THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 ALUMNUS 
 BOOK FUND 
 


RECENTLY PUBLISHED, 
 
 In 2 vols. 18mo., Fourth Edition, 
 
 AFFECTING SCENES; being Passages from th< 
 
 Diary of a late Physician. 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 Early Struggles of the Author — Cancer — The Dentist and the Co 
 median — A Scholar's Deathbed — Preparing for the House — Duellin; 
 — Intriguing and Madness — The Broken Heart — Consumption — Th 
 Spectral Dog ; an Illusion — The Forger — A " Man about Town"- 
 Death at the Toilet— The Turned Head— The Wife— The Spectre 
 smitten — The Martyr Philosopher — The Statesman— A slight Colt 
 — Rich and Poor — Grave Doings — The Ruined Merchant — Mothe 
 and Son— The Thunderstruck— The Boxer— The Magdalen— Th 
 Baronet's Bride. 
 
THE 
 
 MERCHANT'S CLERK, 
 
 OTHER TALES. 
 
 BY SAMUEL WARREN, LL.D., 
 
 m 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 " PASSAGES FROM THE DIARY OF A PHYSICIAN'." 
 
 NEW- YORK: 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, CLIFF-ST. 
 
 18 36. 
 
ALUMNUS 
 
VI 
 
 /I 
 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 
 The subscribers have great pleasure in offering to 
 the public a new volume of tales by the celebrated, 
 although until recently unknown author of those mas- 
 terly productions, the " Passages from the Diary of a 
 late Physician." From his long silence it was feared 
 that his store of material was exhausted — that he 
 would no more appear to charm or sadden the world 
 of readers at his will. The advent of a new story 
 with that well-known phrase at its beginning, " From 
 the Diary of a late Physician," in a recent number of 
 Blackwood, was a signal for eager impatience and for 
 great delight — the latter marred only by the unwelcome 
 discovery that the tale was left unfinished in that num- 
 ber, and that a month at least must elapse before the 
 exciting narrative could be resumed. The subscribers 
 are happy in being enabled to supply the want, having 
 received the remainder of the story from the author 
 himself, through the agency of a friend in E urope. The 
 other tales in the present volume are acknowledged by 
 the author of the Diary, Mr. Warren, to be his own per- 
 formances ; it may be observed, however, that such 
 acknowledgment is scarcely needful, to any one at all 
 conversant with the style, and turn of thought and sen- 
 
 1* 
 
 ^ 02 
 
VI ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 timent which characterize the previously collected 
 " Passages." 
 
 The publishers think it unnecessary to eulogize 
 these writings, although much might be said in high 
 commendation, not only of the mental power disclosed 
 in them, of the deep interest they inspire, and of the 
 profound knowledge of human nature which without 
 any ostentation they evince, but also of the noble and 
 excellent moral tone by which they are distinguished, 
 and of the skill with which the deeply interesting nar- 
 rative is made to convey the valuable lessons of ex- 
 perience and wisdom. These are indeed things wor- 
 thy of praise; but the public voice and the large de- 
 mand for the two volumes already published, have long 
 since borne ample testimony to the abilities of the au- 
 thor, and the merit of his productions. 
 
 H. & B, 
 
 New-York, Sept. 183§. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Merchant's Clerk 9 
 
 The Wagoner 133 
 
 Monkvvynd : a Legendary Fragment . . . 209 
 
 The Bracelets 227 
 
 Blucher; or, the Adventures of a Newfoundland 
 
 Dog .259 
 
THE MERCHANTS CLERK. 
 
 Yet once more, oh ye laurels, and once more, 
 
 Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere. 
 
 I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude ; 
 
 And, with forced ringers rude, 
 
 Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year : 
 
 Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear, 
 
 Compels me to disturb your season due ! 
 
 Miltox. 
 
 Look, reader, once more with the eye and heart of 
 sympathy, at a melancholy page in the book of human 
 life — a sad one indeed, and almost the last that will 
 be opened by one who has already laid several before 
 you, and is about to take his departure. 
 
 It was pouring with rain one Wednesday, in the 
 month of March 18 — , about twelve o'clock, and had 
 been raining violently the whole morning. Only one 
 patient had called upon me up to the hour just men- 
 tioned, for how could invalids stir out in such weather"? 
 The wind was cold and bitter — the aspect of things 
 without, in short, most melancholy and cheerless. 
 M There are one or two poor souls," thought I, with a 
 sigh, as I stepped from the desk at which I had been 
 occupied in writing for more than an hour, and stood 
 looking over the blinds into the deserted and almost 
 deluged street — " there are one or two poor souls that 
 would certainly have been here this morning, accord- 
 ing to appointment, but for this unfriendly weather. 
 Their cases are somewhat critical — one of them es* 
 
 a a 
 
10 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 pecially — and yet they are not such as to warrant my 
 apprehending the worst. I wish, by-the-way, I had 
 thought of asking their addresses ! Ah — for the fu- 
 ture I will make a point of taking down the residence 
 of such as I may suspect to be in very humble or em- 
 barrassed circumstances. One can then, if necessary, 
 call upon such persons — on such a day as this — at 
 their own houses. There's that poor man, for in- 
 stance, the bricklayer — he cannot leave his work ex- 
 cept at breakfast time — I wonder how his poor child 
 comes on ! Poor fellow, how anxious he looked yes- 
 terday, when he asked me what I thought of his child ! 
 And his wife bed ridden ! Really, I'd make a point of 
 calling, if I knew where he lived ! He can't afford 
 a coach — that's out of the question. Well — it can't be 
 helped, however!" With this exclamation, half ut- 
 tered, I looked at my watch, rung the bell, and ordered 
 the carriage to be at the door in a quarter of an hour. 
 I was sealing one of the letters I had been writing, 
 when I heard a knock at the street door, and in a few 
 minutes my servant showed a lady into the room. She 
 was apparently about four or five and twenty ; neatly 
 but very plainly dressed ; her features, despite an air 
 of languor, as if from recent indisposition, without be- 
 ing strictly handsome, had a pleasing expression of 
 frankness and spirit, and her address was easy and 
 elegant. She was, however, evidently flurried. She 
 *' hoped she should not keep me at home — she could 
 easily call again." I begged her to be seated ; and in 
 a quiet tone, at the same time proceeding with what I 
 was engaged upon, that she might have a moment's 
 interval in which to recover her self-possession, made 
 some observations about the weather. 
 
 " It is still raining hard, I perceive," said I ; " did 
 you come on foot ? Bless me, madam, why you seem 
 wet through ! Pray come nearer the fire ;" (stirring it 
 up into a cheerful blaze ;) " shall I offer you a glass of 
 wine, or wine and water 1 You look very chilly." 
 
 " No, thank you, sir ; I am rather wet certainly, but 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. ll 
 
 I am accustomed to rain ; I will, however, sit closer 
 to the fire, if you please, and tell you in a few words 
 my errand. I shall not detain you long, sir," she 
 continued, in a tone considerably more assured. " The 
 fact is, 1 have received a letter this morning from a 
 friend of mine in the country, a young lady who is an 
 invalid, and has written to request I would call imme- 
 diately upon some experienced physician, and obtain, 
 as far as can be, his real opinion upon her case, for 
 she fancies, poor girl ! that they are concealing what 
 is really the matter with her !" 
 
 " Well ! she must have stated her case remarkably 
 well, ma'am," said I, with a smile, " to enable me to 
 give anything like a reasonable guess at her state 
 without seeing her !" 
 
 " Oh, but 1 may be able to answer many of your 
 questions, sir ; for I am very well acquainted with her 
 situation, and was a good deal with her, not long ago." 
 
 " Ah, that's well. Then will you be so kind," giv- 
 ing a monitory glance at my watch, " as to say what 
 you know of her case ? The fact is, I've ordered the 
 carriage to be here in about a quarter of an hour's 
 time, and I have a long day's work before me !" 
 
 " She is — let me see, sir — I should sav about six 
 years older than myself; that is, she is near thirty, or 
 thereabouts. I should not think she was ever particu- 
 larly strong. She's seen, poor thing, a good deal of 
 trouble lately." She sighed. 
 
 M Oh, I see, I understand ! A little disappointment — 
 there's the seat of the mischief, I suppose I" I inter- 
 rupted, smiling, and placing my hand over my heart. 
 " Isn't this really, now, the whole secret ?" 
 
 " Why — the fact is — certainly, I believe — yes, I 
 1 may say that love has had a good deal to do with her 
 present illness, for it is really illness ! She has 
 been — " she paused, hesitated, and, as I fancied, col- 
 oured slightly — " crossed in love — yes ! She was to 
 have been — I mean — that is, she ought to have been 
 married last autumn, but for this sad affair." I bowed, 
 
12 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 looking again at my watch, and she went on more 
 quickly to describe her friend as being naturally rather 
 delicate — that this " disappointment" had occasioned 
 her a great deal of annoyance and agitation — that it 
 had left her now in a very low nervous way, and, in 
 short, her friend suspected herself to be falling into a 
 decline. That about two months ago she had had the 
 the misfortune to be run over by a chaise, the pole of 
 which struck her on the right chest, and the horses' 
 hoofs also trampled upon her, but no ribs were broken* 
 
 "Ah, this is the most serious part of the story, 
 ma'am — this looks like real illness ! Pray, proceed, 
 ma'am. I suppose your friend after this complained 
 of much pain about the chest ; is it so 1 Was there 
 any spitting of blood ?" 
 
 " Yes, a little — no — I mean — let me see." Here 
 she took out of her pocket a letter, and unfolding it, 
 cast her eyes over it for a moment or two, as if to re- 
 fresh her memory by looking at her friend's statement. 
 
 " May I be allowed, ma'am, to look at the letter in 
 which your friend describes her case ?" 1 inquired, 
 holding out my hand. 
 
 " There are some private matters contained in it, 
 sir," she replied quickly ; " the fact is, there was some 
 blood-spitting at the time, which I believe has not yet 
 quite ceased." 
 
 " And does she complain of pain in the chest ?" 
 
 " Yes — particularly in the right side." 
 
 " Is she often feverish at night and in the morning ?" 
 
 " Yes — very — that is, her hands feel very hot, and 
 she is restless and irritable." 
 
 " Is there any perspiration ?" 
 
 " Occasionally a good deal — during the night." 
 
 " Any cough ?" 
 
 " Yes, at times very troublesome, she says.'' 
 
 " Pray, how long has she had it ? I mean, had she 
 it before the accident you spoke of?" 
 
 *' I first noticed it — let me see — ah, about a year 
 after she* was married." 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 13 
 
 t? After she was married /" I echoed, darting a keen 
 glance at her. She coloured violently, and stammered 
 confusedly, 
 
 " No, no, sir ; I mean about a year after the time 
 when she expected to be married," 
 
 There was something not a little curious and puz- 
 zling in all this. " Can you tell me, ma'am, what sort 
 of a cough it is I" I inquired, shifting my chair, so that I 
 might obtain a more distinct view of her features. She 
 perceived what I was about, I think ; for she seemed 
 to change colour a little, and to be on the verge of 
 shedding tears. I repeated my question. She said 
 that the cough was at first very slight ; so slight that 
 her friend had thought nothing of it, but at length it 
 became a dry and painful one. She began to turn very 
 pale. A suspicion of the real state of the case flashed 
 across my mind. 
 
 " Now, tell me, ma'am, candidly — confess ! Are 
 not you speaking of yourself? You really look ill !" 
 
 She trembled, but assured me emphatically that I 
 was mistaken. She appeared about to put some ques- 
 tion to me, when her voice failed her, and her eyes, 
 wandering to the window, filled with tears. 
 
 " Forgive me, sir ! I am so anxious about my 
 friend," — she sobbed — " she is a dear, kind, good — " 
 Her agitation increased. 
 
 " Calm, pray calm yourself, ma'am ; do not distress 
 yourself unnecessarily ! You must not let your friendly 
 sympathies overcome you in this way, or you will be 
 unable to serve your friend as you wish — as she has 
 desired !" 
 
 I handed to her a bottle of smelling salts, and after 
 pausing for a few moments, her agitation subsided. 
 
 " Well," she began again, tremulously, " what do 
 you think of her case, sir 1 You may tell me candidly, 
 sir," — she was evidently making violent struggles to 
 conceal her emotions— " for I assure you I will never 
 make an improper use of what you may say — indeed I 
 Will not ! What do vou really think of her case ?" 
 
 2 
 
14 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 " Why — if all that you have said be correct, I own 
 I fear it is a bad case — certainly a bad one," 1 replied, 
 looking at her scrutinizingly. " You have mentioned 
 some symptoms that are very unfavourable." 
 
 "Do you — think — her case hopeless, sir?" she in- 
 quired in a feeble tone, and looking at me with sorrow- 
 ful intensity. 
 
 " Why, that is a very difficult question to answer — 
 in her absence. One ought to see her — to hear her 
 tell her own story — to ask a thousand little questions. 
 I suppose, by-the-way, that she is under the care of a 
 regular professional man ?" 
 
 " Yes, I believe so — no, I am not sure ; she has 
 been, I believe." 
 
 I felt satisfied that she was speaking of herself. I 
 paused, scarce knowing what to say. " Are her cir- 
 cumstances easy ? Could she go to a warmer climate 
 in the spring or early part of the summer 1 I really 
 think that change of scene would do her greater good 
 than anything I could prescribe for her." 
 
 She sighed. " It might be so ; but — I know it could 
 not be done. Circumstances, I believe — " 
 
 " Is she living with her family 1 Could not they — " 
 
 " Oh no, there's no hope there, sir !" she repLred, 
 with sudden impetuosity. " No, no ; they would see 
 both of us perish before they would lift a finger to save 
 us," she added with increasing vehemence of tone and 
 manner. " So now it's all out — my poor, poor hus- 
 band !" She fell into violent hysterics. The mystery 
 was now dispelled — it was her husband's case that 
 she had been all the while inquiring about. I saw it 
 all ! Poor soul, to gain my candid, my real opinion, 
 she had devised an artifice to the execution of which 
 she was unequal ; over estimating her own strength, 
 or rather not calculating upon the severe test she 
 would have to encounter. 
 
 Ringing the bell, I summoned a female servant, who, 
 with my wife, (she had heard the violent cries of my 
 
THE MERCHANTS CLERK. 15 
 
 patient,) instantly made her appearance, and paid all 
 necessary attentions to the mysterious sufferer, as 
 surely I might call her. The letter from which, in 
 order to aid her little artifice, she had affected to read, 
 had fallen upon the floor. It was merely a blank sheet 
 of paper, folded in the shape of a letter, and directed, 
 
 in a lady's handwriting, to ' ; Mrs. Elliott, No. 5, 
 
 street." This I put into my pocketbook. She had 
 also, in falling, dropped a small piece of paper, evi- 
 dently containing my intended fee, neatly folded up. 
 This I slipped into the reticule which lay beside her. 
 
 From what scene of wretchedness had this unhappy- 
 creature come to me ? 
 
 The zealous services of my wife and her maid pres- 
 ently restored my patient, at least to consciousness, 
 and her first look was one of gratitude for their assist- 
 ance. She then attempted, but in vain, to speak, and 
 her tears flowed fast. £i Indeed, indeed, sir, I am no 
 impostor ! and yet I own I have deceived you ! but 
 pity me ! Have mercy on a being quite forsaken and 
 broken hearted ! I meant to pay you, sir, all the while. 
 I only wished to get your true opinion about my un- 
 happy husband. Oh how very, very, very, wretched I 
 am ! What is to become of us ! So — my poor hus- 
 band ! — there's no hope ! Oh that I had been content 
 w r ith ignorance of your fate !" She sobbed bitterly, 
 and my worthy little wife exhibited so much firmness 
 and presence of mind, as she stood beside her suffering 
 sister, that I found it necessary gently to remove her 
 from the room. What a melancholy picture of grief 
 was before me in Mrs. Elliott, if that were her name. 
 Her expressive features were flushed, and bedewed 
 with weeping ; her eyes swollen, and her dark hair, 
 partially dishevelled, gave a wildness to her counte- 
 nance, which added to the effect of her incoherent ex- 
 clamations. " I do — I do thank you, sir, for your can- 
 dour. I feel that you have told me the truth ! But 
 what is to become of us ! My most dreadful fears are 
 
16 THE MERCHANT^ CLERK. 
 
 confirmed ! But I ought to have been home before 
 this, and am only keeping you — " 
 
 " Not at all, ma'am — pray don't — " 
 
 " But my husband, sir, is ill — and there is no one to 
 keep the child but him. I ought to have been back 
 long ago !" She rose feebly from the chair, hastily 
 readjusted her hair, and replaced her bonnet, prepar- 
 ing to go. She seemed to miss something, and looked 
 about the floor, obviously embarrassed at not discover- 
 ing the object of her search. 
 
 " It is in your reticule, ma'am," I whispered ; " and, 
 unless you would affront and wound me, there let it 
 remain. I know what you have been looking for — 
 hush ! do not think of it again. My carriage is at the 
 
 door ; shall I take vou as far as street ? I am 
 
 driving past it." 
 
 " No, sir, I thank you ; but — not for the world ! My 
 husband has no idea that I have been here ; he thinks 
 I have been only to the druggist. I would not have 
 him know of this visit on any account. He would in- 
 stantly suspect all." She grew again excited* " Oh 
 what a wretch I am ! How long must I play the hyp- 
 ocrite ! I must look happy, and say that I have hope 
 when I am despairing — and he dying daily before my 
 eyes ! Oh how terrible will home be after this ! But 
 how long have I suspected all this !" 
 
 I succeeded, at length, in allaying her agitation, im- 
 ploring her to strive to regain her self-possession be- 
 fore reappearing in the presence of her husband. She 
 promised to contrive some excuse for summoning me 
 to see her husband, as if in the first instance, as though 
 it were the first time I had seen or heard of either of 
 them, and assured me that she would call upon me 
 again in a few days' time. " But sir," she whispered, 
 hesitatingly, as I accompanied her through the hall to 
 the street door, " I am really afraid we cannot afford 
 to trouble you often," 
 
 "Madam, you will greatly grieve and offend me if 
 you ever allude to this again before I mention it to 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 17 
 
 you. Indeed you will, ma'am," I added peremptorily 
 but kindly ; and reiterating my injunctions, that she 
 should let me soon see her, or hear from her again, I 
 closed the door upon her, satisfied that ere long would 
 be laid before me another dark page in the volume of 
 human life. 
 
 Having been summoned to visit a patient somewhere 
 
 in the neighbourhood of street that evening, and 
 
 being on foot, it struck me, as it was beginning again 
 to rain heavily, that if I were to step into some one of 
 the little shops close by, I might be sheltered a while 
 from the rain, and also possibly gain some information 
 as to the character and circumstances of my morning 
 visiter. I pitched upon a small shop that was "li- 
 censed" to sell everything, but especially groceries. 
 The proprietor w r as a little lame old man, who was 
 busy, as I entered, making up small packets of snuff 
 and tobacco. He allowed the plea of the rain, and 
 permitted me to sit down on the bench near the win- 
 dow. A couple of candles shed their dull light over 
 the miscellaneous articles of merchandise with which 
 the shop was stuffed. He looked like an old rat in his 
 hoard ! He was civil and communicative, and I was 
 not long in gaining the information I desired. He 
 knew the Elliotts ; they lived at number five, up two 
 pairs of stairs — but had not been there above three or 
 four months. He thought ?\Ir. Elliott was " ailing :" 
 and for the matter of that, his wife didn't look the 
 strongest woman in the world. " And pray what bu- 
 siness or calling is he ?" The old man put his spec- 
 tacles back upon his head, and after musing a moment, 
 replied, " Why, now, I can't take upon me to say pre- 
 cisely like — but I think he's something in the city, in 
 the mercantile way — at least I've got it into my head 
 that he has been such ; but he also teaches music, and I 
 know she sometimes takes in needlework." 
 
 " Needlework ! does she indeed?" I echoed, taking 
 her letter from my pocketbook, and looking at the 
 beautiful, the fashionable hand in which the direction 
 
18 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 was written, and which, I felt confident, was her own. 
 *< Ah ! — then I suppose they're not over well to do in 
 the world?" 
 
 " Why — you an't a going to do anything to them, 
 sir, are you ? May I ask if you're a lawyer, sir ?" 
 
 " No, indeed, I am not," said I, with a smile — " nor 
 is this a writ ! It's only the direction of a letter, I as- 
 sure you ; I feel a little interested about these people 
 — at the same time, I don't know much about them, as 
 you may perceive. Were not you saying that you 
 thought them in difficulties 1" 
 
 " Why," he replied, somewhat reassured, " maybe 
 you're not far from the mark in that either. They 
 deal here — and they pay me for what they have — but 
 their custom an't very heavy ! 'Deed they has uncom- 
 mon little in the grocery way, but pays reg'lar ; and 
 that's better than them that has a good deal, and yet 
 doesn't pay at all — an't it, sir 1" I assented. " They 
 used, when they first came here, to have six-and-six- 
 penny tea and lump sugar, but this week or two back 
 they've had only five-and-sixpenny tea and worst sugar 
 — but my five-and-sixpenny tea is an uncommon good 
 article, and as good as many people's six-shilling tea ! 
 — only smell it sir !" And whisking himself round, he 
 briskly dislodged a japanned canister, and whipping ofF 
 the lid, put a handful of the contents into it. The 
 conclusion I arrived at was not a very favourable one ; 
 the stuff he handed me seemed an abominable com- 
 pound of raisin stalks and sloe leaves. " They're un- 
 common economical, sir," he continued, putting back 
 again his precious commodity, " for they makes two 
 or three ounces of this do for a week — unless they 
 goes elsewhere, which I don't think they do, by-the- 
 way : and I'm sure they oughtn't ; for, though I say it 
 as shouldn't, they might go farther and fare worse, 
 and without going a mile from here either — hem ! By- 
 the-way, Mrs. Elliott was in here not an hour ago, for 
 a moment, asking for some sago, because she said Mr. 
 Elliott had taken a fancy to have some sago milk for 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 19 
 
 his supper to-night. It was very unlucky, I hadn't half 
 a handful left 3 So she was obliged to go to the drug- 
 gist at the other end of the street. Poor thing, she 
 looked so vexed ; for she has quite a confidence, like, 
 in what she gets here !" 
 
 "True, very likely! You said, by-the-way, you 
 thought he taught music — what kind of music ?" 
 
 " Why, sir, he's rather a good hand at the flute, his 
 landlady says. So he comes in to me about a month 
 since, and he says to me, ' Bennet,' says he, ' may I 
 direct letters for me to be left at your shop ? — I'm going 
 to put an advertisement in the newspaper.' ' That,' 
 says I, ' depends on what it's about — what are you ad- 
 vertising for?' (not meaning to be impudent;) and he 
 says, says he, 'Why, I've taken it into my head, Ben- 
 net, to teach the flute, and I'm a going to try to get 
 some one to learn it to.' So he put the advertisement 
 in — but he didn't get more than one letter, and that 
 brought him a young lad — but he didn't stay long. 
 'Twas a beautiful black flute, sir, with silver on it; 
 for Mrs. Hooper, his landlady — she's an old friend of 
 my mistress, sir — showed it to us one Sunday, when 
 we took a cup of tea with her, and the Elliotts was 
 gone out for a walk. I don't think he can teach it now 
 sir," he continued, dropping his voice ; " for, between 
 you and I, old Browning the pawnbroker, a little way up 
 on the left-hand side, has a flute in his window that's 
 the very image of what Mrs. Hooper showed us that 
 night I was speaking of. You understand me, sir ? 
 Pawned— or sold — I'll answer for it — ahem!" 
 
 " Ah, very probable — yes, very likely !" I replied, 
 sighing — hoping my gossiping host would go on. 
 
 " And between you and I, sir," he resumed, " it 
 wasn't a bad thing for him to get rid of it, either ; for 
 Mrs. Hooper told us that Mr. Elliott wasn't strong like 
 to play on it ; and she used to hear Mrs. Elliott — (she 
 is an uncommon agreeable young woman, sir, to look 
 at, and looks like one that has been better off:) I was 
 a saying, however, that Mrs. Hooper used now and 
 
SO THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 then to hear Mrs. Elliott cry a good deal about his 
 playing on the flute, and 'spostulate to him on the ac- 
 count of it, and say * You know it isn't a good thing 
 for you, dear.' Nor was it, sir — the doctors would 
 say !" 
 
 " Poor fellow !" I exclaimed, with a sigh, not mean- 
 ing to interrupt my companion — " of all things on earth 
 — the flute!" 
 
 " Ah !" replied the worthy grocer, " things are in a 
 bad way when they come to that pass — arn't they ! 
 But Lord, sir !" dropping his voice, and giving a hur- 
 ried glance towards a door, opening, I suppose, into 
 his sitting room — " there's nothing partic'lar in that, 
 after all. My mistress and I, even, have done such 
 things before now, at a push, when we've been hard 
 driven ! You know, sir, poverty's no sin — is it?" 
 
 " God forbid, indeed, my worthy friend !" I replied, 
 as a customer entered, to purchase a modicum of 
 cheese or bacon ; and thanking Mr. Bennet for his 
 civility in affording me a> shelter so long, I quitted his 
 shop. The rain continued, and, as is usually the case, 
 no hackney coach made its appearance till I was nearly 
 wet through. My interest in poor Mrs. Elliott and 
 her husband was greatly increased by what I had 
 heard from the gossiping grocer. How distinctly, 
 though perhaps unconsciously, had he sketched the 
 downward progress of respectable poverty ! I should 
 await the next visit of Mrs. Elliott with some eager- 
 ness and anxiety. Nearly a week, however, elapsed 
 before I again heard of Mrs. Elliott, who called at my 
 house one morning when I had been summoned to pay 
 an early visit to a patient in the country. After having 
 waited nearly an hour for me, she was obliged to leave, 
 after writing the following lines on the back of an old 
 letter : — 
 
 " Mrs. Elliott begs to present her respects to Doctor 
 
 , and to inform him, that if quite convenient to 
 
 him, she would feel favoured by his calling on Mr. 
 Elliott any time to-day or to-morrow. She begs to 
 
THE MERCHANTS CLERK. % 21 
 
 remind him of his promise not to let Mr. Elliott sup- 
 pose that Mrs. Elliott has told him anything about 
 Mr. Elliott, except generally that he is poorly, The 
 
 address is No. 5, street, near square." 
 
