mess " a little oftener than at " guest 
 parties," as heretofore, thereby placing their better halves 
 at some disadvantage touching family comfort. Married 
 ladies have very sharp eyes, and the sharp eyes of Mrs. 
 the Honorable Major's wife saw through that little subter- 
 fuge, and somewhat cleverly resolved on amendment. 
 
 A clever cynic has once described matrimony as a 
 " domestic oligarchy mitigated by puddings," and the 
 observation is terribly true. The " puddings " which 
 the wives of the three or four senior captains con- 
 cocted for their husbands were coaxing words, smiling 
 faces, pleasant company, cheerful music, unlimited cigars, 
 and a total absence of all irritating topics, which several 
 components, enacting the part of raisins, currants, and 
 spice, go very far indeed towards rendering the matrimo- 
 nial pudding both pleasant and digestible, as well as 
 greatly to be recommended for general family use. 
 
 It was by such " puddings " as these that most of the 
 ladies in question brought their husbands back to allegi- 
 ance, all save one, the Senior Captain's wife, who, leaguing 
 herself with the Honourable Mrs. Major Bexficld, kept the 
 little Major himself at fever heat of animosity against 
 what they jointly termed " the enemy." 
 
 Meanwhile a full report on the state of affairs had 
 reached Lady Penrose and Miss Aston, who, feeling 
 generously indignant, meditated some little plan of their 
 own for the rectification of their protege's predicament.
 
 lOO THK tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 A month had passed over. Mrs. Captain Entwistle and 
 her friend Miss Muff continued their pleasant mode of hfe 
 and their pony carriage exercise, in the course of which 
 Miss Muff, being known as the sister of an officer not 
 disquahfied by a misahiance, received the salutations of 
 gentlemen who dared not pass her unheeded, especially 
 as the lady in question made a very particular point of 
 arresting^their attention with a power of malicious enjoy- 
 ment at their discomfiture, which only certain ladies 
 possess, while yet not overstepping the bounds of good 
 breeding. "My friend Mrs. Captain Entwistle," she would 
 invariably assert, whereupon the gentlemen thus introduced 
 would raise their hats or otherwise respond if in uniform 
 with a half reluctant courtesy, which provoked the hearty 
 laughter of both ladies when the backs of their cavaliers 
 were turned. 
 
 Upon the gentlemen thus forced to " bend the knee of 
 contrition " the effect was equivocal, half in shame of 
 their own exclusive laws, and half in anger of being 
 compelled to break them, even in so slight a matter; 
 they could not avoid making comments and endeavouring 
 to sound each other, fishing for opinions touching the 
 manliness of [warring upon the sensibilities of women in 
 general, and pretty women in particular, who were both 
 accomplished and amiable, although " not born in the 
 purple " of " society." 
 
 It was somewhat after |this manner of thought that the 
 two gentlemen in question pursued their converse after 
 parting from tlie ladies, whose beauty formed their 
 common praise, leading to certain other remarks.
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 10 1 
 
 " Lovely women, both," exclaimed one, " but that 
 sister of Muft's a trifle fast ; am not quite sure she was 
 not laughing at us." 
 
 "Neither am I," responded his companion. "Her 
 friend, however, was in better form, and ten times more 
 
 beautiful." 
 
 " Lucky fellow, that Entwistle," exclaimed the second 
 Senior Captain, " to gain such a sweet woman for his 
 wife, in one sense of the word at least." 
 
 " A sweet woman enough," responded his companion ; 
 " as sweet as sugar candy." 
 
 " If you mean that as a joke upon her father's occupa- 
 tion I am glad we are alone." 
 
 " Of course it is a joke, and we are alone ; but, 
 joking apart, how are we to get out of this scrape, for 
 we have recognised her — and our wives ? Eh ?" 
 
 "Our wives ? Ah ! There's the rub." 
 
 What conclusion the gentlemen might have arrived at 
 must be left to the future, but, so far as the ladies are 
 concerned, Mrs. — the Honourable — Major Bexfield was 
 determined that the war should continue in full force, but 
 it is also due to her that the reader should know she had 
 but one coadjutor, whose spleen equalled her own in the 
 degree of animosity evinced at Captain Entwistle's 
 conduct ; this was the wife of the Senior Captain, who 
 hoped to stand in the Major's shoes (or boots) when 
 he (the Major) stepped in those of the Colonel, it being 
 pretty well established between them that the sum of 
 eight tliousand pounds stood on the books of a certain 
 banker in Craig's Court for a certain purpose.
 
 102 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 The Honourable Mrs. Major Bexfield and her chosen 
 friend therefore took upon themselves the task of either 
 driving Captain Entwistle out of the regiment, or of 
 making both him and his wife as uncomfortable as 
 woman's wit could devise. The following conversation 
 between the two will suffice to suggest the modus operandi 
 of the pair : — 
 
 " They say the minx is pretty, red and'white, like a wax 
 doll, with yellow hair to match, and can play the ' Battle 
 of Prague ' on the piano. I wonder what Captain 
 Entwistle could see in such an exhibition, and he a 
 gentleman too," exclaimed the Major's wife. 
 
 " Perhaps she had money," replied the Captain's 
 "lady," "Her father, being a grocer, is perhaps worth 
 a plum." 
 
 " And serves behind the counter in an apron — horrible, 
 horrible ! " 
 
 " A miserable snob, most likely ; perhaps only five 
 feet high, with a short pipe in his mouth, and a pen 
 stuck behind his ear." 
 
 *' As to his height," said Mrs. Major Bexfield, who was 
 a trifle sensitive on that point, " it don't matter, but he 
 must be a wretched object to own relationship with. I 
 should like to see him in Aldershot side by side with his 
 precious son-in-law." 
 
 " And his old woman, too, for she must be a dowdy ; 
 takes in washing, perhaps." 
 
 " A low lot altogether. To think of such scum daring 
 even to look upon their superiors otherwise than with a 
 receipt in hand for goods sold and delivered."
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. IO3 
 
 " Cannot we hit upon some plan to bring ridicule on 
 them ? If I only knew where the man lived I would 
 give him an order for figs, or treacle, or candles, and 
 make him bring them himself." 
 ., "He lives too far off; at Coventry or Daventry, or " 
 
 " Coventry ? It is only proper Entwistle should be 
 sent there. We sent Thompson there for marrying a 
 governess, and he was forced to sell out." 
 
 " True, and Entwistle must do Hkewise. I, for my 
 part, will do my best." 
 
 " And I my worst in the cause, except " 
 
 " Except what ? " 
 
 '•' Except anything unbecoming a lady." 
 
 " Anything unbecoming a fiddlestick ! Nonsense. 
 There is nothing too mean for such a purpose; we 
 must forget we are ladies while combating such a mean 
 antagonist as a grocer's ill-conditioned child. When 
 you crush a reptile it is with the foot." 
 
 " True, figuratively speaking ; still I should not like to 
 do anything very shabby." 
 
 " I am not so particular, if the means come within my 
 way ; my rank in society will protect me in all things." 
 
 " As you will ; lead, and I follow." 
 
 A few days after this the little party of four at Laurel 
 Villa had just finished a cosy dinner, and were enjoying 
 themselves in pleasant converse, when a sharp summons 
 from the outer bell announced an arrival of some sort, 
 and the entrance of a domestic, bearing on a salver the 
 well-known buff envelope of the Post Office, announced 
 *' a telegram."
 
 104 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Boy waits an answer." 
 
 With hurried and somewhat trembUng hands — for a 
 telegram generaUy excites trepidation — the buff envelope 
 was opened, and its contents read with the utmost 
 astonishment. 
 
 From Joseph Gitton, Daventr>', to Reginald Entwistle, 
 
 Aldershot. 
 
 Greatly alarmed at the terrible news ; wife and self will 
 be with you by earliest train. 
 
 " What the devil does this mean ?" cried the Captain, 
 forgetful of conventionalities. " Tell the boy to wait." 
 
 "Something must have occurred. I trust nothing is 
 wrong with Lady Penrose," exclaimed Mrs. Entwistle. 
 "Let us send return telegrams to both." 
 
 In absolute bewilderment as to what might be v/rong, 
 messages were sent off, and nothing remained but to 
 await, and the little party broke off abruptly, Mr. jMuff 
 returning to quarters. 
 
 By the arrival of the twelve o'clock train next morning. 
 Captain Entwistle and his wife awaited their expected 
 guests in much anxiety, expecting only Mr. and Mrs. 
 Gitton ; but were overwhelmed with astonishment at 
 finding not only them, but also Lady Penrose, accom- 
 panied by Miss Aston, all four of whom seemed equally 
 astonished at finding themselves received in person by 
 Mrs. Entwistle, at least. 
 
 " What ! alive and well," they exclaimed with one 
 voice, after which a scene of joy, perplexity, and con- 
 gratulation ensued, the entire party making their way 
 to Laurel Villa, where such explanations as were possible
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 1 05 
 
 took place — Mr. Gitton, a fine portly man of fifty years, 
 and his stout good-humoured wife, entering upon their 
 .story to ^this effect : A telegram had reached them on 
 the evening before, which they produced, amid the 
 greatest surprise, and even horror. 
 
 From Captain Entwistle, Aldershot, to Joseph Gitton, 
 
 Daventry. 
 
 Mrs. E. dying— premature birth of twins — come by return 
 train if you wish to see your daughter alive. 
 
 " A vile hoax," shrieked the Captain's wife. 
 
 " Worse ! a dastardly crime," exclaimed the Captain, 
 " and one which I will give a hundred pounds to un- 
 mask." 
 
 Scarcely had this brief outburst occurred when Mr?. 
 Captain Entwistle, overcome by the horror which this 
 outrageous slur upon her wifely fame hinted, however 
 palpably unjust, swooned away, and had to be removed 
 to her chamber, accompanied by Lady Penrose and her 
 ward, leaving the two gentlemen to compare notes and 
 seek explanation. All that presented itself was the fact 
 that the telegram arrived at Daventry in the usual 
 course, and was answered immediately without reference 
 to the iniquitous impossibility of its being entirely true. 
 That their child was ill alone seemed enough ; and that 
 much being immediately told to Lady Penrose, led to 
 the circumstance of her immediate departure also, but 
 only a short time in advance of her intention, which had 
 been decided on long previously, as a mode of giving 
 countenance to her protege'. 
 
 This very remarkable circumstance, therefore, came
 
 Io6 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 to serve its part in the programme of events, as will 
 be found to ensue. 
 
 We will pass over the mingled feelings of gratification 
 at the meeting, and of indignant horror at the wicked 
 malice which had brought such about. 
 
 Laurel Villa was, luckily enough, sufficient for the 
 accommodation of all, and a day of sorrowful omen 
 closed upon a company of happy friends — happy in 
 all things except the mystery of its origin, which Captain 
 Entwistle determined to investigate, or at least would 
 have so done but that Mr. Gitton, with sound 
 practical common sense, put his veto on the resolve. 
 
 " Let us keep the matter quiet," he observed, " for 
 tlie regiment's honour as well as your own ; depend on 
 it the secret will leak out all the sooner for not being too 
 eagerly sought." 
 
 His advice was looked on as both wise and safe — Mrs. 
 Entwistle feeling doubtful of her husband's power to 
 restrain his indignation within cautious bounds. It was, 
 therefore, decided on to keep silence until further par- 
 ticulars should throw light on the mystery, and the 
 Gittons, husband and wife, elected to return home before 
 their visit could be made a subject for observation. 
 
 This being done, Lady Penrose and her niece deter- 
 mined on remaining guests at the villa, with the intention 
 of lending the full force of their aristocratic position 
 towards the establishment of their friends. 
 
 " The General in Command is an old sweetheart of 
 mine," Lady Penrose intimated, "and will lend me a 
 helping hand for the sake of old times."
 
 THE TRADESMAN S DAUGHTER. 107 
 
 Notwithstanding his promise to keep the affair of the 
 infamous telegram quiet, Captain Entwistle could not resist 
 a desire to learn something, and accordingly questioned 
 the telegraph clerk, but he only knew that the re- 
 #cognised " form " had been placed in his hands by one cf 
 the boys engaged to deliver messages. After a little 
 trouble this boy was found, and asserted that he had 
 received it, already written, irom a tall lady in the street, 
 who gave him a shilling to pay for it, and a threepenny 
 ^' bit " for himself 
 
 Knowing well the animosity borne him by the Major's 
 %vife, our hero had little difficulty in guessing who the 
 tall lady was, but still marvelled at the downright criminal 
 meanness of such a transaction on the part of an educated 
 female, who, in her prerogative of ideal caste as a social 
 barrier against low presumption, committed the foul 
 error of unmitigated vulgar spleen, by way of evincing 
 her own superiority. 
 
 Meanwhile, the society of the regiment itself was fast 
 becoming one of illiberal partisanship. A few of the gentle- 
 men who had seen our heroine, andfelt the influence of her 
 beauty, began to think that Captain Entwistle had not 
 only a fair excuse, but that he was doing knightly duty in 
 combating popular assumption so far as he was con- 
 cerned, and two, at least, of the married men began to 
 withdraw from the compact entered into with their wives, 
 two of whom also began to waver in their allegiance to 
 the Major's wife. Altercations took place between 
 various members of the hitherto friendly communion, 
 and appeals made which were not responded to on
 
 Io8 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 several occasions, leading to such diversity of opinion as 
 went nigh to a severance of friendship. 
 
 Apart from all of these unpleasant facts, Mrs. Colonel 
 Busby held entirely aloof, as also did the Colonel 
 himself, who, while meditating retirement from his 
 regiment, wished for nothing except peace and quiet. 
 Still, he could not shut his eyes to the fact that a want of 
 unison among those under his command was fast 
 becoming a scandal, and touched the social reputation of 
 the corps, the more especially as his own helpmate was 
 credited or discredited with being the chief disturber of 
 peace, which was utterly untrue. 
 
 Mr. Muff, who enacted, ex-officio, the championship 
 of our heroine, succeeded in making many converts to 
 her cause, dilating on her beauty, her accomplishments, 
 and her amiability till his comrades one after another 
 yielded up their prejudices, and solicited the honour 
 of an introduction, which Captain Entwistle uniformly 
 refused, on the plea that until all were of one mind 
 his wife's position must remain unrecognised for her 
 own pride's satisfaction. 
 
 These concessions, coming to the knowledge of the 
 Honourable Mrs. Major Bexiield, drove that lady almost 
 into frenzy — she went to the length of suggesting to the 
 little warrior, her husband, that he should call the Cap- 
 tain out ; but to this the Major objected, as contrary to 
 the law of the land in the first place, and in the second 
 as contraiy to the law of policy, insomuch as, even when 
 standing upon his cash-box, he could not reach the- 
 elevation of five feet two inches.
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 1 09. 
 
 Thus, driven to her last barricade, she at length 
 suffered her animosity to overlap all bounds of discretion ;, 
 even to the extent of somewhat more than rashness — 
 she determined on insulting her enemy, for such she 
 deemed Mrs. Captain Entwistle, in a way such as must 
 eventuate a climax. 
 
 Thus, full primed with animosity of the most vicious 
 kind, she further armed herself with pens, paper, and ink — 
 not for the first or even second time — and moreover, quite 
 forgetting that she was a lady, concocted the following 
 precious document : — ■ 
 
 The Honourable Mrs. Major Bexfield, having determined 
 not to countenance the wife of Captain Entwistle as a fitting 
 associate in her Majesty's Regiment, the Ninety-ninth 
 Hussars, but still mindful of the duties belonging to her- 
 station, has arrived at the conclusion of charitably extending 
 her patronage to Mrs. Entwistle's father in the grocery line 
 of business. 
 
 Mrs. Entwistle will therefore be so good as to order her 
 father, Mr. , to forward every week- 
 One pound of tea at two shillings, 
 Three pounds of sugar at sixpence, 
 One pound of coffee at eighteen-pence, 
 And a bar of soap — 
 
 To the Major's Quarters of the 99th Hussars. 
 
 Having succeeded in inditing this cutting insult, she 
 indulged in a hysterical laugh, and began to consider 
 how the missive could be delivered in the way most 
 calculated to inflict pain. To send it by ordinary post 
 would not be enough, because it might be opened and 
 read without witnesses to enjoy its effect. What then 
 should be the mode ? A private messenger delivering it 
 would probably be kicked out. How then ? She must
 
 no THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 consider. As for its effect or consequences, she did not 
 care a rush — Captain Entwistle could not make pubHc 
 the circumstance without pubHshing his own shame, he 
 could not challenge a lady to mortal combat, and if the 
 incident only led to the Captain's " selling out" so much 
 the better — her object will have been gained. 
 
 For a long time she was puzzled, but at length a 
 happy idea occurred. Directly opposite Laurel Villa 
 there resided a single young lady of sixty-two years ; an 
 arrant gossip and an inveterate lover of scandal. She 
 had a slight acquaintance with this lady, whom she 
 thoroughly detested — no matter, she would write her an 
 invitation to dine, and enclose the two letters in wrong 
 envelopes, so that the spinster should receive that of her 
 opposite neighbour, and vice versa. Of course both of the 
 two " vis-a-vis " Avould exchange missives, with apology, 
 and the fact of Mrs. Captain Entwistle being the 
 daughter of a grocer would travel all over the neighbour- 
 hood in less than twenty-four hours. A magnificent 
 triumph for the daughter of a peer over the daughter of 
 a plebeian ! ! ! 
 
 The effect of this little stratagem was, however, different 
 from that expected. The two epistles were duly delivered 
 by the evening post, and reached their destination just as 
 the party at Laurel Villa were seated at table. 
 
 That received by Mrs. Entwistle, being evidently mis- 
 directed, was sent over to the maiden lady opposite Avith 
 polite apologies and an explanation ; but that received 
 by the other lady was a puzzle which took her some little 
 time to guess at, and was only in part understood when
 
 THE TRADESMAN S DAUGHTER. Ill 
 
 the other missive reached her. Quite suddenly the truth 
 made itscU' apparent, and at once filled her with the 
 utmost indignation that one of her own sex, and a lady 
 into the bargain, should so far demean herself as to 
 descend from the position of an honourable woman to a 
 fiendish vixen. 
 
 Seeing at once through the transparent artifice she 
 determined on thwarting it to the best of her power, and 
 for this purpose immediately donned her walking costume, 
 and taking her way to Laurel Villa, sent in her card with 
 a request for an immediate interview with Mrs. Captain 
 Entwistle. 
 
 This being accorded, the two ladies became friends on 
 the instant, for the ancient spinster who had been falsely 
 accused of scandal loving was, in truth, a kind-hearted 
 and honourable woman, whose eccentricities were wholly 
 on the side of female chivalry, while her moderate fortune 
 was more than half enlisted in behalf of the poor. As is 
 frequently the case with single ladies of a certain, or un- 
 certain, age possessing means, she cared very little for the 
 opinion of " Mrs. Grundy " so long as she kept her own 
 without the reproach of conscience, and was even per- 
 mitted certain liberties of speech and action not usually 
 accorded. 
 
 Full of indignation at the thought of being made the 
 medium of an insult, she determined on retorting, and so, 
 possessing herself of both letters, made her way early 
 next morning to the Hon, Mrs. Major Bexfield's 
 quarters, and boldly accused that lady of having inten- 
 tionally misdirected the two documents, which she
 
 112 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 immediately flung on the floor and stamped upon with a 
 force of pedal rhetoric calculated to impress the meanest 
 capacity, but which only served to exasperate without 
 making ashamed. 
 
 The ladies then jDarted, without exchanging "au 
 revoir," the one to cement a friendship oddly begun, the 
 other to brood on further plans of insult, in revenge for 
 having hitherto miscarried. 
 
 And now to Lady Penrose, who, we have before 
 intimated, meditated some scheme of her own for the 
 amelioration of her protege's position in society. Sir 
 
 , then in command of the division, had been her 
 
 admirer, and was still her friend. To him she went, 
 without communicating her plans to the Captain, and, 
 being accorded an interview, explained the predicament 
 in which her friends were placed. 
 
 It is not necessary to detail what occurred during a 
 long conversation, but its result may be gathered from 
 the following — 
 
 " You ask me, Lady Penrose, to confer upon your 
 friend some oflicial post which will place him in authority. 
 Unluckily, I cannot do this — every post is filled up, my 
 ' aides-de-camp ' are all chosen, I have no patronage 
 vacant. I am a widower, with no female relative to 
 control my household whereby to afford introduction, 
 but, unless I greatly mistake, your friend Captain 
 Entwistle need not long wait for his wife's advancement, 
 as I have only this morning received intelligence from 
 India which closely affects him, although he himself may 
 be still ignorant of it."
 
 THE TRADESMAN S DAUGHTER. 113 
 
 " Indeed ! Pray, may I know what it is ?" 
 
 " Certainly. Is not Lord Belcarris, your Ladyship's 
 second cousin, great uncle to Captain Entwistle ? " 
 
 "Yes, his only son being now in India, major in a 
 jiative regiment, the Gourkas." 
 
 " Was, not is, for he died one month ago, and if I 
 mistake not, your friend is next heir to the title." 
 
 " Great Heaven ! yes — when the Earl dies — you afflict 
 me with the news, at the same time that it does me a 
 service. I never beheld either the Earl or his son, and 
 cannot, therefore, assume any particular regret. Captain 
 Entwistle shall know of this immediately on my return." 
 
 Thus ended the interview, and Lady Penrose, while on 
 her return journey to Laurel Villa, pondered whether or 
 not it might be wise to give the information she had 
 received. Deciding ultimately on keeping silence, 
 pending eventualities, she inquired if her niece and Mrs. 
 Entwistle were both within, but received for answer that 
 Mrs. Entwistle was not at home, and that Miss Aston was 
 engaged in the drawing-room with Mr. Muff. 
 
 Slightly taken aback with this information, but not 
 exactly knowing why, she entered the room without any 
 preliminary caution, to find her niece very diligently 
 plying her crochet needles at one extremity of a tolerably 
 large settee, and Mr. Muff diligently stroking his blond 
 moustache at the further end, both of them in apparent 
 surprise at the interruption. 
 
 Seating herself between the two, sa?js ceremonie, she 
 questioned the gentleman relative to some trivial matter, 
 but while so doing was surprised to observe one of
 
 114 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 her niece's glittering earrings attached to his somewhat 
 bushy whiskers. Detaching it adroitly with her jewelled 
 finger, she exclaimed 
 
 "Why, Mr. Muff! Is it a new fashion among the 
 military to wear earrings ?" — holding up the article in 
 question. 
 
 On hearing which, and immediately recognising her 
 own property, Miss Aston uttered a little lady-like 
 exclamation, and, Avith her cheeks the colour of a new- 
 bloAvn peony, left the room in hurried confusion, with the 
 trembling Mr. Muff to give whatever explanation he 
 could. 
 
 Now Mr. Augustus Muff, a cornet in her Majesty's 
 regiment, the 99th Hussars, was a gentleman in every 
 respect, one of good family ; moreover a tolerably rich 
 gentleman with good expectations. 
 
 What it was exactly which he told Lady Penrose with 
 regard to the trifle in question, matters not ; but when, 
 after a two hours' explanation, he uprose to take 
 his leave, it was with a happy countenance and an elastic 
 step that he encountered his sister on the threshold— 
 his sister, who had only just then been made a confidant 
 of by the loser of that earring which had brought about 
 an unexpected avowal. 
 
 Several days elapsed before any further incident 
 occurred. The Honourable Mrs. ]Major Bexfield had 
 apparently concocted no further plot; and the happy 
 little family party, consisting of Lady Penrose, Captain 
 Entwistle, Mr. Muff, and the other three ladies were 
 enjoying their dessert when the evening post arrived,
 
 THE TRADESMAN S DAUGHTER. 
 
 115 
 
 bringing to Captain Entwistle not a telegram this time, 
 but a large legal-looking envelope, sealed with a huge 
 black seal, and containing evidently some communication 
 of consequence. 
 
 " From Scotland," was the exclamation. And from 
 Scotland it was, coming from the solicitor of Lord 
 Belcarris, giving intelligence of the old lord's death 
 from the sudden shock of hearing that his only son had 
 died in India, having succumbed to jungle fever while 
 tiger shooting. Captain Entwistle, as heir to the Earl's 
 title and estate, was called on to give his commands 
 touching the funeral, and to visit Scotland at his earliest 
 convenience, &c., &c. 
 
 *' Urgent family affairs " was sufficient in request for 
 "leave," and while the Captain, now Earl of Belcarris, 
 performs the dutiess of his newly-acquired station, we 
 will take the opportunity of reporting the changes 
 which immediately ensued in her Majesty's regiment, 
 the 99th Hussars, consequent upon the retirement of 
 Lieut.-Colonel Busby, which took place on the day of 
 our hero's departure, when it was rumoured that the sum 
 of eight thousand five hundred pounds had changed 
 hands, and that Lieut.-Colonel Bexfield succeeded to 
 Lieut.-Colonel Busby, who retired. 
 
 This important event had been the work of the 
 Honourable Mrs. Major Bexfield, and yet had nearly 
 missed its aim, for the Major, to tell an ugly truth, had 
 made up his mind to " sell out " rather than pursue his 
 course of military ambition any further. He was tired of 
 the restrictions on his personal liberty which such a life
 
 Il6 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 entailed, and moreover knew himself to be absolutely- 
 disqualified by reason of his never having troubled him- 
 self to learn the duties of his profession beyond such as 
 forced themselves on his notice. But his imperious lady 
 insisted. She loved power and position; as the wife of a 
 colonel in command she could exercise dominion over the 
 lady staff of the regiment, and make her dependents as 
 miserable as she chose, with a very particular view to the 
 •ostracism of such as she condescended to dislike. Major 
 Bexfield had no option but to obey. He paid his money 
 with somewhat of a grimace, but accepted his position 
 in due time ; and while standing on his cash-box, in a 
 pair of high-heeled jack-boots, fancied himself at least 
 six inches taller than his wont. 
 
 On our hero's return to his regimental duties, he 
 received the congratulations of his comrades with a 
 generous acceptance, and no reserve, having long ago 
 taken into charitable consideration the peculiarity of the 
 case. Even to Colonel Bexfield's shake of the hand he 
 cordially responded; he knew the little warrior was under 
 petticoat government, and pitied him in consequence. 
 But while according to the gentlemen all friendly inter- 
 course, he was firm in rejecting all overtures for intro- 
 duction to Lady Belcarris until, as he gave all to under- 
 stand, she should have been presented at Court. 
 
 It was twelve months before that ceremony could be 
 performed, after the year of mourning had expired, when 
 the Countess of Belcarris and Mrs. Augustus Muff were 
 both presented by Lady Penrose, and excited universal 
 admiration by their beauty.
 
 THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. I17 
 
 On the morning following this event, when the " News- 
 paper Gazette" was placed on her table, the Honour- 
 able Mrs. Colonel Bexfield favoured her husband and 
 the domestic in waiting with a veritable scene. 
 
 " She presented to the Queen ! That woman, a 
 ;grocer's child ! Monstrous ! What is the world coming 
 to ? " With this, the honourable lady dashed down her 
 beautiful Dresden coffee cup, and starting from her seat 
 marched to and fro like a tragedy queen for several 
 minutes, after which she recorded a vow, a terrible vow, 
 which, had the Lord High Chamberlain only heard, 
 Avould have made that noble functionary tremble in his 
 shoes. 
 
 " But I will be revenged ! For two pins only I would 
 never visit her Majesty again ! " 
 
 It is to be hoped that neither her Majesty nor the 
 Lord Chamberlain heard of this vindictive threat, or if 
 they did nothing very terrible ensued, for, like the 
 Bishop's congregation in the "Jackdaw of Rheims," 
 neither felt " one penny the worse." 
 
 Shortly after this event, Miss Muff found a protector 
 for life in the person of a gallant captain, not of the 99th 
 Hussars, and the Earl of Belcarris resigned his com- 
 mission, greariy to the satisfaction of the Honourable 
 Mrs. Colonel Bexfield, and in six months from that 
 period, the regiment was somewhat unexpectedly 
 ordered on foreign service, its destination being India, 
 where it is to be hoped that Lieut.-Colonel Bexfield 
 would suddenly acquire that amount ot knowledge which 
 would throw lustre on the Britisli arms as completely as
 
 IlS THE tradesman's DAUGHTER. 
 
 if he had fitted himself for his position by previous 
 merit. 
 
 "So the regiment goes out in command of Colonel 
 Bexfield," observed one military " swell " to a com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Yes. And the Colonel goes out under command of 
 HIS WIFE," replied his friend. 
 
 " Poor fellow. Poor fellow ! "
 
 HIS WHISKEES : OE, THE BAEBEE-FIENI). 
 
 A ROMANCE OF MILITARY LIFE. 
 
 " Cantharides, or Spanish-fly, is the drawing-principle 
 of our celebrated pomade," &c., &c. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Sub-Lieutenant Fitzgammon, of the Hundred and 
 Tenth " Light Bobs," was as poor as a rat — though why 
 a rat should be taken as a symbol of poverty is somewhat 
 irrelevant — seeing that a rat, by simply applying its mouth 
 to the end of its own tail, can make both ends meet, which 
 Sub-Lieutenant Fitzgammon could not. 
 
 Our hero was a gentleman, every inch of him. The 
 youngest son of a younger brother, all his family could 
 do for him was to buy a commission, and allow him an 
 income of ;^4o per annum, payable in quarterly sums of 
 ten pounds, so that we are fully justified in asserting that 
 he was as poor as any rat holding a military commission 
 could possibly be. 
 
 When we assert beyond this that he was a gentleman, 
 we mean that he never did an ungentlemanly action — 
 never told a lie, never ran into debt (except on one 
 occasion, to be noted hereafter), and, above all, paid his 
 tailor on the instant. 
 
 He had, however, some peculiarities of his o^\Tl, both 
 mental and personal. Mentally, he had a horror of
 
 I20 HIS WHISKERS; OR, THE BARBER-FIEND. 
 
 being thought a fortune-hunter, although a rich wife, if 
 attainable, would have been a great desideratum ; and, 
 personally, he was the })ossessor of the finest pair of 
 Whiskers in the whole habitable globe. 
 
 Six feet two inches in his patent leathers, his features 
 Avere manly and expressive, but his whiskers were simply 
 divine. Commencing immediately beneath his cheek- 
 bone, they flowed downward in a dense, curly, sable 
 volume, beautifully shading off towards the side, and 
 descending adown his bronzed face nigh upon eight 
 inches below the chin, soft and silky, yet firm and im- 
 penetrable to light — the very bcaic ideal of hirsute 
 appendages according to feminine appreciation. 
 
 Our Sub-Lieutenant, although only twenty-two years of 
 age, had met in society half a dozen, at least, of young 
 ladies possessed of fortunes, but they were all ugly — if 
 such a term can be applied to any feminine personage 
 owning the usual distribution of limbs and features — and, 
 being ugly, would subject any approaching aspirants to 
 the imputation of being fortune-hunters, so he avoided 
 them all ; but at last one young lady, possessing a 
 fortune of many thousand pounds, together with personal 
 attractions of singular fascination, appeared, and his 
 opportunity lay before him. 
 
 It was at the Aldershot race ball that he met his fate. 
 Major O'Leary, of the Connaught Rangers, who officiated 
 as M.C., introduced him as Lieutenant Fitzgammon to 
 Miss Lydia Moneybags. " Miss Lydia Moneybags — 
 Lieutenant Fitzgammon." So they danced together, not 
 once only, but as many times as etiquette allowed.
 
 HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 121 
 
 The attraction was mutual. He adored golden hair, 
 peach-blossom cheeks, rose-bud mouths, voluptuous eyes, 
 and sylph-like figure — she adored whiskers ! 
 
 If there is such a thing in philosophy as magnetic in- 
 fluence, it certainly declared itself in the present instance. 
 All Fitzgammon's scruples vanished, and all Miss 
 Moneybags's feminine bashfulness became a thing of 
 the past within the short two hours of their mutual 
 acquaintance. 
 
 It was after their seventh waltz that our hero and heroine 
 sat together on a secluded chaise-lounge in one of the 
 ante-rooms ; the Lieutenant had not as yet screwed his 
 courage up to the striking point of asking the lady's resi- 
 dence or condition, but Major O'Leary had previously 
 " nudged " him with a friendly poke in the ribs, and 
 " Now, my boy, is your chance ! Cash, and lots of it." 
 So that he knew she was rich, and saw that she was 
 beautiful, almost too beautiful for the hopes of a poor 
 Sub-Lieutenant. Just as he was about to signify his 
 desire for the honour of further acquaintance, he 
 observed that she dropped her handkerchief in a manner 
 which was suspiciously accidental, and of course it was 
 his duty to pick it up, which he did, but, singularly 
 enough, while restoring the perfumed and delicate trifle, 
 there happened to remain on the floor an equally delicate 
 trifle in the shape of an address card, ^\•hich he was 
 €qually bound to restore, but which the lady, with an 
 arch look, refused to take back, saying, " Keep it, if you 
 like." 
 
 Such a hint and such a side-glance combined were
 
 122 HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 
 
 enough tor our Sub-Lieutenant, and eventually resulted 
 in a communication from the lady that she was the ward 
 of her uncle, a retired banker, whose nephew and heir 
 was a certain captain in our hero's own regiment, whence 
 came the invitation to the present ball. 
 
 What further communication took place is unneces- 
 sary to tell, but it was certainly understood that our hero 
 should pay an early visit to Cheltenham, with a view to 
 ulterior considerations, and thus the eventful ball came 
 to an end. 
 
 Captain Montague Bosh — the nephew of Miss Money- 
 bags's uncle — was the exact antithesis of our hero, for 
 though as brave a soldier as ever lived, he was neither 
 tall nor handsome, and, above all, exhibited no whiskers 
 of any kind whatever. 
 
 He was a light-haired man — very much freckled, and 
 although he did contrive to establish by constant shaving 
 a slight, downy moustache, just enough " to swear by," 
 he could never raise a crop of whisker worth the ordinary 
 reaping-hook, and this singularity was a terrible trial to 
 his manhood. He had spent a small fortune on bear's- 
 grease and Rowland's Macassar oil, but without avail. 
 He had tried " Mrs. Allen's far-famed hair restorer " 
 with the like result ; even Mr. Ross's celebrated pomade, 
 described as containing cantharides or Spanish fly, resulted 
 in nothing. But at last he had recourse to an experi- 
 ment — knowing that Spanish fly had wonderful drawing 
 powers, and believing that Avhisker roots undoubtedly 
 lay under the skin of his face, he thought that Mr. Ross 
 must have failed in mixing up sufficient of that ingredient
 
 HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 123 
 
 in his nostrum — wherefore he, the Captain, would pur- 
 chase a small quantity of cantharides on his own account 
 and mix it with some ordinary bear's-grease, cut out a 
 portion of diachylon plaister exactly the size and shape 
 -'of the desired whisker, tie it on his face at bedtime, 
 secure it with a bandage — then go to sleep quietly. 
 
 But, alas ! although he did go to sleep for an hour or 
 so, he awoke at a little past midnight in horrible pain. 
 His face was on fire — he jumped out of bed, rung for his 
 ma-n, lighted his lamp, and tore the bandages from his 
 face in eager haste to see — what ? — a red patch on both 
 sides, exactly the shape he had cut out for his whiskers. 
 He flung the offending unguents on the floor, ordered his 
 man to bring warm water and some lint, wiped off a 
 portion of the mixture, and once more tied up his unfor- 
 tunate cheeks in bandages of simple linen- -then retired 
 to bed — but not again to sleej), for this time, while even 
 yet his face was in terrible pain, his feet began to torment 
 him after the same manner as his face ; in half an hour 
 matters became worse, and he was in absolute torture. 
 Ringing once more for his man, he threw off the bed- 
 clothes, and on examining his feet, discovered that he 
 had stepped on the discarded whisker salve, which had 
 attached itself to the soles of his feet, hence the misery 
 of his position. Tearing them off he went to bed once 
 more. 
 
 Next day, Captain Montague Bosh was reported on 
 the sick list, and for many days afterwards his " com- 
 pany " knew him not. 
 