 At three o'clock that afternoon, I was at their lodg- 
 
 ino- in street. No. 5 was a small decent draper's 
 
 shop ; and a young woman sitting at work behind 
 the counter referred me, on inquiring for Mr. Elliott, 
 to the private door, which she said I could easily push 
 open ; that the Elliott's lived on the second floor, but 
 she thought that Mrs. Elliott had just gone out. Fol- 
 lowing her directions, I soon found myself ascending 
 the narrow staircase. On approaching the second 
 floor, the door of the apartment I took to be Mr. Elliott's 
 was standing nearly wide open ; and the scene which 
 presented itself I paused for a few moments to contem- 
 plate. Almost fronting the door, at a table on which 
 were several huge legers and account books, sat a 
 young man apparently about thirty, who seemed to have 
 just dropped asleep over a wearisome task. His left 
 hand supported his head, and in his right was a pen 
 which he seemed to have fallen asleep almost in the 
 act of using. Propped up, on the table, between two 
 huoe books, a little towards his left-hand side, sat a 
 child, seemingly a little boy, and a very pretty one, so 
 engrossed with some plaything or another as not to 
 perceive my approach. \felt\h2X this was Mr. Elliott, 
 and stopped for a few seconds to observe him. His 
 countenance was manly, and had plainly been once 
 very handsome. It was now considerably emaciated, 
 overspread with a sallow hue, and wore an expression 
 of mingled pain and exhaustion. The thin white hand 
 holding the pen, also bespoke the invalid. His hair 
 was rather darker than his wife's, and being combed 
 aside, left exposed to view an ample well-formed fore- 
 head. In short, he seemed a very interesting person. 
 He was dressed in black, his coat being buttoned evi- 
 dently for warmth's sake ; for though it was March, 
 and the weather very bleak and bitter, there was scarce 
 
S2 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 any appearance of fire in about the smallest grate I 
 ever saw. The room was small, but very clean and 
 comfortable, though not overstocked with furniture — 
 what there was being of the most ordinary kind. A 
 little noise I made attracted, at length, the child's at- 
 tention. It turned round, started, on seeing a stranger, 
 and disturbed its father, whose eyes looked suddenly 
 but heavily at his child, and then at my approaching 
 figure. 
 
 " Pray walk in," said he, with a kind of mechanical 
 civility, but evidently not completely roused from sleep. 
 •i I — I — am very sorry — the accounts are not yet bal- 
 anced — very sorry — been at them almost the whole day." 
 He suddenly paused, and recollected himself. He had, 
 it seemed, mistaken me, at the moment, for some one 
 whom he had expected. 
 
 " Dr. ," said I, bowing, and advancing. 
 
 M Oh ! I beg your pardon, sir ; pray walk in, and 
 take a seat." I did so. " I believe Mrs. Elliott called 
 upon you this morning, sir? I am sorry she has just 
 stepped out, but she will return soon. She will be 
 very sorry she was not at home when you called." 
 
 " I should have been happy to see Mrs. Elliott, but 
 I understood from a few lines she left at my house that 
 this visit was to be paid to yourself — is it not so ? Can 
 I be of any assistance ?" 
 
 *' Certainly ! I feel far from well, sir. I have been 
 in but middling health for some time, but my wife thinks 
 me, I am sure, much worse than I really am, and frets 
 herself a good deal about me." 
 
 I proceeded to inquire fully into his case ; and he 
 showed very great intelligence and readiness in an- 
 swering all my questions. He had detected in himself, 
 some years ago, symptoms of a liver complaint, which 
 a life of much confinement and anxiety had since con- 
 tributed to aggravate. He mentioned the accident 
 alluded to by Mrs. Elliott ; and when he had concluded 
 a singularly terse and distinct statement of his case, I 
 had formed a pretty decisive opinion upon it. 1 thought 
 
THE MERCHANT^ CLERK. 23 
 
 there was a strong tendency to hepatic phthisis, but 
 that it might, with proper care, be arrested, if not even 
 overcome. I expressed myself in very cautious terms. 
 
 " Do you really, candidly think, sir, that I have a 
 reasonable chance of recovering my health V 1 he in- 
 quired, with a sigh, at the same time folding in his arms 
 his little boy, whose concerned features, fixed in silence, 
 now upon his father, and then upon me, as each of us 
 spoke, almost led me to think that he appreciated the 
 grave import of our conversation. 
 
 " Yes, I certainly think it probable — very probable — 
 that you would recover, provided, as I said before, you 
 use the means I pointed out." 
 
 "And the chief of those means are — relaxation and 
 country air V 
 
 u Certainly." 
 
 " You consider them essential ?" he inquired, de- 
 spondingly. 
 
 " Undoubtedly. Repose, both bodily and mental, 
 change of scene, fresh air, and some medical treat- 
 ment." 
 
 He listened in silence, his eyes fixed on the floor, 
 while an expression of profound melancholy overspread 
 his countenance. He seemed absorbed in a painful 
 revery. I fancied that I could not mistake the subject 
 of his thoughts ; and ventured to interrupt them, by 
 saying in a low tone, " It would not be very expen- 
 sive, Mr. Elliott, after all." 
 
 " Ah, sir — that is what I am thinking about," he re- 
 plied, with a deep sigh ; and he relapsed into his former 
 troubled silence. 
 
 " Suppose — suppose, sir, I were able to go into the 
 country and rest a little, a twelvemonth hence, and in 
 the mean time attend as much as possible to my health, 
 is it probable that it would not then be too late V* 
 
 *' Oh, come, Mr. Elliott, let us prefer the sunshine to 
 the cloud," said I, with a cheerful air, hearing a quick step 
 advancing to the door, which was opened, as I expected, 
 by Mrs. Elliott, who entered breathless with haste. 
 
24 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 " How do you do, ma'am — Mrs. Elliott, I presume ! M 
 said I, wishing to put her on her guard, and prevent her 
 appearing to have seen me before. 
 
 " Yes, sir — Mrs. Elliott," §aid she, catching the hint, 
 and then turning quickly to her husband, "How are 
 you, love ? I hope Henry has been good with you !" 
 
 " Very — he's been a very good little boy," replied 
 Elliott, surrendering him to Mrs. Elliott, whom he was 
 struggling to reach. 
 
 •* But how are you, dear ?" repeated his wife, anx- 
 iously. 
 
 " Pretty well," he replied, adding, with a faint smile, 
 at the same time pushing his foot against mine, under 
 
 the table, " As you would have Dr. , he is here ; 
 
 but we can't make out why you thought fit to summon 
 him in such haste." 
 
 " A very little suffices to alarm a lady," said I, with 
 a smile. " I was sorry, Mrs. Elliott, that you had to 
 wait so long for me this morning — I hope it did not 
 inconvenience you." I began to think how I should 
 manage to decline the fee I perceived they were pre- 
 paring to give me, for I was obliged to leave, and drew 
 on my gloves. " We've had a long tete-a-tete, Mrs. 
 Elliott, in your absence. I must commit him to your 
 . gentle care ; you will prove the better physician. He 
 must submit to you in everything ; you must not allow 
 him to exert himself too much over matters like these," 
 pointing to the huge folios lying upon the table; "he 
 must keep regular hours, and if all of you could go 
 to a lodging on the outskirts of the town, the fresli 
 air would do you a world of good. You must under- 
 take the case, ma'am — you must really pledge yourself 
 to this." The poor couple exchanged hurried glances, 
 in silence. He attempted a smile. '* What a sweet 
 little fellow is this," said I, taking their little child into 
 my arms — a miracle of neatness and cleanliness — and 
 affecting to be eagerly engaged with him. He came 
 tome readily, and forthwith began an incomprehensible 
 address to me about " da-da" — " pa-pa" — u ma-ma," 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 25 
 
 and other similarly mysterious terms, which I was 
 obliged to cut short by promising to come and talk 
 again with him in a day or two. " Good day, Master 
 Elliott !" said I, giving him back to his father, who at 
 the same time slipped a guinea in my hand. I took it 
 easily. " Come, sirrah," said I, addressing the child, 
 " will you be my banker !" shutting his little fingers on 
 the guinea. # 
 
 " Pardon me — excuse me, doctor," interrupted Mr. 
 Elliott, blushing scarlet, " this must not be. I really 
 cannot — " 
 
 " Ah ! may I not employ what banker I like ? Well 
 — I'll hear what you have to say about it when we 
 meet again. Farewell for a day or two." And with 
 these words, bowing hastily to Mrs. Elliott, who looked 
 at me through her tear-rilled eyes unutterable things, I 
 hurried down stairs. It may seem sufficiently absurd 
 to dwell so long upon the insignificant circumstance of 
 declining a fee ; a thing done by my brethren daily — 
 often as a matter of course ; but it is a matter that has 
 often occasioned me no inconsiderable embarrassment. 
 'Tis really often a difficult thing to refuse a fee prof- 
 fered by those one knows to be unable to afford it, so 
 as not to make them uneasy under the sense of an 
 obligation — to wound delicacy, or offend an honourable 
 pride. I had, only a few days before, by-the-way, 
 almost asked for my guinea from a gentleman who is 
 worth many thousands a year, and who dropped the 
 fee into my hand as though it were a drop of his heart's 
 blood. 
 
 I had felt much gratified with the appearance and 
 manners of Mr. and Mrs. Elliott, and disposed to cul- 
 tivate their acquaintance. Both were too evidently 
 oppressed with melancholy, which was not, however, 
 sufficient to prevent my observing the simplicity and 
 manliness of the husband, the fascinating frankness of 
 the wife. How. her eyes devoured him with fond 
 anxiety ! Often while conversing with them, a recol- 
 lection of some of the touching little details commu- 
 b 3 
 
26 THE MERCHANT S CLEB.K. 
 
 nicated by their garrulous grocer brought the tears for 
 an instant to my eyes. Possibly poor Mrs. Elliott had 
 been absent, either seeking employment for her needle, 
 or taking home what she had been engaged upon — both 
 of them thus labouring to support themselves by means 
 to which she, at least, seemed utterly unaccustomed, as 
 far as one could judge from her demeanour and con- 
 versation. Had they pressed me much longer about 
 accepting my fee, I am sure I should have acted fool- 
 ishly ; for when I held their guinea in my hand, the 
 thought of their small weekly allowance of an ounce 
 or two of tea — their brown sugar — his pawned flute — 
 almost determined me to defy all delicacy, and return 
 them their guinea doubled. I could enter into every 
 feeling, I thought, which agitated their hearts, and 
 appreciate the despondency, the hopelessness with 
 which they listened to my mention of the indispensable 
 necessity of change of scene and repose. Probably, 
 while I was returning home, they were mingling bitter 
 tears as they owned to one another the impossibility of 
 adopting my suggestions ; he feeling, and she fearing, 
 neither, however, daring to express it, that his days 
 were numbered — that he must toil to the last for a 
 scanty livelihood — and even then leave his wife and 
 child, it seemed but too probable, destitute — that, in the 
 sorrowful language of Burns, 
 
 " Still caring, despairing, 
 Must be his bitter doom ; 
 His woes here ; shall close ne'er 
 But with the closing tomb."* 
 
 I felt sure that there was some secret and grievous 
 source of misery in the background, and often thought of 
 the expression she had frantically uttered when at my 
 house. Had either of them married against the wishes 
 of a proud and unrelenting family ? Little did I think 
 that I had, on that very day which first brought me ac- 
 quainted with Mrs. Elliott, paid a professional visit to 
 
 * Despondency y an Ode. 
 
THE MERCHANT S CLERK. 27 
 
 one fearfully implicated in the infliction of their present 
 sufferings! But I anticipate. 
 
 I need not particularize the steps* by which I became 
 at length familiarly acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. El- 
 liott. I found them for a long while extremely reserved 
 on the subject of their circumstances, except as far as 
 an acknowledgment that their pecuniary resources were 
 somewhat precarious. 5 He was, or rather, it seemed, 
 had been, a clerk in a merchant's counting house ; but 
 ill health obliged him at length to quit his situation, 
 and seek for such occasional employment as would 
 admit of being attended to at his own lodging. His 
 labours in this way were, I perceived, notwithstanding 
 my injunctions and his promises, of the most intense 
 and unremitting, and, I feared, ill-requited description. 
 But with what heart could I continue my remonstrances, 
 when I felt convinced that thus he must toil or starve? 
 She also was forced to contribute her efforts toward 
 their support, as I often saw her eagerly and rapidly 
 engaged upon dresses and other articles too splendid to 
 be for her own use. I could not help one day in the 
 fulness of my heart, seeing her thus engaged, telling 
 her that I had many a time since my marriage seen my 
 wife similarly engaged. She looked at me with sur- 
 prise for a few moments, and burst into tears. She 
 forced off her rising emotions ; but she was from that 
 moment aware that I fully saw and appreciated her 
 situation. It was on a somewhat similar occasion that 
 she and her husband were at length induced to tell me 
 their little history ; and before giving the reader an ac- 
 count of what fell under my own personal observa- 
 tion, I shall lay before him, in my own way, the sub- 
 stance of several painfully interesting conversations 
 with this most unfortunate couple. Let not the ordi- 
 nary reader spurn details of everyday life, such as will 
 here follow, 
 
 " Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 The short and simple annals of the poor '" 
 
 B 2 
 
28 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 Owing to a terrible domestic calamity, it became 
 necessary that Henry Elliott, an only son, educating at 
 Oxford, and destined for the army, should suddenly quit 
 the university, and seek a livelihood by his own exer- 
 tions in London. The event which Occasioned this 
 sudden blight to his prospects, was the suicide of his 
 father, Major Elliott; whose addiction to gambling, 
 having for a long time seriously embarrassed his affairs, 
 and nearly broken the heart of his wife, at length led 
 him to commit the fatal act above spoken of. His 
 widow survived the shock scarce a twelvemonth, and 
 her unfortunate son was then left alone in the world, 
 and almost entirely destitute. The trifling sum of 
 ready money which remained in his possession after 
 burying his mother was exhausted, and the scanty pit- 
 tance afforded by his relatives withdrawn on the ground 
 that he ought now to support himself, when his occa- 
 sional inquiries after a situation at length led to the in- 
 formation that, there was a vacancy for an outer clerk 
 in the great house of Hillary, Hungate, and Company, 
 Mincing Lane, in the city. He succeeded in satisfying 
 the junior partner of this house, after submitting to 
 a great number of humiliating inquiries in regard to 
 his respectability and trustworthiness ; and he was 
 forthwith received into the establishment, at. a salary 
 of 60Z. per annum. 
 
 It was a sad day for poor Elliott when he sold off 
 almost all his college books, and a few other remnants 
 of gay and happy days, gone by probably for ever, for the 
 purpose of equipping himself becomingly for his new and 
 humble functions. He wrote an excellent hand ; and 
 being of a decided mathematical turn, the arithmetic of 
 the counting house was easily mastered. What dismal 
 drudgery had he henceforth daily to undergo ! The 
 tyranny of the upper clerks reminded him, with a pang, 
 of the petty tyranny he had both received and inflicted 
 at the public school where he had been educated. 
 How infinitely more galling and intolerable was his 
 present bondage ! Two thirds of the day he was kep\ 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 29 
 
 constantly on foot, hurrying from place to place, with 
 bills, letters, &c, and on other errands ; and espe- 
 cially on foreign post nights, he was detained slaving 
 sometimes till nine or ten at night, copying letters, and 
 assisting in making entries and balancing accounts, till 
 his pen almost dropped from his wearied fingers. He 
 was allowed an hour in the middle of the day for dinner ; 
 and even this little interval was often broken in upon to 
 such an extent as proved seriously prejudicial to his 
 health. After all the labours of the day, he had to 
 trudge from Mincing Lane, along the odious City Road 
 up to almost the extremity of Islington, where was 
 situated his lodging, that is, a little back bedroom, on 
 the third floor, serving at once for his sitting and 
 sleeping room, and for the use of which he paid at 
 the rate of seven shillings a week, exclusive of extras. 
 Still he conformed to his cheerless lot, calmly and 
 resolutely, with a true practical stoicism that did him 
 honour. His regular and frugal habits enabled him to 
 subsist upon his scanty salary with decency, if not 
 comfort, and without running into debt — that infallible 
 destructive of all peace of mind and all self-respect! 
 His sole enjoyment was an occasional hour in the 
 evening, spent in reading, and retracing some of his 
 faded acquisitions in mathematics. Though a few of 
 his associates w T ere piqued at what they considered his 
 sullen and inhospitable disposition, yet his obliging 
 manners, his easy but melancholy deportment, his 
 punctuality and exactitude in all his engagements, soon 
 gained him the goodwill of his brethren in the office, 
 and occasionally an indication of satisfaction on the 
 part of some one of his august employers. 
 
 Thus, at length, Elliott overcame the numerous dis- 
 avremcns of his altered situation, seeking in constant 
 employment to forget both the gloom and gayeties of the 
 past. Two or three years passed over, Elliott contin- 
 uing thus steadily in his course ; and his salary, as a 
 proof of the approbation of his employers, had been 
 annually increased by 10Z. till he was placed in com- 
 
 3* 
 
30 THE MERCHANTS CLERK. 
 
 parative affluence by the receipt of a salary of 901. 
 His severe exertions, however, insensibly impaired a 
 constitution, never very vigorous, and he bore with 
 many a fit of indisposition, rather than incur the ex- 
 pense of medical attendance. It may be added, that 
 Elliott was a man of gentlemanly exterior and enga- 
 ging deportment — and then let us pass to a very differ- 
 ent person. 
 
 Mr. Hillary, the head of the firm, a man of very 
 great wealth, had risen from being a mere errand boy, 
 to his present eminence in the mercantile world, through 
 a rare combination of good fortune and personal merit 
 — merit-, as far as concerns a talent for business, joined 
 wrlh prudence and enterprise. If ever there came a 
 man within the terms of Burke's famous philipic, it was 
 Mr. Hillary. His only object was money-making ; he 
 knew nothing, cared for nothing beyond it; till the con- 
 stant contemplation of his splendid gains led his desires 
 into the train of personal aggrandizement. With the in- 
 stinctive propensities of a mean and coarse. mind, he 
 became as tyrannical and insolent in success as in ad- 
 versity he had been supple and cringing. No spark of 
 generous or worthy feeling had ever been struck from 
 the flinty heart of Jacob Hillary, of the firm of Hillary, 
 Hungate, and Company. He was the idol of a con- 
 stant throng of wealth- worshippers ; to everybody else, 
 he was an object either of contempt or terror. He 
 had married the widow of a deceased partner, by whom 
 he had had several children, of whom one only lived 
 beyond infancy — a generous, high-spirited, enthusiastic 
 girl, whom her purse-proud father had destined, in his 
 own weak and vain ambition, to become the wearer of 
 a coronet. On this dazzling object were Mr. Hillary's 
 eyes fixed with unwavering earnestness ; he desired 
 and longed to pour the tide of his gold through the 
 channel of a peerage. In person, Mr. Hillary was of 
 the middle height, but gross and corpulent. There was 
 no intellect in his shining bald head, fringed with bris- 
 tling white hair — nor was there any expression in his 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 31 
 
 harsh and coarse features but such as faithfully adum- 
 brated his character as above described. 
 
 This was the individual, who, in stepping one morning 
 rather hastily from his carriage, at his counting house 
 door in Mincing Lane, fell from the carriage step, most 
 severely injuring his right ankle and shoulder. The 
 injuries he received upon this occasion kept him con- 
 fined for a long period to his bed, and for a still longer 
 one to an easy chair in the back drawing room of his 
 spacious mansion near Highbury. As soon as he was 
 able to attend to business, he issued orders that as El- 
 liott was the clerk whose residence was nearest to 
 Bullion House, he should attend him every morning for 
 an hour or two on matters of business, carrying Mr 
 Hillary's orders to the city, and especially bringing 
 him, day by day, in a sealed envelope, his banker's 
 book ! A harassing post this proved for poor Elliott. 
 
 Severe discipline had trained his temper to bear 
 more than most men: on these occasions it was tried 
 to the uttermost. Mr. Hillary's active and energetic 
 mind kept thus in comparative and compulsive seclu- 
 sion from the only concerns he cared for or that could 
 occupy it — always excepting the one great matter al- 
 ready alluded to — his imperious and irritable temper 
 became almost intolerable. Elliott would certainly 
 have thrown up his employment under Mr. Hillary 
 in disgust and despair, had it not been for one circum- 
 stance — the presence of Miss Hillary — whose sweet 
 appealing looks day after day melted away the reso- 
 lution with which Elliott every morning came before 
 her choleric and overbearing father, although they 
 could not mitigate that father's evil temper, or prevent 
 its manifestations. He insisted on her spending the 
 greater part of every day in his presence, nor would 
 allow her to quit it even at the periods when Elliott 
 made his appearance. The first casual and hasty 
 glance that he directed towards her, satisfied him that 
 he had, in earlier and happy days, been many times 
 in general society with her — her partner even in the 
 
32 THE MERCHANT S CLERK. 
 
 dance. Noic, however, he dared not venture to exhibit 
 the slightest indication of recognition ; and she, if 
 struck by similar recollections, thought fit to conceal 
 them, and behave precisely as though she then saw and 
 heard of Mr. Elliott for the first time in her life. He 
 could not, of course, find fault with her for this ; but 
 he felt it deeply and bitterly. He little knew how 
 much he wronged her! She instantly recollected him 
 — and it was only the dread of her father that restrained 
 her from a friendly greeting. Having once adopted 
 such a line of conduct, it became necessary to adhere 
 to it — and she did. But could she prevent her heart 
 going out in sympathy towards the poor, friendless, un- 
 offending clerk whom her father treated more like a 
 mere menial than a respectable and confidential serv- 
 ant — him whom she knew to be 
 
 " Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 
 Fallen from his high estate ?" 
 
 Every day that she saw him, her woman's heart 
 throbbed with pity towards him ; and pity is indeed 
 akin to love. How favourably for him did his temper 
 and demeanour contrast with those of her father ! And 
 she saw him placed daily in a situation calculated to 
 exhibit his real character — his disposition, whether for 
 good or evil. The fact was, that he had become an 
 object of deep interest — even of love — to her, long 
 before the thought had ever occurred to him that she 
 viewed him, from day to day, with feelings different 
 from those with which she would look at the servant 
 that stood at her father's sideboard at dinner. His 
 mind was kept constantly occupied by his impetuous 
 employer, and his hundred questions about everything 
 that had 'Or had not happened every day in the city 
 Thus for nearly three months had these unconscious 
 lovers been brought daily for an hour or two intp each 
 other's presence. He had little idea of the exquisite 
 pain occasioned Miss Hillary by her father's harsh and 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 3.3 
 
 unfeeling treatment of him, nor of the many timid at- 
 tempts she made, in his absence, to prevent th*e recur- 
 rence of such treatment ; and as for the great man, 
 Mr. Hillary, it never crossed his mind as being possi- 
 ble that two young hearts could, by any means, when 
 in different ranks of society, one rich, the other poor, 
 be warmed into a feeling of regard, and even love for 
 one another. 
 
 One afternoon Elliott was obliged to come a second 
 time that day from the city, bearing important des- 
 patches from Mincing Lane to' Mr. Hillary, who was 
 sitting in his invalid chair, flanked on one hand by his 
 daughter, and on the other by a little table, on which 
 stood wine and fruit. Poor Elliott looked, as well 
 he might, exhausted w T ith his long and rapid walk 
 through the fervid sunshine. 
 
 " Well, sir — what now ?" said her father, quickly and 
 peremptorily, at the same time eagerly stretching forth 
 his hand to receive a letter which Elliott presented to 
 him. 
 
 " Humph ! Sit down there, sir, for a few minutes !" 
 Elliott obeyed. Miss Hillary, who had been reading, 
 touched with Elliott's pale and wearied look, whispered 
 to her father, " Papa — Mr. Elliott looks dreadfully 
 tired — may I offer him a glass of wine V 
 
 " Yes, yes," replied Mr. Hillary, hastily, without 
 removing his eyes from the letter he had that instant 
 opened. Miss Hillary instantly poured out a glass of 
 wine ; and as Elliott approached to take it from the 
 table, with a respectful bow, his eye encountered hers, 
 which was instantly withdrawn ; but not before it had 
 cast a glance upon him that electrified him — that fell 
 suddenly like a spark of fire amid the combustible feel- 
 ings of a most susceptible but subdued heart. It fixed 
 the fate of their lives. The train so long laid had been 
 at length unexpectedly ignited, and the confounded clerk 
 returned or rather staggered towards his chair, fancying 
 that everything in the room was whirling around him. 
 It was well for both of them that Mr. Hillary was at that 
 
 B 3 
 
84 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 eventful moment absorbingly engaged with a letter an- 
 nouncing the sudden arrival of three ships with large 
 cargoes of an article of which he had been attempting 
 a monopoly, and in doing so had sunk a very large sum 
 of ready money. In vain did the conscious and con- 
 fused girl — confused as Elliott — remove her chair to 
 the window, with her back towards him, and attempt 
 to proceed with the book she had been reading. Her 
 head seemed in a whirlpool. 
 
 " Get me my desk, Mary, immediately," said her 
 father, suddenly. 
 
 " No, indeed, papa, you didn't," replied Miss Hil- 
 lary, as suddenly, for her father's voice had recalled 
 her from a strange revery. 
 
 " My desk, Mary — my desk — dy'e hear?" repeated 
 her father, in a peremptory maimer, still conning over 
 the letter which told him, in effect, that he would re- 
 tire to bed that night four or five thousand pounds 
 poorer than he rose from it — ignorant that within the 
 last few moments, in his very presence, had happened 
 that which was to put an end for ever to all his dreams 
 of a coronet glittering upon his daughters brow ! 
 
 Miss Hillary obeyed her fathers second orders, 
 carefully looking in every direction but that in which 
 she would have encountered Elliott; and whispering a 
 word or two into her father's ear, quitted the room. 
 Elliott's heart was beating quickly when the harsh 
 tones of Mr. Hillary, who had worked himself into a 
 very violent humour, fell upon his ear, directing him to 
 return immediately to the city, and say he had no an- 
 swer to send till the morning, when he was to be in 
 attendance at an early hour. 
 
 Scarce knowing whether he stood on his head 
 or his heels, Elliott hurriedly bowed, and withdrew. 
 Borne along on the current of his tumultuous emotions, 
 he seemed to fly down the swarming City Road ; and 
 when he reached the dull dingy little back counting 
 house where he was to be occupied till a late hour of 
 the night, he found himself not in the fittest humour in 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 35 
 
 the world for his task. Could he possibly be mis- 
 taken in interpreting Miss Hillary's look ? Was it not 
 corroborated by her subsequent conduct ? And, by- 
 the-way, now that he came to glance backward into 
 the two or three months during which he had been 
 almost daily in her presence, divers little incidents 
 started up into his recollection, all tending the same 
 way. " Heighho !" exclaimed Elliott, laying down 
 his yet unused pen, after a long and bewildering reve- 
 ry — " I wonder what Miss Hillary is thinking about ! 
 Surely I have had a kind of day dream ! It can't have 
 really happened ! And yet — how could there have 
 been a mistake 1 Heaven knows I had taken nothing 
 to excite or disorder me — except, perhaps, my long 
 walk ! Here's a coup de soleil, by-the-way, with a 
 witness ! But only to think of it — Miss Hillary — 
 daughter of Jacob Hillary, Esq. — in love with — an un- 
 der clerk of her father's — pho ! it will never do ! I'll 
 think of it to-morrow morning." Thus communed El- 
 liott with" himself, by turns writing, pausing, and so- 
 liloquizing, till the lateness of the hour compelled him 
 to apply to his task in good earnest. He did not quit his 
 desk till it had struck ten ; from which period till that 
 at which he tumbled into his little bed, he fancied that 
 scarcely five minutes had elapsed. 
 
 He made his appearance at Bullion House the next 
 morning with a sad fluttering about the heart, but it 
 soon subsided, for Miss Hillary was not present to pro- 
 long his agitation. He had not been seated for many 
 minutes, however, before he observed her in a distant 
 part of the gardens, apparently tending some flowers. 
 As his eye followed the movements of her-graceful 
 figure, he could not avoid a faint sigh of regret at his 
 own absurdity in raising such a superstructure of 
 splendid possibilities upon so slight a foundation. His 
 attention was at that instant arrested by Mr. Hillary's 
 multifarious commands for the city : and, in short, 
 Miss Hillary's absence from town for about a week, 
 added to a great increase of business at the counting 
 
88 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 house, owing to an extensive failure of a foreign cor- 
 respondent, gradually restored Elliott to his senses, 
 and banished the intrusive image of his lovely tor- 
 mentor. Her unequivocal exhibition of feeling, how- 
 ever — unequivocal at least to him — on the occasion of 
 the next meeting, instantly revived all his former ex- 
 citement, and plunged him afresh into the soft tumult 
 of doubts, hopes, and fears, from which he had so 
 lately emerged. Every day that he returned to Mr. 
 Hillary brought him fresh evidence of the extent to 
 which he had encroached upon Miss Hillary's affec- 
 tions ; and strange, indeed, must be that heart which, 
 feeling itself alone and despised in the world, can 
 suddenly find itself the object of a most enthusiastic 
 and disinterested attachment without kindling into a 
 flame of grateful affection. Was there anything won- 
 derful or improbable in the conduct attributed to Miss 
 Hillary 1 No. A girl of frank and generous feeling, 
 she saw in one, whom undeserved misfortune had 
 placed in a very painful and trying position, the con- 
 stant exhibition of high qualities ; a patient and digni- 
 fied submission to her father's cruel and oppressive 
 • treatment — a submission on her account; she beheld 
 his high feeling conquering misfortune ; she saw in his 
 eye — his every look — his whole demeanour, suscepti- 
 bilities of an exalted description : and beyond all this 
 — last, though not least, as Elliott acted the gentle- 
 man, so he looked it — and a handsome gentleman, too ! 
 So it came to pass, then, that these two hearts be- 
 came acquainted with each other, despite the obstacles 
 of circumstance and situation. A kind of telegraphing 
 courtship was carried on between them daily, which 
 must have been observed by Mr. Hillary, but for the en- 
 grossing interest with which he regarded the commu- 
 nications of which Elliott was always the bearer. Mr. 
 Hillary began, however, at length, to recover the use 
 of his limbs, and rapidly to gain general strength. He 
 consequently announced one morning to Elliott, that he 
 should not require him to call after the morrow. 
 
the merchant's clerk. 37 
 
 At this time the lovers had never interchanged a syl- 
 lable together, either verbal or written, that could sa- 
 vour of love ; and yet each was as confidant of the 
 state of the others feelings, as though a hundred 
 closely written, and closer-crossed letters, had been 
 passing between them. On the dreadful morrow he 
 was pale and somewhat confused, ftorwas she far other- 
 wise ; but she had a sufficient reason in the indisposi- 
 tion of her mother, who had for many months been a 
 bed-ridden invalid. As for Elliott, he was safe. He 
 might have appeared at death's door without attracting 
 the notice, or exciting the inquiries of his callous em- 
 ployer. As he rose to leave the room, Elliott bowed to 
 Mr.' Hillary ; but his last glance was directed towards 
 Miss Hillary, who, however, at that moment was, or 
 appeared to be, too busily occupied with pouring out 
 her excellent father's coffee, to pay any attention to 
 her retiring lover, who consequently retired from her 
 presence not a little piqued and alarmed. 
 
 They had no opportunity of seeing one another till 
 nearly a month after the occasion just alluded to ; when 
 they met under circumstances very favourable for the 
 expression of such feelings as either of them dared to 
 acknowledge — and the opportunity was not thrown 
 awav. Mr. Hillary had quitted town for the north, on 
 urgent business, which was expected to detain him for 
 nearly a fortnight ; and Elliott failed not, on the fol- 
 lowing Sunday, to be at the post he had constantly oc- 
 cupied for some months — namely, a seat in the gallery 
 of the church attended by Mr. Hillary and his family, 
 commanding a distant view of the great central pew — 
 matted, hassocked, and velvet cushioned, with a rich 
 array of splendid implements of devotion, in the shape 
 of Bibles and prayer books, great and small, with gilt 
 edges, and in blue and red morocco, being the favoured 
 spot occupied rjy the great merchant — where he was 
 pleased by his presence to assure the admiring vicar 
 of his respect for him and the established church. 
 Miss Hillary had long since been aware of the pres- 
 
 4 
 
38 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 ence of her timid and distant lover on these occa- 
 sions ; they had several, times nearly jostled against 
 one another in going out of church, the consequence 
 of which was generally a civil though silent recogni- 
 tion of him. And this might be done with impunity, 
 seeing how her wealthy father was occupied with nod- 
 ding to everybody, genteel enough to be so publicly- re- 
 cognised, and shaking hands with the select few who 
 enjoyed his personal acquaintance. With what a dif- 
 ferent air and with what a different feeling did the 
 great merchant and his humble clerk pass on these 
 occasions down the aisle ! 
 
 But to return. On the Sunday above alluded to, 
 Elliott beheld Miss Hillary enter the church alone, 
 and become the solitary tenant of the family pew. Sad 
 truants from his prayer book, his eyes never quitted 
 the fair and solitary occupant of Mr. Hillary's pew ; 
 but she chose, in some wayward humour, to sit that 
 morning with her back turned towards the part of the 
 church where she knew Elliott to be, and never once 
 looked up in that direction. They met, however, after 
 the service, near the door, as usual ; she dropped her 
 black veil just in time to prevent his observing a cer- 
 tain sudden flush that forced itself upon her features ; 
 returned his modest bow ; a few words of course were 
 interchanged ; it threatened, or Elliott chose to repre- 
 sent that it threatened to rain : (which he heartily wished 
 it would, as she had come on foot, and unattended:) 
 and so, in short, it came to pass that this very discreet 
 couple were to be seen absolutely walking arm in arm 
 towards Bullion House, at the slowest possible pace, 
 and by the most circuitous route that could suggest 
 itself to the flurried mind of Elliott. An instinctive 
 sense of propriety, or rather prudence, led him to quit 
 her arm just before arriving at that turn of the road 
 which brought them full in sight of her father's house. 
 There they parted, each satisfied as to the nature of the 
 other's feelings, though nothing had then passed be- 
 tween them of an explicit or decisive character. 
 
THE MERCHANT S CLERK. 39 
 
 It is not necessary for me to dwell on this part of 
 their history. Where there is a will, it is said, there 
 is a way ; and the young and venturous couple found, 
 before long, an opportunity of declaring to each other 
 their mutual feelings. Their meetings and corres- 
 pondence were contrived and carried on with the utmost 
 difficulty. Great caution and secrecy were necessary 
 to conceal the affair from Mr. Hillary, and those whose 
 interest it was 'O give him early information on every 
 matter that in any way concerned him. Miss Hillary 
 buoyed herself up with the hope of securing, in due time, 
 her mother, and obtaining her intercessions with her 
 stern and callous-hearted father. Some three months, 
 or thereabouts, after the Sunday just mentioned, Mr. Hil- 
 lary returned from the city, and made his appearance at 
 dinner, in an unusually gay and lively humour. Miss 
 Hillary was at a loss to conjecture the occasion of 
 such an exhibition ; but imagined it must be some great 
 speculation of his which had proved unexpectedly suc- 
 cessful. He occasionally directed towards her a kind 
 of grim leer, as though longing to communicate tidings 
 which he expected to be as gratifying to her as they 
 were to himself. They dined alone ; and as she was 
 retiring rather earlier than usual, in order to attend 
 upon her mother, who had that day been more than ordi- 
 narily indisposed, he motioned her to resume her seat. 
 
 " Well, Molly" — for that was the elegant version of 
 her Christian name which he generally adopted when 
 in a good humour — "well, Molly," pouring out a glass 
 of wine, as the servants made their final exit, " I have 
 heard something to-day, in the city — ahem ! in which 
 you are particularly concerned — very much so — and — 
 s0 — ahem ! — am 1 !" He tossed off half of his glass, 
 and smacked his lips as though he unusually relished 
 the flavour. 
 
 " Indeed, papa !" exclaimed the young lady, with an 
 air of anxious vivacity, not attempting to convey to her 
 lips the brimming wineglass her father had filled for 
 her, lest the trembling of her hand should be observed 
 
40 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 by him. " Oh, you are joking ! what can 1 have to do 
 with the city, papa ?" 
 
 " Do ? Aha, my girl ! ' What can you have to do 
 in the city,' " good-humouredly attempting to imitate 
 her tone, " indeed I Don't try to play mock modest 
 with me ! You know as well as I do what I am going 
 to say !" he added, looking at her archly, as he fancied, 
 but so as to blanch her cheek and agitate her whole 
 frame with an irresistible tremour. Her acute and feel- 
 ing father observed her emotion. " There now, that's 
 iust the way all you young misses behave on these 
 occasions ! I suppose it's considered mighty pretty ! 
 As if it wasn't all a matter of course for a young woman 
 to hear about a young husband !" 
 
 " Papa, how you do love a joke !" replied Miss Hil- 
 lary, with a sickly smile, making a desperate effort to 
 carry her wineglass to her lips, in which she suc- 
 ceeded, swallowing every drop that was in it, while 
 her father electrified her by proceeding : " It's no use 
 mincing matters ; the thing is gone too far." 
 
 " Gone too far !" echoed Miss Hillary, mechanically. 
 
 " Yes, gone too far, I say, and I stick to it. A bar- 
 gain's a bargain all the world over, whatever it's about ; 
 and a bargain I've struck to-day. You're my daughter 
 — my only daughter, d'ye see — and I've been a good 
 while on the lookout for a proper person to marry you 
 to ; and, egad ! to-day I've got him ; my future son-in- 
 law, d'ye hear, and one that will clap a coronet on my 
 pretty Molly's head ; and on the day he does so, I do 
 two things ; I give you a plum, and myself cut Min- 
 cing Lane, and sink the shop for the rest of my days. 
 There's nuts for you to crack ! Aha, Molly, what d'ye 
 say to all this ? An't it news ?" 
 
 " Say ! why I — I — I — " stammered the young lady, 
 her face nearly as white as the handkerchief on which 
 her eyes were violently fixed, and with which her fin- 
 gers were hurriedly playing. 
 
 11 Why, Molly! What's the matter ? What the , 
 
 ahem ! are you gone so pale for ? Gad, 1 see how it 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 41 
 
 is ; I have been too abrupt, as your poor mother has 
 it ! But the thing is as I said, that's flat, come what 
 will, say it how one will, take it how you will ! So 
 make up your mind, Molly, like a good girl as you are ; 
 come, kiss me ! I never loved you so much as now I'm 
 going to lose you !" 
 
 She made no attempt to rise from her chair, so he 
 got up from his own, and approached her. 
 
 " Auad, but what's the matter here ? Your little 
 hands are as cold as a corpse's. Why, Molly, what — 
 what nonsense." He chucked her under the chin. 
 t; You're trying to frighten me, Molly, I know you are ! 
 ah-ha V He grew more and more alarmed at her deadly 
 paleness and apparent insensibility to what he was say- 
 ing. ' ; Well, now — " he paused, and looked anxiously 
 at her. " Who would have thought," he added, sud- 
 denly, " that it would have taken the girl aback so 1 
 Come, come !" slapping her smartly on her back, " a 
 joke's a joke, and I've had mine, but it's been carried 
 too far, I'm afraid." 
 
 "Dear — dearest papa," gasped his daughter, sud- 
 denly raising her eyes, £nd fixing them with a steadfast 
 brightening look upon his, at the, same time catching 
 hold of his hands convulsively, " so it is — a joke! a — 
 joke — it is — it is ;" and gradually sinking back in her 
 chair, to her fathers unspeakable alarm, she swooned. 
 Holding her in his arms, he roared stoutly for assist- 
 ance, and in a twinkling a posse of servants, male and 
 female, obeying the summons, rushed pellmell into the 
 dining room ; the ordinary hubbub attendant on a faint- 
 ing fit ensued — cold water sprinkled, eau de Cologne, 
 volatile salts, &c., &c. Then the young lady, scarce 
 restored to her senses, was supported, or rather carried, 
 by her maid to her own apartment, and Mr. Hillary 
 was left to himself for the remainder of the evening, 
 flustered and confounded beyond all expression. The 
 result of his troubled ruminations was, that the sudden 
 communication of such prodigious good fortune had up- 
 set his daughter with joy, and that he must return to 
 
 4* 
 
42 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 the charge in a day or two, and break it to her more 
 easily. The real fact was, that he had that day assured 
 the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Scamp of his 
 daughter's heart, hand, and fortune ; and that exem- 
 plary personage had agreed to dine at Bullion House on 
 the ensuing Sunday, for the purpose of being introduced 
 to his future viscountess, whose noble fortune was to 
 place his financial- matters upon an entirely new basis, 
 at least for some time to come, and enable him to show 
 his honest face once more in divers amiable coteries at 
 
 C 's and elsewhere. Old Hillary's dazzled eyes 
 
 could see nothing but his lordship's coronet ; and he 
 had no more doubt about his right thus to dispose of 
 his daughter's heart than he had about his right to 
 draw upon Messrs. Cash, Credit, and Co., his bankers, 
 without first consulting them to ascertain whether they 
 would honour his drafts. 
 
 Miss Hillary did not make her appearance the next 
 morning at her father's breakfast table, her maid being 
 sent to say, that her young lady had a violent head- 
 ache, and so forth ; the consequence of which was, 
 that the old gentleman departed for the city in a ter- 
 rible temper, as every member of this establishment 
 could have testified if they had been asked. Miss 
 Hillary had spent an hour or two of the preceding 
 midnight in writing to Elliott a long and somewhat in- 
 coherent account of what had happened. She gave 
 but a poor account of herself to her father at dinner 
 that day. He was morosely silent. She pale, absent, 
 disconcerted. 
 
 " What the devil is the matter with you, Mary ?" in- 
 quired Mr. Hillary, with stern abruptness, as soon as 
 the servants had withdrawn ; "• what were all those 
 tantrums of yours about last night, eh ?" 
 
 " Indeed, papa," replied his trembling daughter, " I 
 hardly know ; but really, you must remember you said 
 such very odd things, and so suddenly, and you looked 
 so angry." 
 
 " Tut, girl, pho ! Fiddle faddle !" exclaimed her 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 43 
 
 father, gulping down a glass of wine with great en- 
 ergy. " I could almost — ahem ! — really, it looked as 
 if you had taken a little too much, eh ? What harm 
 was there in me telling you that you were going soon 
 to be married? What's a girl bom and bred up for 
 but to be married? Eh, Mary ?" continued her father, 
 determined, this time, to go to work with greater skill 
 and tact than on the preceding evening. " I want an 
 answer, Mary !" 
 
 " Why, papa, it was a very odd thing now, was not 
 it?" said his daughter, with an affectionate smile, 
 drawing nearer to her father, her knees trembling, 
 however, the while ; " and I know you did it only to 
 try whether I was a silly vain girl ! Why should I 
 want to be married, papa, when you and my poor mam- 
 ma are so kind to me ?" 
 
 " Humph !" grunted her father, gulping down a 
 great glass of claret. " And d'ye think we're to live 
 for ever? I must see you established before long, for 
 my health, hem ! hem ! is none of the^trongest ;" (he 
 had scarcely ever known what an hour's illness was 
 in his life, except his late accident, from which he had 
 completely recovered ;) M and as for your poor mother, 
 you know — " A long pause ensued here. "Now, sup- 
 pose," continued the wily tactician, u suppose, Molly," 
 looking at her very anxiously, u suppose I wasn't in 
 a joke last night, after all ?" 
 
 " Well, papa—" 
 
 " Well, papa .'" echoed her father, sneeringly and 
 snappishly, unable to conceal his ill humour ; " but it 
 isn't ' well, papa ,-' I can't understand all this nonsense. 
 Mary, you must not give yourself airs. Did you ever 
 hear — ahem !" — he suddenly stopped short, sipped 
 his wine, and paused, evidently intending to make 
 some important communication, and striving, at the 
 same time, to assume an unconcerned air — " did you 
 ever hear of ihe Right Honourable the Lord Viscount 
 Scamp, MoL*j 9 s 
 
 " Yes ; Vm ' ; J >n things about him now and then in 
 
44 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 the newspapers. Isn't he a great gambler, papa ?" in- 
 quired Miss Hillary, looking at her father calmly. 
 
 " No, it's a lie," replied her father, furiously, whirling 
 :about the ponderous seals of his watch. " Has any 
 one been putting fhis into your head?" 
 
 " No one, indeed, papa, only the newspapers — " 
 
 " And you are such an idiot as to believe news- 
 papers 1 Didn't they say, a year or two ago, that my 
 house was in for 20,000Z. when Gumarabic and Co. 
 broke 1 And wasn't that a great lie 1 I didn't lose a 
 fiftieth of the sum ! No," he added, after a long pause y 
 " Lord Scamp is no such thing, He's a vastly agree- 
 able young man, and takes an uncommon interest in 
 city matters, and that's saying no small thing for a 
 nobleman of his high rank. Why, it's said he may 
 one day be a duke !" 
 
 " Indeed, papa ! And do you know him ?" 
 
 " Y — y — es ! Know him 1 Of course ! Do you 
 think I come and talk up at Highbury about every- 
 body I know 1 Know Lord Scamp ? He's an orna- 
 ment to the peerage." 
 
 " How long have you known him, papa ?" 
 
 " How long, puss ! Why this — a good while I 
 However, he dines here on Sunday." 
 
 " Dines here on Sunday ! Lord Scamp dines here 
 next Sunday ? Oh, papa ! this is another joke of 
 yours !" f " 
 
 " Curse me, then, if I can see it f What the deuse 
 is there so odd in my asking a nobleman to dinner, if 
 I think proper ? Why, if it comes to that, I can buy 
 up a dozen of them any day, if I choose ;" and he, 
 thrust his hands deeply into his breeches pockets. 
 
 " Yes, dear papa, I know you could, if they were 
 worth buying," replied Miss Hillary, with a faint smile. 
 w Give me a great merchant before a hundred good- 
 for-nothing lords !" and she rose, put her hands about 
 hi» neck and kissed him fondly. 
 
 " Well — I — I don't think you're so vastly far off the 
 mark there, at any rate, Polly," said her father, with a 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 45 
 
 subdued air of exultation ; " but at the same time, you 
 know, there may be lords as good as any merchant in 
 the city of London — hem ! and, after all, a lord's a 
 superior article, too, in respect of birth and breeding.' , 
 
 11 Yes, papa, they're all well enough, I dare say, in 
 their own circles : but in their hearts, depend upon it, 
 they only despise us poor citizens." 
 
 " Us poor citizens — I like that !" drawled her father, 
 pouring out his wine slowly with a magnificent air, and 
 drinking it off in silence. " You shall see, however, 
 on Sunday, Poll ! whether you're correct — " 
 
 " What ! am / to dine with you P inquired Miss Hil- 
 lary, with irrepressible alarm. 
 
 u You to dine with us ? Of course you will ! Why 
 the devil should not you V 
 
 " My poor mamma — " 
 
 " Oh — ahem ! I mean — nonsense — you can go to 
 her after dinner. Certainly, you must attend to her." 
 
 " Very well, papa, I will obey you, whatever *you 
 like," replied Miss Hillary, a sudden tremour running 
 from head to foot. 
 
 '* That's a dear good girl — that's my own Poll ! 
 And hearken," he added, with a mixture of good hu- 
 mour and anxiety, " make yourself look handsome ; 
 never mind the cost ; money's no object, you know ! 
 So tell that pert minx, your maid Joliffe, that I expect 
 she'll turn you out first rate that day, if it's only to save 
 the credit of us — poor — merchants /" 
 
 " Gracious, papa, but why are you really so anxious 
 about my dressing so well V 
 
 Her father, who had sat swallowing glass after glass 
 with unusual rapidity, at the same time unconsciously 
 mixing his wines, put his finger to the side of his nose, 
 and winked in a very knowing manner. His daughter 
 saw her advantage in an instant ; and with the ready 
 tact of her sex resolved at once to find out all that was 
 in her father's heart concerning her. She smiled as 
 cheerfully as she could, and affected to enter readily 
 into all his feelings. She poured him out one or two 
 
46 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 glasses more of his favourite wine, arid chattered as 
 fast as himself, till she at length succeeded in extract- 
 ing from him an acknowledgment that he had dis- 
 tinctly promised her to Lord Scamp, whose visit, oa 
 the ensuing Sunday, would be paid to her as to his 
 future wife. Soon after this, she rang for candles ; 
 and kissing her father, who had fairly fallen asleep, 
 she withdrew to her own room, and there spent the 
 next hour or two in confidential converse with her maid 
 Joliffe. 
 
 Sunday came, and, true enough, with it Lord Scamp ; 
 a handsome, heartless coxcomb, whose cool, easy as- 
 surance, and businesslike attentions to Miss Hillary, 
 excited in her a disgust she could scarcely conceal. 
 In vain was her father's eager and anxious eye fixed 
 upon her ; she maintained an air of uniform indifference ; 
 listened almost in silence, the silence of contempt, to 
 all the lisping twaddle uttered by her would-be lover, 
 and so well acted, in short, the part she had deter- 
 mined upon, that his lordship, as he drove home, felt 
 somewhat disconcerted at being thus foiled for, as he 
 imagined, the first time in his life ; and her father, af- 
 ter obsequiously attending his lordship to his cab, sum- 
 moned his trembling daughter back from her mother's 
 apartment into the drawing room, and assailed her with 
 a fury she had never known him to exhibit, at least 
 towards any member of his family. 
 
 From that day might be dated the commencement 
 of a kind of domestic reign of terror, at the hitherto 
 quiet and happy Bullion House. The one great aim of 
 her father concerning his daughter and his fortune had 
 been — or rather seemed on the point of being — frus- 
 trated by that daughter. But he was not lightly to be 
 turned from his purpose. He redoubled his civilities to 
 Lord Scamp, who kept up his visits with a systematic 
 punctuality, despite the contemptuous and disgustful air 
 with which the young lady constantly received him. 
 The right honourable roue was playing, indeed, for too 
 deep a stake — an accomplished and elegant girl, with a 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 47 
 
 hundred thousand pounds down, and nearly double that 
 sum, he understood, at her father's death — to admit of 
 his throwing up the game, w T hile the possibility of a 
 chance remained. Half the poor girl's fortune was 
 already transferred, in Lord Scamp's mind, to the 
 pockets of half a dozen harpies at the turf and the 
 table ; so he was, as before observed, very punctual in 
 his engagements at Bullion House, with patient polite- 
 ness continuing to pay the most flattering attentions to 
 Miss Hillary — and her father. The latter was kept 
 in a state of constant fever. Conscious of the transpa- 
 rent contempt exhibited by his daughter towards her 
 noble suitor, he could at length hardly look his lordship 
 in the face, as, day after day, he obsequiously assured 
 him that " there wasn't anything in it" — and that for 
 all his daughter's nonsense, he already " felt himself a 
 lord's father-in-law !" 
 