 The surgeon who was called in from Aldershot town 
 E 2
 
 124 n's whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 
 
 — for no officer ever dreams of employing his own 
 regimental official — was alone in the secret of his mishap, 
 with the exception of his " man " or regimental fag, who, 
 being well paid, kept the knowledge to himself. Thus 
 much for Captain Montague Bosh, who, not at all 
 singularly, had made up his mind to visit his uncle as 
 soon as " leave " permitted, with a view to make Miss 
 Lydia Moneybags and her property his own, if possible. 
 
 Now, if there is such a thing as mutual attraction on 
 the sympathetic system, there is equally such a thing as 
 mutual repulsion, and such existed between Captain 
 Montague Bosh and Lieutenant Fitzgammon, Montague 
 Bosh envying our hero's whiskers, and our hero envying 
 Montague Bosh's rather handsome fortune, for he was 
 rich, while Fitzgammon was as poor as a rat. 
 
 This being understood, we proceed to the business of 
 our narrative. 
 
 " Leave" time came with the first of November, and both 
 our heroes, for we must acknowledge their dual existence, 
 prepared for the amatory siege of Miss Lydia Moneybags 
 — the first by invitation from his uncle, the second by 
 ///;// only of the lady herself, but both gentlemen un- 
 knowing each other's intentions. 
 
 Captain Montague Bosh departed with money in his 
 purse, and plenty of it, also with his private servant and 
 a well-filled valise, by first-class to Cheltenham. 
 
 Sub-Lieutenant Fitzgammon, with three months' pay in 
 advance by kindness of the paymaster, somewhat 
 less than thirty-nine pounds, and his regimental man- 
 servant, by second-class to the same destination ; but
 
 ^. HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend, 125 
 
 before going further in this narrative we must describe 
 our own particular hero's manservant Tom. 
 
 TomBrackles, an honest Cornishman, had enlisted in the 
 Light Bobs for no other reason than to become Lieutenant 
 Fitzgammon's body servant, and thus why — years 
 ago, when they were both lads, and went out in a 
 fishing boat for their own amusement, they were over- 
 taken by a storm, their boat capsized half a mile from 
 shore, and Tom Brackles would have been drowned but 
 for Fitzgammon, who, at the risk of his own life, saved 
 that of his humble companion. 
 
 The life thus saved Tom Brackles vowed to dedicate 
 to the service of his protector, and although not 
 absolutely without means enlisted in the Light Bobs as a 
 private soldier, in order to fulfil his vow. He was there- 
 fore deeply attached to him, and scrupled at nothing in 
 order to serve him faithfully. It was only hy special 
 favour he was allowed to accompany his master, by 
 "leave" distinct from "furlough." 
 
 On arriving at Cheltenham, Captain Montague Bosh 
 took up quarters with Mr. Ex-Banker Moneybags, 
 who resided on a villa at Pittville — a charming place 
 standing in its own grounds, and surrounded by trees. 
 Sub-Lieutenant Fitzgammon occupied private lodgings in 
 Cambray, at two pounds the week, undertaking, through 
 Tom's advice, to "keep himself" For Tom was a capital 
 housekeeper, cook, and valet, all rolled into one, besides 
 being an economist. 
 
 The lodgings thus taken were in a genteel locality, but 
 somewhat meagrely furnished with black horse-hair chairs
 
 126 HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 
 
 and sofa to match ; but every other particle of furniture 
 of different pattern, lodging-house fashion. 
 
 Miss Lydia Moneybags, being notified by letter of her 
 lover's arrival, immediately dispatched her confidential 
 "maid" to a rendezvous with Tom Brackles, and the 
 usual dramatis-persona of a " screaming farce " comes 
 on the stage, if we only add the private manservant of 
 Captain Montague Bosh — who was as cunning a rascal 
 as possibly could be — and a mortal enemy, of course, to 
 Tom Brackles. 
 
 The amatory campaign was opened by Miss Money, 
 bags, who by letter described the condition of her 
 own forces, as well as that of the opposing enemy. She 
 was an orphan, with a fortune of twenty thousand pounds? 
 which vx'ould be absolutely her own in two years- time, 
 without conditions, but which she could not become 
 possessed of before that time except with the approval of 
 her uncle-guardian, who insisted on her marrying Captain 
 Montague Bosh — the only son of his only sister. She de- 
 scribed Captain Bosh as her "very horror," and would 
 never marry him, but very, ver}-, verj' much rather die an 
 old maid. If Lieutenant Fitzgammon would only take her 
 without a penny ^ and wait two years for her fortune, she 
 would put up with the most desperate poverty, and even 
 work her poor fingers to the very bone in order to keep 
 him, if he could not otherwise afford to keep her. 
 
 Such devotion on the lady's part was love and happi- 
 ness indeed ; but how was it to be contrived ? She could 
 only marry him by special license without her guardian's 
 permission — and how about the expense ? A special
 
 HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend, 127 
 
 license alone would cost five-and-twenty pounds, and 
 another five-and-twenty for the honeymoon, at the very 
 least. Where should he get fifty pounds ? 
 
 Pondering over his difficulties after a three weeks' siege, 
 he called his man Tom to the council, asking him if he 
 could hit on any expedient ; but Tom's answer appalled 
 him — " The Jews." 
 
 An explanation then ensued — once married to a lady 
 whose fortune could not be withheld at the expiration of 
 two years, he could borrow by paying the trifle of sixty 
 per cent, interest; but was that honourable ? He fancied 
 not ; meanwhile, he would consider. 
 
 While our Sub-Lieutenant paused in his career, Captain 
 Bosh acted in his. He knew that his enemy's strong 
 point was his whiskers ; and speculated on the possibility 
 of depriving him of those manly weapons of offence and 
 defence. But how ? Could he bribe someone to cut 
 them off during sleep ? No ; impossible. Should he 
 get some villain, for a reward, to throw oil of vitriol on his 
 enemy's face, and so spoil his beauty? No! Too unfair 
 even for the fortunes of Cupid-warfare. But a rascal of some 
 kind he must consult for the purpose desired. He would 
 consult his valet, whom he knew for a thorough rogue. 
 
 This man, by name Scroggs, fell into his master's views 
 quite readily; and intimated that he knew how terribly 
 " hard up " for cash poor Fitzgammon was at that very 
 moment, through his man Tom ; also, that some means 
 were being adopted to raise the sum of fifty pounds 
 instanter, for a special purjDose most imperative, having 
 gained that knowledge through pumping good-natured
 
 I2S HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 
 
 Tom — whom he hated while he assumed to like — a 
 certain female of their mutual acquaintance being the 
 bone of contention. 
 
 " What has all this to do with the affair ?" interrogated 
 the Captain. 
 
 "Only this," replied the valet, "I know a man, a 
 barber, a barbarous man, or rather a Barber-Fiend, 
 who will ' do the trick.' " 
 
 "None of your slang," interposed the Captain, "but 
 tell what you mean." 
 
 " The Barber-Fiend is a money-lender, and rich as a 
 Jew. Only guarantee me to the extent of fifty pounds, 
 and I will ' work the oracle.' " 
 
 " Enough of your slang ; I will guarantee any amount, 
 only what do you mean ? " 
 
 "Walker !" again in slang term answered Scroggs. 
 
 " Give me only one more slang sentence, and I will 
 kick you out. Go now, and do your best or worst, so 
 you fulfil my errand." 
 
 chapter II. 
 
 Sub-Lieutenant Fitzgammon had one friend only who 
 was possessed of cash, an old school friend, an artist ; he 
 was poor, but not desperately so. He wrote to this 
 friend for the loan of fifty pounds, and received for 
 answer that he would lend the cash, but could not do so
 
 HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 129 
 
 until the expiration of exactly fifteen days, when he should 
 receive a certain payment. Miss Moneybags had agreed 
 to elope with him in three weeks from present date, and 
 he must be prepared ; meanwhile he was reduced to his 
 last shilling, so once more he called for his man Tom. 
 
 " Tom, I must raise fifty pounds somehow, or go to 
 the dogs for want of it. I can obtain it in fifteen 
 days' time, but want it directly. Can we not manage 
 it?" 
 
 " Not that I know of, master." 
 
 " We must raise it. Have we nothing which — oh ! 
 horrible necessity ! — we can pledge ? My full-dress 
 uniform ? " 
 
 " We paid our lodging with it last week." 
 
 " My court sword ?" 
 
 " We dined off it yesterday." 
 
 "My best kersey inexpressibles ?" 
 
 " In the pot for to-day." 
 
 " My best patent leather boots ?" 
 
 " I swallowed them for my breakfast." 
 
 " Spurs and all ?" 
 
 " Even so ; they stick in my throat, and half choke me 
 this very minute." 
 
 " Have we absolutely nothing left to pledge ?" 
 
 " Nothing, except our honour." 
 
 " ]\Iy honour I will never pledge. So long as I live 
 will I hold that sacred. Have you no resource in store ?" 
 
 " Only one, master, and that a cjuecr one. I met a 
 fellow last night who lends money ; he is a barber, and 
 has fallen in love with your whiskers."
 
 130 HIS WHISKERS; OR, THE BARBER-FIEND. 
 
 "Nonsense ! Ha, ha ! Would he give me fifty pounds 
 for them?" 
 
 " He as good as said so. But I think he is mad." 
 " Not much doubt about it. Cut what did the fellow 
 say?" 
 
 " He said he would give fifty pounds if he had such a 
 pair." 
 
 " Possibly ; but he could not transfer mine to his own 
 face. Ridiculous ! But if the fellow has money to lend 
 he might do so on my expectations, so bring him here as 
 soon as you can." 
 
 Absurd as it might appear, our hero really thought 
 that the barber money-lender might be induced to 
 negotiate a loan on the assurance of his friend's letter. 
 
 At eight o'clock the money-lender came, a wonderful- 
 looking individual, tall, lanky, and cadaverous ; his eyes 
 had that sinister expression which denotes a capacity for 
 fraud and cunning. He was dressed in a black coat 
 buttoned over his chest, with a pair of trousers far too 
 short, but strapped over his shabby boots by very long 
 straps. If he was a barber by profession he evidently 
 did not practise on himself, for he was both unshorn and 
 unkempt, with a dirty shirt collar reaching up to his ears 
 " So you have money to lend ?" spoke our hero. 
 " Lots of it, your honour," replied the man. 
 "Do you lend without any other security than a 
 gentleman's honour ?" 
 " No, not such a fool." 
 
 " What security do you want for fifty pounds, repayable 
 in fifteen days ?"
 
 ,• HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 131 
 
 " I will take your whiskers ; they are beautiful, lovely, 
 exquisite, divine !" 
 
 This was said with a diabolical leer which almost 
 frightened our hero. 
 
 " What do you mean ? I cannot part with mine ; they 
 are my glory." 
 
 " No necessity. Pledge them to me for a few days, 
 say fourteen, and I will let you use them all the time. 
 I will lend you fifty pounds on them." 
 
 " Ton honour, this seems ridiculous. But how do you 
 propose ?" 
 
 " Sign me a contract, duly stamped, to permit of my 
 cutting off your whiskers by this hour exact in fourteen 
 days, and I will advance the money." 
 
 Half doubting that the man could be in earnest, and 
 more than half doubting his own sanity, he suffered the 
 man to depart, and was truly surprised when he returned 
 with a stamped agreement whereby our hero bound himself 
 to suffer his whiskers to be shaved off by six o'clock in the 
 afternoon of the fifteenth day from the present date, 
 provided the fifty pounds advanced were not punctually 
 paid, with ten per cent, interest thereon. 
 
 It was not without misgivings that our hero signed this 
 absurd contract. What if Miss Moneybags broke her 
 engagement with him ? or, what if his friend should fail 
 to send the fifty pounds ? To sacrifice his whiskers, the 
 cherished idol of his soul, nay, his matrimonial " stock- 
 in-trade," would be death to all his hopes. True, they 
 would grow again, but it had taken four years of his 
 young life to cultivate them up to their present luxuriant
 
 132 HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 
 
 growth, and — and — the very thought of their immediate 
 loss was terrible indeed. At all events the thing was 
 done, so he must make the best of it. 
 
 He therefore contrived an interview with his lady-love, 
 extracted a promise that nothing should prevent her 
 from eloping with him fifteen days from the present time, 
 to which she consented, sealing the contract with more 
 kisses than we venture to record. 
 
 This done, he went to London, obtained a special 
 license, engaged a post chaise, and arranged with a 
 clerical friend, beside taking sundry other precautions 
 against defeat, which being done he returned to Chelten- 
 ham, and eagerly awaited the coming day. 
 
 Meanwhile Captain Bosh performed his part in the 
 drama, accurately informed of all which had occurred 
 through his man Scroggs, who had taken advantage of 
 Tom's only weakness, a love of whisky toddy, to learn all 
 he wanted. 
 
 The old banker, Moneybags, had also possessed him- 
 self of the main facts. He knew his niece was determined 
 on rejecting Captain Bosh, and strongly suspected she 
 intended to marry Fitzgammon, which he could only 
 prevent by forbidding the banns, provided they Avere put 
 up, but had no legal power over a special license, his 
 consent, absolutely, not having been insisted on by will. 
 All he could do, therefore, was to watch his ward 
 narrowly, and prevent her leaving his house without an 
 
 escort. 
 
 As for Captain Bosh, he suspected, if he did not know, 
 that the fourteenth day from present time was the day of
 
 • 'j HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 133 
 
 danger. He therefore planned to find some expedient 
 which would hold the young lady beyond that special day. 
 He was an adept in woman's wiles and fancies, and 
 hit upon the exact thing to effect his purpose. He knew 
 that no living woman under the mysterious age of forty 
 could resist a ball. 
 
 There was to be a grand ball at the assembly rooms 
 on that identical fourteenth day evening, and all the 
 world would be there. 
 
 He purchased tickets, and the lady could not resist. 
 She told her lover this, and pressed him to be there 
 as well. 
 
 In \ain did our luckless hero protest, implore, pray. 
 She was determined, and when a lady is determined 
 nothing can break her resolution. 
 
 Fitzgammon was in despair, the miserable day came, 
 he had but four pounds left out of his fifty, and he had 
 to pay ten shillings for his ticket. Once more he called 
 his man Tom into consultation, but even Tom was 
 without a suggestion of any value. He would throttle 
 the barber fiend if ordered so to do ; but this our hero 
 put his veto on. Should he chloroform the wretch? 
 No. What then ? 
 
 " I must pay the penalty and lose my whiskers, but 
 what would ensue } If Miss Moneybags sees me without 
 she will not know me." 
 
 " Perhaps the wretch will give you three days' grace ; 
 they do so with an ordinary ' bill.' " 
 
 " But this is no ordinary bill. No, I must pay or be 
 shorn of my glory, for I never yet forfeited my bond."
 
 134 i^is whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 
 
 Reduced to absolute despair Fitzgammon awaited the 
 fatal ^hour of six, his only dress coat — alas ! for his lost 
 uniform — lay displayed on the bed; his white waistcoat, his 
 gloves, and dress pumps kept them company; his 
 hair brushes and comb were on the toilet table, never, 
 perhaps, to be used in their accustomed manner for his 
 whiskers. But what of that ? if they must be sacrificed, 
 he comforted himself with Burns's lines 
 
 A man's a man for a' that ! 
 
 It was himself the lady would marry, and not his 
 whiskers. 
 
 Six o'clock struck, and with the last chime of the 
 pendule in came the " Barber-Fiend," contract in one 
 hand, but a lather-box and a pair of razors in the 
 other. 
 
 " Have you my fifty pounds and five interest ready ? " 
 interrogated the -vATetch, with a horrible leer. 
 
 " No, but I will pay you one hundred pounds in lieu 
 of it if you wait only three days. My friend, who has 
 promised, cannot pay me until to-morrow." 
 
 " My bond, my bond ! I will have my bond," screamed 
 the -wTetch. 
 
 " A ver)' Shylock, are you ? " 
 
 " Aye, a very Shylock ; I will have my pound of flesh." 
 
 " Take it then, but spare, oh spare my whiskers." 
 
 " Never, they are mine, mine, mine ! and I will have 
 them rather than a thousand pounds." 
 
 " Will nothing meet you ? " 
 
 " Nothing, nothing ; I will have my bond."
 
 ^. HIS WHISKERS; OR, THE BARBER-FIEND. 135 
 
 '•'Then take it, but beware, if I die under the operation 
 remember you are my murderer ! " 
 
 Thus saying our hero, thrust into a chair by the Barber- 
 Fiend, resigned himself to his fate ; Tom looking on rue- 
 'fuUy, and making believe to strike the man with a poker 
 which he had taken from the fireplace, andzuhich he would 
 have used if his master had given signal. 
 
 With eyes of fiendish delight the Barber spread a white 
 cloth under our hero's chin, next ruthlessly cut off the 
 magnificent whiskers close to the face, and finally shaved 
 off the stubble, all in double quick time, the whole 
 business occupying less than forty seconds. 
 
 After which the fellow collected the fragments from 
 the floor, packed up his instruments, and departed, 
 howling a frantic Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! as he left the room. 
 
 The foul deed done, the sacrifice completed, our luck- 
 less hero surveyed himself in the glass, but started aghast. 
 He did not know himself How then should his lady- 
 love know him ? The thought was horror ! He would 
 not attend the ball, he would plead illness ; but no, that 
 would be a lie, unbecoming a gentleman. What then ? 
 Should he go as he was and plead a freak .? No, that 
 also would be a lie. Should he then blurt out the truth ? 
 That would be an unnecessary stretch of candour, but — 
 
 "Master, I have it," shouted Tom in delight, "I 
 have it." 
 
 " What ? " exclaimed Fitzgammon. 
 
 " I will make you a pair of whiskers in a jiffy, almost 
 as good as those you have lost ; see here." 
 
 On this Tom partially unripped one of the shiny black
 
 136 HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 
 
 horsehair bolsters of the sofa, and produced a quantity of 
 curly horsehair, thick and glossy, almost identical with 
 the volume of whisker that had been shaved off. 
 
 Ama'.ed at the notion, poor Fitzgammon witnessed his 
 ingenious servant sew into a piece of light fabric a suffi- 
 cient quantity of the horsehair to make a capital substitute 
 for the lost whiskers, and these he contrived to fasten on 
 with some gummy substance so cleverly that none but a 
 barber expert would know from the real thing. 
 
 " These will pass muster, by candle light at all events," 
 said the man, and really the substitute was very good 
 indeed. 
 
 " Don't dance too violently " were his parting words, as 
 our Sub-Lieutenant, a little moodily, departed in a cab 
 for the scene of operation?. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Captain Bosh, who had been advised as to the success 
 of his scheme, was astonished beyond all bounds at 
 seeing our hero enter the ball-room as jauntily as ever, 
 and with his Avhiskers intact. Had the Barber-Fiend 
 cheated him ? Yes ! What should he do with that 
 Barber-Fiend ? 
 
 Merrily went the music, merrily went the dance ; fair 
 w'omen and gallant men sped on the fantastic toe, merrily, 
 merrily, merrily.
 
 HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. it, J 
 
 Beauty was there in all the allurement of youth, 
 millinery, and jewels ; Miss Lydia Moneybags, the fairest 
 of all, and attired (see Myras Journal for the last fashion 
 of a ball dress, for men know nothing of such matters) — 
 'well, she was beautiful exceedingly, and habited " a 
 merville," her golden hair, her peach blossom face, 
 her rose-bud mouth, driving the men to distraction ; but 
 most of all Sub-Lieutenant Fitzgammon, who waltzed, 
 quadrilled, mazourkad, and schottisched with her till the 
 eyes of all were fixed on her, and etiquette outraged 
 beyond all bounds, her " card " having but one single 
 name upon it beyond that of Sub-Lieutenant Fitz- 
 gammon. 
 
 It was in vain that her chaperone reproved, that 
 Captain Bosh entreated, and that others prayed. She 
 danced and danced, regardless of all opinion, till — oh, 
 horror ! — the heat became so great that our hero's 
 whiskers slipped down, by little and little, until they fell 
 in two distinct showers of hair upon his partner's dress. 
 
 With a shriek of consternation Miss Moneybags started 
 from the half encircling arms of her lover, just in time to 
 be received within those of Captain Bosh, who had 
 followed the pair through their gyrations in utter bewilder- 
 ment, and immediately a scene ensued which baffles all 
 description. The lady did not exactly faint off outright, 
 but gazed first on the hirsute appendages on her dress, 
 then at the base face of her lover, uttering shriek upon 
 shriek till she lay within the Captain's grasp dazed and 
 powerless. 
 
 A crowd gathered round ; poor Fitzgammon standing.
 
 138 HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 
 
 fixed in terror and liumiliation till the jeers of his rival 
 and the amazed countenances of lookers-on brought him 
 back to the terrible consequences of his bad luck, old Mr. 
 Moneybags joining in the laughter which greeted him on 
 all sides. 
 
 " A case of masquerading ? " queried one. 
 
 " No, a case of gross deception," ejaculated another. 
 
 " Worse than that," shouted Captain Bosh, " a case of 
 endeavouring to obtain a wife under false pretences. 
 Ah ! Ah ! " 
 
 With these exclamations and others equally strange 
 saluting his ears on all sides, our unlucky hero, com- 
 pletely overcome, made but one dart to the entrance 
 •door, and rushing down stairs, regardless of all things, 
 hatless, cloakless, and dizzy, flung himself ijito the 
 nearest cab, and drove home to his lodgings, where his 
 faithful Tom, who saw at once what had occurred, 
 managed to ^get him into bed, utterly unconscious of all 
 things, most happily for himself. 
 
 All next day and the day after that he remained in a 
 state of stupor, till a physician being called in, enlightend 
 by Tom, administered restoratives which had effect, but 
 still left the poor fellow in a maze of bemlderment, 
 one terrible sorrow overshadowing all. He had lost his 
 lady-love irrevocably ; he could never dare to look her 
 in the face again ; he felt himself an impostor, a uTetch, 
 and doubly, triply, a fool. 
 
 The kindly physician talked to him, and tried to 
 administer comfort, but in vain. Ridicule would attach 
 to his name for evermore ; he must hide his head from
 
 HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 139 
 
 all companionship, must leave the army, must run away 
 to California, or commit suicide. He felt mad, mad, 
 mad, yet sane enough to feel his own madness as an 
 affliction beyond cure. " Oh that Barber-Fiend." 
 
 Poor Tom was also at his wit's end. He made bold 
 to open the letter his master had expected, and found 
 in it the fifty pound note, which had arrived only too late 
 for the object required. With this he paid all claims, 
 and made ready for an early departure so soon as could 
 be contrived, feeling sure that such was absolutely neces- 
 sary. But a change was about to come. 
 
 The kindly physician, who had been enlightened as to 
 even the minutest particular of this remarkable case, and 
 who was well acquainted with old Moneybags, made it 
 his business to visit them, and to acquaint them with the 
 true facts, placing them in a most favourable light, and 
 not without success ; for, just as Fitzgammon was about 
 to take his departure, with the slender remains of his 
 belongings and the now useless special licence in his 
 pocket, a carriage and pair drove up to the house, and 
 old Moneybags with his lovely niece entered the room. 
 
 Astonished beyond all bounds at such an apparition, 
 our hero would fain have slunk into his bedroom in utter 
 shame, but that the first glance of the old gentleman's 
 countenance re-assured him, as with a hearty " Here we 
 are, old boy," he grasped hands, and, pointing to his 
 niece, cried " Kiss him, Lyddy, never mind me ; it's all 
 right now." 
 
 Kisses and tender meetings are all well in their place, 
 but seem very poorly in description, particularly in a tale
 
 140 HIS whiskers; or, the barber-fiend. 
 
 such as tliis, whose incidents are droll rather than 
 sentimental. A general explanation ensued, of course, 
 all bjing thoroughly accounted for, and the wickedness 
 of Captain Bosh laid bare. 
 
 Miss Lydia Moneybags, deeply touched by her lover's 
 -devotion, found in her own heart to exclaim, " I'hc man 
 who could sacrifice such whiskers as those to the fancies 
 of a woman must indeed be a hero among heroes." 
 
 While her uncle found in his conscience to assume 
 that " The man who in his wicked rivalry could effect the 
 destruction of such glorious adornments through bribery 
 and corruption must indeed be a scoundrel among 
 scoundrels." 
 
 Captain Bosh was therefore sent to the right-about, 
 and Lieutenant Fitzgammon reinstated in liis vacant 
 .post. 
 
 " They will grow again, darling," whispered Miss Lydia, 
 with a look of unutterable fondness. 
 
 And " Take her, my boy, with all her money, as soon 
 as you please," exclaimed old Moneybags. 
 
 So it happened that the special licence was not thrown 
 away at all, neither was the post chaise countermanded, 
 for our hero and heroine posted on their honeymoon trip 
 with the hearty approval of her guardian, who, with 
 hands outstretched over their heads, gave them, in fashion 
 theatrical, these parting words, "Bless you, i\iy 
 Children."
 
 'V 
 
 9 
 
 THE DEATH-PtOSE. 
 
 A TRADITION OF UNDYING AFFECTION. 
 
 RELATED BY A SURGEON (FACT). 
 
 "... Nor was it so. 
 
 Love is a plant whose very germ is love — 
 Once rooied ni the bosom it ■luill grow. 
 
 Despite all power to crush it or remove, 
 Though cold neglect assail, like winter snow, 
 
 '1 hough hope De not, nor sunshine from above, 
 Nurtured with tears — 'twill thrive the goodlier tree 
 
 The more 'tis watered by adversity." 
 
 "Don Juan Married," Sequel to Byron's 
 " Don juan," by L. S. H. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Shortly after my establishment, and in the immediate 
 vicinity of Aldershot town, there resided, at a pretty 
 cottage bordering upon the high road, an aged couple, 
 for whom the name of " Smith " will suffice. 
 
 They were a childless couple, the man having all his 
 life followed the occupation of gardening, and was noted 
 for his love of flowers in general, but very particularly for 
 that " Queen of Flowers," the Rose. 
 
 Of late years, indeed for the space of twenty years, he 
 had been head gardener to a gentleman, who, in con- 
 sideration of long service, had pensioned him off, and 
 granted him the privilege of dwelling, rent free, in the
 
 142 THE DEATH-ROSE. 
 
 two-roomed cottage which afforded shelter to his declin- 
 ing life, and in which he passed his time cultivating his 
 favom-ite roses. 
 
 I know not whether it has ever been noticed that, 
 whereas individual couples who have been blessed with a 
 numerous progeny very often indeed bicker and quarrel in 
 their old age, the love of their youth degenerating into 
 something like indifference towards each other, individual 
 coujDles who have not been blessed with children retain 
 the old love of their youthful days not merely intact, but 
 with increasing power as their days approach an end. 
 Perhaps it is that each one of the two seeks to comfort 
 the other one for the misfortune, not contemplating the 
 fact that children are sometimes a very modified blessing, 
 entailing much care, anxiety, and responsibility, the which, 
 as unblessed by children, the sterile couple at the very 
 least avoid. * Be this, however, as it may. Smith and his 
 wife, aged seventy years, certainly exhibited an amount 
 of conjugal affection far beyond the common. They 
 were never apart, domestic duties were very light in their 
 tiny cottage — breakfast over they would sit down together 
 conversing or reading, for they were both fairly educated ; 
 dinner over they would jointly attend their roses, weeding, 
 hoeing, training, or picking off useless leaves, and when 
 not otherwise employed walked out arm in arm, like 
 youthful lovers, only with much greater deference to each 
 other's wants than usual, even among the young. 
 
 " Darby and Joan " was the appellation by which they 
 were good-humouredly called in the neighbourhood, 
 that is to say by the adult neighbourhood, yet not so by
 
 »• THE DEATH-ROSE. 1 43 
 
 the juveniles, who irreverently nick-named them " Punch 
 and Judy " instead, and oftentimes made terrible inroads 
 on their floral treasures, which were in summer time 
 greatly prized by both old and young, as also far oftener 
 stolen than given away or sold. 
 
 They were, in truth, a hajopy couple, as happy almost 
 as Adam and Eve may have been before tasting the apple, 
 but, like unto them, their paradise was not to endure, for 
 one sad, one doubly sad day, poor Susan Smith fell ill, 
 and after lingering one single week, breathed her last in 
 the arms of her sorrowing husband, whose grief was 
 pitiable to look upon — so sad was it, so child-like, so 
 utterly beyond the powers of comfort or the sympathy of 
 generous friends. 
 
 Accustomed as I had been, through my professional 
 duties, to death-bed misery, I never before witnessed so 
 afflicting a scene ; the old man clung to the body of his 
 life partner for hours after her decease, calling her by 
 endearments of expression which would have been utterly 
 childless but for their intensity of affection^ and was only 
 withdrawn from the senseless clay by those whose office it 
 was to tend the dead. 
 
 It was on the eve before her funeral that about half- 
 past ten o'clock, just as I had retired to bed after a 
 hard day's round of practice, my night-bell was rung so 
 furiously as to call for an imjDcrative answer, and before 
 I could slip on some portion of my dress, the ring sounded 
 once more, even more furiously. 
 
 Seizing hold of my instrument case, I descended, but 
 only to find my poor friend Smith in a state of frantic 
 excitement.
 
 144 THE DEATH-ROSE. 
 
 To my inquiries of what was wrong, he answered only 
 by calling on me to make haste and bring " my tools " 
 (for such he considered my surgical instruments to be) 
 with me. 
 
 Not knowing what the occasion might be, I accom- 
 panied him as quickly as possible to his house, and was 
 astonished, if not slightly alarmed, at his locking his door 
 and placing the key in his pocket, for I had begun to 
 think the man was partly out of his mind with grief 
 
 On a couple of tressels lay the coffin, with his wife's 
 body attired in the paraphernalia of death, the coffin lid 
 being off. 
 
 " Look at her there," he spoke, in a voice of terrible 
 grief " See her there," he again spoke, "and listen ! Look 
 upon her, I say. Well ! In life she was mine- — bone of 
 my bone, flesh of my flesh — God made us two one." 
 
 " Of course," I replied, "you were married to her; she 
 was your wife." 
 
 " My wife ? Yes ! My good true wife ; living, her 
 heart was mine ; dead, it shall be mine too. So, take 
 out your tools, and with a long sharp knife cut me out 
 her heart." 
 
 Horror-struck for the moment — not so much at the 
 mere act of using my scalpel for such purpose as at the 
 mad looks of the man — I shrank back. 
 
 " You don't like the job, maybe," he cried. "Then 
 give me your knife, and I will do it myself" 
 
 Seeing that the man was in earnest, and certainly not 
 exactly mad, I endeavoured to reason with him as to the
 
 «• THE DEATH-ROSE. 145 
 
 indecency of the act, asking what he intended with the 
 heart. 
 
 " That's my business," he repHed ; " take it out at 
 once — you will do it nicely, better than I could ; but if 
 
 r 
 
 you will not I must." 
 
 " What if I refuse ? " 
 
 " You will not refuse, kind, good man as you are. Is 
 she not my property ? Is not her flesh my flesh, her heart 
 my heart ? And may T not do as I like with my own ? " 
 
 It was thus the man argued, and even almost prayed, 
 until, seeing that he would most assuredly partially dissect 
 the body himself, I reluctantly complied, leaving the 
 house immediately in fear of a scene. 
 
 For several months after this I did not set eyes on 
 poor Smith, but had heard accounts of his somewhat 
 strange behaviour in regard to many particulars. He 
 lived entirely by himself, shunning all society, and pass- 
 ing all his time in one occupation — that of tending one 
 single rose tree in a little patch of ground at the side of 
 his house, where a small window enabled him to watch 
 it for hours together. All the rose bushes in his front 
 garden were left to themselves, still growing of course, 
 but untended. 
 
 The one single tree, or slip of a tree, which received 
 all his attention was of six or seven months' growth onl}-. 
 He had pruned it carefully, so that only a small heading 
 of branches and leaves crowned the top. He had placed 
 round it a little border of rough stones and glass bottles 
 to protect the roots of the tree, was seen to manure it 
 with salt to keep away the slugs, and to water it
 
 146 THE DEATH-ROSE. 
 
 assiduously, giving to it all the care a mother might give 
 her child. He was also heard to speak to it 
 endearing words, muttered only in singular tone, as 
 though speaking to some living being, whose rest he 
 feared to disturb. By and bye a bud gratified his eyes ; 
 it was a single bud, for the tree was but a sapling, and 
 his joy at the sight of this bud Avas something to look 
 upon. It was the urchins of the neighbourhood who first 
 noticed his singular behaviour, and whispered of it to 
 each other, so openly at length that the old man became 
 alarmed. 
 
 Up to that time his garden patch was but ill secured 
 against the inroad of mischief; he accordingly employed 
 a neighbour to purchase some wood battens and made 
 himself a rail sufficient to keep out trespassers as he 
 hoped, and in due time had the pleasure of seeing his 
 one bud develop itself into a magnificent flower, a rose of 
 roses, a veritable queen rose. 
 
 It was at the close of July, when the days were long^ 
 and the nights short, that his rose had attained its full 
 maturity, one splendid flower with two little buds, like two 
 pretty children clinging to the skirts of their mother. 
 From the earliest da\vn to the last blush of day the 
 bereaved widower gazed upon his treasure, sometimes 
 walking round it, very often speaking to it fond words 
 such as he had been used to speak to his wife, and by so 
 doing rather too particularly arrested the attention of 
 sundry mischievous boys, who, heedless of the old man's 
 wonderful love for his flower, began first to make faces to 
 him, to jeer at him, and at length to threaten that they
 
 • ' THE DEATH-ROSE. 1 47 
 
 Avould pluck the rose off its stem, guard it as best he 
 might. 
 
 Frightened, nay horrified at this idea, the old man 
 determined on watching his treasure by night as well as 
 by day. With this intention he kept the window of his 
 sleeping room open, moved his bed into such a position 
 as enabled him to keep watch even while lying down, and 
 in this he was aided by a full moon for several nights 
 after his first alarm. The nights of full moon, however, 
 soon passed away, and as boys generally did not prowl 
 about in the night time, he hoped, after several sleepless 
 nights, to obtain one sound period of rest, but still with 
 his window open, and, as he hoped, A\dth his eyes not too 
 firmly closed. He also knew himself to be quick of hearing. 
 
 In this state of hopeful somnolency, he retired to bed 
 one fatal night, and about eleven o'clock, when all the 
 neighbourhood should have been at perfect rest, he, in a 
 species of slumber which was yet not quite that which 
 locks all the senses in oblivion, caught the sound of 
 breaking wood, of rapid footsteps, and of a wicked voice 
 crjdng " I've got it," followed by a retreat of the footsteps 
 outside. 
 
 With a shriek of horror, as afterwards told by one of 
 the two wickedurchins who had thus despoiled the old man, 
 he leaped out of his bed, out of the window, and, in his 
 night-dress only, followed the younger of the two boys who 
 had succeeded in tearing off the beautiful rose, bringing him 
 back to the house, and there outside, not inside, plunged 
 his pruning knife into the lad's abdomen, inflicting a 
 terrible wound.
 
 1 43 THE DEATH-ROSE. 
 
 An immediate outcry brought two neighbours to the 
 spot. I was sent for in all haste to bind up the lad's 
 wound, which ultimately proved not very serious, and the 
 old man Smith, who had relapsed into a fatuous silence,. 
 . was kept in some sort of custody till daylight should 
 enable other persons to take charge. 
 
 A magisterial investigation took place, of necessity, 
 and yet none was needed, for with the loss of his rose the 
 old man lost his reason, falling into a state of absolute 
 fatuity, and within the space of three months died in the 
 infirmary of Guildford Workhouse. 
 
 As for the wounded boy, he recovered in about three 
 weeks, the knife having failed to inflict any very serious 
 mischief, but while attending upon him I bethought of 
 the old gardener's extraordinary love for his flpwer, and 
 formed an opinion as to its more than ordinarily powerful 
 cause ; indeed, I may say that from the very first an idea 
 had taken root in my mind, which I determined to inves- 
 tigate by digging up the rose tree which had brought 
 about the singular climax. 
 