 Miss Hillary's life was becoming intolerable, sub- 
 jected as she was to such systematic persecution, from 
 \? hich, at length, the sickchamber of her mother scarce 
 afforded her a momentary sanctuary. A thousand 
 times she formed the desperate determination to con- 
 fess all to her father, and risk the fearful consequences : 
 for such she dreaded they would be, knowing well her 
 father's disposition, and the terrible frustration of his 
 favourite schemes which was taking place. Such con- 
 stant anxiety and agitation, added to confinement in 
 her mother's bedchamber, sensibly affected her health ; 
 and at the suggestion of Elliott, with whom she con- 
 trived to keep up a frequent correspondence, she had 
 at length determined upon opening the fearful commu- 
 nication to her father, and so be at all events deliv- 
 ered from the intolerable presence and attentions of 
 Lord Scamp. 
 
 By what means it came to pass, neither she nor 
 Elliott were ever able to discover ; but on the morning 
 of the day she had fixed for her desperate denouement^ 
 Mr. Hillary, during the temporary absence of his 
 dauohter, returned from the city about two o'clock, 
 
48 THE MERCHANT'S CLERIC. 
 
 most unexpectedly, his manner disturbed, and his coun- 
 tenance pale and distorted. Accompanied by his soli- 
 citor, he made his way at once to his daughter's apart- 
 ment, with his own hand seized her desk and carried 
 it down to the drawing room, and forced it open. 
 Frantic with fury, he was listening to one of Elliott's 
 fondest letters to his daughter being read by his soli- 
 citor as she unconsciously entered the drawing room, 
 in walking attire. It would be in vain to attempt de- 
 scribing the scene that immediately ensued. Old Hil- 
 lary's lips moved, but his utterance was choked by the 
 tremendous rage which possessed him, and forced him 
 almost to the verge of madness. Trembling from head 
 to foot, and his straining eyes apparently starting from 
 their sockets, he pointed in silence to a little heap of 
 opened letters lying on the table, on which stood also 
 her desk. She perceived that all was discovered — 
 and with a smothered scream fell senseless upon the 
 floor. There, as far as her father was concerned, she 
 might have continued ; but his companion sprang to 
 the bell, lifted her inanimate form from the floor, and 
 gave her to the entering servants, who instantly bore 
 her to her own room. Mr. Jeffreys the solicitor, a 
 highly respectable man, to whom Mr. Hillary had hur- 
 ried the instant that he recovered from the first shock 
 occasioned by discovering his daughter's secret, ve- 
 hemently expostulated with his client on hearing the 
 violent and vindictive measures he threatened to adopt 
 towards his daughter and Elliott ; for the tone of the 
 correspondence which then lay before him had satis- 
 fied him of the fatal extent to which his daughter's 
 affections were engaged. 
 
 Now her treatment of Lord Scamp was accounted 
 for! Her dreadful agitation on first hearing his in- 
 tentions concerning that young nobleman and herself 
 was explained. So here was his fondest hope blighted 
 —the sole ambition of his life defeated — and by one 
 of his own — his inferior servants — an outer clerk on 
 his establishment at Mincing Lane ! Confounded by 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 49 
 
 a retrospect into the last few months, " Where have 
 been my eyes — my common sense ?" he groaned ; 
 "the devil himself has done it all, and made me assist 
 in it ! Oh, I see ! 1 remember ! Those cursed days 
 when he came up from the city to me — and when — I 
 must always have her with me ! There the mischief 
 was begun — oh, it's clear as the daylight ! Fve done 
 
 it ! I've done it all ! And now, by ! I'll undo 
 
 it all !" Mr. Jeffreys at length succeeded in subduing 
 the excitement of his client, and bringing him to con- 
 verse calmly on the painful and embarrassing discovery 
 that had been made. Innumerable were the conjec- 
 tures as to the means by which this secret acquaintance 
 and correspondence had been carried on. Every ser- 
 vant in the house was examined — but in vain. Even 
 Joliffe, his daughter's maid, came at length, however 
 strongly suspected, still undiscovered, out of the fierce 
 and searching scrutiny. Poor Mrs. Hillary's precarious 
 situation even did not exempt her from the long and 
 angry inquiries of her exasperated husband. She had 
 really, however, been entirely unacquainted with the 
 affair. 
 
 The next morning Elliott was summoned from the 
 city to Bullion House, whither he repaired accordingly 
 about twelve o'clock, little imagining the occasion of 
 his summons ; for Miss Hillary had not communicated 
 to him the intention she had formed of breaking the 
 matter to her father, nor had she any opportunity of 
 telling him of the alarming discovery that had taken 
 place He perceived, nevertheless, certain symptoms 
 of disturbance in the ominous looks of the porter who 
 opened the hall door and the servant who conducted him 
 to the drawing room, where he found Mr. Hillary and 
 another gentleman — Mr. Jeffreys — seated together at 
 a table covered with papers, both of them obviously 
 agitated. 
 
 44 So, sir," commenced Mr. Hillary, fixing his furious 
 eyes upon Elliott as he entered, " your villany's found 
 out, deep as you are !" 
 
 c 5 
 
50 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 " Villany, sir ?" echoed Elliott, indignantly, but turn- 
 ing very pale. 
 
 "Yes, sir, villany ! villany! d ble villany ! ay, 
 
 it's all found out ! Ah — ah— you cursed scoundrel !" 
 exclaimed Mr. Hillary, with quivering lips and shaking 
 his fist at Elliott. 
 
 " For God's sake, Mr. Hillary, be calm !" whispered 
 Mr. Jeffreys, and then addressed Elliott with a quiet 
 severity — " Of course, Mr. Elliott, you are aware of 
 the occasion of this dreadful agitation on the part of 
 Mr. Hillary ?" Elliott bowed with a stern inquisitive 
 air, but did not open his lips. 
 
 " You beggarly brute — you filthy d — d upstart — 
 you — you" — stammered Mr. Hillary, with uncontrol- 
 lable fury, " your father was a scoundrel before you, 
 sir — he cut his throat, sir !" 
 
 Elliott's face whitened in an instant, his expanding 
 eye settled upon Mr. Hillary, and his chest heaved 
 with mighty emotion. It was" happy for the old man 
 that Elliott at length recollected in him the father of 
 Mary Hillary. He turned his eye for an instant to- 
 wards Mr. Jeffreys, who was looking at him with an 
 imploring, compassionate expression; Elliott saw and 
 felt that he was thunderstruck at the barbarity of his 
 client. Elliott's eye remained fixed upon Mr. Jeffreys 
 for nearly a minute, and then filled with tears. Mr. 
 Jeffreys muttered a few words earnestly in the ear of 
 Mr. Hillary, who seemed also a little staggered at the 
 extent of his last sally. 
 
 " Will you take a seat, Mr. Elliott ?" said Mr. Jef- 
 freys, mildly. Elliott bowed, but remained standing, 
 his hat grasped by his left hand with convulsive force. 
 • " You will make allowance, sir," continued Mr. Jef- 
 freys, " for the dreadful agitation of Mr. Hillary, and 
 reflect that your own conduct has occasioned it." 
 
 " So you dare think of marrying my daughter, eh?" 
 thundered Mr. Hillary, as if about to rise from his chair. 
 " By , but I'll spoil your sport though — I'll be even 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 51 
 
 with you !" gasped the old man, and sank back pant- 
 ing in his seat. 
 
 " You cannot really be in earnest, sir," resumed Mr. 
 Jeffreys, in the same calm and severe tone and man- 
 ner in which he had spoken from the first, " in thinking 
 vourself entitled to form an attachment and alliance to 
 Miss Hillary T 
 
 " Why am I asked these questions, sir, and in this 
 most extraordinary manner '?" inquired Elliott, firmly. 
 " Have I ever said one single syllable ?" 
 
 *' Oh, spare your denials, Mr. Elliott," said Jeffreys, 
 pointing with a bitter smile to the letters lying open 
 on the table at which he sat ; " these letters of yours 
 express your feelings and intentions pretty plainly. 
 Believe me, sir, everything is known !" 
 
 " Well, sir, and what then?" inquired Elliott, haughti- 
 ly ; " those letters, I presume, are mine, addressed to 
 Miss Hillary V Jeffreys bowed. " Well then, sir, I 
 now avow the feelings those letters express. I have 
 formed, however unworthy myself, a fervent attachment 
 to Miss Hillary, and I will die before I disavowal. " 
 
 " There ! hear him \ hark to the fellow T I shall go 
 ma d — I shall !" almost roared Mr. Hillary, springing 
 out of his chair, and walking to and fro between it and 
 that occupied by Mr. Jeffreys, w T ith hurried steps and 
 vehement gesticulations. M He owns it ! he does ! 
 the — " and he uttered a perfect volley of execrations. 
 Elliott submitted to them in silence. Mr. Jeffreys 
 again whispered energetically into the ear of his client, 
 who resumed his seat, but with his eyes fixed on Elli- 
 ott, and muttering vehemently to himself. 
 
 " You see, sir, the wretchedness that your most un- 
 warrantable — your artful — nay, your wicked and pre- 
 sumptuous conduct has brought upon this family. I 
 earnestly hope that it is not too late for you to listen to 
 reason — to abandon your insane projects." He paused, 
 and Elliott bowed. " It is in vain," continued Mr. Jef- 
 freys, pointing to the letters, " to conceal our fears that 
 your attentions must have proved acceptable to Miss 
 
 c2 
 
52 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 •' 
 
 Hillary ; but we give you credit for more honour, more 
 good sense than will admit of your carrying further 
 this most unfortunate affair, of your persisting in such 
 a wild — I must speak plainly — such an audacious at- 
 tachment, one that is utterly unsuitable to your means, 
 your prospects, your station, your birth, your educa- 
 tion — " 
 
 " You will be pleased, sir, to drop the last two 
 words," interrupted Elliott, sternly. 
 
 " Why, you fellow ! why, you're my clerk ! I pay 
 you wages ! You're a hired servant of mine 1" ex- 
 claimed Hillary, with infinite contempt. 
 
 " Well, sir," continued Jeffreys, " this affair is too 
 important to allow of our quarrelling about words. 
 Common sense must tell you that under no possible 
 view of the case can you be a suitable match for Miss 
 Hillary ; and therefore, common honesty enjoins the 
 course you ought to pursue. However, sir," he added, 
 in a sharper tone, evidently piqued at the composure 
 and firmness maintained by Elliott, " the long and short 
 of it is, that this affair will not be allowed to go fur- 
 ther, sir. Mr. Hillary is resolved to prevent it — come 
 what will." 
 
 "Ay, so help me God!" ejaculated Mr. Hillary, 
 casting a ferocious glance at Elliott. 
 
 " Well, sir," said Elliott, with a sigh, <l what would 
 you have me do ? Pray, proceed, sir." 
 
 " Immediately renounce all pretensions," replied Mr. 
 Jeffreys, eagerly, " to Miss Hillary ; return her letters 
 — pledge yourself to discontinue your attempts to gain 
 her affections, and I am authorized to offer a foreign 
 situation connected with the house you at present serve, 
 and to guaranty you a fixed income of 500Z. a year." 
 
 " Ay !— hark'ee, Elliott, I'll do all this, so help me 
 God !." suddenly interrupted Mr. Hillary, casting a look 
 of imploring agony at Elliott, who bowed respectfully, 
 but made no reply. 
 
 " Suppose, sir," continued Mr. Jeffreys, with an 
 anxious and disappointed air, " suppose, sir, for a mo- 
 
THE MERCHANT S CLERK. 53 
 
 ment, that Miss Hillary were to entertain equally ar- 
 dent feelings towards you with those which, in these 
 letters, you have expressed to her — can you, as a man 
 of honour — of delicacy — of spirit — persevere with your 
 addresses where the inevitable consequence of success 
 on your part must be her degradation from the sphere 
 in which she has hitherto moved — her condemnation 
 to straitened circumstances — perhaps to absolute want 
 — for life ! For believe me, sir, if you suppose that 
 Mr. Hillary's fortune is to supply you both with the 
 means of defying him — to support you in a life, on her 
 part, of frightful ingratitude and disobedience, and on 
 yours of presumption and selfishness, you will find 
 yourself awfully mistaken !" 
 
 " He's speaking the truth-*-by he is !" said Mr. 
 
 Hillary, striving to assume a calm manner. " If you 
 do come together after all this, d — n me if I don't leave 
 every penny I have in the world to a hospital — or to 
 a jail — in which one of you may perhaps end your 
 days, after all !" 
 
 "Perhaps, Mr. Elliott," resumed Jeffreys, "I am to 
 infer from your silence that you doubt — that you dis- 
 believe these threats. If so, I assure you, you are 
 grievously and fatally mistaken ; you do not, believe 
 me, know Mr. Hillary as I know him and have known 
 him these twenty years and upward. I solemnly and 
 truly assure you that he will as certainly do what he 
 says, and for ever forsake you both, as you are stand- 
 ing now before us !" He paused. " Again, sir, you 
 may imagine that Miss Hillary has property of her 
 own — at her own disposal. Do not so sadly deceive 
 yourself on that score ! . Miss Hillary has, at this mo- 
 ment, exactly 600/. at her own disposal — " 
 
 " Ay, only 600Z. — that's the uttermost penny !" 
 
 "And how long is that to last! — come, sir, allow 
 me to ask you what you have to say to all this ?" in- 
 quired Mr. Jeffreys, folding his arms, and leaning back 
 in his chair, with an air of mingled chagrin and ex- 
 haustion, Elliott drew a long breath. 
 
 . 5* 
 
54 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 " I have but little to say, Mr. Jeffreys, in answer to 
 what you have been stating," he commenced, with a 
 melancholy but determined air. " However you may 
 suspect me, and misconstrue, and misrepresent my char- 
 acter and motives, I never in my life meditated a dis- 
 honourable action." He paused, thinking Mr. Hillary 
 was about to interrupt him, but he was mistaken. Mr. 
 Hillary was silently devouring every word that fell 
 from Elliott, as also was Mr. Jeffreys. " I am here as 
 a hired servant, indeed," resumed Elliott, with a sigh, 
 "and I am the son of one who — who — was an unfor- 
 tunate — " His eyes filled, and his voice faltered. For 
 some seconds there was a dead silence. The perspi- 
 ration stood on every feature of Mr. Hillary's agitated 
 countenance. u But of course, all this is as nothing 
 here." He gathered courage, and proceeded with a 
 calm and resolute air. " I know how hateful I must 
 now appear to you. I do deserve bitter reproof — and 
 surely I have had it, for my presumption in aspiring to 
 the hand and heart of Miss Hillary. I tried long to 
 resist the passion that devoured me, but in vain. Mis^s 
 Hillary knew my destitute situation ; she had many 
 opportunities of ascertaining my character ; she con- 
 ceived a noble affection for me — I returned her love ; 
 I was obliged to do it secretly, and as far as that goes 
 I submit to my censure — I feel — I know that I have 
 done wrong ! If Miss Hillary choose to withdraw her 
 affection from me, I will submit though my heart break. 
 If, on the contrary, she continue to love me" — his eye 
 brightened — " I am not cowardly or base enough to un- 
 dervalue her love." (Here Mr. Hillary struggled with 
 Mr. Jeffreys, who, however, succeeded in restraining 
 his client.) " If Miss Hillary condescend to become 
 my wife — " 
 
 " Oh Lord ! oh Lord ! oh Lord !" groaned Mr. Hil- 
 lary, clasping his hands upon his forehead ; " open the 
 windows, Mr. Jeffreys, or I shall be smothered — I am 
 dying — I shall go mad I" 
 
THE MERCHANT S CLERK. 55 
 
 u I will retire, sir," said Elliott, addressing Mr. Jef- 
 freys, who was opening the nearest window. 
 
 "No, but you shan't though," gasped Mr. Hillary; 
 "you shall stop here" — he panted for breath. "Hark'ee, 
 sir — d'ye hear, Elliott — listen" — he could not recover 
 his breath. Mr. Jeffreys implored him to take time, 
 to be cool. " Yes ; now I'm cool enough — I've — taken 
 time — to consider — I have ! Hark'ee, sir — if you dare 
 to think — of having — my daughter — and if she — is such 
 a cursed fool — as to think of having — you" — he stopped 
 for a few seconds for want of breath — '' why — look'ee, 
 sir — so help me God — you may both — both of you — 
 and your children — if you have any — die in the streets 
 — like dogs — I've done with you — both of you — not a 
 farthing — not a morsel of bread — d — n me if I do 1" 
 Here he breathed like a hard-run horse. " Now, sir 
 — like a thief as you are ! — go on courting — my daugh- 
 ter — marry her ! ruin her ! go, and believe that all I'm 
 saying is — a lie ! — go, and hope — that, by-and-by, I'll 
 forgive you — and all that — try it, sir ! Marry, and see 
 whether I give in ! I'll teach you — to rob an old man 
 — of his child ! The instant you leave this house, sir 
 — this gentleman — makes my will — he does ! — and 
 when I'm dead — you may both of you — go to Doctors' 
 Commons — borrow a shilling, if you can — and see if 
 your names — or your children's — are in it, ha, ha, ha !" 
 he concluded, with a bitter and ghastly laugh, snapping 
 his shaking fingers at Elliott. " Get away, sir — marry 
 after this, if you dare !" 
 
 Elliott almost reeled out of the room, and did not 
 fully recollect himself till the groom of his aristocratic 
 competitor, Lord Scamp, whose cab was dashing up to 
 the gates of Bullion House, shouted to him to get out 
 of the way, or be driven over ! 
 
 Elliott returned to his desk, at Mincing Lane, too 
 much agitated and confused, however, to be able to at- 
 tend to business. He therefore obtained a reluctant 
 permission to absent himself till the morrow. Even 
 the interval thus afforded, however, he was quite inca 
 
56 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 pable of spending in the reflection required by the very 
 serious situation in which he had been so suddenly 
 placed. He could not bring his mind to bear distinctly 
 upon any point of his interview with Mr. Hillary and 
 Mr. Jeffreys ; and at length, lost and bewildered in a 
 maze of indefinite conjecture — of painful hopes and 
 fears, he retired early to bed. There, after tossing 
 about for several hours, he at length dropped asleep — 
 and awoke at an early hour considerably refreshed and 
 calmed. Well, then, what was to be done 1 
 
 He felt a conviction that Mr. Hillary would be an 
 uncompromising — an inexorable opponent of their mar- 
 riage, however long they might postpone it with the 
 hope of wearing out or softening away his repugnance 
 to it ; and that if they married in defiance of him, he 
 would fulfil every threat hq had uttered. Of these two 
 points he felt as certain as of his existence. 
 
 He felt satisfied that Miss Hillary's attachment to 
 him was ardent and unalterable ; and that nothing short 
 of main force would prevent her from adopting any 
 suggestion he might offer. As for himself, he was 
 passionately — and his heart loudly told him disinter- 
 estedly attached to her ; he could, therefore, as far as 
 he himself was concerned, cheerfully bid adieu to all 
 hopes of enjoying a shilling of her father's wealth, and 
 be joyfully content to labour for their daily bread. But 
 a fearful array of contingencies here presented them- > 
 selves before him. Suppose they married, they would 
 certainly have 600Z. to commence with ; but suppose 
 his health failed him, or from any other cause he should 
 become unable to support himself, a wife, and — it might 
 be — a large family, how soon would 6001. disappear ? 
 And what would be then before them? His heart 
 shrank from exposing the generous and confiding crea- 
 ture whose love he had gained, to such terrible dangers. 
 He could — he would — write to her, and entreat her to 
 forget him — to obey the reasonable wishes of her father. 
 He felt that Mr. Hillary had great and grievous cause 
 for complaint against him ; could make every allowance 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 57 
 
 for his feelings, and forgive their coarse and extrava- 
 gant manifestation ; and yet, when he reflected upon 
 some expressions he had let fall — upon the intense and 
 withering scorn and contempt with which he had been 
 treated, the more he looked at this view of the case, 
 the more he felt the spirit of a man swelling within 
 him. He never trod so firmly, nor carried himself so 
 erectly, as he did on his way down to the city that 
 morning. 
 
 But then again — what misery was poor Miss Hillary 
 enduring ! What cruel and incessant persecution was 
 being inflicted upon her ; but she, too, had a high and 
 bold spirit ; he kindled as he pursued his meditations ; 
 he felt that the consciousness of kindred qualities en- 
 deared her to him ten fold more even than before. 
 
 Thus he communed with himself, but at length he 
 determined on writing the letter he had proposed, and 
 did so that -night. 
 
 He was not dismissed, as he had expected, from the 
 service of Mr. Hillary, who retained him, at the sug- 
 gestion of Mr. Jeffreys — that shrewd person feeling 
 that he could then keep Elliott's movements more dis- 
 tinctly under his own eye, and have more frequent op- 
 portunities of negotiating with him on behalf of Mr. 
 Hillary. Elliott's position in the establishment was 
 such as never brought him into personal contact with 
 Mr. Hillary ; and apparently no one but himself and 
 Mr. Hillary were acquainted with the peculiar circum- 
 stances in which he was placed, As before hinted, 
 Mr. Jeffreys was incessant in his efforts, both person- 
 ally and by letter, to induce Elliott to break off the dis- 
 astrous connection ; and, from an occasional note which 
 Miss Hillary contrived — despite all the espionage to 
 which she was subjected — to smuggle to him, he learned; 
 with poignant sorrow, that his apprehensions of the 
 treatment she would receive at the hands of her father, 
 were but too well founded. She repelled with an af- 
 fectionate and indignant energy, his offers and propo- 
 sals to break off the affair. She told him that her 
 
 c 3 
 
58 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 spirit rose with the cruelty she suffered, and declared 
 herself ready, if he thought fit, to fly from the scene of 
 trouble, and be united to him for ever. Many and 
 many a sleepless night did such communications as 
 these ensure to Elliott. He saw infinite danger in 
 attempting a clandestine marriage with Miss Hillary, 
 even should she be a readily consenting "party. His 
 upright and manly disposition revolted from a measure 
 so underhand, so unworthy ; and yet, what other course 
 lay open to them ? His own position at the counting 
 house was becoming very trying and painful. It soon 
 became apparent that, on some account or another, he 
 was an object of almost loathing disregard to the august 
 personage at the head of the establishment; and the 
 consequence was, an increasing infliction of petty an- 
 noyances and hardships by those connected with him 
 in daily business. He was required to do more than 
 he had ever before been called upon to do, and felt 
 himself the subject of frequent and offensive remark, 
 as well as suspicion. The ill treatment of his superi- 
 ors, however, and the impertinences of his equals and 
 inferiors, he treated with the same patient and resolute 
 contempt, conducting himself with the utmost vigilance 
 and circumspection, and applying to business, however 
 unjustly accumulated upon him, with an energy, per- 
 severance, and good humour, that only the more morti- 
 fied his unworthy enemies. Poor Elliott ! why did he 
 continue in the service of Hillary, Hungate, and Com- 
 pany ? How utterly chimerical was the hope he some- 
 times entertained of its being possible that his exem- 
 plary conduct could ever make any impression upon 
 the hard heart of Mr. Hillary ! - 
 
 Miss Hillary did really, as has been just stated, suf- 
 fer a martyrdom at Bullion House, at the hands of her 
 father. Ever)'" day caresses and curses were alternated, 
 and she felt that she was in fact a prisoner — her every 
 movement watched, her every look scrutinized. Mr. 
 Hillary frequently caused to be conveyed to her reports 
 the most false and degrading concerning Elliott ; but 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 59 
 
 they were such transparent fabrications, as of course 
 to defeat the ends proposed. She found some comfort 
 in the society of her mother, who, though for a long 
 time feeling and expressing strong disapprobation of 
 her daughter's attachment to Elliott, at length relented, 
 and even endeavoured to influence Mr. Hillary on their 
 daughter's behalf. Her kind offices were, However, 
 suddenly interrupted by a second attack of paralysis, 
 which deprived her of the power of speech and motion. 
 This dreadful shock, occurring at such a moment, was 
 too much for Miss Hillary, who was removed from at- 
 tending affectionately at the bedside of her unhappy 
 mother, to her own room, where she lay for nearly a 
 fortnight in a violent fever. So far from these domes- 
 tic trials tending, however, to soften the heart of Mr. 
 Hillary, they apparently contributed only to harden it 
 — to aggravate his hatred of Elliott — of him who had 
 done so much to disturb, to destroy his domestic peace, 
 his fondest wishes and expectations. 
 
 Lord Scamp continued his interested and flattering 
 attentions to Mr. Hillary, with whom he was contin- 
 ually dining, t and at length — a proof of the prodigious 
 ascendency he had acquired over Mr. Hillary — suc- 
 ceeded in borrowing from him a very considerable sum 
 of money. Hillary soon apprized his lordship of the 
 real nature of the hinderance to his marriage with Miss 
 Hillary ; and his lordship of course felt it his duty, not 
 to speak of his interest, to foster and inflame the fury 
 of his wished-for father-in-law against his obscure 
 and presumptuous rival. Several schemes were pro- 
 posed by this worthy couple for the purpose of putting 
 an end to the pretensions and prospects of this " in- 
 solent parvenu of the outer counting house." An ac- 
 cidental circumstance at length suggested to them a 
 plot so artful and atrocious, that poor Elliott fell a vic- 
 tim to it. 
 
 On returning to the counting house, one day, from 
 the little chophouse at which he had been swallowing 
 av hasty and frugal dinner, he observed indications of 
 
60 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 some unusual occurrence. No one spoke to him ; all 
 seemed to look at him as with suspicion and alarm. 
 He had hardly hung up his hat, and reseated himself 
 at his desk, when a message was brought to him from 
 Mr. Hillary, who required his immediate attendance 
 in his private room. Thither, therefore, "he repaired, 
 with some surprise — and with more surpris. I held all 
 the partners assembled, together with the head clerk, 
 the solicitor of the firm, and one or two strangers. He 
 had hardly closed the door after himself, when Mr. 
 Hillary pointed to him, saying, " This is your prisoner 
 — take him into custody." 
 
 " Surrender, sir — you're our prisoner," said one of 
 the two strangers, both of whom now advanced to 
 him, one laying hold of his collar, the other fumbling 
 in his pocket, and taking out a pair of handcuffs. El- 
 liott staggered several paces from them on hearing the 
 astounding language of Mr. Hillary, and but that he 
 was held by the officer who had grasped his collar, 
 seemed likely to have fallen. He turned deadly pale. 
 For a second or two he spoke not. 
 
 " Fetch a glass of water," said Mr. Fleming, one of 
 the partners, observing Elliott's lips losing their colour, 
 and moving without uttering any sound. But he re- 
 covered himself from the momentary shock, without 
 the aid of the water, which seemed to have been placed 
 in readiness beforehand, so soon was it produced. 
 Pushing aside the officer's hand that raised the glass 
 to his lips, he exclaimed, " What, is the meaning of 
 this, sir? How daTe you deprive me of my liberty, 
 sir?" — addressing Mr. Hillary — "What am I charged 
 v/iih ?" 
 
 " Embezzling the money of your employers," inter- 
 posed the solicitor. As he spake, poor Elliott fixed 
 upon him a stare of horror, and after standing and 
 gazing in silence for several moments, attempted to 
 speak, but in vain ; and fell in a kind of fit into the 
 arms of the officers. When he had recovered, he was 
 conducted to a hackney coach which had been some time 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 61 
 
 s\ readiness, and conveyed to the police office ; where, an 
 hour or two afterward, Mr. Hillary, accompanied by 
 Mr. Fleming, the solicitor, and two of Elliott's fellow- 
 clerks, attended to prefer the charge. Elliott was im- 
 mediately brought to the bar, where he stood very pale, 
 but calm and self-possessed, his eyes fixed upon Mr. 
 Hillary with a steadfast searching look that nothing 
 could have sustained but his indignant consciousness 
 of innocence. He heard the charge preferred against 
 him without uttering a word. The firm had had reason 
 for some time, it was said, to suspect that they were 
 robbed by some member of their establishment ; that 
 suspicion fell at length upon the prisoner ; that he was 
 purposely directed that day to go unexpectedly to din- 
 ner, having been watched during the early part of the 
 morning ; that his desk was immediately opened and 
 searched, and three five-pound notes, previously marked, 
 (and these produced so marked,) found in his pocket- 
 book, carefully hid under a heap of papers ; that he ■ 
 had been several times lately seen with bank notes in 
 his hand, which he seemed desirous of concealing ; 
 that he had been very intimate with one of his fellow- 
 clerks, who was now in Newgate, on a charge similar 
 to the present ; that the firm had been robbed to a con- 
 siderable amount ; that Elliott had only that morning 
 been asked by one of the clerks, then present, to lend 
 him some money, when the prisoner replied that he 
 had not got 51. in the world. All this, and more, El- 
 liott listened to without uttering a syllable. 
 
 " Well, sir," said one of the magistrates, " what 
 have you to say to this very serious charge ?" 
 
 "Say! — why can you believe it, sir?" replied El- 
 liott, with a frank air of unaffected incredulity. 
 
 "Do you deny it, sir?" inquired the magistrate, 
 coldly. 
 
 " Yes, I do ! Peremptorily, indignantly ! It is ab- 
 surd ! I rob my employers ? They know better — that 
 it is impossible !" 
 
 " Can you prove that this charge is false ?" said the 
 
 6 
 
62 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 magistrate, with a matter-of-fact air. " Can you ex- 
 plain, or deny the facts that have just been sworn to?" 
 Elliott looked at him, as if lost in thought. 'f.J)o you 
 hear me, sir?" repeated the magistrate, sternly; "you 
 are not bound to say anything ; and I would caution 
 you against saying anything to criminate yourself." 
 Still Elliott paused. " If you are not prepared, I will 
 remand you for a week, before committing you to 
 prison." 
 
 " Commit me to prison, sir !" repeated Elliott, with 
 at once a perplexed and indignant air — " why, I am as 
 innocent as yourself !" 
 
 •* Then, sir, you will be able easily to account for 
 the 15Z. found in your desk this morning." 
 
 "Ah, yes — I had forgotten that — I deny the fact. 
 They could not have been found in my desk — for I 
 have not more than 41. and a few shillings in the world, 
 till my next quarter's salary becomes due." 
 
 " But it is sworn here — you heard it sworn as well 
 as I did — that the money was found there. Here are 
 the witnesses — you may ask them any questions you 
 think proper — but they swore to the fact most dis- 
 tinctly." 
 
 " Then, sir," said Elliott, with a start, as if electri- 
 fied with some sudden thought — " I see it all ! Oh 
 God, I now see it all ! It was placed there on pur- 
 pose ! It is a plot laid to ruin me !" He turned round 
 abruptly towards Mr. Hillary, and fixing a piercing 
 look upon him, he exclaimed in a low voice, " Oh, 
 monster !" He was on the eve of explaining Mr. Hil- 
 lary's probable motives — but the thought of his daugh- 
 ter suddenly sealed his lips. " Sir," said he, presently, 
 addressing the magistrate, " I take God to witness that 
 I am innocent of this atrocious charge. I am the vic- 
 tim of a conspiracy — commit me, sir — commit me at 
 once. I put my trust in God — the father of the father- 
 less ?" 
 
 The magistrates seemed struck with what he had 
 said, and much more with his manner of saying it. 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 63 
 
 They leaned back, and conferred together for a few 
 minutes. "Our minds are not quite satisfied," said 
 the one who had already spoken, " as to the propriety 
 of immediately committing the prisoner to Newgate. 
 Perhaps stronger evidence may be brought forward in 
 a few days. Prisoner, you are remanded for a week." 
 
 ' ; 1 hope, sir," said Mr. Hillary, " that he will by 
 that time be able to clear his character — nothing I wish 
 more. It's a painful thing to me and my partners to 
 have to press such a charge as this ; but we must pro- 
 tect ourselves from the robbery of servants !" This 
 was said by the speaker to the magistrates ; but he did 
 not dare to look at the prisoner, whose piercing indig- 
 nant eye he felt to be fixed on him, and to follow his 
 every motion. 
 
 That day week Elliott was fully committed to New- 
 gate ; and on the next morning the following paragraph 
 appeared in the newspapers : — 
 
 " street. Henry Elliott, a clerk in the house 
 
 of Hillary, Hungate, and Company, Mincing Lane, 
 (who was brought to this office a week ago, charged 
 with embezzling the sum of 15/ , the money of his em- 
 ployers, and suspected of being an accomplice of the 
 young man who was recently committed to Newgate 
 from this office on a similar charge,) was yesterday 
 fully committed for trial. He is, we understand, a 
 young man of respectable connections, and excellent 
 education. From his appearance and demeanour he 
 would have seemed incapable of committing the very 
 serious offence with which he stands charged. He 
 seemed horrorstruck on the charge's being first pre- 
 ferred, and asseverated his innocence firmly, and in a 
 very impressive manner, declaring that he was the vic- 
 tim of a conspiracy. In answer to a question of the 
 magistrate, one of his employers stated, that up to the 
 time of preferring this charge, the prisoner had borne 
 an excellent character in the house." 
 
 The newspaper containing this paragraph found its 
 way, on the evening of the day on which it appeared, 
 
64 THE MERCHANT^ €LERK. 
 
 into Miss Hillary's room, through her maid, as she 
 was preparing to undress, and conveyed to her the first 
 intimation of poor Elliott's dreadful situation. The 
 moment that she had read it, she sprung to her feet, 
 pushed aside her maid, who attempted to prevent her 
 quitting her apartment, and with the newspaper in her 
 hand, flew wildly down the stairs, and burst into the 
 dining room, where her father was sitting alone, in his 
 easy chair, drawn close to the fire. " Father !" she 
 almost shrieked, springing to within a yard or two of 
 where he was sitting — " Henry Elliott robbed you ! 
 Henry Elliott in prison ! A common thief !" pointing 
 to the newspaper, with frantic vehemence, " Is it so ? 
 And you his accuser ? Oh, no ! no ! never !" she ex- 
 claimed, a wild smile gleaming on her pallid counte- 
 nance, at the same time sweeping to and fro before her 
 astounded father, with swift but stately steps, continu- 
 ing, as she passed and repassed him, " No, sir ! no ! 
 no ! no ! Oh, for shame ! for shame, father ! Shame 
 on you ! shame ! His father dead ! his mother dead ! 
 No one to feel for him ! no one to protect him ! no 
 one to love him — but — me !" And accompanying the 
 last few words with a loud and thrilling laugh, she fell 
 at full length insensible upon the floor. 
 
 Her father sat cowering in his chair, with his hands 
 partially elevated — feeling as though an angry angel 
 had suddenly flashed upon his guilty privasy ; and 
 when his daughter fell, he had not the power to quit 
 his chair and go to her relief for several seconds. A 
 horrible suspicion crossed his mind, that she had lost 
 her reason ; and he spent the next hour and a half in a 
 perfect ecstasy of terror. As soon, however, as the 
 apothecary summoned to her assistance had assured 
 him that there were, happily, no grounds for his fears — 
 that she had had a very violent fit of hysterics, but was 
 now recovered, and fallen asleep — he ordered the 
 horses to his carriage, and drove off at top speed to 
 the chambers of his city solicitor, Mr. Newington, to 
 instruct him to procure Elliott's instant discharge. 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. C5 
 
 That, of course, was utterly impossible ; and Mr. Hil- 
 lary, almost stupified with terror, heard Mr. Xewington 
 assure him that the King of England himself could not 
 accomplish such an object ! That Elliott must now 
 remain in prison till the day of trial — about a month or 
 six weeks hence — and then be brought to the bar as a 
 felon ; that there were but two courses to be pursued 
 on that day, either not to appear against the prisoner, 
 and forfeit all the recognisances, or to appear in open 
 court, and state that the charge was withdrawn, and 
 that it had been founded entirely on a mistake. That 
 even then, in either case, Elliott, if reaily innocent, 
 (Mr. Newington was no party whatever to the fraudu- 
 lent concoction of the charge, which was confined to 
 Mr. Hillary and Lord Scamp,) would bring an action 
 at law against Mr. Hillary, and obtain, doubtless, very 
 large damages for the disgrace, and danger, and injury 
 which Mr. Hillary's unfounded charge had occasioned 
 him ; or, more serious still, he might perhaps indict 
 all the parties concerned for a conspiracy. 
 
 " But," said Mr. Hillary, almost sick with fright at 
 this alarming statement of the liabilities he had in- 
 curred, M J would not wait for an action to be brought 
 against me — I would pay him any sum you might se- 
 commend, and that, too, instantly on his quitting the 
 prison walls." 
 
 " But, pardon me, Mr. Hillary — why all this f 
 M Oh — something of very great importance has just 
 happened at my house, which — which — gives me quite 
 a different opinion. But I was saying I would pay him 
 instantly — " 
 
 "But if the young man be spirited, and conscious of 
 his innocence, and choose to set a high value upon his 
 character, he will insist on clearing it in open court, 
 and dare you to the proof of your charges before the 
 whole world — at least J should do so in such a case." 
 " You would — would you, sir V exclaimed Mr. Hil- 
 lary- angrily, the big drops of perspiration standing upon 
 his forehead. 
 
 6* 
 
66 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 "Certainly — certainly — I should, indeed; but let 
 that pass. I really don't see — " continued Mr. New* 
 ington, anxiously. 
 
 *« D— n him, then !" cried Mr. Hillary, desperately, 
 after a pause, snapping his fingers, " let him do his 
 worst! He can never find me out." 
 
 " Eh ? what ?" interrupted Newington, briskly, " fincl 
 you out 1 What can you mean, Mr. Hillary ?" 
 
 41 Why — a — " stammered Mr. Hillary, colouring vio» 
 lently, adding something that neither he himself nor 
 Mr. Newington could understand. The latter had his 
 own surmises — somewhat vague, it is true— as to the 
 meaning of Mr. Hillary's words — especially coupling 
 them, as he did instantly, with certain expressions he 
 had heard poor Elliott utter at the police office. He 
 was a prudent man, however, and seeing no particular 
 necessity for pushing his inquiries further, he thought 
 it best to let matters remain as Mr. Hillary chose to 
 represent them. 
 
 Six weeks did poor Elliott lie immured in the dun- 
 geons of Newgate, awaiting his trial — as a felon. 
 What pen shall describe his mental sufferings during 
 that period 1 Conscious of the most exalted and scru- 
 pulous integrity — he who had never designedly wronged 
 a human being, even in thought — whom dire necessity 
 only had placed in circumstances which exposed him 
 to the devilish malice of such a man as Hillary — who 
 stood alone, and with the exception of one fond heart, 
 friendless in the world — whose livelihood depended on 
 his daily labour, and who had hitherto supported him- 
 self with decency, not to say dignity, amid many 
 grievous discouragements and hardships — this was the 
 man pining amid the guilty gloom of the cells of New- 
 gate, and looking forward each day with shuddering to 
 the hour when he was to be dragged with indignity to 
 the bar, and perhaps found guilty, on perjured evidence, 
 of the shocking offence with which he was charged ! 
 And all this was the wicked contrivance of Mr. Hillary 
 —the father of his Mary ! And was he liable to be 
 
THE MERCHANT^ CLERK. 67 
 
 transported — to quit his country ignorainiously and for 
 ever — to be banished with disgust and horror from the 
 memory of her who had once so passionately loved 
 him — as an impostor — a villain — a felon I He re- 
 solved not to attempt any communication with Miss 
 Hillary, if indeed it were practicable ; but to await, 
 with stern resolution, the arrival of the hour that was 
 either to crush him with unmerited but inevitable in- 
 famy and ruin, or expose and signally punish those 
 whose malice and wickedness had sought to effect his 
 destruction. What steps could he take to defend him- 
 self? Where were his witnesses? Who would de- 
 tect and expose the perjury of those who would enter 
 the witness box on behalf of his wealthy prosecutors ? 
 Poor soul ! Heaven support thee against thy hour of 
 trouble, and then deliver thee ! 
 
 Miss Hillary's fearful excitement, on the evening 
 when she discovered Elliott's situation, led to a slow 
 fever, which confined her to her bed for nearly a fort- 
 night ; and when, at the end of that period, she again 
 appeared in her father's presence, it was only to en- 
 counter — despite her wan looks — a repetition of the 
 harsh and cruel treatment she had experienced ever 
 since the day on which he had discovered her reluc- 
 tance to receive the addresses of Lord Scamp. Day 
 after day did her father bait her on behalf of his lord- 
 ship — with alternate coaxing and cursing : all was in 
 vain — for when Lord Scamp at length made her a 
 formal offer of his precious " hand and heart," she re- 
 jected him with a quiet contempt which sent him, full 
 of the irritation of wounded conceit, to pour his sor- 
 rows into the inflamed ear of her father. 
 
 The name that was written on her heart — that was 
 constantly in her sleeping and w T aking thoughts, Elliott 
 — she never, suffered to escape her lips. Her father 
 frequently mentioned it to her, but she listened in 
 melancholy, oftener indignant silence. She felt con- 
 vinced that there was foul play on the part of her 
 father connected with Elliott's incarceration in New- 
 
68 THE MERCHANT'S CLERtf. 
 
 gate, and could sometimes scarcely conceal, .when in 
 his presence, a shudder of apprehension. And was it 
 likely — was it possible — that such a measure towards 
 the unhappy, persecuted Elliott, could have any other 
 effect on the daughter, believing him, as she did, to be 
 pure and unspotted, than to increase and deepen her 
 affection for him — to present his image before her 
 mind's eye, as that of one enduring martyrdom on her 
 account, and for her sake? 
 
 At length came on the day appointed for Elliott's 
 trial, and it was with no little trepidation that Mr. Hil- 
 lary, accompanied by Lord Scamp, stepped into his 
 carriage, and drove down to the Old Bailey, where they 
 sat together on the bench till nearly seven o'clock, till 
 which time th% court was engaged upon the trial of a 
 man for forgery. Amid the bustle consequent upon the 
 close of this long trial, Hillary, after introducing his 
 noble friend to one of the aldermen, happened to cast 
 his eyes to the bar which had been just quitted by the 
 death-doomed convict he had heard tried, when they 
 fell upon the figure of Elliott, who seemed to have 
 been placed there for some minutes, and was standing 
 with a mournful expression of countenance, apparently 
 lost in thought. Even Mr. Hillary's hard heart was 
 almost touched by the altered appearance of his victim, 
 who was greatly emaciated, and seemed scarce able 
 to stand erect in his most humiliating position. 
 
 Mr. Hillary knew the perfect innocence of Elliott ; 
 and his own guilty soul thrilled within him, as his eye 
 encountered for an instant the steadfast but sorrowful eye 
 of the prisoner. In vain did he attempt to appear to be 
 conversing carelessly with Lord Scamp, who was him- 
 self too much agitated to attend to him ! The prisoner 
 pleaded not guilty. No counsel had been retained for 
 the prosecution, nor did any appear for the defence. 
 The court, therefore, had to examine the witnesses ; 
 and suffice it to say, that after about half an hour's trial, 
 in the course of which Hillary was called as a witness, 
 and trembled so excessively as to call forth some en- 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 69 
 
 couraging expressions from the bench, the judge who 
 tried the case decided that there was no evidence 
 worth a straw against the prisoner, and consequently 
 directed the jury to acquit him, which they did in- 
 stantly, adding their unanimous opinion, that the charge 
 against him appeared both frivolous and malicious. 
 
 "Am I to understand," my lord, that I leave the court 
 freed from all taint, from all dishonour ?" inquired 
 Elliott, after the foreman had expressed the opinion of 
 the jury. 
 
 "Certainly — most undoubtedly you do," replied the 
 judge. 
 
 " And if I think fit, I am at liberty hereafter to ex- 
 pose and punish those who have wickedly conspired to 
 place me here on a false charge f 
 
 " Of course you have your remedy against any one," 
 replied the cautious judge, "whom you can prove to 
 have acted illegally." 
 
 Elliott darted a glance at Mr. Hillary, which made 
 his blood rush tumultuously towards his guilty heart, 
 and bowing respectfully to the court, withdrew from 
 the ignominious spot which he had been so infamously 
 compelled to occupy. He left the prison a little after 
 eight o'clock ; and wretched indeed were his feelings 
 as the turnkey, opening the outermost of the iron- 
 bound and spiked doors, bade him farewell, gruffly 
 adding, " Hope we mayn't meet again, my hearty !" 
 
 "I hope not, indeed !" replied Elliott, with a sigh ; 
 and descending the steps, found himself in the street. 
 He scarce knew, for a moment, whither to direct his 
 steps, staggering, overpowered with the strange feel- 
 ing of suddenly recovered liberty. The sad reality, 
 however, soon forced itself upon him. What was to 
 become of him ? He felt wearied and faint, and almost 
 wished he had begged the favour of sleeping, for the 
 night, even in the dreary dungeons from which he had 
 been but that moment released. Thus his thoughts were 
 occupied, as he moved slowly towards Fleet-street, when 
 
70 the MerchantVcle&K. 
 
 a female figure approached him, muffled in a large 
 shawl. 
 
 "Henry — dearest Henry !" murmured the half-stifled 
 voice of Miss Hillary, stretching towards him both her 
 hands ; " so you are free ! You have escaped from the 
 snare of the wicked ! Thank God — thank God ! Oh, 
 what have we passed through since we last met ! 
 Why, Henry, will you not speak to me ? Do you for- 
 sake the daughter for the sin of her father T ; 
 
 Elliott stood staring at her as if stupified. 
 
 " Miss Hillary ?" he murmured, incredulously. 
 
 " Yes — yes ! I am Mary Hillary ; I am your own 
 Mary. But, oh, Henry, how altered you are ! How 
 thin ! How pale and ill you look ! I cannot bear to 
 see you !" And covering her face with her hands, she 
 burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 " I can hardly — believe — that it is Miss Hillary," 
 muttered Elliott. " But your father ! — Mr. Hillary ! 
 What will he say if he sees you? Are you not ashamed 
 of being seen talking to a wretch like me, just slipped 
 out of Newgate ?" 
 
 " Ashamed ? My Henry — do not torture me ! I am 
 heartbroken for your sake ! It is my own flesh and 
 blood that I am ashamed of — that it could ever be so 
 base !" 
 
 Elliott suddenly snatched her into his arms, and folded 
 her to his breast with convulsive energy. 
 
 If the malignant eye of her father had seen them at 
 that moment ! 
 
 She had obtained information that her father was 
 gone to the Old Bailey with Lord Scamp, and soon 
 contrived to follow them, unnoticed by the domestics. 
 She could not get into the court, as the gallery was 
 already filled ; and had been lingering about the door 
 for upward of four hours, making eager inquiries from 
 those who left the court, as to the name of the prisoner 
 who was being tried. She vehemently urged him to 
 accompany her direct to Bullion House, confront her 
 father, and demand reparation for the wrongs he had 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 71 
 
 inflicted. " I will stand beside you — I will never leave 
 you — let him turn us both out of his house together !" 
 continued the excited girl. " I begin to loathe it — to 
 feel indifferent about everything it contains — except 
 rriy poor, unoffending, dying mother ! Come, come, 
 Henry, and play the man !" But Elliott's good sense 
 led him to expostulate with her, and he did so success- 
 fully, representing to her the useless peril attending 
 such a proceeding. He forced her into the coach that 
 was waiting for her — refused the purse she had tried 
 nearly fifty times to thrust into his hand — promised to 
 make a point of writing to her the next day in such a 
 manner as should be sure of reaching her, and after 
 mutually affectionate adieus, he ordered the coachman 
 to drive off as quickly as possible towards Highbury. 
 She found Bullion House in a tumult on account of her 
 absence. 
 
 " So your intended victim has escaped !" exclaimed 
 Miss Hillary, suddenly presenting herself before her 
 father, whom Lord Scamp had just left. 
 
 "Ah, Polly — my own Poll — and is it you, indeed?" 
 said her father, evidently the worse of wine, approach- 
 ing her unsteadily. " Come, kiss me, love ! — where — 
 where have you been, you little puss — puss — puss — " 
 " To Newgate, sir /" replied his daughter, in a quick 
 stern tone, and retreated a step or two from her advan- 
 cing father. 
 
 "N — n — ewgate ! New — new — gate!" he echoed, 
 as if the word had suddenly, sobered him. "Well — 
 Mary — and — what of that !" he added, drawing his 
 breath heavily. 
 
 " To think that your blood flows in these veins of 
 mine !" continued Miss Hillary, with extraordinary 
 energy, extending her arms towards him. " I call you 
 father — and yet" — she shuddered — " you are a guilty' 
 man — you have laid a snare for the innocent — tremble, 
 sir ! tremble ! Do you love your daughter ? I tell 
 you, father, that if your design had succeeded, she 
 would have lain dead in your house within an hour 
 
72 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 after it was told her ! Oh, what — what am I saying ? 
 — where have I been ?" She pressed her hand to her 
 forehead ; her high excitement had passed away. 
 Her father had recovered from the shock occasioned 
 by her abrupt reappearance. He walked to the door, 
 and shut it. 
 
 ** Sit down, Mary," said he, sternly, pointing to the 
 sofa. She obeyed him in silence. 
 
 "Now, girl, tell me— are you drunk or sober? — « 
 where have you been? — what have you been doing?" 
 he inquired, with a furious air. She hid her face in 
 her hands, and wept. 
 
 " You are driving me mad, father !" she murmured. 
 
 " Come, come ! What! — you're playing the coward 
 now, miss ! Where is all your bold spirit gone ? 
 What ! can't you bully me any more ? Snivel on then, 
 and beg my forgiveness ! What do you mean, miss," 
 said he, extending towards her his clenched fist, " by 
 talking about this fellow Elliott being — my victim ? 
 Eh ? Tell me, you audacious hussy ! you ungrateful 
 vixen ! what d'ye mean ? — say, what the j& — 1 has 
 come to you?" She made no answer, but continued 
 with her face concealed in her hands. " Oh — I'm up 
 to all this ! I see what you're after ! I know you, young 
 dare-devil ! You think you can bully me into letting 
 you marry this brute — this beggar — this swindler! 
 
 Ah-ha ! you don't know me though ! By , but I 
 
 believe you and he are in league to take my life !" He 
 paused, gasping with rage. His daughter remained 
 silent. " What has turned you so against me ?" he 
 continued, in the same violent tone and manner, 
 " Haven't I been a kind father to you all my — " 
 
 " Oh yes, yes, yes ! dear father, I know you have !" 
 sobbed Miss Hillary, rising and throwing herself at his 
 feet. 
 
 " Then why are you behaving in this strange way 
 to me ?" he inquired, somewhat softening his tone. 
 '• Mary, isn't your poor mother up stairs dying? and 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. "73 
 
 if I lose her and you too, what's to become of me ?" 
 Miss Hillary wept bitterly. " You'd better kill your 
 old father outright at once than kill him in this slow 
 way ! or send him to a madhouse, as you surely will ! 
 Come, Molly — my own little Molly — promise me to 
 think no more of this wretched fellow ! Depend on't 
 he'll be revenged on me yet, and do me an injury if he 
 can ! Surely the devil himself sent the man across 
 our family peace ! 1 don't want you to marry Lord 
 Scamp since you don't like him — not 1 ! It's true, I 
 have longed this many a year to marry you to some 
 nobleman — to see you great and happy — but — if you 
 can't fancy my Lord Scamp, why — I give him up. 
 And if I give Tiim up, won't you meet me halfway, and 
 make us all happy again by giving up this fellow so 
 unworthy of you 1 He comes from a d — d bad stock, 
 believe me ! Remember — his father gambled, and — 
 cut his throat," added Hillary, in a low tone, instinct- 
 ively trembling as he recollected the effect produced 
 upon Elliott by his utterance of these words on a for- 
 mer occasion. " Only think, Molly ! My daughter, 
 with a vast fortune — Scraped together during a long life 
 by her father's hard labour — Molly — the only thing 
 her father loves, excepting always your poor mother 
 — to fling- herself into the arms of a common thief — a 
 — a jail bird — a felon — a fellow on his way to the gal- 
 lows !" . 
 