 Accordingly, borrowing a spade from the nearest resi- 
 dence, I set to work ' with my own hands, disdaining 
 assistance, and very carefully removing the earth round 
 the tree found, quite as I suspected, that a cutting of 
 some one rose bush had been thrust through an animal 
 substance, that substance being without rational doubt 
 that of a HUMAN heart, for although nearly rendered 
 back through decomposition to its parent earth, enough 
 remained to satisfy my doubts, no other person than my- 
 self being cognisant of the true facts.
 
 THE DEATH-ROSE. 
 
 149 
 
 Now in recording the somewhat revolting circumstance 
 which, in its first aspect, led to the issue now explained, 
 I cannot help dwelling upon the very singular force of 
 love which sought to renew life out of death in this par- 
 ticular instance, evincing, as it did, a love beyond the 
 common love, as well as the fact that truth is some- 
 times more wonderful than romance. 
 
 The result of a magisterial investigation was as the 
 reader may expect — the poor man was declared mad, and 
 ultimately died insane before any formal trial could take 
 place at the forthcoming assizes. 
 
 Carefully taking charge of the rose tree, I brought it to 
 my own house, and, planting it in my own garden, had 
 the curious pleasure of seeing it bloom year after year in 
 glorious luxuriance, very many of my friends having 
 begged "slips," and, in their turn, obtained a beautiful 
 memorial of the incident which led to this record of 
 " The Death-rose."
 
 THE TINKERS LEGiCY. 
 
 " Story ! Lord love you, sirs, I've none to tell." 
 
 George Canning's " Knifegrinder." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Some five-and twenty years before the institution of 
 Aldershot Camp, and while yet the parish itself contained 
 somewhat less than four hundred inhabitants, the Red 
 Lion Tavern, situate close to Aldershot Green, was the 
 rallying place of all those very few poor and weary 
 indwellers — chiefly agricultural labourers — who could 
 afford to disburse a small amount of " cop'pers " in 
 exchange for a pint of very middling beer, when, from 
 the hour of seven to nine o'clock, a couple of benches 
 set out in front of that " hostelrie " on a summer 
 evening found a tolerable complement of honest 
 gossipers ready to hear or tell whatever might be worth 
 telling or hearing without prejudice to all the world — 
 beyond their own vicinity. 
 
 It was upon a somewhat cool evening for summer that 
 a party of seven or eight individuals, who had been 
 sitting on the benches outside, thought proper to shift 
 within the house, carrying with them their mugs of beer 
 and pipes of the old "churchwarden" pattern, intending 
 to enjoy themselves for one hour longer, before retiring 
 to bed. 
 
 Four of these individuals were agricultural labourers,
 
 ^' THE TINKERS LEGACY. 151 
 
 in the employment of Mr. Allden, poor enough, Heaven 
 knows, but yet able, to pay for a pint of beer once a 
 week ; one other was a man named Attfield, renting 
 some land near the parish church ; another was a 
 tradesman in the grocery line, named Gosden ; and the 
 last of the seven was a very tall man, named Pharo, 
 whose occupation is not recorded, otherwise than that he 
 was the owner of a very small property which caused him 
 to be regarded as a trifle better off than the generality of 
 his neighbours. 
 
 The conversation of this seven individuals had turned 
 upon one matter only — the matter of a new appointment 
 to the perpetual curacy of the parish — which gift was in 
 the hands of two (or more) tithe-holders, and, though of 
 little worth, still a fact of great concern to the 
 parishioners at large. This reverend gentleman, whom 
 we will call "Jones," had favourably impressed his 
 hearers on the previous Sunday by delivering a sermon 
 w/u'c/i had no hard words in it, and which was therefore 
 better understood and appreciated than the discourse of 
 a former clergyman, who had treated his humble hearers 
 with Sunday wTitten discourses, formerly declaimed before 
 an University audience, at St. Mary's Church. 
 
 They had just agreed between themselves that 
 " Parson" was "of the right sort," and not too "uppish," 
 when their attention was called to a low wail or ciy of 
 distress which emanated from outside. On sallying forth 
 it was perceived that a travelling tinker — who had 
 pushed his two-wheeled apparatus up to the tavern* 
 entrance — had fallen down in a fit, overcome by exertion,
 
 7 52 THE TINKERS LEGACY. 
 
 and who seemed to be in the very last stage of consumptive 
 disease. 
 
 As a matter of course the poor fellow was immediately 
 raised from the ground and his wants attended to by the 
 kindly wife of the landlord, who put him to bed with all 
 dispatch, but not before his appearance had excited very 
 •considerable remark among the company, now augmented 
 by the presence of several other men and one woman — a 
 Mrs. Hewett — who after scrutinising the face and figure 
 of the poor fellow with an eye by no means pitying, 
 ■carried herself off without speaking, and presently 
 returned in company with her brother — one Simon 
 Gripe, a character in the neighbourhood — better known 
 than respected, he having been at one time a lawyer's 
 clerk and process server, but who, having been left a 
 small legacy, had retired upon his laurels (of discoloured 
 parchment), and who for the last fifteen years had rented 
 a small cottage in Church-lane. 
 
 Simon Gripe, on being taken by his sister to the bed- 
 side of the invalid, also appeared to view him with but 
 little pity — but, as he said nothing, his looks were not 
 regarded by the rest of the company, one of whom sug- 
 gested the necessity for a doctor, lest a " crowner's 
 'quest " should be entailed. 
 
 Meanwhile the poor tinker's general appearance became 
 a matter of comment to all ; it was seen that he was tall, 
 very thin, and very sorrowful to look upon, but by no 
 means ill clad, nor exactly in character with his occupa- 
 tion, giving it to be inferred that he was one who had 
 seen better days.
 
 THE tinker's legacy, 1 53 
 
 After his person had been commented on, his tinkering 
 apparatus came in for its share of comment, and aroused 
 much surprise. It was found to be of a very expensive 
 make, with every convenience for knife grinding and 
 tinkering, but also with a perfect set of watch mending 
 tools, the name of " Johnson " being cut into the wood- 
 work of the machine, which had been at one time 
 artistically painted. 
 
 " Stranger in these parts, I guess," cried one of the by- 
 standers. 
 
 " Not so great a stranger as some of you think," 
 growled Simon Gripe. 
 
 " Wlio be he then, if you knows 'un ? " queried the first 
 speaker. 
 
 " Dick Stanley — the poor's rate collector — who bolted 
 v^^ith the tin some seven years ago," answered Simon 
 Gripe. 
 
 "And let in his sureties for five hundred pounds," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Hewett. 
 
 " Can't be Dick Stanley," interposed Attfield. " He 
 weighed sixteen stone, and this fellow can't weigh ten ! — 
 nonsense." 
 
 " 'Tis Dick Stanley for all that," once more spoke 
 Simon Gripe. " Dick could tinker a kettle or a 
 watch. Didst note the watchmaker's tools in his 
 barrow ? " 
 
 " Aye," exclaimed one of the labouring men, " I mind 
 well he tinkered Reuben Yates's timekeeper, and for the 
 matter of that could do a'most everything besides 
 cheating the poor." 
 F
 
 154 THE tinker's legacy. ' 
 
 " He didn't cheat the poor, he cheated his sureties — 
 Allden was one." 
 
 Comments of tliis sort flew about briskly enough for 
 the greater part of an hour, the upshot being that Mr. 
 Richard Stanley, the rate collector, and the invalid 
 upstairs were identified as one, and not merely so, but 
 acknowledged so to be by the tinker himself — for, on 
 arrival of the doctor, he confessed that his troubled 
 conscience led him back to the scenes of his delinquency 
 for the strange purpose of renderirtg what restitution he 
 could, poor as it might be. 
 
 The doctor, a practitioner from Ash, gave it as his 
 opinion that his patient might not live many hours, and 
 certainly could not survive over the next day. This being 
 told to the man himself, he appeared rejoiced rather than 
 otherwise, and desired the use of pen and ink, whereA\'ith, 
 as he said, to make his will, for the benefit of the poor 
 whom he had once defrauded. 
 
 On learning this, Simon Gripe, the ex-la\\yer's clerk 
 and process server, volunteered to write out the will in 
 proper form, a service which the dying tinker gladly 
 accepted. The said " will " was therefore dra-ttn in 
 legal form at the dying man's dictation, signed with a 
 trembling hand, and duly witnessed by the landlord and 
 Mr. Hewett, after which Dick Stanley, the tinker, paid his 
 last debt to his last creditor, Nature herself, and died. 
 
 Immediately after this became known, for it was on 
 the day after his arrival that the poor fellow died, Simon 
 Gripe was interrogated as to the terms of the dead man's 
 >nll, which he,la^\7er like, objected to tell, as not according
 
 THE tinker's legacy. 155 
 
 to usage, until the dead man was buried. But on its 
 being told by the landlord that the burial should not take 
 place at his expense, the ex-lawyer perceived that it would 
 be best to learn the testator's means as well as intentions, 
 and he therefore decided on making the will known in 
 presence of competent authority. 
 
 Accordingly on the morrow half-a-dozen of those who 
 had witnessed the tinker's arrival were summoned, the 
 will was read, and, apart from all technicalities insisted 
 on by Gripe himself, resulted in the following : — 
 
 The deceased's property was found to consist of twenty- 
 two pounds ten shillings, neatly sewn up in the lining of 
 his waistcoat, and his tinkering apparatus, valued at ten 
 pounds or thereabout, making in all thirty-two pounds 
 ten shillings, out of which sum he desired that his funeral 
 expenses should be first deducted, and the remaining 
 cash divided, in equal sums, among the twelve poorest 
 men and the six poorest women in the parish, his land- 
 lord at the Red Lion being executor. 
 
 Passing over all unnecessary details we merely record 
 that the man was buried, the twenty-two pounds cash 
 duly found, and the tinker's barrow duly sold, but that, 
 instead of realising ten pounds, it was sold for thirt}'-five 
 shillings only, as a counterpoise to which loss the pocr 
 man's OAvn clothes were sold, realising twenty-five shillings, 
 making the sum total as beneath : — 
 
 Cash found on person _^22 10 o 
 
 Sale of barrow I 15 o 
 
 Sale of clothes 150 
 
 ^25 10 o 
 
 F 2
 
 156 THE tinker's legacy. 
 
 against which, for funeral expenses and medical attendance, 
 there stood tlie sum of seven pounds fifteen shillings, 
 making the grand total resulting seventeen pounds fifteen 
 shillings available for charity, or in other words, almost 
 one pound for each one of the twelve poor men and six 
 poor women according to the tinker's will. 
 
 As a matter of course a circumstance of this kind 
 became noised about rapidly, and the extreme poor of 
 the district became wide awake to their interests accord- 
 ingly, calling upon the overseer, the churchwardens, and 
 " mine host " of the Red Lion for a speedy settlement of 
 accounts, anticipating their dividend with feverish anxiety 
 and such persistence that host, overseer, and church- 
 wardens found themselves overpowered with business. 
 
 Now it is generally understood that the executants of 
 a will are permitted something like twelve months' grace 
 before fulfilling their trust. But the poor of Aldershot 
 en masse indignantly protested against this delay, clamour- 
 ing for an immediate settlement ; and in common justice 
 it is only fair to tell that *' mine host " of the Red 
 Lion, trustee and executor, at once saw the propriety 
 of acceding to the general wish. But herein lay the 
 difficult}' — it was to the eighteen ver}?- poorest that the 
 legacy was bequeathed. Who, then, were the eighteen 
 POOREST? Aye, who? 
 
 This question must be answered categorically and 
 correctly before the distribution could be made, and 
 how ? That the poor of Aldershot were numerous all 
 well knew, but between poor, poorer, and poorest were 
 degrees to be investigated, or the law would not run.
 
 , • THE tinker's legacy. 157 
 
 Lists were proposed, names handed in, supplications 
 made, quickly and thickly ; mine host and the overseer 
 had to give hourly audience till their patience as well as 
 their time began to fail before something like a conclusion 
 was arrived at in the determination to hold a committee 
 of investigation, that same being ultimately agreed upon 
 to sit after one o'clock on Saturday afternoon in front of 
 the Red Lion, weather permitting, "al fresco." Just, 
 however, as this determination had been arrived at, a 
 kind of afterthought struck the overseer, which after- 
 thought he communicated to the two churchwardens, who 
 in their turn communicated it to Simon Gripe, who in 
 his turn concurred, the result of which was that " mine 
 host " of the Red Lion was ordered to prepare a rump 
 steak supper on the evening before, with a couple of 
 bottles of port wine, at eight precisely. 
 
 " Who for ? " quoth mine host. 
 
 " For overseer, churchwardens, and clerk," replied his 
 dictator, pro tem. 
 
 " And who is to pay ? " again quoth mine host. 
 
 " The dead tinker. Is it not in the matter of his 
 affairs that I and my colleagues are about to take the 
 trouble ? and is it not you Avho will benefit by the charge? 
 You are executor and administrator according to your 
 best judgment, eh?" 
 
 " True enough," concurred 'mine host,' "but" 
 
 " But what?" 
 
 " Only this, Mr. Overseer, I don't like the respons'- 
 bility. If you now and the churchwardens would but 
 relieve me of that, you bring the proper persons to
 
 158 THE tinker's legacy, 
 
 distribute the money, I \vill obey orders, but not till 
 then." 
 
 " So be it," replied the overseer, " I and the church- 
 wardens will absolve you; so hand over the cash to- 
 morrow, and we will see to its proper distribution, for 
 mark you, friend, the poor must be taken care of, yes, 
 the poor must be taken care of. Heaven bless the 
 poor ! ! !" 
 
 According to this arrangement, at seven o'clock on that 
 same evening mine host of the Red Lion solemnly 
 handed over to Messrs. the Overseer and Church- 
 wardens a small deal box containing the sum of seventeen 
 pounds fifteen shillings, receiving in return an acknow- 
 ledgment in due form, and at eight o'clock precisely a 
 quartette, comprising the individuals before enumerated, 
 sate down to as fine a supper of rump steak and old port 
 wine as ever gladdened the hearts or stomachs of 
 overseer, churchwarden, or lawyer's clerk. 
 
 From eight o'clock till eleven the quartette ate and 
 drank for the benefit of the poor, toasting first their noble 
 selves, but afterwards, at least it is to be so hoped, the 
 healths of the twelve poor men, for whose good they 
 laboured, in the following words to a jolly tune — 
 
 For lie's a joll}' good fellow, 
 
 and afterwards to the health of the six poor women — 
 
 For she's a jolly good lellow, <S:c., &c. ; 
 
 thereby proving that philanthropy is even yet a virtue 
 among overseers and churchwardens, as also, occasionally,
 
 •' THE tinker's LEGACY. 159 
 
 in the bosom of an ex-lawyer's clerk and process server, 
 for 
 
 All are jolly good fellows, 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 CHAPTER ir. 
 
 On the morning following this little celebration mine host 
 of the Red Lion found himself two pounds five shillings 
 the richer, and, with his tongue thrust curiously in the 
 right side of his mouth, rather guessed that the money- 
 box of Messrs. the Overseer and Churchwardens would 
 display itself two pounds five shillings the poorer ; but 
 what matter? the responsibility was not his ! certainly 
 not. If overseer and churchwardens were labouring for 
 the poor, so too was he in tending upon them ; it was 
 his business, and business is business, "which nobody 
 can deny." 
 
 At two o'clock precisely overseer, churchwardens, and 
 Simon Gripe made their appearance before the Red Lion. 
 It was a blazing hot day, a day of thirst, a day wherein 
 thirsty folks must drink or die. A tolerably large table 
 was set forth just outside the main doors ; upon it was a 
 mighty cheese, ordered by one of the churchwardens, 
 flanked by three two-gallon loaves, sundry mugs, and 
 pipes of the most formidable length. It was clear
 
 i6o THE tinker's legacy. 
 
 that the churchwardens calculated on a lengthy 
 sitting. 
 
 Hardly had our officials made their appearance than 
 several of the sliglitly richer parishioners came also, 
 bearing in their hearts the very best intentions toward 
 their poorer brethren, while in their hands they held 
 certain strips of paper with the names of those whom they 
 hoped to benefit inscribed thereon ; accompanying them 
 were others, both male and female parishioners, for the 
 rumour of good fortune to come had spread far and 
 wide, not only through Aldershot, but also through Ash, 
 and many, who could not hope to participate, came 
 through curiosity, till the whole space before the Red 
 Lion was filled with eager faces and curiously minded 
 lookers-on. 
 
 Mr. Overseer was voted unanimously to the chair, 
 supported by the two churchwardens right and left, while 
 Simon Gripe occupied the vice-chair as secretary in 
 plenipo. 
 
 Business began by the chairman observing that 
 the weather was overpoweringly hot ; that ale and beer 
 were the natural quenchers of thirst and heat, wherefore 
 it became necessary that such quenchers should be 
 immediately placed on the table. 
 
 "A minute " of this fact was made by the vice-president 
 secretary. Ale and beer were accordingly placed on the 
 table, and immediately paid for out of the box for the 
 benefit of the poor. 
 
 A second speech from the chair proclaimed that 
 " tobacco " was a fit accompaniment to ale and beer,
 
 THE tinker's legacv. i6i 
 
 wherefore tobacco was ordered, brought in, and paid for, 
 a second " minute " being entered by the vice-president 
 secretary, in accordance with rule — . 
 
 A third speech from the chair notified that bread and 
 cheese were fitting accompaniments for ale, beer, and 
 tobacco ; also, that as the cheese upon the table appeared 
 to be a somewhat large cheese, there was sufficient 
 thereof to distribute among those who surrounded the 
 table ; the bread also looked very good. He therefore 
 proposed that such as loved bread and cheese should 
 partake, and welcome. 
 
 A loud shout answered, a shout of approval, but, 
 before any one among the assembled guests could avail 
 himself of such offer, mine host of the Red Lion put 
 forth his claim, receiving cash to the amount of nigh upon 
 thirty shillings, the cheese being one of the very best, 
 weighing forty pounds at least. 
 
 Mr. Vice-President Secretary was proceeding as before 
 to make minutes of the proceeding, when President 
 Overseer made the remark " Bother ! don't trouble 
 yourself with particulars ; let our friends eat, drink, and 
 be merry till what is here is gone, then to business." 
 
 It did not take long to finish the mighty cheese, several 
 two-gallon loaves, and a goodly allowance of ale (every 
 item being paid for when brought forth), so that by the 
 time of three o'clock Mr. President Overseer, with the 
 best of intentions for the benefit of the poor, thought 
 proper to call on several parishioners for the names of 
 such as might be entitled to a share in the "Tinker's 
 legacy."
 
 1 62 THE tinker's LEGACY, 
 
 The names were very numerous, so numerous, in fact, 
 that a selection from among them was difficult in the 
 extreme, causing a variety of argument and some strange 
 complications as to who were the very very poor. 
 
 " Not those in the workhouse," exclaimed one, " for 
 they are sumptuously fed, warmly clad, and well housed ; 
 while we, who pay rates and taxes, are compelled to live 
 hard, clothe ourselves poorly, and rent houses which let 
 in the rain." 
 
 " That's true," cried some others. 
 
 " Us is the poor as ought to git the money," spoke 
 another. 
 
 " Hold your jaw, Tom Harris," vociferated his neigh- 
 bour, " You've gotten nine shillings a week, and only 
 ten mouths to fill ! Let them as is not so rich as you 
 get their rights." 
 
 " Now then, my good fellows," spoke the chairman, 
 " let us examine these slips first." 
 
 Whereupon a dozen slips or more were submitted for 
 judgment, containing the names of "Bowers," "Thomp- 
 son," " Hunt," " Smith," " Jones," and " Robinson "— 
 all very poor indeed, and each fairly entitled to partici- 
 pate in the tinker's legacy; provided none could be 
 found poore7- than even these. 
 
 " Put down old Dame Bowers for one. She is eighty 
 years old." 
 
 " Put down Gaffer Wallace. He's eighty-one." 
 
 " Put do\Mi Jem Stokes. He's a cripple." 
 
 " Put down Mother Greenwood." 
 
 "And old Dame Blundell."
 
 THE tinker's legacy. 1 63 
 
 " No ! Old John Kimber allows her eighteen-pence a 
 week. She can do without charity." 
 
 Two or three dozen other names were proposes, 
 beside those enumerated upon slips of paper, making in 
 all twice as many as the tinkers legacy was calculated 
 to relieve ; and so far embarrassed Mr. Chairman 
 Overseer that he held up his hand to signal the crowd, 
 and loudly shouted " Stop ! Stop ! If you go on at th's 
 rate there will be more applicants than shillings to relieve 
 them ; pray, my good people, give me a little breathing 
 time, and — and — another mug of ale. For by St. 
 Lazarus, Guardian of the Poor, nothing makes a fellow 
 so thirsty as labouring for the poor." 
 
 "Take a pull at this," kindly spoke his right hand 
 supporter, offering a mug, which Mr. Chairman Over- 
 seer placed to his lips, and then threw down, 
 
 " Empty, by Jingo ! Bring me another." 
 
 On hearing this, mine host whispered in Mr. Chair- 
 man's ear sundry words, which appeared to slightly 
 astonish him, but eliciting reply — 
 
 " The tap exhausted ! Impossible ! Well, no matter. 
 Bring forth a thirty-six gallon cask — don't you see how 
 thirsty all these poor fellows are ? — look at Dame Blundell 
 there ; have you no bowels of compassion for your 
 fellow creatures ? Out with the cask, I tell you, and let 
 all draw for themselves — but first remember me." 
 
 Hearing this, mine host, who began to perceive that the 
 speaker's voice was thickening, communed with the two 
 churchwardens, who evidently seconded the views of 
 their principal by dipping into the money box and
 
 164 THE tinker's legacy. 
 
 complying with whatever demand was made, after which 
 a thirty-six gallon cask was brought out into the open, 
 and broached amidst shouts of universal approval, 
 parishioners of all grades, both men and women, taking 
 their turn as fast as mugs could be filled or thirsty throats 
 could swallow. A philanthropist would have been 
 immeasurably delighted with the happy faces abounding, 
 contentment was upon many a countenance after a thirsty 
 pull at a quart jug, expectation of a happy sort dwelt 
 on many more as their owners approached the hospitable 
 tap, and eager hope attached itself to those of the 
 outsiders whose turn might come next in aid of the poor. 
 
 The thirty-six gallon cask was soon emptied, a second 
 brought out and paid for, Mr. Chairman Overseer look- 
 ing around him with a beaming countenance, such as 
 could only result from the consciousness of doing good, 
 and if, as in truth, his speech became more and more 
 husky, it was only to be expected from the ardour with 
 which he performed his selection of persons — those of 
 the proposed recipients of the tinker's charity — and taking 
 a draught from his mug between each individual name, 
 till they reached forty in number, exactly twenty-two 
 beyond those needed. 
 
 We will not take cognisance of all which happened 
 during the next hour, for the innumerable comments of 
 those who participated in the orgie, the strange behaviour 
 of some, and the just ridicule of others, would fill more 
 pages than the matter is worth — one observation must, 
 however, be recorded in justice to all, namely, that good 
 humour prevailed throughout. What if Messrs. the
 
 THE tinker's legacy. 1 65 
 
 Chairman, Churchwardens, and Secretary, all of them, 
 became husky in their talk or unsteady on their legs — 
 their intention had been charitable — it was but the flesh 
 which had succumbed while the spirit was yet strong, 
 but it appeared singular, nevertheless, that mine host of 
 the Red Lion, from first to last, somehow contrived to 
 maintain a sober and sedate countenance, supplying his 
 ale and securing its payment with a solemnity of 
 countenance denoting immense self-control. 
 
 It was not until all the malt liquor on his premises had 
 been consumed, and the fact communicated to the two 
 churchwardens, that a lull fell upon the assembled crowd, 
 which had somewhat fallen away, leaving only such as 
 had brought their little lists of proposed recipients, and 
 who clearly saw that the tinker's legacy must have 
 considerably suffered through the benevolence of its 
 administrators. 
 
 It was also only too evident that Mr. Chairman 
 Overseer was more than properly overcome with 
 benevolence and beer, that Messrs. the two Church- 
 wardens — seasoned vessels as they undoubtedly were — 
 could scarcely be made to contain more, and that Mr. 
 Vice-Chairman Secretary was incapable of making any 
 further minutes of the proceedings, when an addition to 
 the company was seen to advance in the persons of 
 Farmer Hart and Mr. Robert Lloyd, both substantial 
 yeomen of approved rej^ute. These two gentlemen 
 descended from their horses, and, after a brief parley 
 with the host, seated themselves at the table outside, 
 when a bystander attempted to enlighten them as to the
 
 i66 THE tinker's legacy. 
 
 state of affairs, but owing to some incoherence of speech 
 failed to explain otherwise than that " plenty to eat and 
 drink was to be had for the asking, out of a thousand 
 pounds legacy, left by a tinker." 
 
 " A thousand pounds, by St. Barleycorn, but that is 
 wonderful," exclaimed Farmer Hart. " Let us drink to 
 his good health then." 
 
 " The legacy man must be dead," cried Mr. Robert 
 Lloyd, "we cannot drink his health." 
 
 " Let's drink to his benevolent memory then. Here, 
 landlord, brandy and water hot for two, with a slice of 
 lemon in it," replied Mr. Lloyd. 
 
 " Who says brandy and water hot ? " cried Mr. Chair- 
 man Overseer, somewhat aroused from his semi-con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " And L" 
 
 " And me as well," ungrammatically shouted Mr. 
 Vice. 
 
 On hearing which demands mine host of the Red 
 Lion, having first cast a sly glance at the money box by 
 Mr. Chairman's side, moved about with alacrity, and in 
 double quick time produced the desired stimulant, 
 some few of the " outsiders " looking on with grim coun- 
 tenances, while others departed in haste, either because 
 they saw little chance of advancing the interests of the 
 poor, or because they too were not asked to partake of 
 the improved " tipple ;" it is to be hoped the former 
 sentiment prevailed. 
 
 Two or three of the most pertinent advocates for the
 
 THE tinker's legacy. 1 67 
 
 poor endeavoured to explain matters to the two yeomen, 
 but unsatisfactorily, and shortly afterwards departed, 
 muttering to themselves words the reverse of com- 
 plimentary. 
 
 In the course of one hour all the rest of the outsiders 
 wended homewards, leaving none but the four officials, 
 by this time thoroughly drunk, and the two yeomen, very 
 much in the same predicament, but yet, like Oliver 
 Twist, calling for more. 
 
 More, it was " brandy hot " being forthcoming, after 
 mine host had again glanced into the money box. The 
 hot stimulant, prepared by the host's wife, soon took 
 effect upon the two worthy yeomen, who joined the four 
 officials in bowing their heads upon the table, utterly un- 
 conscious of all mundane affairs. 
 
 It was now five o'clock. The blazing sun had con- 
 siderably modified the intensity of its rays as they fell 
 upon the six sleepers, when a pony carriage coming from 
 the Ash Road drove leisurely adown the bend, which led 
 towards the parsonage up an incline. It was the new 
 clerg}Tnan, who had been on a district visit, probably to 
 one of those very poor whom the tinker's legacy ought to 
 have helped. 
 
 Noticing the curious fact of six sleepers taking their 
 nap altogether in somewhat peculiar attitudes, the 
 reverend gentleman reined in his pony, and beckoning to 
 the landlord made inquiry touching the circumstance. 
 He had heard about the legacy itself, but had had no 
 idea that its distribution was to take place so soon, or in 
 so informal a manner, or he would certainly have looked
 
 1 68 THE tinker's legacy. 
 
 closer into it. With some peculiarity of manner, but yet 
 with a sly twinkle of his left optic, mine host gave his 
 version of what had taken place, thereby sadly decom- 
 posing the gi^avity of the reverend hearer. 
 
 " You did very wrong, my worthy friend," the reverend 
 gentleman proceeded, " by not placing the matter in my 
 hands. Charity is the peculiar privilege of the Church and 
 its delegated ministers. Verily, I much fear that this 
 tinker's bequest has fallen upon barren soil ; how much 
 do you say was the sum ? " 
 
 " Seventeen pounds fiiteen shillings," replied the land- 
 lord. 
 
 " To have been distributed among eighteen poor in- 
 dividuals." 
 
 " Exactly so, your Reverence." 
 
 " And how much of the seventeen pounds fifteen 
 shillings remains now, after all expenses have been 
 paid?" 
 
 " I'll look into the box," replied mine host, who forth- 
 with peered into the wooden depositor)', still at the right 
 hand of Mr. Chairman Overseer. 
 
 " How much ?'■' again queried the clerg}-man. 
 
 *• Exactly sixpence," chuckled the landlord, 
 
 " Verily, verily, this is an abominable scandal," sadly 
 spoke the reverend gentleman. " The whole proceeds 
 of a good man's charitable intention wasted on a 
 drove of besotted wretches, little better than 
 swine." 
 
 " They are your Reverence's parishioners," gently 
 interposed the landlord.
 
 •' THE tinker's legacy. 169. 
 
 "True, woe's me, but none of my teaching. I came 
 among you only last week." 
 
 " True again, your Reverence, had you only been here 
 ^one month ago things would have been different, of 
 course." 
 
 " They would have been different, sirrah, had you told 
 me what was about to have been done only yesterday ; 
 but, alas ! alas ! By the by, what do you propose doing 
 with the sixpence which is left ? I much fear me you 
 are a — a — a — " 
 
 "Well, your Reverence, I was just thinking that as 
 the sixpence would be of no use to the eighteen poor 
 men and women, it would just pay for one strong glass. 
 of brandy and water for your reverence, if only you 
 are not too proud to accept it." 
 
 " Proud ! why, man alive ! It would indeed ill be- 
 seem one of my cloth to harbour so mean a sentiment — - 
 humility is oiu- only pride. Hand over the glass, 
 honest man ! Charity covereth a multitude of sins. 
 Be sure you come to church on Sunday next."
 
 THE HEIE-m-TAIL. 
 
 A STORY OF YESTERDAY, 
 
 ^' Blue blood may tell ; but so may red blood, and the two 
 seldom mix. Generally speaking it is the male progenitor 
 who prevails, but the female sometimes, and if the red 
 blood, 1V0C to the ojffspring." 
 
 American Tract (Nameless). 
 
 CHAPTER I, 
 
 Viscount Smyjthe, of Smyjtheville, in the county of 
 Hampshire, a tall, aristocratic, intellectual-looking gentle- 
 man, somewhat above sixty years of age, sate one fine 
 morning in the month of April, Anno Domini 1S73, in a 
 high-backed leather chair, with his considering-cap on his 
 head and an unopened letter before him. 
 
 It was in his library that his Lordship sate, where he 
 had already breakfasted, as evinced by the presence of a 
 butler's tray covered with snowy damask, and a small 
 silver service, together with the usual concomitants of a 
 morning meal. 
 
 The reasons why Viscount Smyjthe then wore his 
 considering-cap, and hesitated to open a letter of great 
 importance, were dual — firstly, because he feared bad 
 news more than he hoped for good; and secondly, 
 because of the prevailing fault in his disposition, which 
 v.'as indecision of character, and yet, who is there among
 
 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 171 
 
 the family of mankind that has not, time after time,, 
 committed a Ul:e fooUsh error, by attempting to guess at 
 the contents of a missive instead of at once breaking the 
 seal and learning the truth ? 
 
 Viscount Smyjthe knew perfectly well the letter was 
 from his confidential solicitor, and that it was likely to 
 contain certain intelligence which must seriously affect 
 his after life — the climax of a tv/elvemonth's anxiety — 
 the culminating point of his very existence, news which 
 might, in event of his own premature death, consign his 
 wife and seven daughters to absolute penury, although 
 the present income of his estate was fully twenty thousand 
 pounds per annum. 
 
 The reason of this peculiar circumstance renders it 
 necessary to subjoin a brief family narrative. 
 
 The grandfather of Viscount Smyjthe had chosen to 
 entail his entire property upon the " heirs male of his 
 body, legally begotten," &c., &c., little anticipating that 
 a time might come when no male heir might be in ex- 
 istence, or at least forthcoming, and that a plentiful crop 
 of female representatives might be thrown upon the 
 tender mercies of such law as is not made and provided 
 in such case. Such an event had, however, come to 
 pass, after a peculiar fashion. 
 
 The founder of the Smyjthe family had been one 
 " John Smith " reared in the Foundling Hospital, and 
 apprenticed to a drysalter in Tooley-street, whom he had 
 succeeded in business after marrying his master's only 
 daughter. He was known to be the most obliging man 
 in all existence, and ultimately realised half-a-million of
 
 172 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 money through such peculiarity. He had obHged the 
 Government of his country as a contractor, notably in the 
 matter of salt-junk. It was he who obliged our Admiral 
 in the Red Sea by despatching him blocks of rotten 
 wood in lieu of pickled pork (clearing twenty thousand 
 pounds by the transaction), in the humane hope that 
 "Jack" would not find out the difference. It was he 
 who obliged his Royal Highness the Duke of York 
 with the loan of one hundred thousand pounds, at the 
 ridiculously small interest of ninety-nine per cent, (and 
 received every penny of it when Parliament paid his 
 Royal Highness's debts). It was he who, long years 
 afterwards, obliged Lord Castelreagh by betraying the 
 confidence of certain Irish Pro-Patriots, conveyed 
 through tubs of butter from Cork (whereby his lordship 
 got himself into such a scrape that he cut his throat — 
 accidentally — while shaving). 
 
 After having obliged innumerable patrons, Mr. John 
 Smith, at the instigation of Mrs. John Smith, thought it 
 time he should oblige himself, and did so, in a manner 
 highly creditable to his abilities as a far-seeking wide- 
 reaching man of the world ; for becoming acquainted 
 with a noble Earl on the eve of bankruptcy — one half 
 of whose estate was settled on his Countess — he con- 
 trived to purchase the other half a dead bargain, 
 whereby the said noble Earl was enabled to swindle his 
 creditors and live handsomely, beyond the jurisdiction of 
 English law, abroad. 
 
 The estate thus purchased was indeed a bargain, for in 
 .addition to containing some twenty thousand acres of
 
 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 173 
 
 land, a handsome mansion, a fine well-wooded park, and 
 more than a dozen valuable homesteads, it comprised 
 a pocket borough, containing only three inhabitants, but 
 ^returning two members to Parliament, being at the rate 
 of one individual and a half to each representative. 
 
 How such a bargain slipped through the fingers of a 
 peer is somewhat a mystery, but so it was, and Mr. John 
 Smith, being fully conscious of the influence he had 
 thereby gained, determined on making the most of it — 
 very particularly eked on by ]\Irs. John Smith, who had 
 ambitious notions of her own, as well as very refined 
 ideas of gentility; above all things she detested the 
 plebeian name of Smith. 
 
 Whenever this lady sought to bring her influence to 
 bear on her husband, she was accustomed to "stir him 
 up with a long pole," figuratively speaking. It may 
 possibly strike the reader that this expression was but a 
 poor specimen of genteel thought ; but no matter, 
 Tooley-street gentility is, no doubt, " sui generis." At 
 all events, Mrs. John Smith commenced operations by 
 persuading Mr. J. S. to eliminate the letter i from his 
 vulgar name, and substitute the letter y, by means of 
 which Smith became Smyth, which was a vast improve- 
 ment. 
 
 Having thus become a landed proprietor, Mr. John 
 Smyth sold his business to great advantage, and at 
 once retired upon his estate of Smythville (so christened by 
 Mrs. S.), where he immediately set up for a country 
 gentleman, throwing aside all vulgar aspirations, and 
 taking kindly to pursuits befitting his newly gained dignity.
 
 174 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 Again did Mrs. Smyth stir up Mr. S. with a long pole^ 
 and successfully (he was so very obliging even when out 
 of business). The matter was still but a little one — merely 
 the addition of the letter e as a final to Smyth — which 
 henceforth became Smythe, and the lady's ambition towards 
 gentility advanced one trifle more. No sooner, however, 
 had this little matter been arranged than her pride grew 
 stronger with what it fed on. For having, by accident, 
 seen in a newspaper the name of an Irish M.P. who spelt 
 his name with the letter j in addition to that of y, she 
 once more — and now finally — stirred Mr. S. up with a 
 long pole, and the family name became henceforth, and 
 for ever, " Smyjthe," which was about the highest point 
 of dignity to which the original name could aspire. 
 
 When Mr. and Mrs. John Smyjthe entered upon 
 what the lady termed her ancestral estate their family 
 consisted of four sons, all well grown youths, the eldest 
 being eighteen years of age, and the youngest twelve — 
 John, the heir, as his mother called him, being at Eton^ 
 qualifying for an university career; and James, the 
 youngest, with his brothers at boarding school. 
 
 Just at this time a sudden and overwhelming defeat of 
 Ministers caused a dissolution of Parliament, and pocket 
 boroughs became at a premium. The two members for 
 Mr. Smyjthe's borough, Messrs. Noodle and Doodle, were 
 thrown " out of collar." 
 
 With his usual eye to business, and desire to oblige 
 somebody else as well as himself, Mr. J. Smyjthe kept 
 a sharp look-out. He had his borough to se//, of course, 
 but he had the three constituents of his borough — all
 
 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 75 
 
 freeholders— to buy, before he could make any bargain 
 at head-quarters. 
 
 The arrangement hitherto made had been that each free- 
 ^lolder should receive an annuity of five hundred pounds 
 during the Parliamentary reign — fifteen hundred pounds 
 a year — being a sort of rent-charge upon the estate, which 
 must be advanced — with interest — by whichever section 
 of Ministers might happen to rule, before the borough 
 votes could be obtained. 
 
 Mr. John Smyjthe had well nigh made his bargain with 
 Mr. Pitt when a litde difficulty started up. It is well 
 known there are two sides to any bargain, and it so 
 happened in this. 
 
 Mr. John Smyjthe's three freeholders proved them- 
 selves — as true Britons always should — both free and inde- 
 pendent, for they refused to sell themselves for a paltry 
 five hundred pounds a year, in other words, i/iey struck 
 for higher wages I 
 
 Of course Mr. John Smyjthe was virtuously indignant 
 — but he was powerless— the three "free and indepen- 
 dent" would not sell their birthright for a mess of 
 pottage ! That is to say, they would not sell it under an 
 extremely large mess indeed. 
 
 It was thus that Mr. Pitt and Mr. John Smyjthe were 
 compelled to enter upon a little delicately arranged piece 
 of diplomacy, resulting in this. The three "free and 
 independent " electors each set up their " carriage-and- 
 pair," while plain Mr. Smyjthe became Viscount 
 Smyjthe, of Smyjtheville ; and his Viscountess had 
 never more occasion to stir her lord up "with a
 
 176 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 long pole," her ambition being perfectly satisfied. But 
 stay. 
 
 It was now the Viscount's turn to become ambitious, 
 id est, extra ambitious. He had become the head of a 
 family, one of the landed lords of creation; he must make 
 his name, his race, and his property secure beyond the 
 reach of future disintegrity. He would entail his estate 
 as strictly as the law would permit upon his heirs male — 
 and did so — as tightly as possible ; thereby giving all to 
 one member of the family, and nothing — to be accurately 
 divided — between all the rest. 
 
 But herein his provident wisdom failed lamentably, as 
 the sequel will show. For three years all went well ; 
 his eldest son graduated honourably at college ; but his 
 other three died prematurely of fever, greatly to the grief 
 of all ; and on the very day after the one single hope of 
 the family came of age, Viscount Smyjthe broke his neck 
 on the hunting field through a defect of early training 
 upon field sports, and thus the heir-in-tail became 
 " lord of all he surveyed." 
 
 Shortly after this his mother died, and in due time 
 the new Viscount married a lady of good birth, but no 
 fortune, which brings this portion of our narrative to very 
 nigh a close, for the next one-and-twenty years were 
 entirely uneventful, except that they brought the Viscount 
 and his lady two sons ; the one named John, and the 
 other James. 
 
 Whether by design or inadvertence we need not tell ; 
 the younger of these two brothers was not made 
 acquainted with the fact that according to the law of
 
 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 177 
 
 entail he would inherit nothing, while the elder inherited 
 all. 
 
 This disagreeable fact came to his knowledge quite 
 sijddenly, and produced an extraordinary effect. Both 
 brothers had been well educated, but were of diametri- 
 cally opposite dispositions ; the elder being a gentleman in 
 every respect, while the younger addicted himself to 
 every low pursuit within the low reach of depravity ; a 
 gambler, a dicer, a dog-fancier, and a rat-catcher, he 
 associated only with blacklegs and horsey men. His 
 mother had supplied his money wants, unknown to her 
 eldest son, but when her death cut off the supplies he 
 demanded his share, as he called it, of the family wealth 
 — so that when the truth of the entail was made 
 known to him, he launched out into a rage of in- 
 vective which alarmed as well as horrified his elder 
 "brother. 
 
 We will not dwell upon the painful scenes which 
 followed, but proceed to the denouonent. Viscount 
 Smyjthe had married, and two daughters were born, when 
 Mr. James Smyjthe, disdaining the prefix of "Honourable," 
 avowed his determination to leave England for ever, on 
 consideration of receiving ten thousand pounds in ready 
 cash ; he also declared his intention of living under an 
 assumed name, for reasons which he did not choose to 
 explain, but which were judged to be both wise and 
 cogent. 
 
 It was thus that Viscount Smyjthe became the sole 
 representative of his name and race, a worthy gentleman, 
 a happy husband — but, at the expiration of forty long
 
 178 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 years, the father of no male heir — seven daughters only 
 having been the issue of marriage. 
 
 This brings our narrative down to the commencinsr 
 chapter, and ends the present. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Eleven o'clock, striking from an ormolu pendule, roused 
 Viscount Smyjthe from an unpleasant reverie, and deter- 
 mined him at once to open his letter, the contents of 
 which were as follows : — 
 
 ft 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 I have the honour to acquaint your Lordship that 
 the heir of your estate is found. After very great difficulty I 
 have brought him to my house, where for the present he 
 shall remam, for reasons which I can only mention to 
 yourself 
 
 I shall have the honour to add that within an hour after 
 your receipt of this I will communicate all particulars at 
 Smyjtheville Park. 
 
 Thavies Inn, London, 
 April 17 th, '72)- 
 
 Yours, &c., 
 
 SOLOMON TAPE. 
 
 " In one hour's time, then, I shall know the best or 
 worst," ejaculated the Viscount, as he once more put on 
 his considering-cap. Meanwhile we must explain a little 
 further. 
 
 The Viscount, as before told, had no son, but in lieu
 
 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 79 
 
 thereof seven daughters, the oldest being forty years of 
 age, and the youngest a Httle more than twenty. 
 
 Had these ladies been tolerably good looking, or had 
 had marriage portions, it was just possible they might 
 have obtained husbands in their own sphere, but, 
 unfortunately, they happened to be hopelessly plain (the 
 word " ugly " being, according to an American humorist, 
 not applicable to any woman having two eyes, one 
 mouth, one nose, and 7iot two wooden legs), and absolutely 
 portionless. The seven Misses Smyjthe were all spinsters, 
 notwithstanding that they were amiable, talented, and 
 educated at high pressure in all those accomplishments 
 which make young ladies of the present age so formidable 
 in domestic life. 
 
 Tall, angular, and hard featured, but still without 
 ■wooden legs, the seven Misses Smyjthe had never been 
 knotvn to have attracted one single admirer bent on 
 matrimony, and yet they were good girls, deeply attached 
 to their parents — especially the eldest born — kind to the 
 poor, and absolutely without any mental drawback. It 
 was in vain that they dressed handsomely and in good 
 taste ; it was in vain that they danced well, talked well, 
 and played " to distraction " — the gentleman visitors of 
 their acquaintance, who ate their father's sumptuous 
 dinners and drank his " comet " wine, or played croquet 
 or accepted their pic-nic invitations, for not one amongst 
 the many nibbled at the bait matrimonial, far less 
 swallowed the hook. 
 
 The case was very hard upon seven thoroughly good 
 young women, but so it was, and so it ever will be, that
 
 I So THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 mere personal worth, without some tinsel of beauty or 
 gold, is powerless to command that admiration it truly 
 merits. 
 
 Viscount Smyjthe had been in some measure compelled 
 to live up to his income ; his daughters' education had 
 been expensive, and the various attempts to " get them off" 
 had also been a heavy cost, beside which the ladies had 
 expensive tastes in the matter of jewellery, possibly with 
 a view to counterbalance their lack of personal charms, 
 and certain restrictions in the deed of entail prevented 
 his cutting down any timber on the estate of less than 
 eighty years' growth ; so that when the Viscount himself 
 arrived at sixty years of age, he had the unpleasant 
 knowledge that, should he die, his widow and children 
 would all be without means of support unless the laws 
 appertaining to entail should furnish such, and con- 
 cerning which he knew nothing. 
 
 Pondering on this peculiar state of affairs, the Viscount 
 had sometimes been tempted to altogether ignore the pos- 
 sible existence of a "heir-in-tail," seeing that for nearly forty 
 years he had heard nothing of or from his brother James, 
 who certainly left the country, according to threat, 
 possibly under an assumed name, and had never since, 
 so far as could be ascertained, been heard of again until 
 now, supposing the facts of Ms letter were true. 
 
 While yet the Viscount wore his considering-cap, a 
 rumble of wheels was heard, and in a few moments the 
 powdered footman ushered in a gentleman, Mr. Solomon 
 Tape. 
 
 The la^vyer was an important-looking individual, of a
 
 •' THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. l8r 
 
 type fast disappearing from the sphere of society ; a 
 family sohcitor inheriting a large practice, and, therefore, 
 not at all dependent on the caprice of fortune ; he was 
 less an abstract lawyer than a personal friend, and 
 Viscount Smyjthe had been most fortunate in obtaining 
 his consideration as an adviser. He had been a college 
 chum, and it had so come about. 
 
 Mr. Solomon Tape accosted his patron and client with 
 a degree of pleasure and discomfiture singularly mixed, 
 but perfectly discernible on his countenance. After 
 the first compliments had passed, the Viscount addressed 
 him — 
 
 "You have both good and bad news to communicate ; 
 is it so ? " 
 
 " Yes," repHed the solicitor, '' I have." 
 
 " Tell me the best and worst Avithout circumlocution ; 
 you have found lineal descendants of my brother, James 
 Smyjthe." 
 
 " I have, and without the slightest flaw in the indict- 
 ment ; one descendant only, a young man aged twenty 
 or thereabout. I have copies of all marriage, baptismal, 
 and burial certificates and registers. There is not the 
 shadow of a doubt he is the true heir." 
 
 " So far so well, I am glad of it ; and now, what is he 
 like ? Is he an estimable personage, worthy to succeed 
 to the family honours ? You look askance ? What can it 
 mean ? Is he — is he a— a — gentleman ?" 
 
 "No. Far from it." 
 
 " What then ? A mere tradesman perhaps ? " 
 
 "Worse than that."
 
 1 82 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 " Surely not a common artisan ? " 
 
 " Worse still. I am ashamed to answer you." 
 
 "A beggar then! I feared some such eventuality. 
 Tell me the truth. What is he ? " 
 
 "Worse than even a beggar." 
 
 " Great Heaven ! How can such be ? What is he ? 
 One single word will be enough." 
 
 " A thief." 
 
 On hearing this terrible communication the poor 
 Yiscount bowed his head, and groaned aloud in utter 
 Tiumility and consternation, but he was doomed to bear it 
 and much more beside, for every addendum to the first 
 communication was but another link in the chain of 
 abominations. 
 
 James Smith, ignoring the improvement on his true 
 name, and utterly scorning the " Honourable " portion, 
 had emigrated to America, abjured his former eccentri- 
 cities, embarked in trade, and made some progress toward 
 an honest life, when he formed a matrimonial speculation 
 by marrying a low class woman with fifty thousand dollars 
 and an abominable temper. 
 
 Within a year of his marriage he died, shot through 
 the head in a drinking bar by the brother of his wife, 
 so that the one child born after its father's death was the 
 sole offspring. It was a boy, and his birth was duly 
 registered as James Smith, son of James and Barbara 
 Smith, &c., &c. 
 
 So far all was clear ; Barbara Smith, the widow, rich in 
 worldly goods, married a second time, her husband being 
 a human brute who first spent all her money, and then
 
 •' THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 1 83 
 
 kicked her into the street with the helpless child of her 
 first marriage, and no means of living. 
 
 Luckily, she had preserved all certificates, having had 
 some inkling from her husband that the family was well 
 off in England ; and it is certain that she intended to 
 bring her son to the old country, but fortune was against 
 it. Do what she could the means were never raised for 
 purchasing a passage, in those days somewhat expensive. 
 She therefore took service in New Orleans, and contrived 
 to educate her boy until in the tenth year of his age,. 
 when she died, leaving him nothing but a few papers, 
 wrapped in an old pocket book. 
 
 Deprived of parental care, young James Smith grew up 
 a social pariah, doing odd jobs for a living ^till he was 
 twenty years of age, when he too married a quadroon of 
 the lowest type, who brought him one child into the 
 world, the present "heir-in-tail," duly registered and 
 certificated ; after which its unfortunate father met nearly 
 the same fate as his predecessor, for, having called a 
 well-known scoundrel by an uncomplimentary name, he 
 received a bowie-knife in his abdomen, which necessitated 
 a coroner's inquest, the verdict being " sarved him 
 right." 
 
 Our heir-in-tail, being then throwTi upon the world 
 parentless — for his mother left him in sheer disgust, he 
 being a cripple — the poor child was adopted by an 
 inmate of his father's house, who took possession of all 
 that was left, including the family papers. It was not 
 entirely tlirough charity this deed was done, for the poor 
 little orphan was a prodigy of ugliness, almost an
 
 lS4 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 abortion ; but it grew up as strong as it was ugly, until 
 in its tenth year the man and his wife who had adopted 
 it conceived the idea of making it an exhibition, and 
 embarked for England in consequence, landing at Liver- 
 pool, and making their way to London, where they 
 arrived in the year 1853, 
 
 Fortune was against them, as it had ever been against 
 the second branch of the Smith family. Young James 
 Smith, though small and terribly ugly, was yet not ugly 
 enough to command universal admiration. They tried 
 to exhibit him in a penny show, but it did not pay ; and 
 in disgust at their bargain they tied a label round his 
 neck, put the family papers in the pocket of his tattered 
 dress, and left him fast asleep one dark night at the door 
 of St. Martin's Workhouse, to live or die as might 
 happen. 
 
 Let philosophers say or write what they please, there 
 seems to be a fatality, which is scarcely to be termed a 
 Providence, attached to certain individuals in a way past 
 understanding. This dolorous history of a seemingly 
 fated race continued to follow in the same course as it 
 began : James Smith, charitably taken in by the authori- 
 ties of St. Martin's, received a workhouse education as a 
 matter of course, but grew up too unsightly an object 
 for apprenticing out — no one would have him. At sixteen 
 years of age he was scarcely three feet six inches 
 high, terribly bandy-legged, but as strong as a young lion 
 and as sharp as a needle. His workhouse education had 
 done nothing for his moral training, while the restrictions 
 of the house galled his desire for liberty. What wonder,
 
 • ' THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 185 
 
 then, that he ran away, or that the parish authorities did 
 not advertise in hope to get him back again ? 
 
 James Smith found a patron ahnost immediately in 
 the person of a showman whose bear had lately died. 
 The showman in question found that Master James 
 Smith would exactly fit the skin of his deceased animal, 
 and a bargain was immediately struck. 
 
 So admirably did the resuscitated Bruin perform the 
 antics of his race that none among an admiring crowd 
 perceived the cheat. Bruin climbed a pole to the satis- 
 faction of all beholders ; he would dance to perfection, 
 and grunt a growl to the very life — too much so, indeed, 
 for after a brief success the authorities of Scotland Yard 
 put their veto upon the false Bruin as " dangerous to the 
 bystanders," and the acknowledgment of its perfect safety 
 did not mend the matter, for it was then condemned as a 
 " fraud," and put down accordingly. 
 
 This was hard upon Master James Smith, most 
 undeniably, for the living so gained was honest compared 
 with that he was compelled to adopt. To make short of 
 the matter, Master James Smith got introduced to a 
 thieves' fraternity, and became a thief in double quick 
 time. 
 
 The disposition and talent for theft seemed to come 
 upon him as a gift ; he felt it to be his vocation, and he 
 gloried in it. He was successful, too, up to a certain 
 point, when there came the police-court and one month's 
 imprisonment ; after that an interval of several months, 
 when the quarter sessions took cognisance of him, and 
 six months found him working at "the crank;" another 
 G
 
 lS6 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 interval of a year sent him to the central criminal court, 
 where he obtained " leave of absence " from society 
 pursuits for the period of two years, during which time 
 he led a very unpleasant life, until the inquiries of Mr. 
 Solomon Tape ferreted him out, and a change for the 
 better took place. 
 
 He was taken out of prison at the expiration of his 
 term, and located in decent quarters for the first time in 
 his life. 
 
 Mr. Solomon Tape had sent an envoy to America, 
 who had traced out all that was necessary, ending with a 
 visit to St. Martin's Workhouse, where the final con- 
 firmation, in the papers taken from him, was obtained — 
 such as proved beyond all doubt who he v.'as. 
 
 No link was missing from the chain of evidence ; and 
 although more than one thousand pounds had been 
 expended in the affair, it was brought to an issue at last, 
 if only an extremely unpleasant issue indeed. 
 
 After this communication, with all its offensive 
 details, had been laid before the awe-stricken Viscount, 
 he thus addressed Mr. Solomon Tape — 
 
 " Does the fellow know who he is ?" 
 
 " Not exactly," responded the solicitor. " He guesses 
 he is somebody, but that is all." 
 
 " Is he capable of amendment ?" 
 
 " That I cannot positively say. He is sharp enough 
 as to his wits." 
 
 " What do you advise ?" 
 
 " I should advise, to anyone but you, that he be left 
 in ignorance to follow out his course ; and — "
 
 * THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 1 87 
 
 " No, no ! A thousand times no ! He must be 
 reclaimed — reformed ." 
 
 " Of course. I knew you would say this — let us 
 %Iiake hands on it. Had you decided otherwise, I 
 would have thrown you up. He must be reclaimed." 
 
 "But how?" 
 
 " I have anticipated your thoughts, and formed a 
 plan." 
 
 "Speak it, for Heaven's sake. I am all attention." 
 
 " It is this. We must tell him he is somebody, but 
 not all the particulars. Get him to undergo a course of 
 moral and educational training, under a competent tutor, 
 for a couple of years, at the expiration of which time he 
 must be made to take his station, and be prepared for 
 future contingencies. There is no other way." 
 
 " A thousand thanks. Would it be desirable for me 
 to see him ?" 
 
 " By no means." 
 
 5' Why?" 
 
 " Because — because he needs much improvement ; 
 more than you can guess." 
 
 " So be it. I leave all to you." 
 
 It must here be notified that Mr. Solomon Tape had not 
 told the Viscount those particulars which the reader 
 alone knows. He had merely told sufficient to account 
 for the predicament in which he had found the youth, 
 hoping to effect so happy a change in the ensuing two 
 years as might soften the asperities of the case. He 
 was too large-hearted to inflict unnecessary pain, and so 
 left his patron-client kindly in the dark, hoping, almost 
 c 2
 
 1 88 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 against hope, that events would abet him in this chari- 
 table wish. The result will be found in the next 
 chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Exactly two years after the last date, Viscount Smyjthe 
 sat in the same arm chair as before — in the same library, 
 and at the same hour, but with his lady beside him, 
 awaiting the advent of Mr. Solomon Tape and his 
 protege', the "heir-in-tail," v>ho, having undergone his 
 two years' probation, was to become introduced to his 
 relations for the first time. 
 
 The Viscount had aged greatly during the two years, 
 his wife had shared his anxieties, as also had their seven 
 daughters. Anticipations of a gloomy kind had sadly 
 marred their social happiness, although, as by agreement, 
 Mr. Solomon Tape had refrained from "reporting 
 progress " during the interval. 
 
 Meanwhile, the solicitor had done his duty, as also 
 had the tutor appointed to " lick the young bear into 
 .shape." But the result was disheartening. Bruin would 
 not submit. Masters of all kinds had tried their best. 
 The dancing master gave him up — the creature could 
 not be made to turn out its toes. The teacher of 
 languages could not subdue its growl ; the tailor could
 
 * THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 1^9 
 
 not hide its bandy legs by the most ingenious art of 
 cutting ; and the " coiffeur " could not change bristles 
 into decent hair. As for the unlucky tutor, he begged, 
 f with tears in his eyes, that if ]\Ir. Solomon Tape should 
 ever become possessed of another wild beast which 
 required taming, he would charitably ignore his ex- 
 istence — even if one thousand pounds were at 
 stake. 
 
 Altogether Mr. Solomon Tape foresaw a bad time in 
 store for his aristocratic client, and would much rather 
 have been swallowed up by an earthquake than have 
 proceeded to his present duty. 
 
 Lawyers are, however, bound to obey " instructions," 
 and so poor Mr. Solomon Tape proceeded to obey his 
 by conveying the young heir of Smyjtheville to the home 
 of his ancestors. 
 
 Exactly as two years before, the pendule struck eleven 
 o'clock ; and exactly as before, the same railway train 
 brought its expectant freight to within a mile of the 
 Viscount's home. 
 
 Another ten minutes brought the family carriage, 
 which had been sent up, to the mansion door, and the 
 heir of the Smyjthes, with Mr. Solomon Tape, entered the 
 library. 
 
 It would be in vain to attempt' conveying the slightest 
 idea of the impression thrust upon the Viscount and his 
 lady by the first view of their nephew ; the reader may, 
 however, judge for himself. 
 
 An ugly head, disproportionately large for a puny 
 body, covered by a head of bristly hair, which stood out
 
 190 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 like that of a broom, two legs bent like a pair of paren- 
 theses, and a pair of squinting eyes deeply set, which 
 scintillated with a wicked fire, the whole compassed in a 
 body just above four feet high, scarcely able to stand 
 upright. 
 
 Of course such a creature could not walk, it could 
 only waddle, and the apparition of Mr. Solomon Tape's 
 portly figure beside so ugly a dwarf could not but raise 
 comparison with a stately turkey-cock beside an ill-con- 
 ditioned duck ; the effect was irresistible. Neither the 
 Viscount nor his lady could suppress a laugh, which, 
 though commenced in astonishment, culminated in 
 sorro^\'ful reproach. 
 
 Dismay and horror fell upon both. The unfortunate 
 solicitor, alternately red and pale, could only ufter the 
 words, "Your nephew, my lord," and then utterly col- 
 lapse into an arm chair, a very miserable solicitor 
 indeed. 
 
 As for the young heir, now twenty-two years of age, all 
 he could do was to make a humble attempt at a bow — 
 which failed signally — insomuch as it threw him face 
 downward on the floor, from which he was raised to an 
 upright position by the Viscount himself — with all 
 imaginary tenderness^and placed upon a comfortable 
 settee. 
 
 " So you are my nephew — the grandson of my brother, 
 James Smyjthe, who emigrated to America many years 
 ago," said the Viscount. 
 
 "And your heir-at-law," responded the Honourable 
 James Smyjthe, as he must henceforth be called.
 
 • THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. I91 
 
 "■ though you don't appear to hke the looks of me much ; 
 eh, uncle ?" 
 
 " You are — as God made you — my nephew and heir, 
 according to law. You are also my guest, and I welcome 
 you accordingly." 
 
 " Welcome ! Oh, yes ; a pretty welcome, truly, to 
 laugh in my face. But my turn for laughing will come 
 some day, never fear." 
 
 " Allow me to introduce you to your aunt, my wife, 
 the Viscountess Smyjthe," again spoke his Lordship, 
 attempting to take the young man's hand; but that 
 young gentleman, finding his legs better fitted for sitting 
 than for walking, declined to rise, and merely nodded 
 his head in recognition, looking, at the same time, about 
 as amiable as the proverbial bear with the sore head. 
 
 Before proceeding further, it may be as well to state 
 that, as regards our "heir-in-tail," the semi-education 
 forced upon him had in no way altered his nature for the 
 better ; the supplying of all his wants had not made him 
 less a thief than before ; and kindness had not tamed his 
 savage nature. The term " kleptomania," invented to 
 shield the misdoings of respectable plagiarists, was, for 
 him, a true vice ; and kindness was a thing he had 
 met so little of in his early career that he failed 
 to understand it, thinking it only a cover for quite 
 the reverse. Again, the ugliness, of which he was pain- 
 fully conscious, instead of inducing him to counterbalance 
 his deformity by suavity of demeanour, only seemed to 
 make him aggravate its intensity by way of bravado — for 
 he positively revelled in his own offensiveness — enjoying
 
 192 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 tiie very horror he inspired, or seeming, at least, so to do. 
 He had also learned all his expectations and rights, so 
 that, being fully primed Avith the insolence of power, he 
 appeared determined to exert it to the uttermost. 
 
 Having thus clearly defined the character of our hero, 
 let us proceed. 
 
 "You need fear no disparagement on the part of 
 myself or family," spoke the Viscount. " It is our wish 
 you should be treated with all possible respect and con- 
 sideration while under this roof, so make yourself 
 perfectly comfortable." 
 
 " I intend," responded the young man, " This place 
 will be mine, by right, some day — if it is not exactly so 
 now — and a jolly comfortable ' crib ' it seems." 
 
 "The house is well enough, and the estate unburthened. 
 Should you ever come into possession, a dozen or so 
 years hence, you " 
 
 " A dozen years ! what the devil do you mean ? Why, 
 you are an old man now." 
 
 " I am past sixty," replied the Viscount, with evident 
 annoyance, "but may live a dozen years yet." 
 
 " My husband is still in his prime," ejaculated the 
 Viscountess ; " if you desire to be thought a gentle- 
 man you will refrain from making objectionable 
 remarks." 
 
 " Oh ! Ah ! " responded the amiable youth, "la 
 gentleman ! Of course I am — a Viscount's nephew must 
 be a gentleman ! Was not I born so ? — don't I look 
 like one? Ha! Ha!" 
 
 "You don't behave like one," rejoined the irate lady;
 
 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 193 
 
 ■''so please to modify your expressions if you desire to 
 obtain the consideration our family intend paying." 
 
 " Consideration, did you say ? Do you call it con- 
 sideration to keep a fellow without grub after jolting in a 
 railway train for three hours ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " observed the Viscount, " I had quite for- 
 gotten. Mr. Solomon Tape, may I ask the favour of you 
 to accompany this — this — gentleman to the breakfast- 
 room ; you will find everything prepared as " 
 
 At this point, and before the Viscount was enabled to 
 finish his sentence, a slight scream from her Ladyship 
 arrested his attention. She had fainted, at the horror of 
 young Smyjthe's presence or behaviour — or jDossibly at 
 some demoniacal look — and it was the sustaining arm of 
 her husband alone which prevented her falling on the 
 ground. 
 
 A sharp blow from Mr. Solomon Tape on the silver 
 table-bell summoned the attendance of two liveried 
 footmen, so quickly as to imply the possibility of their 
 having been listening at the door. 
 
 " Assistance, quick," shouted his Lordship, " send in 
 my daughters." 
 
 And immediately, not in single file, but all together, 
 the seven Misses Smyjthe came rushing in; they had 
 evidently been waiting, at the utmost stretch of curiosity, 
 for the first glimpse of their extraordinary relative, if 
 indeed they had not already condescended to question 
 the servants who had helped him to alight. 
 
 Crowding round their mother, the seven young ladies 
 evinced the deepest commiseration, and, assisted by the
 
 194 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 two footmen, speedily conveyed her out of the room, 
 bendmg looks of withering contempt upon the miser- 
 able abortion who had brought on the calamity. 
 
 No sooner was her Ladyship conveyed away than the 
 Viscount, without vouchsafing one single word to his. 
 nephew, motioned a servant to show the young man 
 to his breakfast ; and, taking Mr. Solomon Tape by the 
 arm, drew him away for a private conference. 
 
 The mansion known as " Smyjtheville," but only so 
 called since being occupied by its new possessor, had 
 been erected by an eccentric nobleman who delighted 
 in large rooms for himself and aristocratic friends; but 
 thought small rooms better fitted for menials. It 
 therefore contained a few large apartments only, and a 
 vast number of smaller ones. The present family num- 
 bering no less than eight females, it was impossible to 
 provide each with a separate boudoir; consequently 
 the ladies had appropriated one large apartment in 
 common, called " the Ladies' Room," and it was to this 
 that the fainting Viscountess was conveyed. 
 
 "The Ladies' Room" was a kind of luxurious 
 curiosity shop, containing two pianos, a harp, several 
 easels, almost a library of books, cabinets, tables, fitted 
 with " bric-a-brac," portfolios, pictures, and every other 
 appurtenance appertaining to art, taste, or luxury, 
 together with lounges, settees, &c., &c., in admired pro- 
 fusion. It was an apartment held sacred to the ladies of 
 the house, and was never meant to be intruded on by 
 the gentlemen visitors. 
 
 It is a singular fact that ladies, who are a very long
 
 • THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 1 95 
 
 time " coming to " in the presence of gentlemen, very 
 rapidly find themselves restored to consciousness in the 
 presence of their own sex. Eau de Cologne had been 
 , plentifully applied to her Ladyship, immediately that 
 she was placed reclining on a setteee, and had a rapid 
 effect. Looking around her, and finding no " hideous 
 monster," but in place of such, only her seven daughters, 
 the Viscountess gave vent to her indignation and horror 
 in no measured phrase, amidst a chorus of lamentation 
 from her seven sustainers. 
 
 It would not be to the edification of our readers that 
 Ave should record the unpolite expressions to which even 
 ladies can give utterance when excited by extraordinary 
 causes ; on the present occasion hard words were feeble 
 to express the horror, the disgust, and terrible fears which 
 the sight of their relative had inflicted upon them ; all of 
 which were aggravated by the knowledge that it was just 
 within possibility that their future existence might depend 
 on the power of such a frightful monster. 
 
 We must, however, describe the seven young ladies — 
 young, some of them, by courtesy only — before we proceed 
 further. Arabella, the eldest, now in her forty-third year, 
 was tall, gawky, and very angular indeed, slightly pitted 
 with the smallpox ; her features were decidedly coarse, 
 but certainly not repellent, for her eyes were good, and 
 her mouth, though firmly compressed, had an expression 
 of kindness and firmness combined which bespoke at 
 once a tender and a strong nature. Moreover she was 
 extremely accomplished — deep in all the " ologies," 
 particularly in phrenology and physiognomy— a
 
 196 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 circumstance which held some of her few friends in 
 awe. 
 
 Miss Juha, INIiss Ehzabeth, Miss Thomasine, ]Miss 
 Theodora, and Miss Mary were all and each after their 
 eldest sister's type, though not pitted like her, but somewhat 
 less audaciously learned, and certainly much more com- 
 panionable. It Avas reserved for the youngest lady of the 
 family to put in some little pretensions to good looks, and 
 it was to the possibility of their newly-found cousin 
 choosing her for a wife that their mother had looked with 
 hope, but only before they had seen him, and, of course, 
 before they had any notion of his being what he was ! 
 All seven of the sisters, however, knew the contingency 
 which might arise in the event of their father's death, 
 and all seven felt their terrible position, almost to the 
 verge of a foolish despondency. 
 
 All were devotedly attached to their parents, but 
 Arabella, the eldest bom, had a degree of veneration for 
 her father greatly exceeding the natural love of a child 
 for a parent ; she partook of all his cares, entered into 
 all his thoughts, and would have suffered martyrdom to 
 save him from an hour's anxiety ; it was she who, far 
 beyond all others, entered into the difficulty of his 
 position, and who saw in the present deadlock of his 
 hopes a terrible fatality in store, which could only be 
 averted by some very strong measure indeed. 
 
 All, however, felt the horrors of their position, and 
 when their mother had sufficiently recovered began 
 making comments in anticipation of the worst that could 
 happen, after a manner which savoured of the serio-comic.
 
 • THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. ICjy 
 
 almost regarding it in the light of a possibility rather 
 than a fact. 
 
 It was the youngest daughter who first discharged the 
 artillery of her indignation. 
 
 " So that is the creature I am expected to marry — ■ 
 an ape ! " 
 
 " A bear," suggested one other young lady. 
 
 " A something worse than either," exclaimed another 
 sister. " An ape might be taught to bow, and a bear to 
 dance ; that thing can do neither." 
 
 " A truce to this badinage," cried Arabella ; " the ques- 
 tion is, what can we do ? For the present nothing that I 
 can see, except bear with the infliction till something 
 definite occurs." 
 
 " Nothing definite can alter the gravity of the situation," 
 spoke the Viscountess ; " that miserable abortion is heir- 
 at-law. Should my dear husband, your father, die — Oh ! 
 horror ! " 
 
 "We should be all thrust upon the world penniless, I 
 suppose," exclaimed Miss Elizabeth. 
 
 " No," answered Arabella, " not quite. It is lucky we 
 each possess a little fortune in our jewels. Mine are 
 worth three thousand pounds ; they are personalties, and 
 cannot pass away from us with the estate." 
 
 " Mine are worth two thousand," cried another sister. 
 
 " And mine." 
 
 " And mine." 
 
 " We should not be obliged, then, to go out as gover- 
 nesses," spoke another sister. 
 
 " Nor as lady's maids."
 
 19*^ THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 " Nor our dear mother be compelled to tmii a mangle," 
 interposed the youngest lady, with a degree of flippancy 
 which contrasted ill against the seriousness of their 
 position. 
 
 " A truce to all this," again spoke Miss Arabella. 
 " Our father's state of mind demands that we all give our 
 best sympathy, which can only be accorded by waiting 
 patiently on events ; as for anyone of us marrying 
 such a creature as we have seen, it is out of all question, 
 and yet — 
 
 " And yet what ? " cried the youngest lady. 
 
 " I almost think that if such a contingency were abso- 
 lutely of avail to save our dear father I would descend, 
 Curtius-like, into the gulf matrimonial myself" 
 
 " What ! and marry that wretch ? " exclaimed several 
 voices at once. 
 
 " Even so." 
 
 "Perhaps, my dears, he may ask no one of you," 
 interposed the Viscountess. " For my own part, as well 
 as yours, I would be content to sink into the most abject 
 poverty rather than live an hour under the sway of such 
 a monster; but you all seem to forget that your father may 
 live, as I trust he will, many years yet — meanwhile, the 
 monster may die." 
 
 " Heaven grant it," somewhat uncharitably exclaimed 
 two sisters at once. 
 
 " Let us end this unprofitable talk," once more, and 
 for the last time, interposed the eldest lady, " I will ponder 
 over contingencies, and perhaps may hit upon some 
 mode of extrication none of you will ever guess at."
 
 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 199 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 After a consultation, the nature of which will transjDire, 
 Viscount Smyjthe entered the breakfast-room, where the 
 object of their solicitude had been taking his coveted 
 refreshment in the shape of a luxurious meal. 
 
 They found that young gentleman completely at his 
 ease, sitting cross-legged upon a very capacious chair, 
 and smoking a long clay pipe which he had obtained 
 from one of the servants, after demolishing almost every- 
 thing set before him by three footmen, whose well-bred 
 demeanour was sadly taxed to keep within decent bounds. 
 
 It was painfully evident that education had failed to 
 eradicate the vile habits of his early youth, and that he 
 telt a diabolical pleasure in making himself as utterly 
 objectionable as his great talents in that line permitted. 
 
 " So ! you have come to see the creature at feeding 
 time," exclaimed the abortion, with a horrible squint of 
 his wicked eyes. 
 
 " We have come to see if you are properly attended 
 to," replied the Viscount. 
 
 " Only a litter of straw Avanted for the creature to 
 wallow in," again spoke the young man, nothing softened 
 in his hard nature. 
 
 " Na)'," once more spoke the Viscount, courteously, 
 " we have given you no cause to doubt our good will, 
 so be generous enough to respond." 
 
 A look bestowed on the three servants being under-
 
 200 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 Stood, all of them left the apartment, leaving uncle, 
 solicitor, and nephew to themselves. 
 