 " Father !" said Miss Hillary, solemnly, suddenly 
 looking up into her father's face, " you know that this 
 is false ! You know that he is acquitted — that he is 
 innocent — you knew it from the first — that the charge 
 w r as false !" 
 
 Mr. Hillary, who had imagined he was succeeding 
 in changing his daughter's determination, was immeas- 
 urably disappointed and shocked at this evidence of 
 his failure. He bit his lips violently and looked at her 
 fiercely, his countenance darkening upon her sensibly. 
 Scarce suppressing a horrible execration — turning a 
 
 D 
 
74 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 deaf ear to all her passionate entreaties on behalf of 
 Elliott — he rose, forcibly detached her arms, which 
 were clinging to his knees, and rung the bell. 
 
 " Send Miss Hillary's maid here," said he, hoarsely. 
 The woman with a frightened air soon made her ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 ''Attend Miss Hillary to her room immediately," 
 said he, sternly, and his disconsolate daughter was led 
 out of his presence to spend a night of sleepless 
 agony. 
 
 "On bed 
 Delirious flung, sleep from her pillow flies ; 
 All night she tosses, nor the balmy power 
 In any posture finds ; till the gray morn 
 Lifts her pale lustre on the paler wretch 
 Exanimate by love : and then, perhaps, 
 Exhausted, nature sinks a while to rest, 
 Still interrupted by distracted dreams, 
 That o'er the sick imagination rise, 
 And in black colours paint the mimic scene !" 
 
 Many more such scenes as the one above described 
 followed between Mr. Hillary and his daughter. He 
 never left her from the moment he entered till he 
 quitted his house on his return to the city. Threats, 
 entreaties, promises — magnificent promises — all the 
 artillery of persuasion or coercion that he knew how 
 to use, he brought to bear upon his wearied and har- 
 assed daughter, but in vain. He suddenly took her with 
 him into Scotland ; and after spending there a wretched 
 week or two, returned more dispirited than he had left. 
 He hurried her to every place of amusement he could 
 think of. Now he would give party after party, for- 
 getful of his poor wife's situation ; then let a week 
 or longer elapse in dull and morose seclusion. Once 
 he was carried by his passion to such a pitch of phrensy, 
 that he struck her on the side of her head, and severely ! 
 nor manifested any signs of remorse when he beheld 
 her staggering under the blow. .But why stay to par- 
 ticularize these painful scenes ? Was this the way to 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 75 
 
 put an end to the obstinate infatuation of his daughter ? 
 No, but to increase and strengthen it; to add fuel to 
 the fire. Her womanly pride, her sense of justice, 
 came — powerful auxiliaries — to support her love of the 
 injured Elliott. She bore his ill treatment at length 
 with a kind of apathy. She had long lost all respect 
 for her father, conscious as she was that he had acted 
 most atrociously towards Elliott; and presently, after 
 "some natural tears" for her poor mother, she became 
 wearied of the monotonous misery she endured at Bul- 
 lion House, and ready to fly from it. 
 
 Passing over an interval of a month or two, during 
 which she continued to keep up some correspondence 
 with Elliott, who never told her the extreme misery, 
 the absolute want he was suffering, since her father 
 refused to give him a character such as would procure 
 his admission to another situation, and he was there- 
 fore reduced to the most precarious means possible of 
 procuring a livelihood. Miss Hillary overhearing her 
 father make arrangements for taking her on a long visit 
 to the Continent — where he might, for all she knew, 
 leave her to end her days in some convent — fled that 
 night in desperation from Bullion House, and sought 
 refuge in the humble residence of an old servant of her 
 father's. Here she lived for a few days in terrified 
 seclusion ; but she might have spared her alarms, for 
 her father received the news of her flight with sullen 
 apathy, merely exclaiming, " Well, as she has made 
 her bed she must lie upon it." He made no inquiries 
 after her, nor attempted to induce her to return. When 
 at length apprized of her residence, he did not go near 
 the house. He had evidently given up the struggle in 
 despair, and felt indifferent to any fate that might befall 
 his daughter. He heard that the banns of marriage 
 between her and Elliott were published in the parish 
 church where her new residence was situated, but of- 
 fered no opposition whatever. He affixed his signa- 
 ture when required to the document necessary to trans- 
 
 d2 
 
76 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 fer to her the sum of money — 600Z. — standing in her 
 name in the funds, in sullen silence. 
 
 So this ill-fated couple were married, no one attend- 
 ing at the brief and cheerless ceremony but an early 
 friend of Elliott's and the worthy couple from whose 
 house Mrs. Elliott had been married. 
 
 Elliott had commenced legal proceedings against 
 Mr. Hillary on account of his malicious prosecution. 
 He was certain of success, and of thereby wringing 
 from his reluctant and wicked father-in-law a very con- 
 siderable sum of money— a little fortune, in his pres- 
 ent circumstances. With a noble forbearance, how- 
 ever, and yielding to the entreaties of his wife, who 
 had not lost, in her marriage, the feelings of a daugh- 
 ter towards her erring parent, he abandoned them ; his 
 solicitor writing, at his desire, to inform Mr. Hillary of 
 the fact that his client had determined to discontinue 
 proceedings, though he had had the certainty of suc- 
 cess before him, and that for his wife's sake he freely 
 forgave Mr. Hillary. 
 
 This letter was returned with an insolent message 
 from Mr. Hillary, and there the affair ended. 
 
 A few days after her marriage, Mrs. Elliott received 
 the following communication from Mr. Jeffreys : — 
 
 " Madam, 
 
 " Mr. Hillary has instructed me to apprize you, as I 
 now do with great pain, of his unalterable determina- 
 tion never again to recognise you as his daughter, or 
 receive any communication, of any description, from 
 either your husband or yourself, addressed either to 
 Mr. or Mrs. Hillary; whom your undutiful and un- 
 grateful conduct, he says, has separated from you for 
 ever. 
 
 " He will allow to be forwarded to any place you 
 may direct whatever articles belonging to you may 
 yet remain at Bullion House, on your sending a list of 
 them to my office. 
 
 " Spare me the pain of a personal interview on the 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 77 
 
 matter ; and believe me when I unfeignedly lament be- 
 ing the medium of communicating such intelligence. 
 " I am, madam, 
 
 " Your humble servant, 
 
 " Joxathax Jeffreys." 
 
 With a trembling hand, assisted by her husband, she 
 set down a few articles — books, dress, one or two 
 jewels, and her little dog Cato. Him, however, Mr. 
 Hillary had caused to be destroyed the day after he 
 discovered her flight. The other articles were sent 
 to her immediately ; and with a bitter tit of weeping 
 did she receive them, and read the fate of her merry lit- 
 tle favourite, who had frisked about her to the last 
 with sportive affection, when almost everybody else 
 scowled at and forsook her. Thus closed for ever, as 
 she too surely felt, all connection and communication 
 with her father and mother. 
 
 Elliott regarded his noble-spirited wife, and well he 
 might, with a fondness bordering on idolatry. The vast 
 sacrifice she had made for him overpowered him when- 
 ever he adverted to it, and inspired him, not only with 
 the most tender and enthusiastic affection and gratitude, 
 but with the most eager ambition to secure her, by his 
 own efforts, at least a comfortable home. He engaged a 
 small but respectable lodging in the borough, to which 
 they removed the day after their marriage ; and after 
 making desperate exertions, he had the gratification of 
 obtaining a situation as clerk in a respectable mercantile 
 house in the city, and which he had obtained through 
 the friendly but secret services of one of the members 
 of the firm he had last served. His superior qualifica- 
 tions secured him a salary of 90?. a-year, with the 
 promise of its increase if he continued to give satis- 
 faction. Thus creditably settled, the troubled couple 
 began to breathe a little more freely ; and in the 
 course of a twelvemonth. Mrs. Elliott's poignant grief 
 first declined into melancholy, which was at length, 
 mitigated into a pensive if not cheerful resignation. 
 
 7* 
 
78 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 She moved in her little circumscribed sphere as if she 
 had never occupied one of splendour and affluence. 
 How happily passed the hours they spent together in 
 the evening after he had quitted the scene of his daily 
 labours, he reading or playing on his flute, which he 
 did very beautifully, and she busily employed with her 
 needle ! How they loved their neat little parlour, as 
 they sometimes involuntarily compared it ; she, with 
 the spacious and splendid apartments which had wit- 
 nessed so nrmch of her suffering at Bullion House — he, 
 with the dreadful cells of Newgate ! And their Sun- 
 days ! What sweet and calm repose they brought ! 
 How she loved to walk with him after church hours 
 in the fresh and breezy places — the parks ; though 
 a pang occasionally shot through her heart when she 
 observed her father's carriage, he the solitary occupant, 
 rolling leisurely past them ! The carriage in which 
 she and her little Cato had so often driven ! But 
 thoughts such as these seldom intruded ; and when they 
 did, only drove her closer to her husband — a pearl to 
 her, indeed — if it may be not irreverently spoken — of 
 great price — a price she never once regretted to have 
 paid. 
 
 Ye fond, unfortunate souls ! what days of darkness 
 were in store for you ! 
 
 About eighteen months after their marriage, Mrs. 
 Elliott, after a lingering and dangerous accouchement, 
 gave birth to a son, the little creature I had seen. How 
 they consulted together about the means of apprizing 
 Mr. Hillary of the birth of his grandson, and faintly 
 suggested to each other the possibility of its melting 
 the stern stubborn resolution he had formed concern- 
 ing them ! He heard of it, however, manifesting about 
 as much emotion as he would on being told by his 
 housekeeper of the kittening of his kitchen cat ! The 
 long fond letter she had made such an effort to write 
 to him, and which poor Elliott had trudged all the way 
 to Highbury to deliver, with trembling hand, and beat- 
 ing heart, to the porter at the lodge of Bullion House, 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 79 
 
 was returned to them the next morning by the two- 
 penny post, unopened ! What delicious agony was it 
 to them to look at, to hug to their bosoms, the little 
 creature that had no friend, no relative on earth but 
 them ! How often did his little blue eye open surpri- 
 sedly upon her as her scorching tear dropped upon his 
 tiny face ! 
 
 She had just weaned her child, and was still suffer- 
 ing from the effects of nursing, when there happened 
 the first misfortune that had befallen them since their 
 marriage. Mr. Elliott was one night behind his usual 
 hour of reluming from the city, and his anxious wife's 
 suspense was terminated by the appearance of a hack- 
 ney coach, from which there stepped out a strange gen- 
 tleman, who instantly knocked at the door, and returned 
 to assist another gentleman in lifting out the apparent- 
 ly inanimate figure of her husband. Pale as death, she 
 rushed down stairs, her child in her arms, and was 
 saved from fainting only by hearing her husband's 
 voice, in a low tone, assuring her that he was " not 
 much hurt" — that he had had ;t a slight accident." The 
 fact was, that in attempting most imprudently to shoot 
 across the street between two approaching vehicles, he 
 was knocked down by the pole of one of them, a post 
 chaise ; and when dGwn, before the postboy could 
 stop, one of the horses had kicked the prostrate pas- 
 senger upon his right side. The two humane gentle- 
 man who had occompanied him home, did all in their 
 power to assuage the terrors of Mrs. Elliott. One of 
 them ran for the medical man who fortunately lived 
 close at hand; and he pronounced the case to be, 
 though a serious one, and requiring great care, not at- 
 tended with dangerous symptoms, at least, at present. 
 
 His patient never quitted his bed for three months ; 
 at the end of which period, his employers sent a very 
 kind message, regretting the accident that had happened, 
 and still more, that they felt compelled to fill up his 
 situation in their house, as he had been now so long 
 absent, and was likely to continue absent for a much 
 
SO THE MERCHANT'S CLERK, 
 
 longer time : and they at the same time paid him all 
 the salary that was due, in respect of the period during 
 which he had been absent, and a quarter's salary be- 
 yond it. Poor Elliott was thrown by this intelligence 
 into a state of deep despondency, which was increased 
 by his surgeon's continuing to use the language of cau- 
 tion, and assuring him (disheartening words 1) that he 
 must not think of engaging in active business for some 
 time yet to come. It was after a sleepless night that 
 he and his wife stepped into a hackney coach and drove 
 to the bank to sell out 501. of their precious store, in 
 order to liquidate some of the heavy expenses attend- 
 ant on his long illness. Alas ! what prospect was 
 there either of replacing what they now took, or of 
 preserving the remainder from similar diminutions ? It 
 was now that his admirable wife acted indeed the part 
 of a guardian angel; soothing by her fond attentions 
 his querulous and alarmed spirit ; and, that she might, 
 do so, struggling hourly to conceal her own grievous 
 apprehensions, her own despondency. As it may be 
 supposed, it had now become necessary to practise the 
 closest economy in order to keep themselves out of 
 debt, and to avoid the necessity of constantly drawing 
 upon the very moderate sum which yet stood in his 
 name in the funds. How often, nevertheless, did the 
 fond creature risk a chiding, and a severe one, from 
 her husband, by secretly procuring for him some of the 
 little delicacies recommended by their medical attend- 
 ant, and in which no entreaties could ever prevail up- 
 on her to share ! 
 
 Some time after this, her husband recovered suffi- 
 ciently to be able to walk out ; but being peremptorily 
 prohibited from engaging for some time to come in his 
 old situation, or any one requiring similar efforts, he put 
 an advertisement in the newspapers, offering to arrange 
 the most involved merchant's accounts, &-c, " with 
 accuracy and expedition," at his own residence, and 
 on such very moderate terms as soon brought him 
 several offers of employment. He addressed himself 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. $1 
 
 with a natural but most imprudent eagerness to tne 
 troublesome and even exhausting task he had underta- 
 ken ; and the consequence was, that he purchased the 
 opportunity of a month's labour by a, twelvemonth's in- 
 capacitation for all labour ! A dreadful blow this 
 was, and borne by neither of them with their former 
 equanimity. Mrs. Elliott renewed her 'hopeless at- 
 tempt to soften the obduracy of her father's heart. 
 She waited for him in the street at the hours of his 
 quitting and returning to the city, and attempted to 
 speak to him, but he hurried from her as from a com- 
 mon street beggar. She wrote letter after letter, carry- 
 ing some herself, and sending others by the post, by 
 which latter medium all were invariably returned to 
 her ! She began to think with horror on her father's 
 inexorable disposition ; and her prayers to Heaven for 
 its interference on her behalf, or at least the faith that 
 inspired them became fainter and fainter. 
 
 Mr. Hillary's temper had become ten times worse 
 than ever since his daughter's departure, owing to that 
 as well as several other causes. Several of his specu- 
 lations in business proved to be very unfortunate, and to 
 entail harassing consequences ; which kept him con- 
 stantly in a state of feverish irritability. Poor Mrs. 
 Hillary continued still a hopeless paralytic, deprived 
 of the powers both of speech and motion : all chance, 
 therefore, of her precious intercession was for ever at 
 an end. In vain did Mrs. Elliott strive to interest sev- 
 eral of her relatives in her behalf: they professed too 
 great a dread of Mr. Hillary to attempt interfering in 
 such a delicate and dangerous matter ; and really had 
 a very obvious interest in continuing, if not increasing, 
 the grievous and unnatural estrangement existing be- 
 tween him and his daughter. There was one of them, 
 a Miss Gubbley, a maiden aunt or cousin of Mrs. 
 Elliott, that had wormed herself completely into Mr. 
 Hillary's confidence, and having been once a kind of 
 housekeeper in the establishment, now reigned supreme 
 at Bullion Lodge : an artful, selfish, vulgar person, an 
 
 d3 
 
82 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 object to Mrs. Elliott of mingled terror and disgust - 
 this was the being that, 
 
 " Toadlike, sat squatting at the ear" 
 
 of her father, probably daily suggesting every hateful 
 consideration that could tend to widen the breach 
 already existing between him and his daughter. This 
 creature, too, had poor Mrs. Elliott besieged with 
 passionate and humiliating entreaties, till they were 
 suddenly and finally checked by a display of such in- 
 tolerable insolence and heartlessness as determined 
 Mrs. Elliott, come what would, to make no further 
 efforts in that quarter. She returned home, on the 
 occasion just alluded to, worn out in body and mind. 
 A copious flood of tears accompanying her narration to 
 her husband of what had happened, relieved her excite- 
 ment ; she took her child into her arms, and his playful 
 little fingers unconsciously touching the deep responsive 
 chords of a mother's heart, she forgot, in the ecstasy 
 of the moment, as she folded him to her bosom, all that 
 had occurred to make her unhappy and add to the 
 gloom of their darkening prospects. Closer and closer 
 now became their retrenchments, cutting off. every 
 source of expenditure that was not absolutely indis- 
 pensable. None occasioned them, she told me, a 
 
 greater pang than giving up their little pew in 
 
 church, and betaking themselves Sunday after Sunday 
 to the humbler and more appropriate sittings provided 
 in the aisle. But was this their communion, their 
 compact with poverty, unfavourable to devotion? No. 
 The serpent pride was crushed, and dared not lift his 
 bruised head to disturb or alarm ! God then drew near 
 to the deserted couple, " weary and heavy laden," and 
 f* cast out" by their earthly father ! Yes, there she 
 experienced a calm, a resignation, a reality in the 
 services and duties of religion, which she had never 
 known when sitting amid the trappings and ostentation 
 of wealth in the gorgeous pew of her father ! 
 
 They were obliged to seek a cheaper lodging — mod- 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 83 
 
 erate as was the rent required for those they had so 
 long occupied — where they might practise a severer 
 economy than they chose to exhibit in the presence of 
 those who had known them when such sacrifices were 
 not necessary, and which also had the advantage of 
 being in the neighbourhood of a person who had prom- 
 ised Elliott occasional employment as a collector of 
 rents, &c, as well as the balancing of his books every 
 month. Long before his health warranted did he under- 
 take these severe labours, driven to desperation by a 
 heavy and not over reasonable bill delivered him by his 
 medical attendant, and of which he pressed for the 
 payment. With an aching heart poor Elliott sold out 
 sufficient to discharge it, and resolved at all hazards to 
 recommence his labours ; for there was left only TO 
 or 80Z, in the bank, and he shuddered when he thought 
 of it ! They had quitted this their second lodging for 
 that in which I found them about three months before 
 her first visit to me, in order to be near another indi- 
 vidual, himself an accountant, who had promised to 
 employ Elliott frequently as a kind of deputy or fag. 
 His were the books piled before poor Elliott when first 
 I saw him ! Thus had he been engaged, to the great 
 injury of his health, for many weeks, his own mental 
 energy and determination flattering him with a delusive 
 confidence in his physical vigour ! 
 
 Poor Mrs, Elliott also had contrived, being not unac- 
 quainted with ornamental needlework, to obtain some 
 employment of that description. Heavy was her heart 
 as she sat toiling beside her husband, who was busily en- 
 gaged in such a manner as would not admit of their con- 
 versing together, when her thoughts wandered over the 
 scenes of their past history, and anticipated their gloomy 
 prospects. Was she now paying the fearful penalty of 
 disobedience I But where was the sin she had commit- 
 ted in'forming an honest and ardent attachment to one 
 whom she was satisfied was every way her equal save 
 in wealth I How could her father have a right to dictate 
 to her heart who should be an object of her affections ? 
 
84 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 To dispose of it as of an article of merchandise ? Had 
 he any right thus to consign her to perpetual misery ? 
 To unite her to a titled scoundrel merely to gratify his 
 weak pride and ambition ? Had she not a right to re- 
 sist such an attempt 1 The same Scripture that has 
 said, Children^obcy your parents, has also said, Fathers, 
 provoke not your children to wrath. But had she not 
 been too precipitate, or unduly obstinate in adhering to 
 the man her father abhorred ? Ought anything to have 
 caused her to fly from her suffering mother? Oh, what 
 might have been her sufferings ! But surely nothing 
 could justify or extenuate the unrelenting spirit which 
 actuated her father ! And that father she knew to have 
 acted basely, to have played the part of a devil towards 
 the man whom he hated ; perhaps, nay probably, he 
 was meditating some equally desperate scheme con- 
 cerning herself. She silently appealed to God from 
 amid this conflict of her thoughts and feelings, and 
 implored his forgiveness of her rash conduct. Her 
 agonies were heightened by the consciousness that 
 there existed reasons for self-condemnation : but she 
 thought of, she lopked at, her husband, and her heart 
 told her that she should act similarly were the past 
 again to happen. 
 
 So, then, here was this virtuous unhappy couple — he 
 declining in health just when that health was most 
 precious ; she, too, worn out with labour and anxiety, 
 and likely, alas ! to bring another heir to wretchedness 
 into the world, for she was considerably advanced in 
 pregnancy ; both becoming less capable of the labour 
 which was becoming daily more essential, with scarcely 
 40Z. to fall back upon in the most desperate emergency. 
 Such was the dreadful situation of Mr. and Mrs. Elliott 
 soon after the period of my first introduction to them. 
 It was after listening to one of the most interesting and 
 melancholy narratives that the annals of human suffer- 
 ing could supply, that I secretly resolved to take upon 
 myself the responsibility of appealing to Mr. Hillary 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 83 
 
 in their behalf, hoping that for the honour of humanity 
 my efforts would not be entirely unavailing. 
 
 He had quitted Bullion House within a twelvemonth 
 after his daughter's flight, and removed to a spacious 
 and splendid mansion in Square, in the neigh- 
 bourhood of my residence ; and where — strange coin- 
 cidence! — I was requested to attend Mrs. Hillary, who 
 at length seemed approaching the close of her long- 
 protracted sufferings. Mr. Hillary had become quite 
 an altered man since the defection of his daughter. 
 Lord Scamp had introduced him freely into the society 
 of persons of rank and station, who welcomed into their 
 circles the possessor of so splendid a fortune ; and he 
 found, in the incessant excitement and amusement of 
 fashionable society, a refuge from reflection, from the 
 " compunctious visitings of remorse" which made his 
 solitude dreadful and insupportable. I found him just 
 such a man as I have already had occasion to describe 
 him ; a vain, vulgar, selfish, testy, overbearing old 
 man ; one of the most difficult and dangerous persons 
 on earth to deal with in such a negotiation as that I 
 had so rashly, but Heaven knows with the best inten- 
 tions, undertaken. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Hillary," said I, entering the drawing 
 room, where he was standing alone, with his hands in 
 his pockets, at the windows watching some disturbance 
 in the square, " I am afraid I can't bring you any better 
 news about Mrs. Hillary. She weakens hourly !" 
 
 " Ah, poor creature, I see she does—indeed !" he re- 
 plied, sighing, quitting the window, and offering me one 
 of the many beautiful chairs that stood in the splendid 
 apartment. " Well, she has been a good wife to me, 
 I must say — a very good wife, and I've always thought 
 and said so." Thrusting his hands into the pockets of 
 his ample white waistcoat, he walked up and down the 
 room. " Well, poor soul ! she's had all that money 
 could get her, doctor, however, and she knows it — 
 that's a comfort — but it an't money can keep death off, 
 is it r 
 
 8 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 »' No, indeed, Mr. Hillary ; but it can mitigate some 
 of its terrors. What a consolation will it be for you 
 hereafter to reflect that Mrs. Hillary has had every- 
 thing your noble fortune could procure for her 1" 
 
 " Ay, and no grudging neither ! I'd do ten times 
 what I have done — what's money to me ? Poor Poll, 
 and she's going ! We never had a quarrel in our lives !" 
 he continued, in a somewhat subdued tone. M I shall 
 miss her when she is gone. I shall indeed. I could 
 find many to fill her place, if I had a mind, I'll warrant 
 me — but I — I — poor Poll !" 
 
 * * " Yes," I said, in answer to some general re- 
 mark he had made, " we medical men do certainly see 
 the worst side of human life. Pain — illness — death — 
 are bad enough of themselves, but when poverty steps 
 in too — " 
 
 "Ay, I dare say. Bad enough as you say — bad 
 enough !" 
 
 44 1 have this very day seen a mournful instance of 
 accumulated human misery ; poverty, approaching star- 
 vation, and illness, distress of mind. Ah t Mr. Hillary, 
 what a scene I witnessed yesterday !" I continued, 
 with emotion ; " a man who is well born, who has seen 
 better—" 
 
 H Better days — ah, exactly. Double-refined misery, 
 as they would say in the city. By-the-way, what a 
 valuable charity that is ! — I'm a subscriber to it — for 
 the relief of decayed tradesmen ! One feels such a 
 pleasure in it ! I dare say now — I do believe — let me 
 see — 200Z. would not cover what I get rid of one way 
 or another in this kind of way every year. By-the- 
 way, doctor, I'll ring for tea — you'll take a cup ?" I 
 nodded ; and in a few minutes a splendid tea service 
 made its appearance. 
 
 il Do you know, doctor, I've some notion of being re- 
 membered after I'm gone, and it has often struck me 
 that if I were to leave what I have to build a hospital, 
 or something of that sort in this part of the town, it 
 wouldn't be amiss " 
 
THE MERCHANTS CLERK. 87 
 
 u A noble ambition, sir, indeed. But, as I was ob- 
 serving, the poor people 1 saw yesterday — such misery ! 
 such fortitude !" 
 
 " Ah. yes ! Proper sort of people, just the right sort 
 to put into — ahem ! — Hillary's Hospital. It don't sound 
 badly, does it ?" 
 