 Somewhat ashamed, or possibly a little softened by his 
 uncle's quiet manner, the Honourable Mr. James Smyjthe 
 flung away his long clay pipe, which shivered to pieces 
 on the Turkey carpet, unclasped his bandy legs, and 
 listened to what might next be said, fully anticipating 
 that a proposal of some kind was about to be made. 
 
 In this he was quite correct, for the solicitor and his 
 patron had mutually arranged a proposition, which Mr. 
 Solomon Tape proceeded, with all imaginary delicacy, to 
 unfold. 
 
 In effect that, as the law of entail prohibited any 
 portion of the estate to be alienated or in any way 
 deteriorated by the sale of timber, &c., &c., or any part 
 set aside for the support of female branches otherwise 
 than out of its possessor's legitimate income, it was 
 proposed that Mr. James Smyjthe should consent to 
 such modification of his prospective interests as should 
 admit of such a provision for his aunt and cousins, in 
 the event of contingencies, as should enable them to live 
 in comparative comfort — in consideration of which the 
 Viscount would award an allowance of two thousand 
 pounds per annum to his nephew until such time as the 
 estate might fall to him as heir-in-tail. 
 
 This proposition, put into legal form, was placed 
 before the young gentleman neatly engrossed on a sheet of 
 foolscap paper, and an answer expected by the following 
 morning, after he might have given it some hours' con- 
 sideration.
 
 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 20I 
 
 In a legitimate five-act comedy upon the stage it 
 would have been ''refi-eshing" to have seen the amount 
 of indignant rage evinced by a competent actor in such a 
 part, but, on the illegitimate stage of real life, the rage of 
 Mr. James Smyjthe was simply ridiculous. 
 
 The miserable creature, who had listened to the pro- 
 position with impatience, rashly stood up on its hind 
 legs, and, after nearly falling through the attempt, seized 
 the, written paper and immediately tore it to atoms, 
 shouting, rather than speaking, " What ! sell my birth- 
 right for a mess of pottage ? Never ! No ! I will be 
 My Lord Viscount, with everything belonging to the 
 estate, from its biggest horse down to its smallest mouse. 
 So, there now ! you have my answer without waiting 
 until to-morrow." 
 
 " Indeed !" replied Mr. Solomon Tape, " and pray — 
 how do you intend to live between now and the time you 
 will have to wait for your inheritance ? recollect, the law 
 makes no provision for you any more than for others." 
 
 " By help of the Jews," responded he. " Do you fancy 
 I don't know what a ' post obit ' means, or why did you 
 make that old fogey, my tutor, teach me Latin, eh ?" 
 
 " If you have learned any Latin, you have failed to learn 
 common decency or common sense. The Jews may 
 accommodate you, on certain terms, possibly, but they 
 know, as well as yourself, that twenty years may elapse 
 before you inherit the estate." 
 
 "Fudge, I know better] hark ye, Mr. Lawyer. If I 
 have not learnt manners, as you say, I have learnt some- 
 thing else 3 for I have found out that my uncle there has
 
 2 02 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 been refused an insurance on his life, because he has not 
 two years' breath in his body. Ha ! ha ! " 
 
 "Scoundrel," ejaculated the Viscount, "and you are my 
 nephew, whom I have picked up out of the gutter — 
 rescued from a jail." 
 
 "Yes," screamed Mr. James Smyjthe, "but your heir- 
 at-law for all that ; so, no more humbug — I know what I 
 know." 
 
 " Is this true?" whispered the solicitor. 
 
 " Unfortunately it is— though how he obtained the 
 knowledge I cannot say."^ 
 
 " We must cry a truce, then, to all hostilities, and re- 
 flect," again whispered Mr. Solomon Tape. 
 
 " What are you whispering there ?" spoke the Hon. Mr. 
 James Smyjthe, with an air of suspicion. 
 
 " We are considering what course to pursue as well for 
 your benefit as for ours. If you persist in your ungratelul 
 resolution, you may do your best or worst, but as you 
 do not appear to want the power of reasoning, just please 
 to consider that there are contingencies on your side as 
 well ] the law may yet take hold of you, for I happen 
 to know that there yet remains one little unsettled 
 account which you may yet have to pay. Two thousand 
 pounds a year will enable you to live abroad— in Paris or 
 Brussels — where you can do as you please. I, therefore, 
 counsel you to take one night for consideration — to- 
 morrow you decide." 
 
 " I suppose I must," muttered the heir, who was fully 
 conscious of the little matter hinted at, which was the 
 extreme probability of his further imprisonment.
 
 • ' THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 303 
 
 " Meanwhile," spoke the Viscount, ahiiost crushed 
 beneath his own h\imiHation, " you will please to 
 comport yourself before the ladies as befits a — a — 
 gentleman." 
 
 r 
 
 " A gentleman ! Oh ! Ah ! Of course, who shall dare 
 call me otherwise, now that I am heir apparent to a 
 nobleman ? You call me a gentleman, but think me a 
 beast. Can you not find someone to put me in a 
 wheelbarrow, and tumble me over the estate .?" 
 
 "You shall go in a carriage-and-pair whenever you 
 please ; but, once more, strive to be a little less un- 
 generous." 
 
 With these words the solicitor took the Viscount's arm 
 within his own, and gently led him out of the apartment 
 — a man of sorrow, more humbled in his determination 
 to do what was right than he had ever considered it 
 possible to be. 
 
 A carriage-and-pair was immediately ordered, and the 
 Hon. Mr. James Smyjthe was taken for a long drive. 
 Meanwhile, a family consultation became held, in which 
 it was agreed that no notice should be taken of what 
 was past, that their objectionable guest should be 
 treated with all possible indulgence, and that the ladies, 
 in particular, should suppress their antagonism under 
 cover of extreme politeness, the servants of the family 
 being especially commanded to be on their best be- 
 haviour under all circumstances. 
 
 It was a bitter pill which the Viscountess and her 
 seven daughters had individually to swallow, but 
 they saw the position in which a cruel fortune had
 
 204 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 placed them, and bowed to it accordingly. As for the 
 strong-minded eldest born — she who loved her father 
 beyond the common love of a daughter — she pondered 
 and pondered, bringing her powerful intellect to bear 
 upon the situation with a power that neither her father 
 nor his solicitor contemplated. Not that she saw any 
 sure way out of the wilderness of circumstances, but that 
 she determined, if possible, to cut a path where none 
 was made before, if no other way was left open ; but 
 hoiv^ required her best deliberation. 
 
 As for the Viscount himself, his irresolute mind sought 
 comfort in the privacy of the ladies' room, where, sur- 
 rounded by his sympathising family, he bowed his head 
 in silence, a prey to good intentions, acting, apparently, 
 for ill rather than good ; more sorrowful than "ashamed, 
 but still with an inner consciousness of having acted 
 like an honourable man. 
 
 A more united household than that of our Viscount 
 never existed. Father, mother, and children were all 
 of one mind — no jealousies, no quarrels, no differences 
 of opinion ever occurred to mar their unity of thought; 
 and happy would have been the man or men who could 
 have overlooked the terrible plainness of any or all of the 
 seven sensible women who so patiently awaited the offers 
 matrimonial which never, never came, some small excep- 
 tion being taken to the youngest girl, who, by virtue of 
 her comparative youth, still hoped for that which might 
 possibly arrive. 
 
 As before told, all these ladies possessed jewels of 
 worth, for reasons before enumerated, but the very cost
 
 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 205 
 
 of which, together with that of their education, had 
 prevented their father from setting aside any portion of 
 his income to meet such a contingency as now appeared 
 i^iminent. It was \^dsely, therefore, if only tacitly, 
 conceded that every member of the family group should 
 pay the same attention to their unwelcome relative as if 
 he were the noblest and the best of the land. Conse- 
 quently, when the time arrived for the ceremony of 
 dinner, the house steward was commanded to set forth 
 the family plate in all its abundance, to deck the table 
 with flowers, and to put forth the choicest wines, all of 
 which was scrupulously attended to, so that when the 
 Hon. Mr. James Smyjthe returned from his carriage 
 drive all was in readiness except that gentleman himself, 
 who could only be prevailed on to change his dress by 
 Mr. Solomon Tape, who, knowing the great interests at 
 stake, positively superintended the ordering of his even- 
 ing costume, aided by a valet of the Viscount's, who was 
 in his entire confidence. 
 
 On descending to the ante-room of the dining apart- 
 ment Mr. Smyjthe presented himself to the ladies arrayed 
 in a swallow-tailed coat very short in the waist, a pair of 
 unmentionables which, despite all the cunning of an 
 artiste-tailor, only served to display the deformity of his 
 legs, a waistcoat of all the hues in the rainbow, a necktie 
 of gorgeous size and colour, with a watch-chain as large 
 as that of a moderate-sized kedge anchor. 
 
 Not even this apparition could move the Viscountess 
 and her daughters into the semblance of a smile, and it was 
 therefore with some very little less than his accustomed
 
 2o6 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 spitefulness that he awaited the formation of a procession 
 towards the dining room. But here arose a difficulty. 
 
 The proverbial mauvais quart d'keur having been 
 dispensed with, who should have the honour to become 
 their guest's escort ? 
 
 The Viscount would not permit his wife to suffer such 
 a humiliation ; the Gordian knot was, however, cut by 
 Mr. Solomon Tape, who perceived the difficulty, and, 
 Avith a look towards his host, convoyed that lady himself; 
 but no one of the seven young ladies appeared covetous 
 of the honour which was clearly the lot of some one. 
 A moment of indecision occurred, and then the eldest 
 daughter, like a true heroine as she was, quietly linked 
 her arm, stooping greatly the while, with that of her 
 terrible cousin, and carried him off, if not iii triumph, 
 still a captive in every sense of the word, her sisters 
 following in Indian hie. 
 
 Arrived at the dinner table, the Hon. Mr. James 
 Smyjthe was fairly dazzled with the display before him. 
 He had never seen the like— silver plate everywhere, wax 
 candles throwing a mild light, flowers emitting their 
 perfume, servants in rich liveries, crystal glass reflecting 
 prismatic rays, all united flung upon his vision a radiance 
 of astonishment which fairly blinded him. 
 
 Seated at the table on a high chair, cushioned for his 
 use, he cast his wondering eyes around, surveying the 
 ladies with rude stare, by no means approving, till his 
 glances fell on the eldest of tlie family, Miss Arabella, 
 who, strange to relate, sat covered with jewellery till the 
 diamonds on her neck, her head, and arms formed a
 
 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 207 
 
 galaxy of light which threw all else into the shade, no oilier 
 lady of the family wean'iig any jen'dkry at all. 
 
 His eyes lit up with a blaze of wicked light — he had 
 s^en diamonds before, plenty of them, in various jewellers' 
 shops, and had longed to possess some, even at the risk 
 of burglary, but his talents in that line were not ripe. 
 He had seen, admired, longed for, but never possessed a 
 diamond in all his life ; but now he felt conscious he was 
 heir apparent to a thousand diamonds, or diamonds' 
 worth. The looks he had cast on those of his cousin 
 were noted well — as even perhaps they had been calcu- 
 lated on — as we shall see. 
 
 The dinner passed off, as may be supposed. The Hon. 
 Mr. James Smyjthe had learned how to avoid any very 
 gross breach of etiquette, for he had dined at restaurants 
 and tables d'hote in Brussels as well as elsewhere, but 
 with his seventh glass of wine the latent grossness of his 
 tastes began to develop, and the ladies made a discreet 
 as well as precipitate retreat before the dessert came 
 on. 
 
 When left to themselves, the Viscount and IMr. Solo- 
 mon Tape commanded the servants to move the dessert 
 to a table near the fire, the weather being yet cold, and 
 it was their policy to prevent their guest from still further 
 committing himself, but to no avail. 
 
 The small quantity of wine he had imbibed began to 
 take effect. Efforts were made to preventing him from 
 taking still more, but his keen eyes saw the intention. 
 He refused to become discreet ; insisted on drinking " the 
 ladies," firstly ; " the memory of Jack Sheppard,''
 
 208 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 secondly ; and " our noble selves," thirdly, till his 
 disgusted host threatened his forcible removal, which 
 was only prevented by the solicitor, who counselled 
 prudence. 
 
 This could not, however, proceed much further. The 
 Hon. James Sm^jthe having drank till he was mad, first 
 volunteered a song, and afterwards a hornpipe between a 
 dozen wine glasses, which he placed upon the floor and 
 finally attempted to dance between, but, falling down, 
 broke them into a hundred pieces, cutting his face and 
 hands in the futile attempt to rise again, till, in utter 
 prostration, he was carried to bed by a couple of 
 footmen, who contrived to strap up his wounds with 
 court plaister. 
 
 CHAPTER v., AND LAST. 
 
 It was past twelve o'clock on the following day before 
 the Viscount, after a few brief hours of troubled sleep, 
 awoke to all the miseries of his position, and he was 
 surprised to hear that his hopeful nephew had been 
 already up for several hours, also that the wounds 
 on his face, strapped up with black plaister, had 
 not prevented him from ordering a carriage and four 
 horses — nothing less would do — and postilion for a drive 
 round the estate.
 
 • THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 209 
 
 He was, however, still more surprised and very much 
 more alarmed when he learned that his eldest daughter 
 had accompanied him, covered with jewellery, as she had 
 appeared on the evening before. 
 
 What could this mean ? Ovenvhelmed with astonish- 
 ment, and still more with fear, the Viscount questioned 
 his other daughters, who could give no further explanation 
 than that she had some object in view, and gave orders 
 that a couple of mounted grooms should follow the car- 
 riage at some small distance. 
 
 Mr. Solomon Tape, who had been up betimes, said 
 that the abortion had appeared in a wonderful good 
 temper — almost amiable — and that Miss Smyjthe, who 
 volunteered to accompany him, had evidently something 
 in view, which puzzled him completely. He had seen 
 them depart immediately after breakfast, and only 
 awaited his Lordship's company to follow in their wake 
 on horseback. 
 
 " By all means, and instantly," exclaimed his Lordship, 
 who went to a window which overlooked the carriage 
 drive, and most anxiously peered out. 
 
 Before horses could be saddled for this expe- 
 dition, his Lordship's anxious eyes caught sight of 
 something which frightened him even more than the 
 intelligence just recorded. Afar off, at nigh a mile's 
 distance, he descried a carriage with four horses, driving 
 rapidly down the long avenue, seemingly without 
 postilions. 
 
 With his eyes strained, and his heart beating wildly, 
 the Viscount watched and watched till his aching sight
 
 2IO THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 almost failed him in the excess of his excitement. At 
 length " Something has happened," was his exclamation, 
 and hurrying down, in company with his solicitor, the 
 Viscount reached the entrance hall. 
 
 Something had truly happened, for the carriage ap- 
 proached, the horses at full speed, with no postilion on 
 their backs, and one of the grooms driving on the box. 
 
 The horses did not appear unmanageable, but were 
 driven quickly and soon approached the entrance hall, 
 where a dozen domestics awaited the event. 
 
 Two minutes more and the carriage drove up ; half-a- 
 dozen strong arms secured the horses' heads, and in one 
 moment the door of the vehicle was opened, disclosing 
 Miss Smyjthe in a fainting condition, and covered with 
 blood, between the two postilions who tended'her. 
 
 We will not attempt to picture tlie scene which imme- 
 diately ensued. How the father raved, how the solicitor 
 swore, and how the servatits en masse uttered execrations 
 Avhile they lifted out the nigh lifeless body of their favourite 
 mistress, and consigned her to the care of her mother 
 and sisters. 
 
 A narrative of the events which resulted in this catas- 
 trophe is as follows, gathered from the lady herself when 
 recovered from her perilous condition. 
 
 It appears that the Hon. Miss Smyjthe, with her 
 accustomed clearness of perception, had detected her 
 cousin's trifling moral weakness of " kleptomania," and 
 laid her plans accordingly, with the decidedly mischievous, 
 if not wicked, intention of tempting him to break the laws 
 against "meura and tuum," so that he might possibly
 
 • THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 211 
 
 bring himself within their ban, thereby compromising 
 himself into a mood for some amicable settlement of 
 affairs. 
 
 ^he saw his wicked eyes catch the bait at dinner time ; 
 she saw him gloat at her diamonds puq^osely worn, and 
 knew that when opportunity came he would attempt to 
 steal them, for " thief" was written on his skull in 
 characters too large to be concealed. 
 
 On knowing that her cousin had ordered his '• carriage- 
 and-four," she commanded the servants to obey instantly, 
 and armed herself with fortitude to accompany him, 
 decked out as before described. 
 
 She little contemplated what eventually occurred ; a 
 dreamy notion of some indefinite kind led her to think 
 the inborn thief would attempt a robbery, which one of 
 her attendants witnessing would be in time to frustrate^ 
 and so bring the villain within the grasp of the law, but she 
 failed to probe all the wickedness of the monster's 
 nature. 
 
 He had commanded the postilion to draw up close to 
 a woody copse, where on the day previous he had seen 
 some felled timber, and several tall elm trees over- 
 shadowing the brushwood. 
 
 Descending from the vehicle, he waddled beside his 
 cousin to a space somewhat clearer than the rest, and 
 imperatively bade her sit down beside him. 
 
 With a beating heart she obeyed ; the crisis had come, 
 but scarcely in the form she had contemplated, for no 
 servitors were within sight, and the fiendish eyes of the 
 monster shone with a savage light which meant mischief.
 
 212 THE HEIR-lN-TAIL. 
 
 " Give me your hand," he exclaimed, rudely compelling 
 her to accede. " That is a pretty ring. Diamonds? Ah! 
 sparkles. Will it fit me ? " 
 
 "Take it and try, but let me go," she replied^ now 
 thoroughly frightened at his looks. 
 
 " Not without the other, and that necklace, and that 
 brooch," he replied, literally tearing off both necklace 
 and brooch before her trembling hands could prevent or 
 her attempted screams bring assistance, his hands being 
 placed over her mouth. 
 
 "Those earrings too," he exclaimed, releasing one 
 hand from her mouth, whereby she uttered one long 
 piercing scream, and then lapsed into insensibility. 
 
 The scream was heard, and the two grooms advanced 
 to her assistance — which seeing, the wretch violently 
 snatched both earrings from her delicate ears, tearing the 
 flesh and covering her raiment with blood. 
 
 What may have been his calculations, if he had any, 
 or the force of nature which could not be controlled, it 
 is impossible to say ; but the deed was done, and its con- 
 sequences either never contemplated or altogether 
 ignored, for seeing assistance arrive, and not choosing to 
 be punished summarily, he thrust his treasures into the 
 pocket of his coat and scrambled up an elm tree, more 
 than eighty feet high, with the agility of a monkey or a 
 squirrel — laughing, as he ascended, a fiendish laugh of 
 derision and contempt. 
 
 Luckily, the two grooms were old servants of their 
 master, and sensible fellows both ; they immediately con- 
 veyed their lady to the carriage, still in a fainting fit, and,
 
 THE HEIR-IX-TAIL. 213 
 
 •deputing the postilion to keep her safe, one of the 
 grooms mounted the coach box to drive home, while the 
 other kept watch beneath the elm tree, to hold the thief 
 s^ure until assistance should arrive. 
 
 And assistance came, more quickly than anticipated, 
 for one half-hour brought the Viscount himself, together 
 Avith Mr. Solomon Tape and a posse of domestics, 
 .all fully determined to capture or avenge, as might 
 happen. 
 
 By this time it is presumable that the Hon. Heir-at-law 
 began to see the error he had committed, and the false 
 position into which he had brought himself, but it was too 
 late. Still he would not be captured by his pursuers, whose 
 threatening looks hungered to tear him to pieces, like as 
 hounds might tear a captured fox. No ! He would defeat 
 them all, defy them, jeer at them. 
 
 " Come up and pull the monkey down by his tail," 
 roared the abortion. " Cowards ! fools ! Ha ! Ha ! " 
 
 " Come down, or I will shoot you like a dog," cried 
 the Viscount. 
 
 " And be hanged for murder," replied the abortion. 
 " Ha ! Ha ! A pretty sight to see hanging at the end of 
 a rope at the Old Bailey." 
 
 " Come down, or we will find means to make you," 
 exclaimed Mr. Solomon Tape. 
 
 " Not such a fool as I look," responded the 
 wretch. 
 
 "Then we will proceed to compel you," again 
 threatened the lawyer; " is there anyone here can climb 
 that tree ? "
 
 2 14 THE HEIR-IN-TAIL. 
 
 " I can," answered one of the gamekeepers, "and will 
 too ; so here goes." 
 
 With this the strong active fellow began to ascend the 
 tree, and quickly gained the branch young Smyjthe had 
 made his stronghold — much to that young gentleman's 
 astonishment, as well as consternation, he having bar- 
 gained for nothing of the kind. 
 
 Leaping above, he quickly distanced his pursuer, but 
 only to be again approached by his active foe, who had 
 almost reached him when, with a sudden bound, the 
 man-monkey attempted to leap from one branch on to 
 another, missed his hold, and with a shriek toppled 
 down headlong seventy feet, breaking every bone in 
 his ugly body and crushing his carcase almost to a 
 jelly. 
 
 Thus ends the " Heir-in-tail " — a story of to-day, 
 yesterday, and possibly of to-morrov/, unless justice and 
 humanity should step between to abolish the unnatural 
 law which has ruined thousands upon thousands of out- 
 raged sons and daughters — sacrificed on the altar of an 
 insane pride.
 
 LEGENDS OE SAIXTS A^J) SINNEE8. 
 
 No. I.— SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 
 PREPARATORY REMARK. 
 
 The quaint old lesfend upon which the following tale is 
 founded was originally related ("/« canine latin') by a some- 
 what unlettered monk named Francesco Xairese, who died 
 about the commencement of the fourteenth century, and who 
 might, therefore, have been personally cognisant of that one 
 most remarkable incident which forms the crowning point of 
 his history, although he inust of necessity have been in- 
 debted to tradition for what preceded it. Be the exact facts 
 what they may. Father Xairese must stand God-father to 
 them, inasmuch that they rest upon his dictum scribendimiy 
 as he himself has elsewhere elegantly expressed, and may be 
 rendered briefly as follows : — 
 
 " No sooner had Urban the Fifth ascended the Pontifical 
 throne than he was prevailed on by the golden arguments ot 
 one Philipo Grimaldi, a rich Councillor of State, to award the 
 supreme honours of canonisation to his late father or grand- 
 father, Francisco Grimaldi, who fell sixty years previously in 
 a skirmish which proved fatal to a notorious robber chieftain, 
 named Giovanni Poablo, whose capture and maltreatment of 
 good Pope Innocent during the year 1201 is an exploit still 
 regarded with pious horror Isy all true Catholics." 
 
 According to the original legend Pope Innocent caused a 
 procession to be made towards that part of the forest land 
 which skirted upon the eastern side of the Appian Way. in 
 which reposed the bones of, not only the illustrious Grimaldi, 
 but also of the notorious Giovanni Poablo, who after having 
 been very properly " hanged " was very improperly "buried" 
 almost side by side with his conqueror. 
 
 The procession duly arrived at the place of its destination, 
 a skeleton was exhumed— was carried in great state to the 
 Imperial city, and there, amidst the acclamations cf the 
 populace and the benedictions of the Church— canonised in
 
 2l6 SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 
 
 all due form, after which the bones themselves were ensconced 
 under a crystal dome, and placed upon a sarcophagus in the 
 Church of San Giovanni. 
 
 Two years afterwards — and 7iot iitiiil several miracles had 
 been wrought tlirougli the agency of those same bones~?L prying 
 sceptic, somewhat after (or rather before j the fashion of 
 Professor Owen, whose matter-of-fact notions had caused 
 him to be regarded with considerable disfavour by the re- 
 ligious authorities of Rome, contrived to ascertain, beyond 
 all possible , doubt, that the illustrious personage whose 
 supposed remains were thus honoured, had gone to his early 
 tomb minus three lingers of his left hand, through an 
 accident in youth, but which fact had been overlooked on 
 the present occasion, inasmuch as "The Saint " was found to 
 possess his full complements of digits. Hence the inference 
 suggesting itself was no less startling than disagreeable, 
 bemg indeed no other than this, namely— that His Holiness 
 the Pope, their Eminences the Cardinals, and their Reverences 
 the whole Church conclave, had made a most ludicrous 
 mistake — by canonising the wrong gcntlemati. 
 
 Thus far our chronicle. What more remains is of little 
 consequence, and might as well have been shrouded in 
 obscurity, but for one little episodal incident, showing the 
 ingoiui'ty of the Catholic Church, which, never at a loss for 
 invention, chose to ignore all possibility of having mistaken 
 the bones of Grimaldi for those of Giovanni, by at once 
 advancing a new miracle, to wit, that the three supplementary 
 fingers in question were a special interposition of Providence, 
 &c., vouchsafed in order that a saint so illustrious should 
 not enter Heaven otherwise than unmutilated I Comment on 
 this would be as superfluous as indecent. We will have none 
 of it. 
 
 LEGEND. 
 I. 
 
 In the year of Our Lord twelve hundred and one, 
 When England was ruled by that profligate son- 
 Of-a-Gun — King John — who tried to "poke fun" 
 At the Knights and the Barons who met him at Run- ■ 
 NjTuead, and thus proved that they would not be "done;"
 
 ,' SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 217 
 
 But instead thereof 
 Made his Majesty laugh 
 On that side (to make shortish a story that's long) 
 Of his mouth by small vvitlings entitled "the WTong." 
 There lived in th' imperial City of Rome 
 A Pope, who made its Palace his home, 
 One " Innocent " styled — we won't venture to say, 
 In that very significant manner of way 
 On account of his deeds, but because 'twas a fashion 
 That Popes should be guiltless of all human 
 passion. 
 
 Be this as it may — we at once may declare 
 Pope Innocent's vices were almost as rare 
 
 As his virtues were great, 
 
 A thing which to state 
 May have with posterity very much weight. 
 
 For that — no matter — suffice to tell 
 
 He enacted the " ruler " exceedingly well, 
 Encouraging those who to good deeds might keep 
 By dubbing them " Saints " — as judicious as cheap, 
 Imposing such penance on nobles and kings 
 As made crime and cruelty very dear things, 
 For he made every sinner who chanced to have pelf 
 Come " down with the dust," which he laid on a shelf. 
 Devoting, no doubt, to such purposes good 
 As made him well loved, if not well understood — 
 A " lie " cost some " twopence " of their current cash ; 
 A " swindle " cost " threepence" and blows from the lash ; 
 
 H
 
 2l8 SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 
 
 A " murder " cost " teniDcnce " — if done by a clown, 
 But if by a Monarch sometimes half-a-crown ; 
 In short, so advanced was the tariff on crime 
 That virtue " protected " gi'ew almost sublime, 
 Except in such bye-ways 
 Apart from life's high-ways 
 As villains will sometimes select for their sly-ways. 
 And one there was, we grieve to tell, 
 Not far from the sound of St. Peter's Bell, 
 Which then, as now, gave forth its knell, 
 Though not from Buonorotti's cell — 
 A noted thief — (we heed not how. 
 But thieves existed then as now) 
 And one whom History grieves to say 
 Had been a Churchman in his day, 
 But having sadly gone astray 
 Forgot entirely how to pray. 
 And threw, at last, his cowl away ! 
 Wearing instead — a jacket of red. 
 With buttons all down it — a cap on his head ; 
 And garters laid o'er 
 His legs by the score. 
 Like the Brigands of Eastlake, and others before. 
 
 III. 
 
 This Brigand was tall — this Brigand was stout, 
 And had an old Mother, who knew beyond doubt 
 Whenever her son was at home or " out," 
 For she minded his home, and mended his clothes, 
 She cook'd all his victuals, and did as she chose
 
 * SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 2x9 
 
 With all of his followers — also with those 
 Who came — nolens volens — their wealth to disclose. 
 For he robbed each passer — young, old — short, or tall, 
 Pl money, of jewels — of clothing — of all — 
 
 Then dash'd out their brains if they ventured to 
 
 squall. 
 
 IV. 
 
 At length, he so throve in his horrible trade, 
 And grew to such wealth on the plunder he made, 
 That an age of refinement, like this of our own, 
 Had made him a Peer, if it gave not a throne ; 
 No Peasant escaped with ought but his skin, 
 No Maid came back without taint of sin, 
 No Burgher laden with silk and gold 
 Returned from his haunt till bought and sold. 
 No Priest, on errand of shrift or prayer. 
 But showed red stripes on his shoulders bare, 
 
 A mocking sight 
 
 For a Pope of might 
 
 And very, exceedingly un-polite. 
 
 v. 
 
 At length came a pass, which nigh was more 
 Than mortal patience ever bore. 
 An Envoy— from the English King, 
 
 On golden tribute bound. 
 Escaped, with scarce the power to fling 
 
 His corse upon the ground, 
 A mangled, bleeding, senseless thing 
 With death in every wound, 
 
 H 2
 
 2 2Q SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 
 
 Escaped — from Giovanni's knife — we've said, but please 
 
 to mind, 
 His wounded body only fled — his cash was left behind ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Up, up, my Priests, — with Book and Bell 
 
 " And taper, quickly come," 
 The good Pope spoke, with aspect fell, 
 
 " Go — summon trump and drum, 
 " I'll hunt the hunter in his lair, 
 
 " The tiger in his den, 
 " The hounds of Hell I'll summon there." 
 
 His followers chimed " Amen." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Behold they go— with pike and bow, 
 
 With taper and with Bell, 
 Behold they come — with trump and drum 
 
 They search the forest well. 
 They search it high, they search it low 
 Their banners flutter like a show ; 
 The Bell is rung— the chant is sung, 
 The archer's weapons idly strung ! 
 They ranged themselves for a grand "battue." 
 Wolves they unkennelled, and boars a few, 
 Rabbits they found by the hundred score, 
 Weazels and hedgehogs — but nothing more ; 
 No signs of a robber, no trace of his den, 
 No relic of him, or his mother, or men, 
 Till — puzzled — at length, of all caution bereft, 
 They strayed to the right, they strayed to the left.
 
 SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 
 
 2 21 
 
 Some hied to the south, some went to the north, 
 Some east, some west — But all saUied forth, 
 Leaving His Holiness " quite alone " 
 , By the side of a queer-looking tabular stone, 
 Which . . . Lo ! and Behold ! moved out of its 
 
 place, 
 Disclosing one ill-shaven Brigand-like face, 
 With a second behind — and a third as well. 
 And as many besides as we care to tell ; 
 Brought up, at the rear, by an elderly crone — 
 Economic of flesh, but profuse of bone. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 What need to explain ? — 'Twas the Brigand and train 
 Whom all the Pope's soldiers were hunting in vain, 
 
 Whilst snug in a cave 
 
 More deep than a grave 
 
 He managed, securely, his bacon to 'save. 
 'Twas he — Giovanni — beyond any doubt, 
 With his band and his mother, who all sallied out, 
 
 Their ill-looking faces 
 
 All \\Tithed with grimaces 
 
 Exhibiting airs, which by no means were graces, 
 
 Saluting the Pope 
 
 In a way which we hope 
 
 Had ne'er been before 
 
 Nor will evermore — 
 For thus, be it told, with an impudence bold 
 Did the Brigand address him :
 
 2 22 SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " You're bought and sold, 
 " So cheer up, my hearty — I trust you're quite well. 
 " 'Tis an age since we met in St. Peter's cell ; 
 " We both were then equal — Behold us now ! 
 " A triple crowoi you bear on your brow, 
 " A jacket of red, with cross-gartered tights, 
 " Proclaim me the Chief of the Forest Knights. 
 " You trade in sin, to improve taxation, 
 " And compound with ex — communication. 
 " My trade is to cheat, to rob, to lie. 
 " Which is the honester ? You or I ? 
 
 X. 
 
 " You've come to dine with me — nay, never look glum ; 
 
 " I take no denial — so choose not, but come." 
 
 Wherewith, despite his prayers and fright. 
 
 They held down his arms, and pinioned them tight. 
 
 Then — down in that cave, more dark than a grave, 
 
 They bore him in spite of the kicks he gave ; 
 
 Then roll'd back the stone as it seem'd before, 
 
 And covered the mouth of their cavern o'er 
 
 So neatly, that none might the spot discover, 
 
 Though roving a twelvemonth the forest over. 
 
 XI. 
 
 There was sorrow that night on the Vatican's height 
 When the Priesthood returned in a pitiful plight, 
 Having left in the lurch the Head of their Church, 
 To find with base robbers his pillow or perch.
 
 SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 223 
 
 And what did he, when they made so free ? 
 
 Did he faint ? Did he die ? — We shall presently see. 
 
 r XII. 
 
 When down in the cavern and safe from pursuit, 
 
 In an atmosphere nearly as black as one's boot, 
 
 Each robber bowed low, with a grin on his face, 
 
 Then ran to the table, as if for a race, 
 
 And sat down to dinner, each man in his place. 
 
 First asking " His Holiness " just to say grace ; 
 
 Which he, like a dunce, complied with at once. 
 
 In the hope that good manners would spread for the nonce. 
 
 Which hope, like to others he had known in his day, 
 
 Soon dissolved into nothing and melted away, 
 
 For although, from the cords which had bound him, 
 
 released. 
 And forced to sit down with such wretches to feast, 
 The language his ears were compelled to drink in 
 Was such as quite shocked him — to listen was sin. 
 Yet what could he do ? One helped him to meat 
 (Although it was Friday), and swore he should eat ; 
 Another upraised him a goblet of wine, 
 And vowed he should pledge in a draught so divine, 
 Then drained to the dregs, and swore by his shame. 
 That " His Holiness " should straightway just do the 
 
 same ; 
 Whilst the ugly old crone, who did all she was able 
 To make him the butt of (hat ill-ordered table, 
 Rose up from her place, with nothing like grace, 
 And planted a kiss on his reverend face,
 
 2 34 SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 
 
 The sound of which echoed that dark cavern o'er, 
 And set all its vagabond rout in a roar. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A blush of terror, mixed with shame, 
 
 Suffused his cheeks with crimson flame, 
 
 "Whilst ribald laughter joy'd to see 
 
 The old man's silent agony. 
 
 The wine cup circl'd more and more. 
 
 The yells grew madder than before ; 
 
 They cursed — they raved — they shrieked — they sung 
 
 Till every cavern echo rung. 
 
 One demon, stronger than the rest. 
 
 With giant grasp secured his waist, 
 
 And wheel'd him through a Satyr dance, 
 
 Till sense gave away, and Nature's trance. 
 
 More kiild than human pity, came 
 
 To crown his sorrow, and theh' shame. 
 
 XIV, 
 
 An hour or more had flitted o'er 
 
 Within that cave more dark than a gra'/e ; 
 
 The orgie of overwhelming crime 
 
 Had ended for a little time. 
 
 The demon-band was locked in sleep. 
 
 All save its blackest one, 
 Who had a purpose, dark but deep, 
 
 To work alone — alone. 
 Behold ! the frenzied Pope awakes 
 
 From out his trance of pain. 
 His aged head with torture aches, 
 
 His tears are shed in vain.
 
 SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 225 
 
 The Robber Chieftain marks his eye, 
 
 He Hstens to his groan, 
 But ponders on the strategy 
 
 He fain would work — alone ! 
 " Enough, old man," — he spoke at length ; 
 
 " Give heed to what I say, 
 "Whilst nature yet permits you strength 
 
 " To heed the prayer I pray ; 
 "For even I have not forgot 
 
 " That once I lived for Heaven, 
 " And fain would now, before I rot, 
 
 " Seek means to be forgiven ; 
 " One only path to me remains 
 
 " To reach the starry sky, 
 "And thou alone canst break the chains 
 
 " Which bind me here to die. 
 " 'Tis thine to will — 'tis thine to do — a saint I wish 
 
 to be; 
 " So MAKE ME ONE — or, by the Lord, I'll make a 
 
 SAINT OF thee !" 
 
 XV. 
 
 Thus spoke and meant that wicked man, ' 
 
 For though so vile — so base. 
 He had that faith in mystery's plan 
 Which made belief a grace. 
 He deemed that delegated power yet dwelt with man 
 
 below. 
 And impious still in fortune's hour, confessed death's 
 coming blow.
 