 "Excellently well. But the fact is" — I observed 
 that he was becoming rather fidgety, but I was resolved 
 not to be beaten from my point — " Fm going, in short, 
 .Air. Hillary, to take a liberty which nothing could war- 
 rant but — " 
 
 " You're going to beg, doctor, now ant you 1" he in- 
 terrupted, briskly : li but the fact is, my maxim has long 
 been never to give a farthing in charity that any one 
 shall know of but two people : I and the people I give 
 to. That's my notion of true charity ; and besides, it 
 saves one a vast deal of trouble. But if you really think 
 — if it really is a deserving case — why — ahem ! — I 
 
 might perhaps — Dr. is so well known for his 
 
 charitable turn — now an't this the way you begin upon 
 all your great patients ?" he continued, with an air of 
 supreme complacency. I bowed and smiled, humour- 
 in? his vanity. " Well, in such a case — hem ! hern ! 
 — I might, once in a way, break in upon my rule, "'and 
 he transferred his left hand from his waistcoat to his 
 breeches pocket, *' so there's a guinea for you. But 
 don't on any account name it to any one. Don't, doc- 
 tor, I don't want to be talked about ; and we people 
 that are known do get so many — " 
 
 ' ; But, Mr. Biliary, surely I may tell my poor friends 
 to whom your charity is destined the name of the gen- 
 erous — " 
 
 " Oh, av ! Do as you please for the matter of that. 
 Who are 'they 1 What are they ? Where do they 
 live ? I'm a governor of ." I trembled. 
 
 M They live at present in street ; but I doubt, 
 
 poor things, whether they can stop there much longer, 
 for their landlady is becoming very clamorous — " 
 
 i; Oh, the old story ! the old story ! Landlords are 
 
88 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 generally, especially the smaller sort, such tyrants, an't 
 they V 
 
 " Yes, too frequently such is the case ! But I was 
 going to tell you of these poor people. They have not 
 been married many years, and they married very un- 
 fortunately." Mr. Hillary, who had for some time 
 been sitting down on the sofa, here rose and walked 
 rather more quickly than he had been walking before. 
 " Contrary to the wishes of their family, who have for- 
 saken them, and don't know what their sufferings now 
 are — how virtuous — how patient ! And they have got 
 a child too, that will soon, I fear, be crying for the bread 
 it may not get." Mr. Hillary was evidently becoming 
 disturbed. I saw that a little of the colour had fled from 
 about his upper lip, but he said nothing, nor did he 
 seem disposed to interrupt me. " I'm sure, by-the- 
 way," I continued, as calmly as I could, " that if I could 
 but prevail upon their family to see them, before it is 
 too late, that explanations might — " 
 
 "What's the name of your friends, sir?" said Mr. 
 Hillary, suddenly stopping, and standing opposite to 
 me, with his arms almost akimbo and his eyes looking 
 keenly into mine 
 
 11 Elliott, sir." 
 
 " I — I thought as much, sir !" he replied, dashing the 
 perspiration from his forehead ; " I knew what you 
 were driving at ! D — n it, sir — I see it all ! You 
 came here to insult me — you did, sir !" His agitation 
 increased. 
 
 " Forgive me, Mr. Hillary ; I assure you — " 
 
 " No, sir ! I won't hear you, sir ! I've heard enough, 
 sir * Too much, sir ! You've said enough, sir, to show 
 me what sort of a man you are, sir ! D — n it, sir — 
 it's too bad !" 
 
 " You mistake me, Mr. Hillary," said I, calmly. 
 
 " No I don't, sir, but you've cursedly mistaken me, 
 sir. If you know these people, and choose to take up 
 their — to — to — patronise, do, sir, d — n it ! if you like, 
 and haven't anything better to do !" 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 89 
 
 ** Forgive me, sir, if I have hurt your feelings !" 
 
 u Hurt my feelings, sir ! What d'ye mean, sir ? 
 Every man hurts my feelings that insults me, sir ; and 
 you have insulted me, sir!" 
 
 " How, sir ?" I inquired, sternly, in my turn. 
 " Oblige me, sir, by explaining these extraordinary 
 expressions." 
 
 " You know well enough ! I see through it. But 
 if you — really, sir — you've got a guinea of mine, sir, 
 in your pocket. Consider it your fee for this visit ; the 
 last I'll trouble you to pay, sir !" he stuttered, almost 
 unintelligible with fury. 
 
 I threw his guinea upon the floor, as if its touch were 
 pollution. " Farewell, Mr. Hillary," said I, deliber- 
 ately, drawing on my gloves. " May your deathbed 
 be as calm and happy as that I have this day attended 
 up stairs for the last time." 
 
 He looked at me earnestly, as if staggered by the 
 reflections I had suggested, and turned very pale. I 
 bowed haughtily, and retired. As I drove home, my 
 heated fancy struck out a scheme for shaming or ter- 
 rifying the old monster I had quitted into something 
 like pity or repentance, by attacking and exposing him 
 in some newspaper ; but by the next morning I per- 
 ceived the many objections there were to such a course. 
 I need hardly say that. I did not communicate to the 
 Elliott's the fact of my attempted intercession with Mr. 
 Hillary. 
 
 It was grievous to see the desperate but unavailing 
 struggle made by both of them to retrieve their cir- 
 cumstances and provide against the expensive and try- 
 ing time that was approaching. He was slaving at his 
 account books from morning to midnight, scarce allow- 
 ing himself a few minutes for his meals ; and she had 
 become a mere fag to a fashionable milliner, under- 
 taking all such work as could be done at her own resi- 
 dence, often sitting up half the night, and yet earning 
 the merest trifle. Then she had also to look after her 
 husband and child, for they could not arlbrd to keep a 
 
 6* 
 
90 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 regular attendant. Several articles of her husband's 
 dress and her own, and almost all that belonged to the 
 child, she often washed at night with her own hands ! 
 
 As if these unfortunate people were not sufficiently 
 afflicted already — as if any additional ingredient in 
 their cup of sorrow were requisite — symptoms of a 
 more grievous calamity than had yet befallen poor 
 Elliott began to exhibit themselves in him. His severe 
 and incessant application, by day and night, coupled 
 with the perpetual agitation and excitement of his nerv- 
 ous system, began to tell upon his eyesight. I found 
 him, on one of my morning visits, labouring under great 
 excitement ; and on questioning him, I feared he had 
 but too good reason for his alarm, as he described, 
 with fearful distinctness, certain sensations and ap- 
 pearances which infallibly betokened, in my opinion, 
 after examining his eyes, the presence of incipient 
 amaurosis in both eyes. He spoke of deep-seated pains 
 in the orbits — perpetual sparks and flashes of light — 
 peculiar haloes seen around the candle — dimness of 
 sight — and several other symptoms, which I found, on 
 inquiry, had been for some time in existence, but he 
 had never thought of noticing them till they forced 
 themselves upon his startled attention. 
 
 " Oh, my God !" he exclaimed, clasping his hands, 
 and looking upward, " spare my sight ! Oh, spare 
 my sight — or what will become of me 1 Beggary 
 seems to be my lot — but blindness to be added !" He 
 paused, and looked the image of despair. 
 
 "Undoubtedly I should deceive you, Mr. Elliott," 
 said I, after making several further inquiries, " if I 
 were to say that there was no danger in your case. 
 Unfortunately, there does exist ground for apprehend- 
 ing that, unless you abstain, and in a great measure, 
 from so severely taxing your eyesight as you have of 
 late, you will run the risk of permanently injuringsit." 
 
 " Oh, doctor ! it is easy to talk !" he exclaimed, 
 with involuntary bitterness, " of my ceasing to use and 
 try my sight ; but how am I to do it ? How am I to 
 
THE MERCHANT S CLERK. 91 
 
 live ? Tell me that ! Will money drop from the skies 
 into my lap, or bread into the mouths of my poor wife 
 and child ? What is to become of us ? Merciful God ! 
 and just at this time, too ! My wife pregnant !" — I 
 thanked God she was not present — '' our last penny 
 almost slipping from our hands — and I, who should be 
 the stay and support of my family, becoming blind ! 
 Oh, God — oh, God, what frightful crimes have I com- 
 mitted to be punished thus ? Would I had been trans- 
 ported or hanged," he added, suddenly, " when the old 
 ruffian threw me into Newgate ! But" — he turned 
 ghastly pale — "if I were to die now, what good could 
 it do ?" At that moment the slow heavy wearied step 
 of his wife was heard upon the stairs, and her entrance 
 put an end to her husband's exclamations. I entreated 
 him to intermit, at least for a time, his attentions to 
 business, and prescribed some active remedies, and he 
 promised to obey my instructions. Mrs. Elliott sat 
 beside me with a sad exhausted air, which touched me 
 almost to tears. What a situation — what a prospect 
 was hers ! How was she to prepare for her coming 
 confinement ? How procure the most ordinary com- 
 forts—the necessary attendance? Deprived as her 
 husband and child must be for a time of her affectionate 
 and vigilant attentions, what was to become of them ? 
 Who supply her place ? Her countenance too plainly 
 showed that all these dreadful topics constantly agi- 
 tated her mind ! 
 
 A day or two after this interview I brought them the 
 intelligence I had seen in the newspapers of Mrs. Hil- 
 lary's death, which I communicated to them very care- 
 fully, fearful of the effect it might produce upon Mrs. 
 Elliott, in her critical situation. She wept bitterly ; 
 but the event had been too long expected by her to oc- 
 casion any violent exhibition of grief. As they lay 
 awake that night in melancholy converse, it suddenly 
 occurred to Mrs. Elliott that the event which had just 
 happened might afford them a last chance of regaining 
 her father's affections, and they determined to seize 
 
92 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 the opportunity of appealing to his feelings when they 
 were softened by his recent bereavement. The next 
 morning the wretched couple set out on their dreary 
 
 pilgrimage to Square — it being agreed that he 
 
 should accompany her to within a door or two of her 
 father's house, and there await the issue of her visit. 
 With slow and trembling steps, having relinquished his 
 arm, she approached the dreaded house, whose large 
 windows were closed from the top to the bottom. The 
 sight of them overcame her ; and she paused for a 
 moment, holding by the area railings. 
 
 What dark and bitter thoughts and recollections 
 crowded in a few seconds through her mind ! Here, 
 in this great mansion, was her living — her tyrannical 
 — her mortally offended father ; here lay the remains of 
 her poor good mother — whom she had fled from — whose 
 last thoughts might perhaps have been about her per- 
 secuted daughter — and that daughter was now trem- 
 bling like a guilty thing before the frowning portals of 
 her widowed, and, it might be, inexorable father ! She 
 felt very faint, and beckoning hastily to her husband, 
 he stepped forward to support her, and led her from 
 the door. After slowly walking round the square, she 
 returned, as before, to the gloomy mansion of her father, 
 ascended the steps, and with a shaking hand pulled the 
 bell. 
 
 " What do you want, young woman ?" inquired a 
 servant from the area. 
 
 " I wish to see Joseph — is he at home V she re- 
 plied, in so faint a voice, that the only word audible in 
 the area was that of Joseph, the porter, who had 
 entered into her father's service in that capacity two or 
 three years before her marriage. In a few minutes 
 Joseph made his appearance at the hall door, which 
 he softly opened. 
 
 " Joseph ! — Joseph ! I'm very ill," she murmured, 
 leaning against the door post — " let me sit in your 
 chair for a moment." 
 
 " Lord have mercy on me — my young mistress !" 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 93 
 
 exclaimed Joseph, casting a hurried look behind him, 
 as if terrified at being seen in conversation with her — 
 and then hastily stepping forward he caught her in his 
 arms, for she had fainted. He placed her in his great 
 covered chair, and called one of the female servants, 
 who brought up with her, at his request, a glass of 
 water — taking the stranger to be some relative or friend 
 of the porter's. He forced a little into her mouth ; 
 the maid loosed her bonnet string, and after a few 
 minutes she uttered a deep sigh, and her consciousness 
 returned. 
 
 " Don't hurry yourself, miss — ma am I mean," stam- 
 mered the porter, in a low tone ; l * you can stay here 
 a little — I don't think any one's stirring but us servants 
 — you see, ma'am, though I suppose you know — my 
 poor mistress — " She shook her head and sobbed. 
 
 " Yes, Joseph, I know it ! Did she — did she die 
 easily ?" inquired Mrs. Elliott, in a faint whisper, grasp- 
 ing his hand. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," he answered, in a low tone ; " poor 
 lady, she'd been so long ailing, that no doubt death 
 wasn't anything particular to her, like, and so she 
 went out at last like the snuff of a candle, as one might 
 say ; poor old soul ! we'd none of us, not my master 
 even, heard the sound of her voice for months, not to 
 say years even !" 
 
 " And my — my father, how does he — " 
 
 " Why he takes on about it, ma'am, certainly ; but, 
 you see, he's been so long expecting of it!" 
 
 " Do you think, Joseph," said Mrs. Elliott, hardly 
 able to make herself heard, " that — that my father 
 would be very — very angry, if he knew I was here — 
 would he — see me ?" 
 
 "Lord, ma'am!" exclaimed the porter, alarm over- 
 spreading his features ; " it's not possible ! You can't 
 think how stern he is ! You should have heard what 
 orders he gave us all about keeping you out of the 
 house ! 1 know 'tis a dreadful hard case, ma'am," he 
 continued, wiping a tear from his eye, " and many and 
 
94 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 many's the time we've all cried in the kitchen about — 
 hush !" he stopped, and looked towards the stairs ap- 
 prehensively ; " never mind, ma'am, it's nobody ! But 
 won't you come down and sit in the housekeeper's 
 room ! I'm sure the good old soul will rather like to 
 see you, and then, you know, you can slip out of the 
 area gate and be gone in no time !" 
 
 " No, Joseph," replied Mrs. Elliott, with as much 
 energy as her weakness would admit of, " I will wait 
 outside the street door if you think there is any dan- 
 ger, while you go and get this letter taken up stairs, 
 and say I am waiting for an answer !" He took the 
 letter, held it in his hand hesitatingly, and shook his 
 head. 
 
 " Oh, take it, good Joseph !" said Mrs. Elliott, with 
 a look that would have softened a heart of stone ; " it 
 is only to ask for mourning for my mother ! I have not 
 money to purchase any !" His eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " My poor dear young mistress !" he faltered ; his lip 
 quivered, and he paused. u It's more than my place is 
 worth ; but, I'll take it, nevertheless — that I will, come 
 what will, ma'am ! See if I don't ! You see, ma'am," 
 dropping his voice, and looking towards the staircase, 
 "it isn't so much the old gentleman, after all, neither, but 
 it's — it's Miss Gubbley that I'm afraid of! It is she, 
 in my mind, that keeps him so cruel hard against you ! 
 She has it all her own way, here ! You should see 
 how she orders us servants "about, ma'am, and has her 
 eyes into everything that's going on ; but I'll go and take 
 the letter anyhow ; and don't you go out of doors, unless 
 you hear me cry ' hem !' on the stairs !" She promised 
 to attend to this hint, as did also the female servant 
 whom he left with her, and Joseph disappeared. The 
 mention of Miss Gubbley excited the most painful 
 and disheartening thoughts in the mind of Mrs. Elliott. 
 Possibly it was now the design of this woman to strike 
 a grand blow, and force herself into the place so re- 
 cently vacated by poor Mrs. Hillary ! Mrs. Elliott's 
 Jieart beat fast, after she had waited for some minutes 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 95 
 
 in agonizing anxiety and suspense, as she heard the 
 footsteps of Joseph hastily descending the stairs. 
 
 " Well, Joseph," she whispered, looking eagerly at 
 him. 
 
 "I can't get to see master, ma'am, though I've tried; 
 I have, indeed, ma'am ! I thought it would be so ! 
 Miss Gubbley has been giving it me, ma'am : she 
 says it will cost me my place to dare to do such an 
 audacious thing a^ain — and I told her you was below 
 here, ma'am, and she might see you ; but she tossed 
 her head, and said it was of a piece with all your other 
 shameful behaviour to your poor, broken-hearted father, 
 she did, ma'am'' — Mrs. Elliott began to sob bitterly — 
 u and she wouldn't on any account whatsoever have him 
 shocked at such a sad time as this, and that she knows 
 it would be no use your coming" — his voice quivered — 
 " and she says as how" — he could hardly go on — 
 " you should have thought of all this long ago ; and 
 that only a month ago she heard master say it was all 
 your own fault if you come to ruin, and as you'd made 
 your bed you must lie on it — her very words, ma'am ; 
 but she's sent you a couple of guineas, ma'am, on con- 
 dition that you don't, on no account, trouble master 
 again ; and — and," he continued, his tears overflow- 
 ing, "I've been so bold as to make it three, ma'am; 
 and I hope it's no offence, ma'am, me being but a ser 
 vant," trying to force something, wrapped up in paper, 
 into the hand of Mrs. Elliott, who had listened motion- 
 less and in dead silence to all he had been saying. 
 
 " Joseph !" at length she exclaimed, in a very low 
 but distinct and solemn tone, stretching out her hands, 
 "if you don't wish to see me die — help me, help me — to 
 my knees !" And with his assistance, and that of the 
 female servant, she sank gently down upon her knees 
 upon the floor, where he partly supported her. She 
 slowly clasped her hands together upon her bosom, and 
 looked upward ; her eye was tearless, and an awful 
 expression settled upon her motionless features. Jo- 
 seph involuntarily fell upon his knees beside her, sha- 
 
96 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 king like an aspen leaf, his eyes fixed instinctively upon 
 hers, and the sobs of several of the servants, who had 
 stolen silently to the top of the kitchen stairs, to gaze 
 at this strange scene, were the only sounds that were 
 audible. After having remained in this position for 
 several minutes, she rose from her knees slowly and 
 in silence. 
 
 "When will my mother be buried?" 
 
 M Next Saturday," whispered Joseph, " at two 
 o'clock." 
 
 " Where ?" 
 
 " At St. 's, ma'am." 
 
 " Farewell, Joseph ! You have been very kind," 
 said she, rising and moving slowly to the door. 
 
 " Won't you let me get you a little of something 
 warm, ma'am 1 You do look so bad, ma'am, so pale, 
 and I'll fetch it from down stairs in half a minute." 
 
 " No, Joseph, I am better ! and Mr. Elliott is wait- 
 ing for me at the outside." 
 
 " Poor gentleman !" sobbed Joseph, turning his head 
 aside, that he might dash a tear from his eye. He 
 strove again to force into her hand the paper contain- 
 ing the three guineas, but she refused. 
 
 " No, Joseph, I am very destitute, but yet Providence 
 will not let me starve. I cannot take it from you ; hers 
 I will not, I ought not !" 
 
 With this the door was opened ; and with a firmer 
 step than she had entered the house, she quitted it. 
 Her husband, who was standing anxiously at one or 
 two door's distance, rushed up to her, and with tremu- 
 lous and agitated tone and gestures inquired the result 
 of her application, and placing his arm around her, for 
 he felt how heavily she leaned against him, gently led 
 her towards home. He listened with the calmness of 
 despair to her narrative of what had taken place. 
 " Then there is no hope for us there," he muttered 
 through his half-closed lips. 
 
 "But there is hope, dearest, with Him who invites 
 the weary and the heavy laden ; who seems to have 
 
THE merchant's clerk. 97 
 
 withdrawn from us, but ha3 not forsaken us," replied 
 his wife, tenderly, and with unwonted cheerfulness in 
 her manner. " 1 feel— I know — he tells me that he will 
 not suffer us to sink in the deep waters ! He heard 
 my prayer, Henry, and he will answer it, wisely and 
 well ! Let us hasten home, dearest. Our little Hen- 
 ry will be uneasy, and trouble Mrs. —." Elliott 
 
 listened to her in moody silence. His darkening fea- 
 tures told not of the peace and resignation Heaven had 
 shed into the troubled bosom of his wife, but too truly 
 betokened the gioom and despair within. He suspect- 
 ed that his wife's reason was yielding to the long-con- 
 tinued assaults of sorrow ; and thought of her approach- 
 ing sufferings with an involuntary shudder, and sick- 
 ened as he entered the scene of them — his wretched 
 lodging. She clasped their smiling child with cheer- 
 ful affection to her bosom ; he kissed him — but cold- 
 ly — -absently— as it were, mechanically. Placing 
 upon his forehead the silk shade which my wife had 
 sent to him, at my request, the day before, as well to 
 relieve his eyes, as to conceal their troubled expres- 
 sion, he leaned against the table at which he took his 
 seat, and thought with perfect horror upon their circum- 
 stances. 
 
 Scarce 20?. now remained of the 6007. with which 
 they were married ; his wife's little earnings were to 
 be of course for a while suspended ; he was prohibited, 
 at the peril of blindness, from the only species of em- 
 ployment he could obtain ; the last ray of hope con- 
 cerning Hillary's reconciliation was extinguished; 
 and all this when their expenses were on the eve of 
 being doubled — or trebled. 
 
 It was well for Mrs. Elliott that her husband had 
 placed that silk shade upon his forehead ! 
 
 During his absence the next morning at the opthal- 
 mic infirmary, whither, at my desire, he went twice a 
 
 week to receive the advice of Mr. , the eminent 
 
 oculist, I called and seized the opportunity of placing 
 in Mrs. Elliott's hands, with unspeakable satisfaction, 
 E 9 
 
98 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 the sum of 40Z., which my good wife had chiefly col- 
 lected among her friends ; and as Mrs. Elliott read, 
 or rather attempted to read, for her eyes were filled 
 with tears, the affectionate note written to her by my 
 wife, who begged that she would send her little boy to 
 our house till she should have recovered from her con- 
 finement, she clasped her hands together, and exclaimed 
 — " Has not God heard my prayers ! Dearest doctor ! 
 Heaven will reward you ! What news for my poor 
 heartbroken husband when he returns home from the 
 infirmary — weary and disheartened ! * 
 
 " And now, doctor, shall I confide to you a plan I 
 have formed ?" said Mrs. Elliott, looking earnestly at 
 me. " Don't try to persuade me against putting it into 
 practice ; for my mind is made up, and nothing can 
 turn me from my purpose." I looked at her with sur- 
 prise. " You know we have but this one room and the 
 little closet — for what else is it 1 — where we sleep ; 
 and where must my husband and child be when I am 
 confined 1 Besides, we cannot, even with all your no- 
 ble kindness to us, afford to have proper — the most or- 
 dinary attendance." She paused — I listened anx- 
 iously. 
 
 " So — I've been thinking — could you not" — she hes- 
 itated, as if struggling with violent emotion — "could 
 you not get me admitted" — her voice trembled — " into 
 — the lying-in hospital?" I shook my head, unablo 
 at the moment to find utterance. 
 
 " It has cost me a struggle — Providence seems, how- 
 ever, to have led me to the thought ! I shall there be 
 no expense to my husband, and shall have, I under- 
 stand, excellent attendance." 
 
 " My poor dear madam," I faltered, " you must for- 
 give me — but I cannot bear to think of it." In spite 
 of my struggles the swelling tears at length burst from 
 my laden eyes. She buried her face in her handker- 
 chief, and wept bitterly. " My husband can hear of 
 me every day, and, with God's blessing upon, us, per- 
 haps in a month's time we may both meet in better 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 99 
 
 health and spirits. And if — if — if it would not incon- 
 venience Mrs. or yourself, to let my little Henry" 
 
 — she could get no further, and burst again into a tit of 
 passionate weeping. I promised her, in answer to her 
 reiterated entreaties, that I would immediately take 
 steps to ensure her an admission into the lying-in 
 hospital at any moment she might require it. 
 
 " But, my dear madam, your husband — Mr. Elliott 
 — depend upon it, will never hear of all this ; he will 
 never permit it, I feel perfectly certain." 
 
 "Ah, doctor, I know he would not; but he shall 
 not know anything about my intentions till I am safely 
 lodged in the — the hospital. I intend to leave without 
 his knowing where I am gone, some day this week ; for 
 I feel satisfied — " She paused and trembled. " When 
 he returns from the infirmary on Friday he will find a 
 letter from me, telling him all my little scheme, and 
 may God incline him to forgive me for what I am doing. 
 I know he loves me, however, too fondly to make me 
 unhappy !" 
 
 The next morning my wife accompanied me to their 
 lodging, for the purpose of taking home with her little 
 Henry. A sad scence it was ; but Elliott, whom his 
 wife had easily satisfied of the prudence of thus dis- 
 posing of the child during the period of her confine- 
 ment, bore it manfully. He carried the child down to 
 my carriage, and resigned him into the hands of my 
 wife and a servant, after many fond caresses, with an 
 air of melancholy resolution ; promising to call daily 
 and see him while on his visit to my house. I strove to 
 console him under this temporary separation from his 
 child, and to impress upon him the necessity of abso- 
 lute quiet and repose, in order to give due effect to 
 the very active treatment under which he had been 
 placed for the complaint in his eyes ; this I did in or- 
 der to prepare him for the second stroke meditated to 
 be inflicted upon him on the ensuing Friday by his 
 wife, and to reconcile him, by anticipation as it were, 
 to their brief separation. When once the decisive step 
 
 b2 
 
100 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 had been taken, I felt satisfied that he would speedily 
 see the propriety of it. 
 
 It was wonderful to see how Mrs. Elliott, during the 
 interval between this day and the Friday appointed for 
 her entrance into the lying-in hospital, sustained her 
 spirits. Her manner increased in tenderness towards 
 her husband, who evinced a corresponding energy of 
 sympathy and affection towards her. His anxieties 
 had been to a considerable extent allayed by the sea- 
 sonable addition to his funds already spoken of ; but 
 he expressed an occasional surprise at the absence of 
 any preparations for the event which both of them be- 
 lieved to be so near at hand. 
 
 On the Friday morning, about half an hour after her 
 husband had set out for the opthalmic infirmary as 
 usual, a hackney coach drew up to the door of his 
 lodging, with a female attendant, sent by my direc- 
 tions from the lying-in hospital. I also made my ap- 
 pearance within a few minutes of the arrival of the 
 coach : and poor Mrs. Elliott, after having carefully 
 arranged and disposed of the few articles of her own 
 apparel which she intended to leave behind her, and 
 given the most anxious and repeated instructions to the 
 woman of the house to be attentive to Mr. Elliott in 
 her absence — sat down and shed many tears as she 
 laid upon the table a letter, carefully sealed, and ad- 
 dressed to her husband, containing the information of 
 her departure and destination. When her agitation 
 had somewhat subsided, she left the room — perhaps, 
 she felt,/or ever — entered into the coach, and was soon 
 safely lodged in the lying-in hospital. 
 