 2 26 SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 His Holiness, with terror dumb, 
 
 More chiefly than surprise. 
 Bethought him of the world to come, 
 
 And how a good man dies. 
 But soon like lightning's vivid ra}-, 
 
 A thought flashed on his brain, 
 That a/I deceit were scarce deceit 
 
 If but one tithe remain 
 01 truth, to make its falsehood fair, 
 
 And cleanse from damning stain. 
 He was a Jesuit in truth, 
 
 Although he knew it not, 
 And held that not a lie, forsooth. 
 
 Which had not all its blot. 
 " Your wish I grant," the Pope replied ; 
 
 "And pledge my sacred name, 
 " Unless yourself shall yet decide 
 
 " Your purpose to disclaim. 
 'Within my Palace, flanked by all that's noble, rich, 
 
 and great, 
 " I vow to keep the oath I've pledged, be it for soon 
 
 or late." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Enough — the vow thus vowed, was meant 
 
 For keeping — to the ear — 
 Yet breaking — in its true event. 
 
 As time shall render clear.
 
 SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 227 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Three weeks sped o'er — the month was May, 
 
 The hour was noontide high, 
 Imperial Rome was bright and gay 
 
 As Heaven's o'er-arching sky. 
 The Pope was on his ivory throne, 
 
 His Cardinals were nigh. 
 For loved he not to be alone, 
 
 Poor guileless man — and why ? 
 Behold a cavalcade appears 
 
 In pageant-like array, 
 Led on by one who boldly rears 
 
 A head whose locks are gray. 
 A hundred followers swell his train 
 
 Whose banners flaut the wind, 
 Whilst twice a hundred serving men 
 
 Ride, jocundly, behind. 
 It is the Brigand, come to claim 
 
 The pledge so lately given, 
 That should bestow eternal fame, 
 
 A passport into Heaven. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The Pope blushed red — the Pope blushed blue, 
 He didn't know what in the world to do ; 
 But first looked up, and next looked down, 
 Then slily smiled, then quelled a frown ; 
 
 In short, he was bothered, as well might he be, 
 
 At seeing so much fine company —
 
 128 SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 
 
 "Your oath — your oath," the Brigand cried; 
 
 " A Saint I would straightway be ; 
 "So make me a Saint, with all pomp and pride, 
 
 " Or I'll make a Saint of thee." 
 
 XX. 
 
 The Pope blushed red — the Pope blushed blue^ 
 He didn't know \\hat in the world to do ; 
 But thinking it safest to keep somewhat back, 
 "Withdrew to his guards with a speed not slack, 
 Then — plucking up courage, at length thus said : 
 " You catit be a Saint till after you're dead ; 
 " No man ever heard 
 " Of a thing so absurd 
 "As a Saint all alive — This, I give you my word 
 " My oath shall be kept as the sacredest treasure, 
 
 " For long in my ear hath it clang'd, 
 "And I'll make you a Saint, with the greatest of 
 pleasure 
 " If first — vou'll consent to be hanged." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The Brigand turned white — the Brigand turned blue, 
 He didn't know what in the w^orld to do ; 
 
 'Twas clear he was " sold "• — in his own trap caught 
 
 So he wished the sly Pope "good day" — 
 Then turned, like a dog with his tail cut short, 
 And sneaked to his kennel away.
 
 SAN GIOVANNI SECOND 0. 229 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Some weeks passed o'er, more calm than before, 
 Pope Innocent chackled — the Brigand he swore ; 
 But oft as it happens in this vale of tears, 
 That wicked men thrive for a good many years. 
 Their end is not peace ; their profits must cease : 
 They seldom obtain of their lives a long lease, 
 As so it turned out on the present occasion. 
 For whilst Giovanni (who feared no invasion) 
 Was cosily napping one day in the sun, 
 
 His band all reposing at ease, 
 A Battalion of Archers came gingerly on 
 
 And captured them all midst the trees ; 
 'Tis true some twain of the Archers were slain, 
 As also the Chief of His Holiness' train ; 
 For which sorry deed, as a public example, 
 
 They hanged Giovanni on high, 
 Giving just as much rope as was fitting and ample 
 
 To make a great rascal die. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Thus ended the story of that villain's gloiy. 
 
 This only remains to tell, 
 They buried him then, with the rest of the slain, 
 
 In the forest, just as they fell. 
 Long years passed o'er, some sixty or more, 
 
 Pope Innocent long had been dead ; 
 One " Urban " by name, the fifth of that same, 
 
 Ruled Rome and its Robbers instead.
 
 230 SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 
 
 The bold Giovanni had long been forgotten : 
 
 His bones, like his exploits, were both of them rotten, 
 
 But not so the name of the Archer Chief 
 
 Who fell in so ^\Tetched a way. 
 For his children's children mourned in grief 
 
 His loss on that fatal day. 
 They honoured his name — they were proud of his fame. 
 And vowed that posterity should do the same ; 
 So, by hook and by crook, and by making a bother, 
 They managed to get, in some queer way or other, 
 A promise, from Urban, of canonization 
 For him, their long buried illustrious relation. 
 Though how much it cost them for such an ovation 
 Is no Avhere mentioned in this our narration. 
 
 Suffice it to tell, they managed so well. 
 
 That one day, by the sound of St. Peter's Bell, 
 A noble procession, a mile or two long. 
 
 Sallied forth from the Aventine Gate, 
 With taper, and incense, and triumphant song. 
 
 And very remarkable state. 
 They went to the forest, they dug up sotne bones, 
 'Midst flourish of trumpets, and shoutings, and groans. 
 They carried them back in vast pomp to Rome, 
 Where they laid them beneath a crystal dome, 
 And a Mass was said o'er the senseless dead, 
 
 Which proclaimed, till the skies were riven, 
 That a Saint was then translated from men 
 
 To the Holy Host of Heaven ! 
 
 XXIV, 
 
 From that same hour, what mighty power. 
 Gave those poor bones their cureful dower.
 
 SAN GIOVANNI SECONDO. 23 1 
 
 What tongue shall state : the miracles great 
 Old legends (monkish ones) relate ; 
 Till one foul day, when a man went to pay 
 His respects to the dead in an un-common way, 
 By scanning these bones, so conveniently bare, 
 And taking short " notes " of what he found there, 
 The which, with a manuscript old, to compare, 
 He found — past all doubting, or shadow or shade — 
 That the body of him whom a Saint they had made 
 Was that of the Brigand, instead of the Chief, 
 Whose sons made his Saintship a source of relief. 
 'Twas known — for an incontrovertible truth — 
 That the Noble had lost three fingers in youth, 
 And couldn't well manage, as Nature yet stands. 
 To be buried with eight (and two thumbs) on his hands ; 
 The fact was too true — but as none ever knew 
 Of a means to uncanonize — what could they do ? 
 But a Saint let him rest, as indeed it was best, 
 For a blunder so awkward, must needs be confess'd. 
 Not the right sort of thing for rude laymen to fling 
 At the triple-crown'd head of a Spiritual King ; 
 And so it was thought — for the " savant" who brought 
 A scandal so sad on the Papal Court 
 Was found, next day, on the broad highway 
 A bleeding mass of senseless clay. 
 With none to pity — and none to pray 
 His canonization, in any way.
 
 No. II.— THE HERMIT. 
 A LEGEND OF ST. VITUS. 
 
 In Hampshire County, famed alike — if fame is not 
 
 mistaken — 
 For Tory members, pretty girls, and over-fatted bacon, 
 There ranged a noted forest once, yclept " the New," 
 
 wherein 
 King Rufus met an ugly death to crown his life of sin. 
 A few scant relics, scattered wide, alone may yet be seen 
 To mark where roved the monarch-stag throughout that 
 
 wide demesne. 
 
 That forest — scarce a forest now — 
 Its trees have made their final bough, 
 Its ancient " tenants of the soil " 
 Departed from a land of toil, 
 Its grandsire oaks departed — gone — 
 Leaving behind their trunks alone. 
 Its elder sons of elm and beach 
 Nigh swept away from mortal reach. 
 Their younger branches too — we grieve 
 Have well nigh taken final leave, 
 Save only in one favoured spot 
 By woodman's axe dismembered not.
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 233. 
 
 Where yet a grove of ancient trees 
 Sing vespers to the evening breeze. 
 In that same forest — years ago, 
 ' Six hundred — probably — or so, 
 
 There dwelt a solitary man — beside a bushy dell. 
 Who scooped from out a sandy rock his solitary cell. 
 No monk was he — nor learned clerk deep wrapp'd in 
 
 meditation — 
 Nor yet a layman — of the kind in general acceptation ; 
 But still — withal a reverend man if outward sign might 
 
 shew, 
 Or length of gown— or length of beard— or length of 
 
 face, or so. 
 Men dubbed him " Hermit," 'mongst themselves, and 
 
 held him gifted well, 
 With power to read the stars aright within that lonely celL 
 They deemed him rich in mystic lore — those guileless. 
 
 forest men. 
 And brought him gifts of many a kind to cheer him now 
 
 and then. 
 
 They brought him fruits, and wine — and fish 
 (He took them all to meet their wish) 
 i'hey culled him " simples " — not a {qw, 
 (He deemed the givers simple too) 
 
 They brought him water — from a spring, 
 (Be sure he ne'er abused it) 
 
 They brought him soap — fit for a king, 
 (Alas ! — he never used it)
 
 234 THE HERMIT. 
 
 They brought him — Hold ! no matter what, to cheer his 
 
 lonely cell, 
 He took in all — and then took i?i the givers too — as well. 
 For — 'neath a specious fair outside of holiness and 
 
 worth, 
 He was a sorry hypocrite as ever crawled this earth, 
 He aped the Anchorite— alone before men's wondering 
 
 faces, 
 'Po pull — behind their virtuous backs — unlimited 
 
 grimaces ; 
 In short he was— a humbug — Well ! are all who virtuous 
 
 seem, 
 As virtuous, or as holy, or as righteous as men deem ? — 
 Some are — of course. Our Kings ! our Queens ! our 
 
 Bishops ! and our Clergy ! 
 Our great philanthropists as well — who hold by the 
 
 lit-urgy ! 
 Jiich men must all alike be good ! 'Tis poverty — and 
 
 tatters 
 Alone, that make the difference in sublunary matters ! 
 Perhaps— if truth were told of all, respecting ?io condition, 
 Mankind would all be rogues alike with one slight sub- 
 division — 
 The rogues whom happiness and wealth have placed 
 
 above temptation 
 And those whom grief and poverty have roused to 
 
 desperation ! 
 
 Be this as't may, our anchorite 
 Was certainly an hypocrite,
 
 THE HERMIT. 235 
 
 Who — whatsoever might betide — beyond all doubt and 
 
 question 
 Would never let another's wants affect his own digestion. 
 
 r 
 
 He rather looked on tears and sighs 
 
 (The tears oi other people's eyes) 
 As giving — almost — if not quite 
 
 A kind of zest to appetite. 
 
 Or— like some Christians, snug and warm 
 ; ._ Within the fire-side's bound, 
 
 Who listen to the outward storm 
 And rather liked the sound! 
 
 He rather liked the sight of grief— it tickled him ! In fine 
 He loved it — as some epicures love olives with their wine r 
 Who was he — or whence came he — it is not for us to say, 
 Enough — it serves our purpose thus his portrait to display. 
 
 Behold him in the rock hewn cell 
 Adown the fair and bushy dell, 
 In which it was his choice to dwell, 
 And — truly one may safely tell 
 'Tvvas furnished comfortably well 
 Beyond all Hermit parallel. 
 With table hewed from log of wood 
 And moss grown stool — extremely good, 
 A home-spun couch — or wicker bed 
 With rushes comfortably spread, 
 A nook — or two — or three — or four, 
 With such a humbly fashioned door,
 
 -236 THE HERMIT. 
 
 Well calculated to conceal 
 What prying eyes might else reveal, 
 A kind of hearth whereon a fire 
 Might kindle to his heart's desire, 
 With pots and pans of fire-baked clay, 
 All neatly stowed on shelves away, 
 In short — our Anchorite's menage 
 Was quite complete — if not too large ; 
 
 One only want seemed unsupplied 
 To crown his happy life, 
 
 Alas ! That this should be denied 
 A tom cat, or a wife ! 
 
 Loud roared the storm one wintry eve, while snug within 
 
 his cell 
 Our Hermit hugged himself, right pleased at being housed 
 
 so well ; 
 Down poured the rain, it cheered him much. " Ha ! 
 
 Ha ! " he cried with glee, 
 " How merrily the angels weep — so weep they not for me." 
 He heard the thunder — loud and long ; " Ha ! Ha ! " he 
 
 cried again, 
 ^' How loudly doth the cherubs laugh above Earth's wide 
 
 domain." 
 He saw the lightning's angry flash, " How kind of 
 
 Heaven," he said, 
 "To light my chamber up so well, and cheer me in my bed." 
 Then loosened he his girdle cord — to ease him for the 
 
 night, 
 Por was he not a lucky man, that seeming Anchorite !
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 '■Zl 
 
 Loud howled the storm ! But hark ! A sound — a cry 
 
 of grief, or pain ! 
 " Ha ! Ha ! " he chuckled — some poor wretch is patter- 
 ' ing in the rain." 
 That cry once more ! It nearer came — then nearer, — 
 
 nearer still, 
 " Some wandering fool," he calmly said, " is haply taken 
 
 ill." 
 Once more that cry ! And — at the door, a traveller's 
 
 form appears 
 A venerable Pilgrim — bowed by weight of seventy years. 
 " I cry you mercy, honest man," that ancient father said, 
 " Begrudge me not a cup of milk — a crust of oaten bread, 
 " My feet have travelled wearily^ray heart is sad with 
 
 care — 
 " I pant for rest this stormy night. Oh ! grant an old 
 
 man's prayer." 
 
 " Go rest," our Hermit coldly spoke, " oufsidc my cham- 
 ber door, 
 " I have no bread to fling away, so niggard is my store ; 
 " But — if some radishes will serve — behold ! I give 
 
 no more." 
 " I thank you. Hermit," gently spoke the venerable man, 
 " A little salt— to relish them— give further if you can." 
 " What ? Salt, upon a fasting day? I really feel ashamed ! 
 " Perdition catch you for a rogue," our Hermit well nigh 
 
 screamed. 
 " My life of penance yields not ought of luxury, or ease, 
 "So — eat your saltless radishes — and vanish — when you 
 please."
 
 238 THE HERMIT. 
 
 " Methinks thou hast a churUsh air," 
 
 The ancient Pilgrim cried, 
 " Thy words are bitter — as thy fare — 
 
 " Hast thou not ought beside ? 
 " A gentle speech — a crust of bread, 
 
 " A cup of milk, I ween, 
 " To one like me with hoary head, 
 
 " Had fitter welcome been." 
 
 " I have no food save that I gave," the lying Hermit told, 
 " Alas ! that poverty, like mine, should such a truth 
 
 unfold, 
 " Besides . . . I am a cripple ! See — my limbs 
 
 are stiff with pain, ' 
 
 " I may not raise me from my stool without a tearful 
 
 strain." 
 
 " All ho ! Is't so ! " the Pilgrim spoke, 
 
 " I have a cure for such, 
 " Behold — my finger ! See ! How novr. 
 
 " I raise it up — this much. And straight the cripple 
 throws aside — his pallet — or his crutch." 
 
 This said, the Pilgrim raised his hand, our Hermit straight- 
 way rose, 
 
 And " malgre lui " began to dance upon his nimble 
 toes. 
 
 He threw his legs about so fast — no prancing, dancing- 
 master 
 
 That ever came from France or Spain could cut his 
 capers faster j
 
 THE HERMIT. 239 
 
 He threw his arms, too, up and down, now pointing to 
 
 the sky, 
 Now whirling like a windmill's sail with tempest raging 
 ' l^igh ; 
 Nor yet alone in active play his limbs flew out 
 
 apace, 
 A kind of twitching seemed to wring each feature of his 
 
 face, 
 His mouth slipp'd upward towards his eye, his eyes both 
 
 looked askance. 
 Then— nearer to each other drew — like partners in a 
 
 dance ; 
 Anon — his head would touch the roof— receiving quite a 
 
 shock 
 By coming into contact with a piece of jagged rock. 
 Then next — his feet would step aside — in double triple 
 
 time. 
 Just like our friend Grimaldi in a comic pantomime. 
 In short — he played such antics that our Pilgrim could 
 
 but smile, 
 Though sorely taxed to be demure— and famishing the 
 
 while. 
 " Gramercy ! Pilgrim — stay thy hand," our trembling 
 
 Hermit cried, 
 " These torments rend me — O forbear." 
 
 " I will," the Pilgrim sighed. 
 " But — hither bring a little salt — these radishes, though 
 
 good, 
 " Are somewhat of a meagre dish for one in lack of 
 
 food ;
 
 240 THE her:niit. 
 
 " Methinks a capon — nicely browned, and stuffed with 
 
 truffles rare, 
 " Would stay a traveller's appetite much better than such 
 
 fare." 
 Right nimbly rushed our Anchorite, and from his private 
 
 store, 
 Brought forth a capon, large and fat, and richly larded 
 
 o'er. 
 The which he placed, with trembling hand, his Pilgrim 
 
 guest before. 
 "Thanks, gentle Hermit, very much, and now bethink 
 
 thee, too, 
 " A cup of wine would much enhance this very pleasing 
 
 view." 
 So spake the Pilgrim, with a smile upon his wTinkled face 
 That made it almost young the while, it was so full of 
 
 grace. 
 "No wine have I," the Hermit cried, "amidst these 
 
 forest trees ; 
 " We boast no luxury — like wine . , . some water — if 
 
 you please." 
 "Amen !" the Pilgrim spoke again — and upward 
 
 RAISED HIS HAND, 
 
 " Meanwhile, you'll please to dance again at my 
 express command. 
 
 A little exercise or so 
 Upon the ' light fantastic ' toe. 
 Will sharpen up your native vat 
 And open up your heart a bit."
 
 THE HERMIT. 24 1 
 
 "Whereon, our Hermit, as before, impelled against his will, 
 Cut capers of the strangest sort with superhuman skill, 
 He danced a minuet, a waltz, then figured a quadrille, 
 A polka next — upon his head — with vigour nigh to kill, 
 Then — lighting on his legs again, with arms a-kimbo 
 
 placed. 
 He did the double shuffle in a way that not disgraced. 
 An Irish jig — a Scotch reel — each followed in succession, 
 To all of which he featly gave the national expression, 
 Concluding with a breakdown that so realised its name 
 It fairly broke hi?n down — exhausted, crippled, lame ! 
 The Pilgrim stayed his hand once more — then spoke — 
 
 " Lest further ill 
 " Betide thee, bring a cup of wine," our Hermit cried, 
 
 " I will," 
 And so he did. But mark this fact . . . 
 
 . . . within the cup he ihj'ew 
 A subtle poison, luhich his ai-t had taught him hoia to bretv, 
 From fifty patent medicines — Specifics, every one, 
 'Gainst every kind of earthly ill beneath the Heavenly sun, 
 'Gainst rheumatism,— colic — gout — worms — wooden legs 
 
 and cramp, 
 (One shilling and three halfpence each — inclusive of the 
 
 stamp !) 
 This horrid mixture tendered he his Pilgrim guest unto, 
 Like one Lucretia Borgia whom the opera brings to vie^', 
 But — unlike those — her silly guests — he was not quite 
 
 so flat. 
 But hke Prince Hamlet — in the play — he smelt "a rat, 
 a rat."
 
 242 THE HERMIT. 
 
 First holding to his nose the cup — then dashing it 
 
 away, 
 He frowned upon our Hermit — and thus solemnly 
 
 did say : 
 "Base Hermit — murderer that would be — thou hast 
 
 deserved thy fate, 
 " In me behold thy mortal judge — Heav'n's earthly 
 
 delegate. 
 " 'Tis mine to speak thy dreadful doom, from which thou 
 
 canst not fly, 
 " And your's — perfidious Anchorite — to dance until 
 
 YOU DIE. 
 
 " But surely till that dance shall end — in death to re- 
 unite us, 
 
 "Thou must — and shalt remember me — thy Pilgrim- 
 guest, SAINT VITUS." 
 
 Thus said — the saintly Pilgrim rose, with proud but 
 
 sorrowing mien, 
 And vouched he would never more on earth be by 
 
 mortal seen. 
 
 * * * •J.5 * 
 
 A week o'erpast — some forest men who knew the Her- 
 mit well, 
 
 Beheld him dancing on the green before his empty 
 cell, 
 
 He heeded not their kindly words — their looks of blank 
 amaze. 
 
 But danced until — in horrid flight — they took their 
 
 several ways. 
 
 *f * # •;:• -::•
 
 THE HERMIT, 
 
 243 
 
 A second week — they came again — in dreadful doleful 
 
 dumps, 
 But found him minus half his legs — while dancing on 
 
 THE STUMPS. 
 
 * # * * * 
 
 Another week — they ventured still — with wondering eyes 
 
 and lips, 
 But found him — with no legs at all — yet dancing on 
 
 HIS HIPS, 
 
 * * * * if 
 
 A fourth week past — a whole host came to find his 
 
 body gone, 
 Yet dancing ON his whiskers, with but half a head alone. 
 A fifth week came — no relic met thdr looks who came 
 
 to see, 
 Save one small patch of greasy earth — as small as small 
 
 could be, 
 And two small tufts of grisly hair — which even while 
 
 they spied 
 The busy winds took swiftly up and scattering far and 
 
 wide, 
 Embedded in the earth at last — by Ichen river's ride. 
 Where still their offshoots grow apace in funeral rows 
 
 along, 
 Their voices whispering in the breeze a melancholy song, 
 Of how St. Vitus came on earth to curse, as with a spell. 
 All them that love the giddy dance, '* not wisely — but — 
 
 TOO WELL ? "
 
 No. III.— THE TWIN BROTHERS. 
 A LEGEND OF TINTERN ABBEY. 
 
 The Monks of old — the Monks of old ! They were a 
 
 " canny " race, 
 Discreet as bold — discreet as bold — full of holy grace ! 
 
 They chose their homes where the keen east wind 
 
 Could never a coign of vantage find, 
 
 Where the sweet south breeze o'er a clump of trees 
 
 Whispered of peace and worldly ease, 
 
 And a rising slope conceal'd well nigh 
 
 Erom hungry greed and sinful eye ; 
 
 Oh ! those Monks of old were a gleesome race. They 
 
 neither toiled nor spun, 
 But lounged through life at an easy pace, from morn to 
 
 setting sun ! 
 
 They feasted on the lordly haunch, relieved by 
 
 toothsome game, 
 They fasted on the speckled trout whenever a 
 
 Friday came. 
 They paid no rent, no rate, no tax for tower or 
 
 cloistered cell, 
 And they slept the sleep of a slumbering deep, from 
 
 eve to Matin bell.
 
 THE TWIN BROTHERS. 245 
 
 Oh ! those Monks of old, those ]\Ionks of old ; we never 
 
 again shall see 
 So many good men (save now and then) agreeing to 
 
 'agree ! 
 
 Adown fair Monmouth's flowery vale, where threads the 
 silvery Wye, 
 
 And Raglan's tower, in feudal pride, yet meets the 
 traveller's eye, 
 
 Where trickling streamlets gaily dance beneath the sun- 
 light's glow, 
 
 And rugged rocks and mossy glades alternate beauties 
 show ; 
 
 There rises yet one cloistered fane, a relic of the past. 
 
 Which centuries have looked upon, nor looked, as yet, 
 their last. 
 
 Thine Abbey — Tlntern — famed alike in Minstrel-song 
 and prayer, 
 
 A " thing of beauty "which decay can never make less fair. 
 
 Which time but silvers with his touch, to leave a costly 
 stain, 
 
 More reverent in the eyes of love than youth's primeval 
 grain; 
 
 Yes ! thou art fair ! thy cloistered aisles, thy pointed 
 arches tall. 
 
 Thy windows rich in tracery, thine ivy-mantled wall ; 
 
 Thy grass-grown site where daisies dwell, and yellow 
 oxlips bloom. 
 
 All mark thee with a life which lives beyond life's com- 
 mon doom.
 
 246 THE TWIN BROTHERS. 
 
 And yet, had walls but tongues as well, as fable gives 
 
 them ears, 
 Methinks thine might a tale unfold of mingled hopes and 
 
 fears, 
 Of blighted lives, ambition foiled, of vengeance gone 
 
 astray ; 
 Of late repentance hovering o'er life's swiftly fleeting 
 
 day, 
 More rather than of holy choice, from holy dictate 
 
 made 
 The haven of poor shipwrecked souls whose part in life 
 
 is played, 
 Strange tales are told of gown and cowl, of whip and 
 
 knotted cord. 
 Of passions chained in rocky cell, of horrors most ab- 
 horred ; 
 Of torments cunningly contrived, of death by tortures 
 
 slow, 
 "Unwritten now in mercy's code for modern ears to know — 
 All this they did, those Monks of old ! so full of holy 
 
 grace ! 
 Yet ever showed a smiling eye, a calm and placid face, 
 Whate'er their grief, ,whate'er their sin, the world should 
 never guess, 
 
 'Twas shrouded, coffin'd, all within, and buried 'neath 
 
 their dress. 
 
 In bluff King Harry's boisterous time, when mercy tried, 
 
 in vain — 
 To hold up an timbrella in that very stormy reign,
 
 THE TWIN BROTHERS. 
 
 247 
 
 Then ministers and wives, alike, had patience sorely 
 
 taxed, 
 And only ceased complaining, too, when unpolitely 
 
 f "axed." 
 
 One Prior Anselm ruled the roast in Tintern's holy 
 
 fane, 
 A man whose purity of life had never known a stain, 
 (Whose christen'd name was something else, which little 
 
 matters now, 
 But changed to "Anselm" when he took his first 
 
 monastic vow) 
 A man, whose chiefest pride it was in holding strictest 
 
 rule 
 O'er those he governed, for the time, head-master of his 
 
 school ; 
 Whose only weakness, curbed in vain, was that of many 
 
 a sinner, 
 A weakness, " tell it not in Gath," a weakness ? for his 
 
 dinner ! 
 He loved good beef, and mutton too, nor turned up 
 
 priestly nose 
 At ham, well cured, or boiled pigs-head, or even 
 
 pettitoes. 
 He worship'd ducks, and geese, and fowls, in his 
 
 peculiar way, 
 A worship, born of carnal hopes, not clerical, but lay ; 
 Of portly presence, too, was he — befitting times and 
 
 place, 
 A model Monk, if such may be, as full of flesh as 
 
 grace !
 
 ■248 THE TWIN BROTHERS. 
 
 The fasting days of Lenten time had ended, and the 
 
 morn 
 Of Easter, with its feast of flesh, had come, at last, to 
 
 dawn. 
 Good Prior Ansehn's black-robed host, with longing 
 
 looks on all. 
 Were ranged, in order of their rank, within the chapel 
 
 hall ; 
 But ere those hungry Monks could feed on carnal food — 
 
 Alas ! 
 'Twas necessary every one should kneel at early Mass, 
 Meanwhile, in their refectory, a staff of willing cooks 
 Were roasting meat, or trussing game, with joy in all 
 
 their looks ; 
 One merry father plucked a goose, a second made a pie, 
 A third one spitted larks, and swallowed two, upon the 
 
 sly! 
 A fourth sat basting the sirloin, and like a wicked man, 
 While no one watched him slipfd a sop within the drip- 
 ping pan ! 
 A fifth — a sixth — a seventh as well, each labor'd at his 
 
 post, 
 Beneath a " Chef de Cuisine," who, as ruler of that roast 
 Was, also, the Sub-Prior, and had prayed a dispensation 
 (For self and staff) from tending Mass, by virtue of his 
 
 station. 
 AVith gown tucked up, and cords relaxed, a joyous crew 
 
 were they 
 Who cooked that sumptuous dinner on that happy Easter 
 
 day !
 
 • THE TWIN BROTHERS. 249 
 
 Within the sacred precincts of the Abbey's Altar-shrine, 
 A different scene was acted, with a fervour nigh divine, 
 There, rung the supplicating tones of three-score Monks 
 
 and ten, 
 Whose " Kyrie-Elieson " had no falsehood in it then ; 
 Whose "Gloria in Excelsis" sent a joyous shout on 
 
 high, 
 
 Whose "Credo," springing from the heart, climbed up into 
 
 the sky. 
 Whose " Sanctus " had a holy ring, like metal good and 
 
 true, 
 (Be sure no counterfeit will pass where Heaven's own 
 
 coin is due) 
 Whose " Agnus-Dei " softly sung, in triads pure and 
 
 sweet, 
 Was music such as Heaven might claim, when Angels, 
 
 weeping, meet ; 
 Whose " Dona-Nobis " came at last, a thankful pause to 
 
 claim, 
 W\\ki peace, for its attendant, in the Saviour's holy name. 
 Then -a? * * * 
 
 Harum-scarum, how they run ! helter-skelter, every 
 
 one ! 
 Portly Monk and lean lay-brother, tumbling over one 
 
 another ! 
 In their haste like graceless sinners, eager only for their 
 
 dinners ! 
 Violating etiquette, shamefully, 'tis true, 
 But tlien, what would not any set of hungry " fellahs " 
 
 do? 
 I
 
 250 THE TWIN BROTHERS. 
 
 We've seen, at suppers, routs, and balls, in fashionable 
 
 squares, 
 Dukes, Marquises, and Barons shew exactly such like 
 
 airs. 
 Why then should poor long-fasting Monks not follow 
 
 such like ways 
 When pressed by hunger, hard and fast, for forty mortal 
 
 days ? 
 
 They passed all out, that rabble rout, from Chapel to 
 
 their dinner. 
 Save Prior Anselm, and ^;z^more, a better mannered 
 
 sinner. 
 
 " \\Tiy pass you not," good Anselm cried, " to- dinner, 
 
 with the rest ? " 
 " Because one waits," the man replied, " without — to be 
 
 confest, 
 " He bears a purse well lined with gold, refreshing to 
 
 the view, 
 " And vows he will be shrived by none, save Priest of 
 
 rank — like you." 
 " Admit him straight," the Prior spoke, " 'tis meet we 
 
 shrive that sinner, 
 " Although extremely hard to be delayed from such a 
 
 dinner ; 
 " Our fees, for shrift, have been of late but scanty in their 
 
 dole ; 
 " And though our charge for such has been quite mode- 
 rate — on the whole,
 
 THE TWIN BROTHERS. 25I 
 
 " Good customers are very scarce, confound these Welsh, 
 
 I say ! 
 " They don't commit half sins enough to make our busi- 
 
 ness pay ! 
 " This man has gold. Admit him quick. We love a 
 
 golden sinner ; 
 " Perhaps, when he has made his shrift, he'll pick a bone 
 
 at dinner ! 
 " And, if within his soul there dwells the godly grace 
 
 which ought, 
 " He will not make confession long — but duly — cut it 
 
 short !"' 
 
 Of stalwart form and soldier build Avas he who came to 
 
 kneel, 
 In penitential mood, his peccant troubles to reveal ; 
 His brow was dark, his eye was fierce, his hair of matted 
 
 grey, 
 Hung all unkempt upon his back, in sad neglected 
 
 way ; 
 His hauberk, travel stained and worn, his sword nigh five 
 
 feet long, 
 Shew'd signs of many a battle, waged in aid of right (or 
 
 Avrong) 
 His boots were foreign, reaching high, with spurs of crim- 
 son stain, 
 Betokening rider's eager haste, or courser's mighty strain ; 
 His bearing was not that of " Knight," with honour for 
 
 his boon, 
 But rather of the " cut throat," with a dash of " Piccaroon," 
 I 2
 
 252 THE TWIN BROTHERS. 
 
 Upon the whole he looked a man, whom fate had cut 
 
 adrift ; 
 And very like, indeed, to one who stood in lack of shrift. 
 
 " Gramercy, Holy Father," spoke that babe of doubtful 
 
 grace, 
 " I need your special offices in lamentable case, 
 " 'Tis nigh on thirty years agone since last my beads 
 
 were told, 
 " So, shrive me, with befitting ease, for this full jDurse of 
 
 gold." 
 Good Prior Anselm crossed himself, but nathless gave 
 
 reply, 
 "Your sins of thirty years, methinks, must in huge com- 
 pass lie, 
 " Compress them, as thou mayest, within some reasonable 
 
 space, 
 " And I will act accordingly, returning grace for grace." 
 " My tale is long," his suppliant cried, " I may not cut it 
 
 short, 
 " 'Tis one of fearful magnitude, and horrible import ; 
 " Of murder, theft, of sacrilege, of pillage, of rapine, 
 " Of perjury and burglary, and treason too, I ween, 
 " Of scaling convent walls, and thence abducting virgin 
 
 nuns ; 
 " Of robbing negro parents of their daughters and their 
 
 sons, 
 " Of cutting midnight throats, in haste, to steal men's 
 
 cash away, 
 " Of finding Yeomen's cattle, which had never gone astray,
 
 THE TWIN BROTHERS. 253 
 
 " Of gambling, dicing, and what not, with villanous 
 
 intention, 
 " Besides some thousand other crimes, too numerous for 
 ' mention. 
 " I have them catalogued all here, writ out by learned 
 
 clerk, 
 "On vellum, twenty-two yards long, attested by my 
 
 MARK ! 
 
 "Wilt please you scan the trifling list, and when the task 
 
 be done, 
 " Give absolution for the same, and pardon every one !" 
 " Hold back your hand," the Prior spoke. "I may not 
 
 touch yon scroll, 
 "Whatever be the magnitude of sins upon your soul ; 
 " Your tongue must speak, and bended knee attest, with 
 
 humbled mien, 
 " Ere I, a priest, shall dare to stand your God and you 
 
 between. 
 " In yon confessional bend down, mine ear shall then 
 
 take in, 
 ^' And whatsoe'er the magnitude, relieve thee of thy sin."' 
 
 For three distressful hours, or more, those two held con- 
 verse low, 
 
 That Priest and penitent, alone, both screen'd from out- 
 ward show, 
 
 Yet what one spoke, and what one heard, no mortal s pen 
 may ^vrite, 
 
 Confession's seal o'er all is set, black, black, as black 
 midnight !
 
 2 54 THE TWIN BROTHERS. 
 
 But when, at length, good Ansehii came once more ta 
 
 light of day, 
 His hair, which erst had chestnut been, was iiirncd to 
 
 ashen gray ! 
 Nay more, his speech had well nigh fled, his eyes with 
 
 tears were dim. 
 He trembled like a palsied man, in every quivering limb. 
 Such horror chained his tongue : alack ! its functions had 
 
 to this-come. 
 He could not yield that penitent the usual " pax- 
 
 vobiscum," 
 But shaped itself in silent prayer that Heaven, in mercy 
 
 good. 
 Might send no more such penitent, io freeze, his very 
 
 blood ! 
 The bag of gold, his hungry clutch so late had closed 
 
 upon, 
 He took from out his leathern pouch, and dashed against 
 
 the stone. 
 Then turned his back, and would have passed in doleful 
 
 mood away. 
 But that his penitent cried out, in piteous accents 
 
 " Stay ! 
 " One other sin I would confess that weighs upon my soul 
 " More heavily than any yet — aye, heavier than the 
 
 whole. 
 " 'Tis this, and while the words come forth, my grief I 
 
 scarce can smother, 
 "For surely, as I live and breathe, I slew my only 
 
 BROTHER."
 
 THE TWIN BROTHERS. 255 
 
 ■" Oh ! horrible ! most horrible ! " the startled Prior 
 
 cried. 
 " Oh ! wretched man ! a second Cain ? Oh ! cruel 
 ' fratricide : " 
 " E'en as thou wilt," that sinner spoke, " 'twas thus it 
 
 came about, 
 " And of not quite an accident, befriend me such a doubt. 
 " As twins, of one dear mother born, myself and brother 
 
 grew, 
 " Like apples, blossoming on one stalk, most beautiful to 
 
 view, 
 " We loved, as only twins could love, till discord came 
 
 between, 
 ■"' And cut us from the parent stem, while yet our love was 
 
 green. 
 " It was a pink-faced Miller's maid, whose eyes of liquid 
 
 blue 
 " Looked kindlier on my brother than I thought that 
 
 brother's due ; 
 ^' We quarrelled, he and I, one day, for that fair maiden's 
 
 sake, 
 " And fought between yon river's side and yonder hazel 
 
 brake. 
 " We wrestled, fell, then rose again, till by one luckless 
 
 blow, 
 " With nigh a giant's mighty strength, I laid that brother 
 
 low ; 
 " A breathless clod of human clay, no woman's idol then, 
 " And I, the dealer of that death, the wretchedest of 
 
 men !
 
 256 THE TWIN BROTHERS. 
 
 " With madness seized, I bent me down, and looked 
 
 upon his face 
 " To note my mother's features there, in all their loving 
 
 grace; 
 " I dared "not meet that mother's eye — so, pondering 
 
 as I stood, 
 " Took up my brother's senseless form, and cast it in the 
 
 flood ; 
 " I saw the river close it o'er, then hastened far 
 
 away, 
 " An outcast, and a murderer, till this unhappy day : 
 " The Devil tempted me to sin, he hounds me on e'en 
 
 now, 
 " Else would I turn me from the scent, and take the 
 
 holy vow ! " 
 Uprose the Prior's stately form, two inches more in 
 
 height, 
 His eye lit up with something strange to its accustomed 
 
 light ; 
 His cheek — all blanched, till now — o'ercome with flush 
 
 of rosy red. 
 As thus, to his dire penitent, in solemn tones he said : 
 " Take heart of grace for that one sin. I would to 
 
 Heaven the rest . 
 " Might be atoned as readily, or bear thy conscience 
 
 test; 
 " Your brother did not die! but lives ! yon river's cool- 
 ing wave 
 " Closed o'er him for one instant — but, his charmed life 
 
 to save,
 
 THE TWIN BROTHERS. 257 
 
 " He rose, he battled mth the flood, its mastery to gain, 
 " And reached the shore to seek — alas ! his brother, but 
 
 in vain. 
 '' Lift up your eyes, and if so be, the name you bear is 
 
 ' Mingo,' 
 "In me — not dead, as you suppose — Behold the 
 
 LIVING ' Jingo ! ' " 
 
 What pen shall write, what power shall tell the joyful 
 
 recognition 
 Between those two long sundered hearts, of strangely wide 
 
 condition ! 
 The one all spotless in his fame, the other black as night, 
 Yet brethren, through one kindred tie, in blackest crime's 
 
 despite. 
 They gazed into each other's eyes, they clasped each 
 
 other's hand. 
 With feelings neither of the twain could rightly under- 
 stand. 
 They yearned towards each other, in a manner quite 
 
 correct 
 (The same as done upon the stage, with excellent effect) ; 
 But also yearned for something else, their mutual wants 
 
 to meet. 
 That something being, need we tell ? — a something good 
 
 to eat ! 
 They longed, in short, for dinner ! So, Avith steps of 
 
 eager haste 
 They bent them towards the^dining hall, no further time 
 
 to waste.
 
 258 THE TWIN BROTHERS. 
 
 But found — Oh, horror ! nothing left, of all that festive 
 
 store ; 
 The haunch, the sirloin, and the game — were each and 
 
 all — NO MORE ! 
 
 Those hungry Monks had eaten all — the roast, the boiled, 
 
 the fried — 
 The fish, the flesh, the soup, the bread, with everything 
 
 beside. 
 The veiy platters had been licked, the dishes too, I wot,, 
 One only thing remaining 'twas some 
 
 mustard in a pot ! 
 The gluttons had forgot their chief, in hunger's mighty 
 
 strain, 
 And gorged themselves so extra full : they could no more 
 
 retain. 
 Then, sought their pallets, just like hogs, to grunt the 
 
 time away. 
 Or dream, perchance, of feasts to come, another Easter 
 
 day ! 
 The Prior groaned, the Prior sighed, he really very 
 
 nearly cried. 
 But to the larder quickly hied, where nothing he again 
 
 ■ espied ; 
 Save one poor plate of toasted cheese, some four or five 
 
 days old, 
 And one poor slice of oaten cake, all blue with damp and 
 
 mould. 
 On which the pair, full sorely pressed, were fain at last 
 
 to dine. 
 Assisted by one half-pint jug of Adam's famous wine !
 
 THE TWIN BROTHERS. ■ 259. 
 
 Yet Still, when rising from that meal, good Anselm 
 
 meekly said 
 '' We thank thee, ever blessed Lord, for this, cur daily 
 ' bread." 
 
 Next day a sorrowing cry arose within that Abbey's 
 
 wall — 
 For PENANCE fell right heavily, at retribution's call ; 
 Those Monks had nought to eat or "drink, save bread and 
 
 water — all. 
 No beef, no mutton, pork nor veal, for one long linger- 
 ing week. 
 Till fasting brought them all so low, they scarce could 
 
 move or speak ; 
 " Peccavi " was their ceaseless cry, to Heaven's o'erarch- 
 
 ing throne, 
 ■" Peccavi ! oh, Peccavi," rose in one continuous 
 
 groan ; 
 But when, at last, y^rZ-Sunday came, and feasting own'd 
 
 their care. 
 Be sure they let their Prior and his brother take their 
 
 share I 
 
 Thus ends our tale, save what is left, one sole remaining 
 joint — 
 
 {All tails, e'en of Kilkenny cats, have one small final 
 point) 
 
 Six weeks passed o'er, the brothers twain in gentle con- 
 verse met. 
 
 The godly and the godless one, each willing to forget.
 
 sSo THE TWIN BROTHERS. 
 
 The Prior, hoping to prevail, and win his brother's soul, 
 
 To thoughts of hohness beyond this wicked world's con- 
 trol ; 
 
 He led him on, by loving words, his stubborn heart to 
 bow. 
 
 And promise in due course of time to take the sacred 
 vow. 
 
 But, mark the force of early crime, foo strong to set aside, 
 
 Which surges on — resistless — like the ocean's swelling 
 tide ; 
 
 On that same day, which should have seen him join God's 
 holy state. 
 
 He bolted from his hrotlicr — with the whole communion 
 
 PLATE ! 
 
 What next that wretched thief befel we never heard nor 
 
 cared, 
 And truly it don't matter how the wily villain fared — 
 But, of good Anselm, 'tis but just his virtues we record, 
 By stating that when passed from earth to Heaven for 
 
 his reward, 
 The Pope and all his Cardinals in solemn conclave met. 
 To canonise so good a man, lest ages should forget. 
 And did the thing genteelly too, with all befitting grace, 
 By name " Anselmo," as we find in many a votive place ; 
 But while they proudly dubb'd him so, in Rome's high 
 
 sounding lingo. 
 We English people know right well his proper name is 
 
 "Jingo !"
 
 No. IV.— TENPENNY NAILS. 
 A LEGEND OF ST. ANTHONY. 
 
 St. Anthony was a respectable man 
 And a capital saint, deny it who can ? 
 
 His many temptations and deep lucubrations 
 
 Are matters well known to all civilised nations ; 
 
 And, in spite of some startling, though small, 
 variations. 
 
 Which sometimes creep into the gravest narrations, 
 Especially such as are written in Latin, 
 On parchment by no means as smooth as white satin, 
 
 Then afterwards done into English by one 
 
 Who thinks it exceedingly orthodox fun 
 
 T' enlarge on a story so ably begun. 
 Are, doubtless, as true, though enveloped in mystery, 
 As ninety-nine other facts mentioned in history. 
 It is not, however, our present intention 
 To rake up old stories, and this fact we mention 
 Because — though veracious as those before stated — 
 This tale has by no means been often related, 
 For reasons — no matter — 'tis just now the same, 
 Be they cogent or not. Let us on to our theme. 
 
 St. Anthony was a respectable man, 
 And a virtuous saint, deny it who can ?
 
 262 TENPENNY NAILS. 
 
 He lived in a grotto ; he dined off roots ; 
 
 He wore no trousers ; he wore no boots, 
 
 Nor yet paper collars, nor even a shirt 
 
 (Save one made of horsehair on purpose to hurt). 
 
 But in place of all such, to his heels there hung 
 
 down 
 An exceedingly ill-fashioned morning gown, 
 With a hood at its back and a cord round the waist, 
 Which, to say at the least, was in shocking bad taste. 
 Insomuch as its kind was the same we now use 
 When the law bids its victims go die — in their shoes. 
 
 St. Anthony's cell was a dreary place ; 
 
 A rock was its roof, a rock was its base, 
 
 A stone was his table, a stone was his chair. 
 
 Not covered with moss, but chilly and bare. 
 
 A skull, a book, and a cross of stone 
 
 Were all the " goods " he might call his own. 
 
 Save an old conch-shell which the sea gave up 
 
 When he prayed, on its shore, for a drinking-cup. 
 
 St. Anthony dwelt in this lonely cell 
 
 From the daAvn of day till the vesper bell, 
 
 From the twilight hour till the midnight chime ; 
 
 L What was to him the flight of time ? 
 
 He knelt, till his knees were as rigid grown 
 As the flinty rock they were bended on, 
 
 Till their marrow was cold as the frozen main, 
 
 Yet swerv'ed he not from his place of pain. 
 
 But prayed, in lowly and suppliant strain, 
 
 That Satan might tempt him once more in vain !
 
 TENPENNY NAILS. 263 
 
 St. Anthony kneels on his hard rock still, 
 
 His knees, as before, are cold, 
 His eyes are flushed, but his lips are chill, 
 
 His beads he has well nigh told. 
 
 But stay ! . . . . 
 
 . . , What form of love and light 
 
 Is beside that prayerful anchorite ? 
 
 Is she a child of mortal birth 
 
 By sin and sorrow driven ? 
 Or comes she to this woe-worn earth 
 
 A minister of Heaven ? 
 'Tis Phroace — the Christian wife 
 
 Of Pagan Osmadel — 
 Her tale is one of domestic strife ; 
 
 Her petition, a true-love spell ! 
 
 "Avaunt thee, Sathanus !" Anthony cried, 
 
 " Ora pro me," his prayer ; 
 Whilst the lady — she sat at his dexter side 
 
 Like a statue — fixed as fair. 
 " O mihi beati Martini," * spoke 
 
 The Saint, in his doleful mood ; 
 While the lady, who thought he was merely in joke. 
 
 By his side still idly sued. 
 
 * It is much to be regretted that this beautiful expression — 
 a prayer to the blessed St. Martin— should have been cor- 
 rupted into the vulgar phrase, " O my eye and Betty Martin," 
 but such is the fact. " O tempora ! O mores ! "
 
 264 TENPENNY NAILS. 
 
 " mea culpa, salvum fac," 
 
 Quoth he of the serge dyed brown. 
 And cord to match — then flat on his back 
 
 To the earth, in a swoon, fell down, 
 Presenting a picture, by no means uncommon, 
 Of virtue made weak through the presence of woman ; 
 And furthermore — one which might serve to display 
 How strength might, through weakness, recover its sway, 
 For she who knelt by him — the wife in distress — 
 Did that which she ought (when did woman do less ?) 
 For she bathed both his temples with " Eau-de-Cologne,' 
 Or some such reviver, if that was unknown. 
 Perhaps she took brandy 
 As being more handy, 
 (We haven't much time now such trifles to bandy) 
 Whatever the means, poor St. Anthony soon 
 Rose up from the earth, and awoke from his swoon. 
 So rapidly getting both hearty and well 
 That Dame Phroace urged him to give her a spell, 
 Thus glibly proceeding her story to tell. 
 
 " The lord of my soul," quoth the lady fair, 
 
 " Has forsaken his lawful bed 
 " For the arms of a chit with carroty hair " 
 
 (It was auburn, inditiwg to red). 
 " He hath left me long, he hath left me sad, 
 " Now, this conduct I think so exceedingly bad, 
 " That, father, to you I have come for a true- 
 " Love-spell, which shall teach him such conduct to 
 
 rue
 
 TENPENNY NAILS. 265 
 
 " Till the end of his days, excepting he pays 
 " Better heed to my comfort, and mends his bad 
 ways." 
 
 Now St. Anthony was a respectable man, 
 
 And a very shrewd saint, deny it who can ? 
 
 But he could not well make up his mind that the dame 
 
 Who thus spoke was of flesh and of blood, just the same 
 
 As himself, but a devil, for some purpose evil 
 
 Come up from that place which to name is not civil. 
 
 On purpose to try if his powers of evasion 
 
 Were strong as they proved on a former occasion. 
 
 He looked on her face 
 Of matronly grace ; 
 He saw that her gown 
 Flowed modestly down, 
 That her eyes were in tears, 
 That she trembled with fears. 
 
 Yet, like bachelors all, as is shockingly common, 
 
 He put little faith in the tears of a woman. 
 
 And, therefore, determined to test, as he deemed. 
 
 If htr feelings were truly as deep as they seemed. 
 
 So smiling quite blandly, and looking jocose, 
 
 He first placed his thumb by the side of his nose. 
 
 Then said, in a manner dehghtful to see, 
 
 " I've got such a spell as will suit to a T, 
 
 " Please step in my chamber, and lie on my bed " — 
 
 Here the lady blushed deeply, the brightest of red —
 
 266 TENPENNY NAILS. 
 
 " I don't mean," he then stammered, " with me ta 
 
 lie down, 
 " But alone by yourself, nay, nay, never frown, 
 " Behold "... Here he opened a door in 
 
 his cell, 
 Disclosing, horror, what grieves us to tell. 
 For the tJiing he call'd " bed " was what she call'd a 
 
 harrow. 
 Some six feet in length, and exceedingly narrow, 
 With spikes all along it, and spikes all across, 
 And spikes down the middle, to make matters worse; 
 In short, 'twas a framework of rusty iron rails, 
 Most horridly garnished with tenpenny nails, 
 Their points all turned upwards ... * 
 . . . He showed her this bed. 
 " You'll find it uneasy at first, ma'am," he said, 
 " But heed not the pain, every torture jv// prove 
 " Shall be tenfold to him that has slighted your love, 
 " Every groan which you utter shall come from his 
 
 heart, 
 " Be your pangs then your comfort, while his be the 
 
 smart." 
 
 She looked at the saint, she looked at his bed, 
 " Excuse me," she cried, with a toss of her head, 
 
 " I'd much rather lie 
 
 " On bare boards till I die, 
 
 " A husbandless wife 
 
 " To the end of my life, 
 " And prove all the horrors of jealousy's strife.
 
 TENPENNY NAILS, 2^7 
 
 " Than touch, for one moment, yon horrible rack, 
 " On which, but to think, gives a pain in one's back. 
 
 " So I wish you good day," 
 ' She proceeded to say. 
 
 As she turned her away. 
 When the Saint thundered " Nay," 
 As with giant-hke strength he bore her away 
 To where the bed stood 
 » On two trestles of wood, 
 
 Then — her struggles despite, 
 With invincible might, 
 Laid her flat on the spikes, and squeezed her down tight ! 
 
 " Ha ! Ha ! " quoth he when the deed was done, 
 " Have I nail'd you, Old Satan ? What capital fun ! 
 "I'll now to my prayers." 
 
 The mid-day sun 
 Shines brightly o'er a couch where lies 
 
 The perjured Osmadel, 
 Gazed on by two bewitching eyes 
 
 Of her who loved him well ! 
 Who watched him in his slumbers calm, 
 
 With feelings of deep bliss. 
 And gathered from his lips the balm 
 Of love's ecstatic kiss ! 
 But whx does he start from the touch of her lip ? 
 He is seized with a horrible pain in his hip ! 
 He is pierced through his sides, through his arms, through 
 
 his back 
 By a thousand sharp points, as if placed on a rack !
 
 268 
 
 TENPENNY NAILS. 
 
 Or more strictly to tell, for description nigh fails, 
 
 As IF STRETCHED ON A FRAMEWORK OF TENPENNY 
 NAILS ! 
 
 Yet beneath him, in all seeming comfort, there spreads 
 The smoothest of linen, the softest of beds. 
 
 Hark ! Hark ! to his screams, he is raging with pain ; 
 
 He turns on his back, but his struggles are vain ; 
 
 He howls with the torture, he springs on one side, 
 
 He writhes like an eel, which objects to be fried; 
 
 Vain, vain are all efforts the spell to evade, 
 
 St. Anthony's bed is too carefully made, 
 
 St. Anthony's will is too potent a thing 
 
 For a sinner like him to break through with a fline ; 
 
 He must groan, he must suffer, till she he has wronged 
 
 Shall consider his punishment amply prolonged ; 
 
 He must weep till she smiles, he must curse till she prays, 
 
 Or St. Anthony's bed will soon finish his days. 
 
 But when did woman, kind as fair. 
 
 To mercy turn a deafened ear ? 
 
 To Nature's yearnings ever true 
 
 Be false ? though e'en revenge be due ! 
 The wife forgot not him she loved 
 
 When tortured by his ciy, 
 But spake the word which all removed 
 
 His further agony ! 
 
 St. Anthony prays in his cell e'en yet, 
 
 On his rock so bare and cold, 
 The sun of his life has almost set, 
 
 His beads he haswell n igh told.
 
 TENPENNY NAILS. 269 
 
 The Knight in his castle lives hard by 
 
 With his lady, so fair and young, 
 A happier couple beneath the sky 
 Ne'er left their loves unsung. 
 Their life is a pattern for all around 
 
 Of conjugal truth and bliss, 
 Their names are in every charity found, 
 
 They never do aught amiss ! 
 'Tis whispered they sought, with a delicate hint. 
 
 To conquer the old saint's pride, 
 By helping his penance, so hard and stint,' 
 In his cell by the cold hill-side. 
 But his ear was deaf to each word they said, 
 Some feathers they took him to make him a bed. 
 But the Saint he refused, saying " Those which he used 
 " Were of quality such as might not be abused." 
 For which truth, as exemplified in their own case, 
 They thanked him with emphasis deeper than grace, 
 But both notwithstanding led excellent lives. 
 The lady shunned Saints, the gentleman Wives, 
 They both eschewed scandal, read good moral tales, 
 And never more slept upon tenpenny nails !
 
 No. v.— THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 A LEGEND OF ST. MONDAY. 
 
 The night was dark, the wind was high, 
 While vivid Hghtnings rent the sky • 
 The wild winds blew a hurricane. 
 As up the waters of the Seine 
 A tiny shallop urged its course 
 Against the current's downward force, 
 To where a little islet stood 
 Encompassed by its rising flood. 
 
 That little isle was then, as now, a city famed as fair, 
 For Paris is, and Paris was, and long shall flourish there, 
 And though a thousand years have swept the tide of 
 
 time along, 
 That city, scarcely old as yet, was even then not young. 
 
 That tiny shallop reached the shore, its owner outward 
 
 stept. 
 Scarce waiting to secure his craft, but on his errand swept, 
 Nor drew his breath, nor slacked his speed, till near a 
 
 portal high, 
 AVhose grim monastic battlements frowned 'gainst the 
 
 darkling sky.
 
 THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 271 
 
 His errand was of life or death to one he loved full well, 
 
 The aid he sought was 'neath that roof, but where he 
 
 . could not tell, 
 
 ' Nor how to gain an entrance 'mid that dark o'erhanging 
 
 gloom, 
 
 Where all was secret as the night and silent as the tomb. 
 
 The tall twin-towers of Notre Dame, by lightning's flash 
 revealed, 
 
 Looked on that monastery down (which darkness all con- 
 cealed). 
 
 Beneath whose roof a stranger monk, whose name no man 
 could tell. 
 
 Had sought for many a weary year in solitude to dwell. 
 
 His fame was great throughout the land, as far as fame 
 could travel, 
 
 But whence he came, and what his age, no mortal could 
 unravel. 
 
 Howe'er he live d no tongue could tell, 
 But that he lived extremely well 
 Was plainly written on his face, 
 Where many a flower of ruddy grace, 
 From peony to blushing rose, 
 Took refuge . . . round about his nose, 
 And plainly spoke, as words could speak, 
 He fasted not through all the week. 
 
 No matter, he had gained a name for alchemy, not 
 
 fasting. 
 And many deemed the secret his of youth for everlastings
 
 272 THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 The elixir of eternal life long sought by mortal brain, 
 Was his, at least men whispered so, and whispered rather 
 
 plain, 
 For, certes, he wrought wondrous cures when " Doctors 
 
 were in vain." 
 
 Whate'er his age, a monk he seemed, a " Monk of orders 
 
 
 grey. 
 
 And though of questionable lore, held scatheless on his 
 
 way, 
 For while the Church was rather strict with folk of lax 
 
 professions, 
 And very often levied fines on men of large possessions, 
 Yet /le was never harmed, although a knight of high 
 
 renown 
 Was roasted at his own fireside for failing to kneel down 
 When through the streets a bishop rode the multitude to 
 
 bless. 
 With lighted candles by /u's side to make i/iet'r darkness 
 
 less. 
 Our monk, or doctor (which you please), abided no 
 
 control 
 Of king, or bishop, law or priest, o'er body or o'er soul ; 
 But did whate'er he willed to do, unchallenged on his 
 
 way, 
 A living, breathing mystery, a riddle of his day ; 
 His secret we may not disclose, but haste our tale to 
 
 tell. 
 To speak of him who came to seek, and what there next 
 
 befel.
 
 THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 273 
 
 The youth, our hero, strove to find by groping in the 
 
 dark 
 An entrance to that frowning pile which looked so grim 
 ' and stark ; 
 But no, all efforts seemed in vain, till, by good luck at 
 
 last, 
 He found, in some small cavity, a wicket not made fast; 
 Perhaps the weary janitor whose place it was to lock it 
 Had gone to sleep and kept the key, for safety, in his 
 
 pocket ; 
 Perhaps the man was — never mind, it matters not a 
 
 rush. 
 Tlie gate itself was fastened not, it yielded with a push, 
 Good manners, nathless, bade him knock ere daring to 
 
 walk in ; 
 He did so once, he did so twice, a most effective din. 
 Till, finding no one answered, and ill choosing to be 
 
 baulked. 
 He pushed the gate, strode quickly in, and onward 
 
 boldly stalked ; 
 Now reeling, in his progress dark, 'gainst some obstructive 
 
 wall, 
 Now struggling up a flight of steps, now stumbling nigh 
 
 to fall, 
 Now following up some fancied clue a passage to explore, 
 Till led by music's luring voice he reached a fastened 
 
 door. 
 Whence came forth echoes passing strange for that abode 
 
 of grace, 
 " A sound of revelry by night," extremely out of place.
 
 2 74 1"HE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 What was't he Iieard in chorus loud ? a song of grace or 
 
 prayer ? 
 Or both perchance. For holy monks alone abided there, 
 
 A chaunt, whose long drawn cadence fell 
 Upon his senses like a spell, 
 As nigh to making him forget 
 His errand, uncompleted yet. 
 He listened. Might it come to pass 
 Those monks were holding midnight mass ? 
 And yet — 'twas strange ! — if such could be, 
 For, 'midst the deep-toned harmony 
 Of manly bass, he heard the strain 
 Of female trebles, very plain ; 
 And, greatly wondering, listened on 
 With ears that drank in every tone. 
 Till listening lulled him in a dream 
 
 Of holy exultation. 
 That carried him, as in a stream 
 
 Of pure imagination. 
 
 He seemed to hear a heavenly choir, inviting his response, 
 So tuned his voice to concert-pitch, and braced him up 
 
 at once. 
 Loud crying out — with lungs of brass — but still with due 
 
 decorum, 
 " Laudamus te — laudamus te — In secula seculorum ! " 
 Then, falling on his bended knees, he knocked head, 
 
 nose, and chin, 
 'Gainst .something very hard indeed, and burst a 
 
 porlal in !
 
 THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 275 
 
 Hey, Presto ! AVhat a change of scene ! From darkness 
 
 into light ! 
 And what a vast " sensation " made his trembUng into 
 
 sight ! 
 But, ere we venture to explain what cajiic of such mis- 
 carriage, 
 We'll tell what 'twas our hero saw, nor sober truth dis- 
 parage. 
 Within a hall lit up like day, by lamps full many a score, 
 And round about a table sate two dozen monks or more, 
 With each a damsel on his knee, attired in virgin white, 
 Like holy nuns of high degree — a most imposing sight? 
 
 A jewelled cup each hand held up. 
 
 High fiU'd, but not with wine, 
 Yet something which had savour rich, 
 
 If odour might define. 
 A liquid sparkling as the day, 
 
 As beautiful — as bright. 
 With strength to steal men's brains away, 
 
 And steep their souls in night ; 
 The Doctor-monk he came to seek 
 
 Was in his glor}' there, 
 And occupied — we grieve to speak — 
 
 The presidential chair ! 
 
 While all — mcthinks we see them now, in goodly row 
 before us — - 
 
 Gave forth — with one accord and voice — a jolly drink- 
 ing CHORUS !
 
 276 THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 Hey, Presto ! With a fearful shriek each virgin nun 
 
 rose up, 
 Each dashed upon that chamber floor her jewell'd drink- 
 ing cup ! 
 Each vanished through an opening sHde made in that 
 
 chamber wall. 
 But not without some tripping up and many a stagger- 
 ing fall ! 
 The monks ! — good fellows, every one — though taken 
 
 sore aback, 
 Show'd more of stupor than surprise — for truly and alack ! 
 While struggling vaguely to rise up, but four alone 
 
 were able. 
 And so roll'd, helpless, on the ground, beneath the 
 
 banquet table. 
 Not thus, the " Doctor-Monk " — for he, uprising in a 
 
 trice. 
 With iron grip our hero seized, and held as in a vice, 
 For, towering seven feet high, at least, he held his victim 
 
 tight. 
 Without the power to speak or move. Alas ! unhappy 
 
 wight ! 
 One moment's pause — then, with a voice like some 
 
 vexed tiger's roar, 
 Thus spake the monk, " How cam'st thou here through 
 
 yonder shattered door ? 
 " What thing art thou that dar'st intrude upon our holy 
 
 mirth ? 
 " What seek'st thou in this sacred place, thou reptile of 
 
 the earth ?
 
 THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 277 
 
 " Speak, slave — or die ! " 
 
 " I'd rather live," our hero quickly spoke, 
 " For really my reception here's a very sorry joke, 
 ^VI came, dread monk, through open door to beg thy 
 
 leechcraft power, 
 " For one I love more dearly than the dew-drop loves 
 
 the flower ; 
 " For one whose life is ebbing fast, unless thou deign'st 
 
 to save, 
 " For one whose beauty should not pass thus early to the 
 
 grave ; 
 " Oh grant, dread Father, this my prayer — and Heaven 
 
 will surely bless 
 " The life-elixir which men say thou truly dost possess." 
 
 " Humph ! — is that all ? " — The monk spoke on, relax- 
 ing his strong hold, 
 
 " And yet methinks 'tis over much for one so rashly 
 bold, 
 
 " But since thine eyes have this night seen what eyes 
 ne'er saw before, 
 
 " A sight the which no babbling tongue must ever speak oj 
 more, 
 
 *' On pain of death, thy wish I grant — but firstly, swear 
 
 THE OATH." 
 
 '■'■ I swear," replied our hero — and "Amen" responded both. 
 " This Phial take," replied the monk, " and to thy 
 
 lady give 
 "Six tablespoons — o'erbrimming full — if thou would'st 
 
 have her live,
 
 278 THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 " Witli just so much lump-sugar, say a half-ounce or a 
 
 quarter, 
 " As may suffice to sweeten well a cup of boiling water. 
 
 " And now, one taste before thou goest of that we drink 
 this night, 
 
 " In token of the oaths thou'st sworn to keep with all 
 
 thy might." 
 Another phial brought he then, of somewhat bulkier note, 
 'Y^x&r^. poured one pint of eau-de-vie adown his viciinis throat f 
 
 Loud chuckling, as he turned aside, " Ha, ha ! be thine 
 to deem 
 
 " When sober, at return of day, thou'st dreamt a dread- 
 ful dream." 
 
 'Twas liquid fire our hero diank . . . 
 
 . . . The hall spun round and round ; 
 
 He saw ten thousand dancing stars, then fell upon the 
 
 ground, 
 And slept the sleep of innocence till twelve o'clock next 
 
 day. 
 Then woke up in a beetroot field, from Paris far away. 
 
 He sought 'his home, he found his wife uprisen and 
 
 quite well 
 (The doctor's happy absence may have saved her — who 
 
 can tell ?) 
 
 He tried his recipe on both with infinite delight, 
 And vowed the monk who gave it him must be a saint 
 outright.
 
 • THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 279 
 
 And so he was, for at his death the Pope, who owned 
 
 his merit, 
 Translated him to reahns above, with unctuous zeal and 
 
 , spirit. 
 Because — and here the truth leaks out — in striving to 
 
 discover 
 The secret of eternal youth — eternal wisdom's lover — 
 He truly did invent the still, and found it vastly 
 
 handy 
 For brewing, in his secret haunt, the very best of brandy. 
 By means of which he gained himself a fame of high 
 
 renown 
 With those who kept their spirits up by i^ouring spirits 
 down. 
 
 But whether for man's good or ill, 
 Or for some motive stronger, 
 He kept the secret of his skill 
 
 Till it would keep no longer. 
 He died, without one warning call. 
 
 The day which follows Sunday ; 
 And, as he owned no name at all, 
 
 They gave him this, " saint Monday."
 
 No. VI.— THE LOBSTER GHOST. 
 
 A le:gend of netley abbey, 
 
 I could a tail unfold. 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 In years gone by, when Netley's gorgeous fane 
 
 Was in its glory, 
 Or — to be more precise — in Richard's reign. 
 So famed in story 
 (We mean the lion-hearted one, of course. 
 Not him who cried " My kingdom for a horse "), 
 There dwelt a monk rotund, or, if you'd rather, 
 We'll say there lived a portly Holy Father, 
 Whose taste in feeding was so very queer. 
 He cared not half a dump for beef or beer, 
 Nor veal nor mutton, nor, indeed, for pork, 
 Nor pate-de-foix-gras, nor ham from York. 
 " From all things carnivorous," 
 He prayed, " The Lord deliver us," 
 Yet grew so fat and rosy. 
 So round and cosy, 
 
 That all his brother monks became astonished. 
 While he was not unfrequently " admonished " 
 For bringing scandal on a lean community, 
 By growing stout upon small opportunity.
 
 THE LOBSTER GHOST. 2S1 
 
 II. 
 
 The fact was this — our monk of Netley Abbey, 
 Though heiting J^es/i since first he was a " babby," 
 Had so much love ioxfish that 'twas his bent 
 To make the Hve-long year one rigorous " Lent." 
 On sahiion he doated, 
 On turbot he gloated, 
 In whiting and lampreys his taste was much noted. 
 But chiefly on fish, all whose bones were outside 
 (Both Cuvier and Bufifon suchyfi'/z-dom deride), 
 Like oysters and crabs did he mostly incline, 
 While lobsters he zuorshipfd with honour divine. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now, fish such as these was a luxury known 
 
 To the " upper-class " monks of that abbey alone ; 
 
 Not to " brothers " like him, all friendless and poor 
 
 (Whose diet we haste now to mention, 
 In order that all who now read may feel sure 
 We write with an honest intention.) 
 They'd flesh on but one day 
 (Of course that was Sunday), 
 With lettuce on Wednesday, and Tuesday, and 
 Monday. 
 Then, radish or lentils the rest of the week 
 (The merits of which it behoves not to speak). 
 One small matter else only needs but be known, 
 They had salt as a relish on Saints' -days alone, 
 K
 
 282 THE LOBSTER GHOST. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now, " Peter," our monk — for such was his name — 
 No relation, we think, to the " Hermit " of fame, 
 Held lettuce, and radish, and lentils, all three, 
 In as utter abhorrence as drunkards hold tea ; 
 
 So contrived, as men say, 
 
 In some underhand way. 
 
 By giving one " Bramble," 
 
 A robber from Hamble,* 
 "Whose race through life's course was one villanous 
 scramble. 
 
 Three times every week " absolution " from sin, 
 
 Whatever foul scrape he might chance to fall in. 
 
 This " Bramble " robb'd travellers, far off and near, 
 
 This " Bramble " cut throats very often, we fear. 
 
 This "Bramble" kissed maids as they should not be 
 
 kissed, 
 This " Bramble ^' found cattle before they were missed ; 
 
 But in deepest distress 
 
 Ne'er failed to " confess " 
 (Whenever he found himself out of the " mess ") 
 To our Monk, taking always beneath his loose dress 
 
 Choice lobsters, or crabs, 
 
 Or flounders, or dabs. 
 
 * A fishing village a short distance from Netley Abbey.
 
 THE LOBSTER GHOST. 283 
 
 Or salmon — well dried, 
 Or turbot — well fried. 
 In short, 
 ' What he thought 
 
 The most pleasing of aught. 
 In exchange for his " shrift," which Monk " Peter" 
 cut short, 
 Much shorter indeed 
 Than the act seemed to need, 
 But then, only consider, he wanted his " feed ! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 This odd course of things had its evil and good 
 
 As " Peter," our Monk, found too surely. 
 When " robbery " throve he had plenty of food. 
 
 When " plunder " was scarce he fared poorly. 
 In brief, 'twas exceedingly easy to tell 
 When " Bramble " did badly, or middling, or well, 
 By a glance at Monk " Peter," whose stomach would 
 
 swell 
 Like a mountain, or shrink like a cavernous dell. 
 Per example — one time when our robber was ill. 
 Undergoing a course of extremely blue-pill. 
 For three weeks or a month our poor Monk grew so 
 
 thin 
 That his bones stared with horror from out of his 
 
 skin. 
 And his shadow grew pale with the fright it was in ; 
 K 2
 
 2S4 T[IE LOBSTER GHOST. 
 
 While his friends in the abbey, 
 
 Though most of them flabby 
 
 And dabby, and crabby, 
 Took counsel betwixt in a manner most shabby, 
 Anent the expedience of — (how shall we tell-it-on) — 
 Making him " show" as a real living-skeleton? 
 
 VII. 
 
 But time passed away, our " robber " got well, 
 And throve once again, as histories tell. 
 He had " luck" with some Pilgrims, whose prayers were 
 
 all vain. 
 He had "luck" with a Miller, a great rogue-in-grain> 
 He had " luck " with a Knight, 
 Who had dined and was " tight," 
 So could not on horseback sit very upright. 
 
 He had " luck " with two Yeomen of Surrey and Kent, 
 Who carried between them their whole " yearly rent," 
 He had " luck " with an Abbot, whose mitre so fine 
 He filled to the brim with its owner's best wine. 
 Then quafied to his " blessing," while gaily he took 
 From his worshipful presence his "hook" and his 
 " crook." 
 
 At length, almost tired of his " luck " for the nonce. 
 And in view of his soul's constitution. 
 
 He bethought him to seek his friend " Peter " at 
 once 
 
 For an absolute absolution !
 
 THE LOBSTER GHOST.' 2S5 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He pack'd up most carefully — all fully grown — 
 rTwo dozen fat lobsters beneath his long gown 
 (Or jerkin, whichever you please it to call, 
 We don't think the thing really matters at all), 
 Then hied to Monk " Peter " and cast off the load 
 
 From his back, and his conscience as "^W, 
 And took to his old occupation — " The Road " — 
 Leaving " Peter," our Monk, in his cell. 
 His beads to tell. 
 While the curfew-bell 
 Rang out Me a funeral knell ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 The night was dark, the night was drear, 
 
 The vesper chime had rung. 
 Deep silence reigned both far and near, 
 
 Fair Netley's walks among. 
 Our Monk upon his pallet lay, 
 
 His holy duties done, 
 But, ah ? those lobsters ! Where were they ? 
 
 He'd eaten every one ! ! ! 
 Of twice a dozen all had fled, 
 
 The way such things oft go, 
 They left, alas ! their ocean bed 
 
 To be •' tuck'd in "—just so ! 
 Oh ! Oh ! Oh !
 
 286 THE LOBSTER GHOST. 
 
 X. 
 
 Upon his back the good Monk lay, 
 
 His eyeUds closed in sleep, 
 His nose gave fortli, as noses may, 
 
 A sound long, loud, and deep. 
 His mouth — wide open — seem'd a cave 
 
 (Or simile must fail). 
 Whence forth there peeped, as from a grave, 
 
 One buried lobster's tail. 
 But though asleep, if such may be, 
 
 And dead to outward scan, 
 A Dream, of horrible degree. 
 
 Oppressed his inward man. 
 A rush of waters filled his ear, 
 
 A vision met his sight, 
 A Monster, ten feet high {or near, 
 
 We love to measure right). 
 A thing betwixt a fish and beast, 
 
 All black as sable night, 
 With claws, like jaws, or such at least 
 
 As seemed that fearful sight. 
 A Lobster of gigantic size, 
 
 To make the matter plain. 
 Which "jumped " upon his stomach's rise, 
 And made him " howl " with pain. 
 " Base mortal," spoke the ghastly thing, 
 
 " Prepare a death to die, 
 *' A death of tenfold torturous sting, 
 " And this — the reason why —
 
 THE LOBSTER GHOST. 
 
 " You boiled my father and my brother, 
 " You made a salad of my mother, 
 " You hack'd my sister into pieces, 
 ' " You pickled all my pretty nieces ; 
 
 " My uncles perished 'neath your jaw, 
 " My aunts lie buried in your maw, 
 " For which base deed the gods who dwell 
 
 " In ocean's cave below 
 " Consign you to a watery hell, 
 
 " Where straightway you must go. 
 " Thus— thus— I claim thee." 
 
 In a trice 
 
 The horrid Monster seized 
 Monk " Peter " in his claw-like vice 
 
 And squeezed — and squeezed — and squeezed, 
 Until Monk " Peter's " face was black 
 
 As some Egyptian mummy, 
 And poor j\Ionk " Peter's " tongue— alack, 
 
 Was mute as any dummy. 
 Until— in brief— Monk " Peter " lay 
 
 After that monstrous " feed " 
 A thing of senseless, soddened clay, 
 
 Extremely dead indeed. 
 
 " Ha ! Ha ! " A voice rung in the air, 
 
 " Thus ends yon saintly mocker, 
 " And now — to seek my ocean lair, 
 
 " In Davy Jones's locker ! ! 
 
 287
 
 2 88 THE LOBSTER GHOST. 
 
 But when — next day— the prior came, 
 
 To Peter's lonely cell, 
 No Peter answered to his name, 
 
 As might be guessed right well. 
 For — in his love for lobster-food 
 
 At hunger's extra call — 
 We grieve to make it understood. 
 
 He'd swallow'd— Shells and all !
 
 ' No. VI.— THE BELLS OF AGINCOURT.' 
 A LEGEND OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " 'Twas night— and darkness " over Gallia's plain, 
 Nor moon nor star gave forth its trembling light 
 
 To bless the sylvan haunts of shepherd swain, 
 Or dance upon the waters like a sprite ; 
 Heaven frown'd on all things that most solemn night, 
 
 Wherein the hosts of England's proudest foe 
 
 ^ Spelt Azincourt in most of the old chronicles. The story 
 of which — like that of the bells in question, is shrouded in 
 much obscurity. It was my original intention to have written 
 a strictly historical ballad upon this subject ; but the more it 
 was attempted to ascertain real facts, the more apocryphal 
 did all received anecdotes appear, indeed, so much so, that it 
 was deemed expedient, after all, to assume a poetical fiction 
 —based only upon the presumed fact ; which accordingly has 
 been done. Touching these bells, it would appear, from the 
 late Mr. Heath's account, that they were those of the port 
 from which Henry embarked rather than those of Agin- 
 court ; but there is no proof of this, nor indeed any proof of 
 the matter at all, further than that some bells were brought 
 from France by Henry the 5th, two of which were lost at sea, 
 and the remaining number appropriated as is well known ; 
 even the story of the re-casting of these bells by Mr. Rudder 
 of Gloucester is enveloped in romance, for it is whispered that 
 gold, silver, and even jewels were thrown into the cauldron of 
 boiling metal. This is, however, beside the subject. All I 
 would wish to be understood is that I have taken this story 
 as seemed best suited to the purposes of a " Romance," which 
 the reader will kindly consider it to be.
 
 2gO THE BELLS OF AGINCOURT. 
 
 Look'd down with scorn on Monmouth's' hapless 
 plight, 
 Aiid mock'd his feebleness with braggart show ! 
 
 What sound is that which rends the sky 
 
 In cadence loud and long ? 
 It is a sound of minstrelsy 
 
 Of ribald jest and song ! 
 What light is that with ruddy glare 
 
 Which mounts to yonder cloud ? 
 'Tis theirs that feast, and feasting dare 
 
 Such deeds as ring aloud ! 
 
 The chivalry of puissant France, who sheath the sword 
 and pile the lance. 
 
 To cast them lots ' for England's King, Behold ! E'en 
 now the die they fling, 
 
 Stake fancied gold in plenteous store, Or wager damsels 
 by the score,* 
 
 And witless bid some ring a knell, On yonder neighbour- 
 ing convent's bell. 
 
 2 Henry Jth sumamed "of Monmouth," which was his 
 native town. 
 
 3 It is an authentic fact that two knights, " Louis de Bourne- 
 ville " and " Gustavo de St. Aumale," who were " confreres " 
 after the fashion of their time, did actually cast lots for the 
 honour of appropriating the personal ransom of our English 
 " Harry " in the event of their joint efforts being sufficient to 
 TAKE HIM PRISONER ! Oh ! that they had lived to read 
 " Mrs. Glasse," who wrote " first catch your hare." 
 
 * The anticipated capture of our English maidens led to 
 such wagers being made.
 
 THE BELLS OF AGINCOURT. 29 1 
 
 To toll the doom of Britain's might 
 Upon that dark and starless night. 
 
 Ding-dong Ding-dong Ding-dong dell 
 List ! To the deep-toned convent bell ! 
 
 Yet hark ! Another sound draws nigh 
 
 In cadence sweet and clear, 
 Which breathes no thought of revelry, 
 
 But one of lowly prayer ! 
 Another light is shining too 
 
 Amidst the gloom of Heaven, 
 'Tis theirs that kneel, and kneeling sue 
 
 'Fore God — to be forgiven ! ^ 
 
 'T 
 
 is Britain's host in numbers small, Resolved to fight or 
 
 fighting fall, 
 Who set no store on limb or life, But don each buckler 
 
 for the strife, 
 Thong well each bow — poise well each lance — Nor vainly 
 
 scorn the power of France, 
 But yet with courage boldly sing " God bless great Harry 
 
 — thrice a King ! " 
 
 And may each coward live to shame 
 Who fears to die for England's fame ! 
 
 Ding-dong Ding-dong Ding-dong dell, 
 Hark ! To the solemn passing bell ! 
 
 ' Whilst the army of King Charles was rioting in feasting 
 and debauchery, the hosts of England^wcre engaged in fast- 
 ing and praying.
 
 292 THE BELLS OF AGINCOURT. 
 
 " What means yon funeral note ? " King Henry cried ; 
 " It means our knell," a Brother's* voice replied. 
 "God's faith !'" again spoke he of kingly trust, 
 " It may ring theirs ! whilst Heaven protects the just !" 
 
 Uprose the golden fingered Sun In robes of purple dight ! 
 
 A glorious field to shine upon As ever owned his might ! 
 
 An hundred thousand^ glittering crests Each mirror'd 
 back his ray, 
 
 An hundred thousand mail-clad breasts All proud in 
 war's array, 
 
 An hundred thousand arms of might grasped bow or 
 blade or spear, 
 
 All eager for the coming fight — All enemies to fear ; 
 
 E'en they — the tithe of all that host' Brave Ehgland's 
 loyal few, 
 
 "Who counted life too small a cost With honor still in view. 
 
 E'en THEY the onset proudly made With bowmen stout 
 and tall, 
 
 Nor tarried yet when, all dismay'd, Two thousand French- 
 men fall,'° 
 
 6 The Duke of Bedford— the King's brother. 
 
 7 This was Henry's usual oath. 
 
 8 One hundred thousand is the generally received opinion 
 of the united strength of both armies— but no two records 
 coincide. 
 
 9 Ten thousand was certainly the entire number of fighting 
 men in the British army— some historians place it at eight 
 thousand only. 
 
 ^'' Two thousand of the enemy are said to have fallen from 
 bowshots only, and that at the onset of the engagement.
 
 THE BELLS OF AGINCOURT. 293 
 
 But charged still on — still hotly on — Like some strong 
 
 torrent's force, 
 Which brooks no curb its power upon, But rushes on its 
 
 ' course. 
 
 And where is He — the brave and young 
 
 Who leads this patriot band ? 
 Behold him — midst the glorious throng, 
 
 Imperious to command ! 
 See ! Where he bends him o'er his steeJ, 
 
 By Heaven ! His lite is o'er — 
 Yet no ! He rights again with speed, 
 
 More kingly than before ! 
 He deals a death in every blow. 
 
 His eye commands the field, 
 He lays an hundred nobles low. 
 
 And bids their legions yield. 
 Nor thus alone doth England's might 
 
 Its conquering arm display, 
 Each Baron bold, each stalwart knight, 
 
 Hath borne him well to-day. 
 Nor breathed there one of lowlier feme 
 
 So poor — so base a slave. 
 But earned that hour a soldier's fame, 
 
 Or filled a patriot's grave. 
 
 The battle done. The victory nobly won. 
 
 Who now so meek as England's regal son ? 
 
 " Give Heaven all praise — Not ours the glory be, 
 
 '' But His who formed the skies — the earth — the sea.
 
 2 94 THE BELLS OF AGINCOURT. 
 
 " God's mighty name let all our prayers invoke ! 
 " How call they yonder tower ? "" 
 
 Thus briefly spoke 
 The youthful hero — not in boastful pride, 
 But calm decision — Whilst a voice replied 
 "Tis call'd — dread Sovereign — that of Agincourt." 
 " Then be so named this battle we have fought," 
 Quoth England's Harry — who not pomp nor power 
 Could win from grateful thanks in that proud hour, 
 Which swept the clouds of doubt from hope's bright sky 
 To show the sun of glorious victory ! 
 
 Tis o'er — 'tis o'er — The day is past — Theclash of arms 
 
 is still at last, 
 The legions of a conquered foe In shame or death are 
 
 humbled now, 
 And England's host, a valiant band, Prepare to leave the 
 
 Gallic strand, 
 They seek their ships ! — when hark ! a sound bursts 
 
 through the air with joyous bound, 
 What is't ? A Bell ! — aye one, two, three. And twice as 
 
 many — rung Avith glee. 
 No solemn knell is theirs I trow — No dirge-like note of 
 
 sorrow now, 
 But rather joy. 
 
 11 The exact sense of these words are made use of on the 
 occasion accordmg to ALL authorities.
 
 THE BELLS OF AGINCOURT. 295 
 
 " What means yon strain ? " 
 Quoth Royal Harry yet again, 
 " jMethinks it jars right viciously 
 " Upon an hour wherein men die — 
 *' What deed is this without a name ! 
 " Doth Frenchmen sorrow thus for shame ? " 
 
 " They sorrow not — Great England's King — 
 " They sorrow not that peal who ring, 
 " But cast your glory in the slime 
 " With every note of that rude chime, 
 " And hail your parting nigh at hand 
 "From this your own thrice conquered land." 
 
 " God's faith ! ('Twas thus King Henry swore,) 
 " Be SUCH their theme ! Then never more 
 " In this the land which gave them birth 
 *' Shall ring such notes of idle mirth. 
 " Unsling each bell from roof or tower 
 
 " And bear them o'er the main, 
 "A pledge of England's slighted power, 
 
 " But slighted not in vain ! 
 " A goodlier home they soon shall find 
 
 " My native hills among, 
 " Where men are brave — and maids are kind, 
 " And honour rules the thron?. 
 
 " Adown the stream of gentle W^ye, 
 
 " Shall flow their tuneful melody, 
 
 " And Monnow's tower — and Monnow's tide, 
 
 " Shall own them with a fitting pride.
 
 296 THE BELLS OF AGINCOURT. 
 
 " This swear we now — while yet they ring, 
 "And Heaven records me, England's King !" 
 
 'Tis done— 'tis done— Britannia's sun shines o'er those 
 
 sacred bells, 
 And what a deed of noble meed Their solemn history 
 
 tells ! 
 The voice of nigh five hundred years Is in their iron 
 
 tongue, 
 What countless joys— what countless fears Their metal 
 
 chime hath sung ! 
 
 And oh ! how sweetly through the air 
 
 Their melody yet swells, 
 When calling to the house of prayer, 
 
 Those merry MoNMOUTH^bells ! 
 
 Supplementary Note.— It is a somewhat curious fact, 
 and strangely illustrative of Gallic character, that in most of 
 their modern maps the name of "Agincourt" does not ap- 
 pear at all--it is blotted out of all documentary record— but 
 whether such will blot it out of history is quite another thing 
 - English history will never be without it, though all else die.
 
 No. VII.--" JOSEPHINE." 
 
 The Daily Telegraph of some few years ago relates, as a 
 fact, that a certain NuN, being unable to recover by legal 
 means a debt of several thousand francs, was told by the 
 Bishop OF Malines to supplicate the figure of St. Joseph in 
 a neighbouring church to intercede for her. She did so, 
 and immediately recovered the debt through the Saint's 
 interposition. 
 
 LEGEND. 
 
 Oh ! List to the stoty of Miss Josephine, 
 
 A damsel unfavoured by chance, 
 Who, left a lone orphan at sweet seventeen. 
 Set up a small shop in a place called " Malines," 
 
 For selling the liquors of France. 
 
 She dealt in Absinthe, Ordinaire, Eau-de-vie, 
 
 Champagne, both Moet and Cliquot, 
 BeaujoUais, Epernez, Montfagon, Chablis, 
 With Claret of oldest and youngest degree, 
 The best and the worst of Bordeaux. 
 
 She was not good looking, in fact " au contraire," 
 The women all voted her " plain," 
 
 She'd the vilest of squints and the reddest of hair ; 
 
 Her complexion was also extremely un-fair. 
 Notwithstanding all which she was vain.
 
 298 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 With hope to get married she ogled and sighed, 
 
 Behind her small " cabaret " bar, 
 Got "cut" for her squint, had her hair nicely dyed. 
 Wore stays laced up tight (with some padding inside). 
 
 And played on the Spanish guitar. 
 
 But the men — horrid monsters ! — fought shy of her charms 
 
 (True valour should never be rash). 
 Their love was unmingled with Cupid's alanns, 
 They rushed to her wine-shop, but not to her arms, 
 
 And paid, not in kisses, but cash ! 
 
 For twenty long years did Miss Josephine thrive 
 
 (Though by rights we should say " Madoiselle "), 
 Her riches increased like the store of a hive, 
 Where the busy bee ceases not daily to strive, 
 And adds to the wealth of her cell. 
 
 Till nigh upon " forty," that sad bourne of fate, 
 
 From which no born woman can run. 
 She sickened of hope, took to piety — late, 
 Turned her love for base man into venomous hate^ 
 
 And changed herselt into a Nun ! 
 
 Yet think not, while yielding her person to Heaven, 
 
 She gave up her wealth gained on Earth ; 
 Ah I no — the hard cash which for years had been striven, 
 She placed in a bank where good interest was given. 
 Like one who well counted its worth.
 
 JOSEPHINE. 299 
 
 Not quite all ; for some six thousand francs, be it told, 
 
 Was due to Miss Josephine still, 
 From the vintner who purchased the shop she had 
 
 sold, 
 But who could not pay all in silver or gold. 
 
 And so put her off with a " Bill." 
 
 'Twas a rare cunning trick, for he thought that a Nun 
 Could bring neither " action " nor " plaint," 
 
 So he counted his creditor pretty well " done," 
 
 And chuckled in secrecy over the fun 
 Of swindling an Embryo Saint. 
 
 But he reckoned quite ^vrongly, as most persons will 
 
 Who take small account of their host, 
 For when due some endorser presented that " Bill," 
 Which ^^ failed to "take up" {though Mdcash in his 
 till). 
 
 And made the transaction his boast. 
 
 The billbroker hastened to Miss Josephine, 
 
 Not over well pleased, be it said. 
 He found her a figure not fit to be seen. 
 Doing 'po.ndincQ for something which should not have been, 
 
 With a "duster" wound over her head.'^ 
 
 * See the celebrated " Starr Trial," wherein a "duster" 
 thrown over the head was veritably imposed as a penance.
 
 00 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 o 
 
 On hearing the news she turned pale with dismay, 
 
 But cunningly veiled her chagrin. 
 " Go, tell him," she said, in her amiable way, 
 " I send a collector who'll soon make him pay, 
 
 " Or my name is not Miss Josephine." 
 
 She went to her cell, where an image hung high, 
 
 St. Joseph of Arimathea ; 
 She told him her tale, with a sob and a sigh, 
 She showed him the " bill," with a tear in her eye. 
 
 And begged that he righted would see her ! 
 
 Next day, while her debtor was serving out wine, 
 
 An elderly gentleman came — 
 In dress like a friar, in aspect divine, 
 Who said, " Pay this bill for a client of mine. 
 
 Or bear what shall follow the blame." 
 
 " I won't," quoth the vintner ; " Then mark," quoth the 
 saint 
 
 (For of course it was Joseph himself), 
 " I'll return this day week to renew my complaint, 
 " Meanwhile, an embargo, by way of a taint, 
 
 I lay upon cellar and shelf" 
 
 The saint hied away. Three customers came 
 With cheerfulness stamped on their faces. 
 Each called for his " glass," absinthe was its name, 
 But scarcely had each one put lips to the same 
 Than he made the most hideous grimaces.
 
 JOSEPHINE. 301 
 
 ^' ' Ventre bleu,' ' Sacre toi,' ' A la Diable,' " they cried, 
 
 " What rascals you wine selling men are ! 
 " We asked for absinthe, and have paid for beside, 
 ■ " 'Tis a liquor no Frenchman of sense can deride, 
 
 " But you've dosed us with rhubarb and senna ! " 
 
 Their host looked amazed, and so tasted the stuff. 
 
 With an air of extreme self-possession, 
 But one single drop was indeed " quantum suff.," 
 'Twas what chemists all dub a " black draught," sure 
 enough. 
 
 And nasty beyond all expression. 
 
 Forebodings came on, he uncorked some Bordeaux, 
 
 Well knowing its virtues and faults ; 
 "Twas decoction of aloes, of wormwood and sloe, 
 Likewise his Champagne, both M5et and Cliquot, 
 
 While his Chablis was mere glanber salts ! 
 
 He tasted all round, every bottle and cask. 
 
 In cellar, on counter, on shelf. 
 But vain was all labour, most wretched the task. 
 There ivas nothing hut J>/ijs/c in bottle or flask. 
 
 As sadly he proved to himself 
 
 So he shut up his shop for the rest of the week 
 
 And took in a fresh stock of wine, 
 Determined in future a good name to seek 
 By selling good things (a remarkable freak 
 
 In one of the publican line).
 
 3°- JOSEPHINE. 
 
 But with the first dawn of his re-opening day, 
 
 And ere he'd one coin in his till, 
 There came the same friar, who asked him to pay 
 (In a very decided yet amiable way) 
 
 Miss Josephine's dishonoured bill. 
 
 Once more he refused, and once more did the Saint 
 
 (For the Saint and the Friar were one) 
 Depart on his errand with just the same plaint — 
 " I grant you one week, but meanwhile bear the taint 
 " Of that you so basely have done." 
 
 No sooner alone was our host in his shop 
 
 Than he laughed, in his folly, right out, 
 When " Bang " went each bung in his cellar, and " Pop " 
 Each cork from each bottle, while forth every drop ^ 
 Of their liquor went streaming about. 
 
 It ran through his door to the gutters outside, 
 
 Its flood he obstructed in vain. 
 The little boys opened their little eyes wide. 
 And shouted with joy as its course they descried. 
 
 Believing it red-coloured rain. 
 
 *o 
 
 Their mothers, too, came with platter and dish 
 
 And basin, to ladle it out ; 
 Some drank as it ran, hke bibulous fish, 
 Some drank out of shoes to the full of their wish, 
 
 And reeled, like blind topers, about.
 
 JOSEPHINE, 303 
 
 Some stored it in bottles (well mingled with mud), 
 
 To drink at the close of the day ; 
 But the vintner who owned it despairingly stood, 
 As he thought on the Friar, with sorrowful mood, 
 
 For the rest of that terrible day. 
 
 " 'Tis the Devil himself," our host loudly cried, 
 
 His voice by ill luck sadly shaken ; 
 " But if, by such tricks as the one just now tried, 
 " He thinks I shall pay him, with interest beside, 
 
 " He'll find himself greatly mistaken." 
 
 Once more, at the ending of seven days' flight, 
 
 He took to his shop a fresh stock ; 
 His corks he wired down and his bungs he nailed tight, 
 Determined no force short of Satan's worst might 
 
 Again at his fortunes should mock. 
 
 Once more came the Friar, presenting his " Bill," 
 
 Once more did the debtor refuse ; 
 He had money galore in the depths of his till, 
 But to pay a just debt was no part of his will, 
 
 So he shouted " To pay I don't choose." 
 
 " Then take," quoth the Friar, " my last parting gift," 
 
 As gently he tweaked the man's nose, 
 And vanished .... 
 . . . . without even deigning to lift 
 One glance towards the debtor, who hugged his own thrift, 
 
 And turned to enjoy his repose.
 
 3O4 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 But e'en as he turned in his triumph away, 
 
 He felt a shght twitching sensation, 
 His nasal protub'rance grew — how shall we say ? 
 Not hot, nor yet cold, in an usual way. 
 
 But still, with an odd irritation. 
 
 He scratched it with vigour, he scratched it again, 
 
 The tingling grew worse than before. 
 He scratched and he scratched, well nigh maddened 
 
 with pain, 
 But all his hard scratching was scratching in vain. 
 
 He scratched till he could not scratch more. 
 
 He rushed to a mirror, he looked on his face ; 
 
 O, Horror ! Could such thing be true ? 
 His nose, while he scratched it, had lengthened apace,. 
 And e'en while yet watching, with frightened grimace. 
 
 Still longer the wretched thing grew ! 
 
 Two inches per hour was the rate of its growth, 
 
 He watched it the whole blessed day, 
 And scratched all the time, though to do so was loath, 
 With one hand at first, but afterwards both, 
 
 He could not keep either away. 
 
 He hastened to bed with his mind ill at rest. 
 
 He hid his face under the clothes, 
 But woke up next morn with his fears unredresst. 
 For twenty-four inches he sadly confest, 
 
 Had lengthened the point of his nose.
 
 JOSEPHINE. 305 
 
 Thus growing at forty-eight inches per day, 
 
 In a week it so lengthy was found ; 
 He strove round his body to coil it away, 
 'Till, poor wretched vintner ! we tremble to say, 
 
 It nearly reached on to the ground. 
 
 The sight was " a caution," no rest could he find, 
 
 His torments grew stronger and stronger ! 
 The weight of his nose was a weight on his mind. 
 So long did it grow past what nature designed. 
 That he really could bear it no longer. 
 
 At length came repentance, with heart very sore, 
 
 He hastened to Miss Josephine, 
 He sought out her convent, he knocked at the door 
 {Twelve little boys carried his nose on before), 
 
 And beg'd she would quickly be seen. 
 
 She came at his beck (with no duster at all 
 
 On her head, to look dirtily funny) 
 He cringed at her feet, kissed the hem of her " fall," 
 He prayed her the Saint's fearful gift to recall. 
 
 And paid every franc of the money ! 
 
 Back homeward he trudged (it was just half a mile) 
 
 And found, to his joyful surprise. 
 That his nasal protub'rance grew shorter the while. 
 Till he reached his own door, when he saw with a smile, 
 
 It had shrunk to its natural size !
 
 3o6 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Moral. 
 
 Don't swindle at all ! lest in fortune's swift race 
 
 You chance to get left in the lurch ; 
 To swindle at all is a deed without grace, 
 But if you must swindle, to keep with the pace, 
 Don't swindle a saint of the Church !
 
 THE FALL OF PAEIS. 
 
 JANUARY, 1871. 
 
 Not to the iron storm of shot or shell, 
 Imperial Paris — " Queen of Cities " — fell, 
 Not to the thunders of beleag'ring foe ! 
 Not to Heaven's mimic lightning here below ! 
 
 Not to the dash of battle's flash, 
 
 Not to the combat-grand of warriors hand to 
 hand, 
 Wliere courage, truth, and sacred honour throw. 
 Their halo round the victor's laurell'd brow ! 
 Not 'midst the sonorous din Avhich notes afar 
 " The pomp and circumstance of glorious war ! " 
 
 To none of such brave foes 
 
 As chivalry yet knows. 
 
 Or Christian tolerance, with many a sigh, 
 Accords to hush within her conscience-cry. 
 
 But to gaunt Famine ! conqueror most foul ! 
 That Demon, born of want !— That human Ghoul ! 
 Whose jaws distending, pestilent and wide, 
 Are all remorseless, like to Ocean's tide 
 Which swallows, and still swallows, rolling on — 
 A silent vanquisher that spares, for none.
 
 
 
 oS THE FALL OF PARIS. 
 
 Brave men were there to guard each bastion'd wall, 
 
 Fair women to uphold true honour's call, 
 
 Sweet children, whose pure lips, devoid of guile. 
 
 Spoke wondering words that forced the pitying smile ; 
 
 But manly strength, and woman's potent love. 
 
 Were powerless alike their foe to move. 
 
 Strength became weakness 'neath gaunt Famine's touch, 
 
 Sustaining love, through tension over-much. 
 
 Grew nerveless to do battle Anth that hour 
 
 Of nature's want, and hunger's ruthless power. 
 
 Old men, with feeble cry. 
 
 Were left to slowly die ! 
 Babes, yet unborn, within their mother's womb, 
 Found,- in their innocence, a living tomb ; 
 
 Happier than they who pined away 
 
 Upon their mother's breast — To sink at rest. 
 For lack of that which Heaven had all supplied, 
 Till Man, in Christian mockery, denied. 
 Oh ! what a sight of proud humility, 
 
 LuTiTLA. ! in her morning garb was there ; 
 A weeping mother, 'neath a weeping sky ; 
 
 A widowed Goddess in her deep despair. 
 
 Her iron-girdle tightly drawn. 
 
 Her agonies all laughed to scorn, 
 
 Her children, such as death had spared 
 
 (In luxury of habit reared), 
 
 To such base craving doomed at last, 
 
 As made it luxury to fast, 
 
 Almost TO DIE !
 
 THE FALL OF PARIF. 
 
 309 
 
 While he whose scorpion-rod 
 Posterity will call the " Scourge of God," 
 A second "Atilla," looked on each day 
 ' With eyes all pitiless, yet dared to pray ! 
 
 And thanked that Providence which gave him power 
 (More great than Samson, in his dying hour) 
 To slay ten thousand by one mortal blow, 
 His lust of conquest and of pride to show, 
 And wherefore ? 
 
 But to clutch a shadowy crown, 
 Jewelled with orphans' tears ! — His loftier Throne 
 A Golgotha ! — His Robe-Imperial dyed 
 With blood of Patriots whom his wrath defied. 
 His conquering hosts, a licensed robber-band. 
 His vast inheritance, one mourning land. 
 
 'Tis done ! two flags o'ertop that City's wall — 
 
 " King Famine's," and " King William's " conquerors 
 
 tall ! 
 Twin " MoLOCHS " side by side, they fitly show 
 The right of might in this our realm below, 
 Where mercy, born of justice, hides for shame. 
 And Christians blush for their dishonour'd name. 
 Henceforth let Pagans boast their milder code, 
 That strikes to kill, not torture by the road, 
 Which claims no high behest of moral law, 
 To stay the sword which vengeance fain wor.ld draw, 
 Nor owns the mocking phrase of " Peace on Earth, 
 Good will to men " — Let future times give birth 
 To future verdict — This be oifrs, to-day.
 
 3IO THE FALL OF PARIS. 
 
 " A ruthless deed for sorrow to repay ! 
 
 " A crime of crimes for ages yet unborn 
 
 " To bear the penalty, while yet they mourn ! 
 
 " A Cadmus-sowing, to be reaped in steel, 
 
 " Whose harvest growth such horrors must reveal 
 
 " As history's pen hath ne'er recorded yet, 
 
 " And when recorded, never can forget ! " 
 
 Just Heaven ! avert from England's sacred fame 
 
 The lust of conquest burthen'd with its shame, 
 
 But if, at honour's call, she deigns to fight, 
 
 Then — War be Hers, and God defend the right."
 
 SELECTIOXS 
 
 FROM THE VERSIFIED PORTION OF A 
 
 SACRED ORATORIO, "ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST."' 
 
 WRITTEN AND COMPOSED, 1830 
 
 OPENING CHORUS — SING TO JEHOVAH ! 
 
 Sing to Jehovah. O, sing to the Lord, 
 
 Be joyful and praise Him in tuneful accord, 
 
 Praise we Jehovah, who governs alone. 
 
 The earth is His footstool ; the heavens are His throne. 
 Praise Him, ye mountains ; praise Him, ye hills ; 
 Praise Him, ye fountains ; praise Him, ye rills ; 
 Praise Him, ye deserts, where hot winds abide, 
 Praise Him, ye valleys, where cool waters glide, 
 Praise Him, ye nations with joyful accord, 
 Oh ! Sing to Jehovah. Oh ! Sing to the Lord. 
 
 QUARTETTE. 
 
 List ! List ! 'Tis the cry of a sinner despairing ! 
 'Tis the proud one cut off in his daring !
 
 [3 ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST. 
 
 'Tis the howl of the scorner brought low in his pride ! 
 'Tis the moan of the prayerless by mercy denied, 
 'Tis the sting of that death which makes sorrow his 
 
 slave, 
 'Tis the victor)' which darkness gains over the grave ! 
 
 TRIO. 
 
 Sing ! Sing ! Rejoice and be glad, 
 
 Hope for the penitent, joy for the sad, 
 
 For the Lord hath looked down with a merciful eye, 
 
 And heard, in compassion, Jerusalem's cr)^, 
 
 He hath said that through Faith shall redemption 
 
 be found. 
 Though the sins of the seeker do greatly abound ; 
 Give heed to His precepts, abide His control, 
 And the death ye now dread shall be life to your 
 
 soul. 
 
 CHORUS. — Sing to Jehovah, Sec, &c. 
 
 SOLO — ARIA. 
 
 Grounded on St. Luke, Chapter i., verses 6 and 7. 
 
 In righteousness before their God, 
 The path of His commands they trod, 
 And blameless kept His holy way, 
 Whose precepts never lead astray.
 
 ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST. 313 
 
 With prayerful lip and praiseful song 
 They travelled life's sad course along, 
 Nor murmured yet at heaven's decree, 
 Though childless yet their lot might be. 
 When crowning mercy came at last, 
 And sorrow's pang was all o'ercast. 
 What joy so pure on earth below 
 As that heaven's chosen servants know? 
 
 SOLO — THE SONG OF ZACHARIAS. 
 
 Founded on St. Luke, Chapter i., verses 68 to 74. 
 
 For ever blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel, 
 
 His Name for ever be adored that loveth man so well. 
 
 That steppeth from His throne on high a human path to 
 
 trace, 
 And brought salvation from the sky to save a sinful 
 
 race. 
 Salvation's horn Thou dost uphold Thy servants' eyes 
 
 among, 
 According as Thy prophets told while yet the world was 
 
 young. 
 That we from those who love us not might surely 
 
 saved be, 
 In token of the covenant our fathers held from Thee — 
 
 L
 
 314 ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST. 
 
 That Thou wouldst to their race proclaim a blessed 
 
 deliverance near, 
 When all who laud Thy holy Name may worship without 
 
 fear, 
 In lowliness and righteousness a tribute prayer to sing 
 Of man's regenerate thankfulness to Heaven's eternal 
 
 King ! 
 
 CHORALE — ST. JOHN's PRAYER. 
 
 Lord of the earth, Lord of the sky, Thou that endurest 
 
 eternally, 
 Spurn not my prayer, scorn not my cry, Thou that 
 endurest eternally ; 
 Less than the least on earth that dwell, 
 Grant me the grace Thy power to tell, 
 
 Lord of the earth ! Lord of the sky ! Thou that 
 endurest eternally ! 
 
 Soon shall the world Thy brightness see. Thou that 
 
 endurest eternally, 
 Deign but one ray, O Lord ! to me, Thou that endurest 
 eternally, 
 Teach me the path Thy feet shall trace, 
 That I may kiss each holy place. 
 
 Lord of the earth. Lord of the sky, Thou that 
 endurest eternally.
 
 ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST. 315 
 
 CANTATA — THE BAPTISM OF CHRIST. 
 
 Where Jordan's sacred waters glide A form of beauty 
 
 stood ; 
 The seal of Heaven was on His brow — A mortal, 'yet 
 
 a God ; 
 Beneath His feet those waters ran, Their tribute kiss 
 
 to pay, 
 Then went, unlike regardless man, Rejoicing on their 
 
 way. 
 
 Nor yet alone by Jordan's flood, That form of light and 
 
 beauty stood. 
 For one was nigh who, long ere then, Had shunned the 
 
 dark abodes of men, 
 And tarried by that waterside, His Saviour's coming 
 
 to abide. 
 He came ! the high and mighty One, The Lord of 
 
 mercy came, 
 And proved, beneath the hand of John, That sacra- 
 mental stream 
 Which flows e'en yet, and aye shall flow, Till earth's 
 
 remotest day 
 Heaven's pledge that Man, like it, shall go Rejoicing on 
 
 his way.
 
 
 
 x6 ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST. 
 
 CANZONET. 
 
 'Tis not in wealth nor worldly power, 'tis not in wisdom's 
 
 boastful hour, 
 'Tis not in youth's celestial voice, to bid the Christian's 
 
 soul rejoice. 
 
 Riches on Earth are tears in Heaven, 
 Power but enslaves where'er 'tis given. 
 Wisdom in man is folly's test, 
 Youth but a fleeting charm at best. 
 
 Faith in a Saviour's boundless love is wealth below, and 
 
 power above, 
 Whilst treacherous wisdom, vain as fair, ends but like 
 
 youth in age and care. 
 
 FINAL CHORUS. 
 
 There is a home beyond the sky wherein the happy 
 
 dwell, 
 A region of eternal joy more bless'd than tongue may 
 
 tell, 
 'Tis not, like mansions of the rich, bedecked with gold 
 
 or gem. 
 Its raiment likens not to such as wear Earth's diadem ;
 
 ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST. 317 
 
 Its triumphs are not of the proud, its raptures 'of the 
 
 vain, 
 Nor do its plaudits ring aloud a boastful trumpet 
 
 strain ; 
 Its joys are peace, the Spirit's thrall in fullest mercy 
 
 ■ given, 
 The peace of God which passeth all, the happiness of 
 
 Heaven ! 
 
 There is a wealth stored up on high more beautiful than 
 
 gold, 
 A gem that shames the ruby's dye, whose worth no lips 
 
 may tell, 
 Whose living symbol spanned the Earth when Noe's 
 
 prayer was heard, 
 And Nature at her second birth proclaimed th' Almighty's 
 
 word. 
 That wealth 'is ours, a Saviour's love, that gem of ruby- 
 light. 
 The great atonement from above, which shows man's 
 
 future bright, 
 Ours be the privilege of faith which lifts the soul on 
 
 high. 
 And opens through the gates of death a mansion in 
 
 the sky. 
 
 There is a treasure still of Earth which e'en the poor 
 
 can know, 
 Humility, of angel birth, most high, while yet most 
 
 low,
 
 3l8 ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST. 
 
 Nor kingly power nor lordly might possess it at 
 
 command, • 
 The weak man hath as strong a right as any in the 
 
 land. 
 And which is he, though held in scorn, whom Heaven 
 
 shall call above, 
 
 Too meek of heart or lowly born for God's eternal 
 
 love ? 
 Go hence, ye rich in mammon's store, if lacking this ye 
 
 sigh, 
 Your recompense is here below, not upward in the sky !
 
 fe. STRAKER And sons, printer.*, 
 
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