 The letter to her husband was as follows — for the 
 melancholy events which will be presently narrated, 
 brought this with other documents into my possession. 
 
 " My Sweet Love, 
 " The hour of my agony is approaching ; and Provi- 
 dence has pointed out to me a place of refuge. I can- 
 not, dearest Henry — I cannot think of adding to you/ 
 
THE MERCHANT^ CLERK. 101 
 
 sufferings bv the sight of mine ! When all is over — 
 as I trust it will be soon, and happily — then we shall 
 be reunited, and God grant us happier days! Oh, do 
 not be grieved or angry, Henry, at the step I am taking. 
 I have done it for the best — it will be for the best, de- 
 pend upon it. Dr. will tell you how skilfully and 
 
 kindly they treat their patients at the lying-in hospital 
 to which I am going. Oh, Henry ! you are the delight 
 of my soul ! The more grief and bitterness we have 
 seen together, surely the more do we love one another 
 Oh hoxc Hove you ! How I prayed in the night while 
 you, dearest, were sleeping, that the Almighty would 
 bless you and our little Harry, and be merciful to me, 
 for your sakes, and bring us all together again ! I shall 
 pray for you, my love — my own love! — ever}' hour that 
 we are away! Bear up a little longer, Henry! God 
 has not deserted us — he will not — he cannot if we do 
 not desert him. I leave you, dearest, my Bible and 
 prayer book — oh, do read them ! Kiss my little Harry 
 
 in my name, every day. How kind are Dr. 
 
 and Mrs. ! Go out and enjoy the fresh air, and 
 
 do not sit fretting at home, love ; nor try your eyes with 
 reading or writing till I come back. I can hardly lay 
 by my pen, but the coach is come for me, and I must 
 tear myself away. Farewell, then, my dear, dear, 
 darling Henry ; but only for a little while. 
 
 "Your doting wife, 
 
 " Mart." 
 
 " P.S. — The socks I have been knitting for Harry 
 are in the drawer near the window. You had better 
 
 take them to Dr. 's to-morrow, as I forgot to send 
 
 them with Harry in the bustle of his going, and he 
 
 will want them. Dr. says you can come and see 
 
 me every day before I am taken ill. Do come." 
 
 I called in the evening, according to the promise I 
 had made to Mrs. Elliott, on her husband, to see how 
 he bore the discovery of his wife's sudden departure. 
 
 9* 
 
102 THE MERCHANT^ CLERK. 
 
 " How is Mr. Elliott ?" I inquired of the woman of 
 the house, who opened the door. M Is he at home ? 
 
 " Why, yes — but he's in a sad way, sir, indeed, about 
 Mrs. Elliott's going. He's eaten nothing all day." 
 
 He was sitting at a table when I entered, with a sol- 
 itary candle, and Mrs. Elliott's letter lying before him. 
 
 " Oh ! doctor, is not this worse than death V he ex- 
 claimed. " Am I not leftralone to be the prey of Satan ?" 
 
 " Come, come, Mr. Elliott, moderate your feelings ! 
 Learn the lesson your incomparable wife has taught 
 you — patience and resignation." 
 
 " It is a heavenly lesson. But can a fiend learn it ?" 
 he replied, vehemently, in a tone and with an air that 
 quite startled me. " Here I am left alone by God and 
 man to be the sport of devils, and I am ! What curse 
 is there that has not fallen, or is falling upon me ? I 
 feel assured," he continued, gloomily, " that my Mary 
 is taken from me for ever. Oh, do not tell me other- 
 wise. I feel — I know it ! I have brought ruin upon her ! 
 I have brought her to beggary by an insane, a wicked 
 attachment ! The curses of disobedience to parents 
 are fully upon both of us ! Yet our misery might have 
 touched any heart except that of her fiendish father. 
 Ah ! he buries her mother to-morrow ! To-morrow, 
 then, I will be there! The earth shall not fall upon 
 her before he looks upon me ! How I will make 
 the old man shake beside the grave he must soon drop 
 into!" He drew a long breath. "Let him curse 
 me ! — curse her — curse us both ! — curse our child ! 
 There and then — " 
 
 " The curse causeless shall not come,'" I interrupted. 
 
 * Ay, causeless ! That's the thing ! Causeless !" 
 He paused. " Forgive me," he added, after a heavy 
 sigh, resuming his usual manner ; " doctor, I've been 
 raving, and can you wonder at it ? Poor Mary's letter 
 (here it is) has almost killed me ! I have been to the 
 place where she is, but I dared not go in to see her. 
 Oh, doctor ! will she be taken care of?" suddenly seiz- 
 ing my hand with convulsive energy. 
 
the merchant's clerk. 103 
 
 11 The very greatest care will be taken of her — the 
 greatest skill in London will be instantly at her com- 
 mand in case of the slightest necessity for it— as well 
 as every possible comfort and convenience that her sit- 
 uation can require. If it will be any consolation to 
 you, I assure you I intend visiting her myself every 
 day." And by these means I at length succeeded in re- 
 storing something like calmness to him. The excite- 
 ment occasioned by his unexpected discovery of his 
 wife's absence, and its touching reason, had been aggra- 
 vated by the unfavourable opinion concerning his sight 
 which had been that morning expressed — alas, I feared, 
 but too justly — by the able and experienced oculist 
 under whose care he was placed. He had in much 
 alarm heard Mr. ask him several questions re- 
 specting peculiar and secret symptoms and sensations 
 about his eyes, which he was forced to answer in the 
 affirmative ; and the alarming effect of these inquiries 
 
 was not dissipated by the cautious replies of Mr. 
 
 to his questions as to the chances of ultimate recovery. 
 I assured him that nothing on earth could so effectually 
 serve him as the cultivation of calm and composed hab- 
 its >of mind ; for that the affection of his eyes depended 
 almost entirely upon the condition of his nervous sys- 
 tem. I got him to promise me that he would abandon 
 his wild and useless purpose of attending the funeral 
 of Mrs. Hillary — said I would call upon him, accom- 
 panied by his little son, about noon the next day, and 
 also bring him tidings concerning Mrs. Elliott. 
 
 I was as good as my word ; but not he. The wo- 
 man of the house told me that he had left home about 
 twelve o'clock, and did not say when he would return. 
 
 He had gone to St. 's church, I afterward learned 
 
 from him. He watched the funeral procession into the 
 church, and placed himself in a pew which commanded 
 a near view of that occupied by the chief mourner, 
 Mr. Hillary ; who, however, never once raised his 
 head from the handkerchief in which his countenance 
 was buried. When the body was borne to the grave, 
 
104 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 Elliott followed, and took his place beside the grave as 
 near Mr. Hillary as the attendants and the crowd 
 would admit of. He several times formed the deter- 
 mination to interrupt the service by a solemn and public 
 appeal to Mr. Hillary on the subject of his deserted 
 daughter — but his tongue failed him, his feelings over- 
 powered him ; and he staggered from where he stood 
 to an adjoining tombstone, which he leaned against till 
 the brief and solemn scene was concluded, and the 
 mourners began to return. Once more, with desperate 
 purpose, he approached the procession, and came up to 
 Mr. Hillary just as he was being assisted into the coach. 
 
 " Look at me, sir," said he, suddenly tapping Mr. 
 Hillary upon the shoulder. The old man seemed par- 
 alyzed for a moment, and stared at him as if he did 
 not know the strange intruder. 
 
 " My name is Elliott, sir ; your forsaken daughter 
 is my heartbroken, starving wife ! do you relent, sir?" 
 
 "Elliott! Keep him away— keep him away, for 
 God's sake !" exclaimed Mr. Hillary, his face full of dis- 
 gust and horror ; and the attendants violently dragged 
 the intruder from the spot where he was standing, 
 and kept him at a distance till the coach containing 
 Mr. Hillary had driven off. Elliott then returned home, 
 which he reached about an hour after I had called. 
 He paid me a visit in the evening, and I was glad to 
 see him so much calmer than I had expected. He 
 apologized with much earnestness for his breach of 
 faith. He said he had found it impossible to resist the 
 impulse which led him, in spite of all he had said over 
 night, to attend the funeral ; for he had persuaded him- 
 self of the more than possibility that his sudden and 
 startling appearance at so solemn a moment might effect 
 an alteration in Mr. Hillary's feelings towards him. 
 He gave me a full account of what had happened, and 
 assured me with a melancholy air that he had now 
 satisfied himself — had nothing to hope for further — 
 nothing to disturb him — and he would attend to my in- 
 junctions and those of his surgical adviser at the in- 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 105 
 
 firmary. He told me that he had seen Mrs. Elliott 
 about an hour before, and had left her in comparatively 
 good spirits ; but the people of the hospital had told 
 him that her confinement was hourly expected. 
 
 " I wonder," said he, and sighed profoundly, " what 
 effect her death would have upon Mr. Hillary? Would 
 he cast off her children, as he had cast her off? Would 
 his hatred follow her into the grave ? Now what should 
 you say, doctor ?" 
 
 The matter-of-fact, not to say indifferent air, with 
 winch this very grave question was put, not a little 
 surprised me. "Why, he must be obdurate indeed if 
 such were to be the case," I answered. " I am in 
 hopes, however, that, in spite of all that has happened, 
 he will ere long be brought to a sense of his guilt and 
 cruelty in so long defying the dictates of conscience — 
 the voice of nature. When he finds himself alone — " 
 Elliott shook his head. 
 
 " It must be a thundering blow, doctor, that would 
 make his iron heart feel — and — that blow" — he sighed 
 — " may come much sooner it may be — " He shud- 
 dered, and looked at me with a wild air of apprehen- 
 sion. 
 
 " Let us hope for the best, however, Mr. Elliott ! 
 Rely upon it, the present calmness of your inestimable 
 wife affords grounds for the happiest expectations con- 
 cerning the approaching — " 
 
 " Ah ! I hope you may not be mistaken ! Her for- 
 mer accouchement was a long and dangerous one." 
 
 " Perhaps the very reason why her present may be 
 an easy one !" He looked at me mournfully. 
 
 " And suppose it to be so — what a home has the 
 poor creature to return to after her suffering! Is not 
 that a dreary prospect ?" 
 
 It was growing late, however ; and presently taking 
 an affectionate leave of his son, who had been sitting 
 all the while on his knee overpowered with drowsi- 
 ness, he left. 
 
 Mrs. Elliott was taken ill on Sunday about midnight; 
 e 3 
 
106 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK, 
 
 and after a somewhat severe and protracted labour was 
 delivered on Monday evening of a child that died a 
 few minutes after its birth. Having directed the peo- 
 ple at the hospital to summon me directly Mrs. Elliott 
 was taken ill, I was in attendance upon her within an 
 hour after her illness had commenced. I sent a mes- 
 senger on Monday morning to Mr. Elliott, according 
 to the promise I had given him immediately to send 
 him the earliest information, with an entreaty that he 
 would remain at home all day to be in readiness to 
 receive a visit from me. He came down, however, to 
 the hospital almost immediately after receiving my 
 message ; and walked to and fro before the institution, 
 making anxious inquiries every ten minutes or quarter 
 of an hoiu; how his wife went on, and received ready 
 and often encouraging answers. When I quitted her 
 for the night, about an hour after her^delivery, leaving 
 her much exhausted, but, as I too confidently supposed, 
 out of danger, I earnestly entreated Mr. Elliott, who 
 continued before the institution gates in a state of the 
 highest excitement, to return home, but in vain ; and 
 I left him with expressions of severe displeasure, as- 
 suring him that his conduct was absurd and useless — 
 nay, criminally dangerous to himself. " What will be- 
 come of your sight, Mr. Elliott — pray think of that ! 
 — if you will persist in working yourself up to this 
 dreadful pitch of nervous excitement ? I do assure you 
 that you are doing yourself every hour mischief which 
 — which it may require months, if not years, to remedy ; 
 and is it kind to her you love — to those you ought to 
 consult — whose interests are dependant upon yourself 
 — thus to throw away the chances of recovery ? Pray, 
 Mr. Elliott, listen, listen to reason, and return home !" 
 He made me no reply, but wept, and I left, hoping that 
 what I had said would soon produce the desired effect. 
 About four o'clock in the morning I was awaked by 
 a violent ringing of the bell and knocking at the door ; 
 and on hastily looking out of the bedroom window, 
 there was Mr. Elliott. 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 107 
 
 ' ; What is the matter, there V I inquired. " la it 
 you, Mr. Elliot ?" 
 
 M Oh, doctor, doctor — for God's sake come ! Mv 
 wife, my wife ! She's dying! — they have told me so ! 
 Come, doctor, oh come !"' Though I had been exceed- 
 ingly fatigued with the labours of the preceding day, 
 this startling summons soon dissipated my drowsiness, 
 and in less than live minutes I was by his side. We 
 ran almost all the way to the nearest coach stand : imd 
 on reaching the hospital, found that there existed but 
 too much ground for apprehension ; for about two 
 o'clock very alarming symptoms of profuse haemorrhage 
 made their appearance ; and when I reached her bed- 
 side, a little after four o'clock, I saw, in common with 
 the experienced resident accoucheur, who was also 
 present, that her life was indeed trembling in the bal- 
 ance. While I sat watching, with feelings of melan- 
 choly interest and alarm, her snowy inanimate counte- 
 nance, a tap on my shoulder from one of the female at- 
 tendants attracted my eye to the door, where the chief 
 matron of the establishment was standing. She beck- 
 oned me out of the room ; and I noiselessly stepped 
 out after her. 
 
 " The husband of this poor lady," said Mrs. ,*' is 
 
 in a dreadful state, doctor, in the street. The porter 
 has sent up word that he fears the gentleman is going 
 mad, and will be attempting to break open the gates ; 
 that he insists upon being shown at once into his wife's 
 room, or at least within the house ! Pray oblige me, 
 doctor, by going down and trying to pacify him ! This 
 will never do, you know — the other patients — " I 
 hastened down stairs, and stepped quickly across the 
 yard. My heart yearned towards the poor distracted 
 being who stood outside the iron gates, with his arms 
 stretched towards me through the bars. 
 
 " Oh, say, is she alive ? Is she alive ?" he cried, 
 with a lamentable voice. 
 
 "She is, Mr. Elliott — but reallv — n 
 
108 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 " Oh, is she alive ? Are you telling me truly ? Is 
 she indeed alive !* 
 
 "Yes, yes, Mr. Elliott: but if you don't cease to 
 make such a dreadful disturbance, your voice may 
 reach her ear, and that would be instant death — indeed 
 it would." 
 
 " I will I I will — but is she indeed alive ? Don't 
 deceive me !" 
 
 |* This is the way he's been going on all night,'* 
 whispered the watchman, who had just stepped up. 
 
 " Mr. Elliott, I tell you, truly, in the name of God, 
 your wife is living — -and I have not given up hope of 
 her recovery." 
 
 " Oh, Mary ! Mary ! Mary ! Oh, come to me, my 
 Mary ! You said that you would return to me !" 
 
 '* Hadn't I better take him away, sir ?" said the 
 watchman. " The porter says he'll be awakening all 
 the women in the hospital — shall I V 9 
 
 11 Let me stay — let me stay ! I'll give you all I have 
 in the world ! I'll give you forty pounds — I will, I will," 
 cried the unfortunate husband, clinging to the bars, 
 and looking imploringly at me. 
 
 '* Do not interfere — do not touch him, sir," said I to 
 the watchman. 
 
 "Thank you! God bless you!" gasped the wretched 
 sufferer, extending his hands towards mine, and wring- 
 ing them convulsively ; then turning to the watchman, 
 he added, in a lower tone, the most piteous I ever 
 heard, "Don't take me away! My wife is here; 
 she's dying — I can't go away — but I'll not make any 
 more noise ! Hush! hush ! there is some one coming!" 
 A person approached from within the building, and 
 whispering a few hurried words in my ear, retired. 
 "Mr. Elliott, shake hands with me," said I, "Mrs. 
 Elliott is reviving ! I told you I had hope ! The ac- 
 coucheur has this instant sent me word that he thinks 
 the case has taken a favourable turn." He sank down 
 suddenly on his knees in silence ; then grasped my 
 hands through the bars, and shook them convulsively. 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 109 
 
 He then, in the fervour of his frantic feeling, turned to 
 the watchman, grasped his hands, and shook them. 
 
 " Hush ! hush !" he gasped — " don't speak — it will 
 disturb her ! A single sound may kill her. Ah" — 
 he looked with agonized apprehension at the mail coach 
 which that moment rattled rapidly and loudly by. At 
 length he became so much calmer, that after pledging 
 myself to return to him shortly, especially if any un- 
 favourable change should take place, I withdrew, and 
 repaired to the chamber where lay the poor uncon- 
 scious creature — the subject of her husband's wild and 
 dreadful anxieties. I found that I had not been misinr 
 formed ; and though Mrs. Elliott lay in the most pre- 
 carious situation possible, with no sign of life in her 
 pallid countenance, and no pulse discernible at her 
 wrist, we had reason for believing that a favourable 
 change had taken place. After remaining in silence 
 by her side for about a quarter of an hour, during which 
 she seemed asleep, I took my departure, and conveyed 
 the delightful intelligence to the poor sufferer without, 
 that his hopes were justified by the situation in which 
 I had left my sweet patient. I succeeded in persua- 
 ding him to accompany me home, and restoring him to 
 a little composure : but the instant that he had swal- 
 lowed a hasty cup of coffee, without waiting even to 
 see his little boy, who was being dressed to come 
 down as usual to breakfast, he left the house and re- 
 turned to the hospital, where I found him, as before, 
 on driving up about twelve o'clock, but walking calmly 
 to and fro before the gates. What anguish was writ- 
 ten in his features ! But a smile passed over them — 
 a joyful air, as he told me before I could quit my car- 
 riage, that all was still going on well. It was so, I ascer- 
 tained; and on returning from the hospital, I almost 
 forced him into my carriage, and drove off to his lodg- 
 ing, where 1 staid till he had got into bed, and had 
 solemnly promised me to remain there till I called in 
 the evening. 
 
 For three days Mrs. Elliott continued in the most 
 
 10 
 
110 THE MERCHANT'S CLERfc. 
 
 critical circumstances ; during which her husband was 
 almost every other hour at the hospital, and at length 
 so wearied every one with his anxious and incessant 
 inquiries, that they would hardly give him civil an- 
 swers any longer. Had L not twice bled him with my 
 own hand, and myself administered to him soothing 
 and lowering medicines, he would certainly, I think, 
 have gone raving mad. On the fifth day Mrs. Elliott 
 was pronounced out of danger, but continued, of course, 
 in a very exhausted state. Her first inquiries were 
 about her husband, then her little Henry : and on re- 
 ceiving a satisfactory answer, a sweet sad smile stole 
 over her features, and her feeble fingers gently com- 
 pressed mine. Before I quitted her, she asked whether 
 her husband might be permitted to see her. I of course 
 answered in the negative. A tear stole down her 
 cheek, but she did not attempt to utter a syllable. 
 
 The pressure of professional engagements did not 
 admit of my seeing Mr. Elliott more than once or twice 
 during the next week. I frequently heard of him, how- 
 ever, at the hospital, where he called constantly three 
 times a day, but had not yet been permitted to see Mrs. 
 Elliott, who was considered, and in my opinion justly, 
 unequal to the excitement of such an interview. 
 
 The dreadful mental agony in which he had spent 
 the last fortnight, was calculated to produce the most 
 fatal effects upon his eyesight ; of which, indeed, he 
 seemed himself but too conscious, for every symptom 
 of which he had complained was most fearfully aggra- 
 vated. Nevertheless, I could not prevail upon him — at 
 least, he said, for the present — to continue his visits 
 to eye infirmary. He said, with a melancholy air, that 
 he had too many, and very different matters to attend 
 to — and he must postpone, for the present, all attention 
 to his own complaints. Alas ! he had many other sub- 
 jects of anxiety than his own ailments ! Supposing 
 his poor wife to be restored to him, even in a moderate 
 degree of strength and convalescence — what prospect 
 was before them ? What means remained of obtaining 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. Ill 
 
 a livelihood ? What chance was there of her inexora- 
 ble old father changing his fell purpose ? Was his 
 wife then to quit the scene of her almost mortal suffer- 
 ings, only to perish before his eyes — of want ? And 
 her father wallowing in wealth — the thought was hor- 
 rible ! Elliott sat at home alone, thinking of these 
 things, and shuddered ; he quitted his home, and wan- 
 dered through the streets with vacant eye and blighted 
 heart. He wander eth abroad for bread, saying where 
 is it ? He knowcth that the day of darkness is ready 
 at his hand.* 
 
 Friday. This morning my wife called, at my sug- 
 gestion, to see Mrs. Elliott, accompanied by her little 
 boy, whom I had perceived she was pining to see. I 
 thought they might meet without affording ground for 
 uneasiness as to the result. 
 
 " My little Harry !" exclaimed a low soft voice as 
 my wife and child were silently ushered into the room 
 where lay Mrs. Elliott, wasted almost to a shadow, her 
 face and hands, said my wife, white as the lily. " Come, 
 love, kiss me !" she faintly murmured : and my wife 
 brought the child to the bedside, and lifting him upon 
 her knee, inclined his face towards his mother. She 
 feebly placed her arm around his neck, and pressed 
 him to her bosom. 
 
 u Let me see his face !" she whispered, removing 
 her arm. 
 
 She gazed tenderly at him for some minutes ; the 
 child looking first at her and then at my wife with min- 
 gled fear and surprise. 
 
 " How lilce his father /" she murmured — "kiss me 
 again, love ! Don't be afraid of your poor mother, 
 Harry !" Her eyes filled with tears. ^ " Am I so al- 
 tered?" said she to my wife, who stammered yes and 
 no in one breath. 
 
 " Has he been a good boy ?" 
 
 " Very — very," replied my wife, turning aside her 
 
 * Job, xv. 23 
 
112 THE MERCHANTS CLERK. 
 
 head, unable for a moment to look either mother or son 
 in the face. Mrs. Elliott perceived my wife's emotion, 
 and her chill fingers gently grasped her hand. 
 
 " Does he say his prayers 1 — you've not forgotten 
 that, Henry ?" 
 
 The child, whose little breast was beginning to heave, 
 shook his head, and lisped a faint " No, mamma." 
 
 " God bless thee, my darling !" exclaimed his mo- 
 ther, in a low tone, closing her eyes. " He will not 
 desert thee, nor thy parents ! He feeds the young ra- 
 vens when they cry /" She paused, and the tears trem- 
 bled through her almost transparent eyelids. My wife, 
 who had with the utmost difficulty restrained her feel- 
 ings, leaned over the poor sufferer, pressed her lips to 
 her forehead, and gently taking the child with her, 
 stepped hastily from the room. As soon as they had 
 got into the matron's parlour, where my wife sat down 
 for a few moments, her little companion burst into tears, 
 and cried as if his heart would break. The matron tried 
 to pacify him, but in vain. " I hope, ma'am," said she, 
 to my wife, " he did not cry in this way before his 
 
 mother 1 Dr. and Mr. both say that she 
 
 must not be agitated in any way, or they will not an- 
 swer for the consequences." At this moment I made 
 my appearance, having called, in passing, to pay a visit 
 to Mrs. Elliott : but hearing how much her late inter- 
 view had overcome her, I left, taking my wife and little 
 Elliott — still sobbing — with me, and promising to look 
 in, if possible, in the evening. I did do so, accord- 
 ingly ; and found her happily none the worse for the 
 emotion occasioned by her first interview with her child 
 since her illness. She expressed herself very grateful 
 to me for the care which she said we had evidently 
 taken of him — u and how like he grows to his poor fa- 
 ther !" she added. " Oh ! doctor, when may I sec 
 him ? Do, dear doctor, let us meet, if it be but for a 
 moment ! Oh, how I long to see him ! I will not be 
 agitated. It will do me more good than all the medi- 
 cine in this building!'* 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK- 113 
 
 " In a few day s time, my dear madam, I assure 
 you — " 
 
 " Why not to-morrow ? Oh, if you knew the good 
 that one look of his would do me — he does not look ill V* 
 she inquired, suddenly. 
 
 " He — he looks certainly rather harassed on your 
 account ; but in other respects, he is — " 
 
 " Promise me — let me see for myself; oh bring him 
 with you ! I — I — I own I could not bear to see him 
 alone — but in your presence — do, dear doctor ! prom- 
 ise ! I shall sleep so sweetly to-night if you will." 
 
 Her looks — her tender murmuring voice, overcame 
 me ; and I promised to bring Mr. Elliott with me some 
 time on the morrow. I bade her good-night. 
 
 " Remember, doctor V 1 she whispered as I rose to go. 
 
 " I will !" said I, and quitted the room, already almost 
 repenting of the rash promise I had made. But who 
 could have resisted her ? 
 
 Sweet soul ! what was to become of thee ? Bred up 
 in the lap of luxury, and accustomed to have every 
 wish gratified, every want anticipated — what kind of 
 scene waited thee on returning to thy humble lodging, 
 
 " Where hopeless Anguish pour's her groan, 
 And lonely Want retired to die ?" 
 
 For was it not so ? What miracle was to save them 
 from starvation ? Full of such melancholy reflections, 
 I walked home, resolving to leave no stone unturned on 
 their behalf, and pledging myself and wife that the 
 forty pounds we had already collected for the Elliotts, 
 from among our benevolent friends, should be raised to 
 a hundred, however great might be the deficiency we 
 made up ourselves. 
 
 Saturday. I was preparing to pay some early visits 
 to distant patients, and arranging so as to take Mr. El- 
 liott with me on my return, which I calculated would 
 be about two o'clock, to pay the promised visit to Mrs. 
 Elliott, when my servant brought me a handful of let- 
 
 10* 
 
114 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 ters which had that moment been left by the twopenny 
 postman. I was going to cram them all into my pocket, 
 and read them in the carriage, when my eye was at- 
 tracted by one of them much larger than the rest, sealed 
 with a black seal, and the address in Elliott's hand- 
 writing. I instantly resumed my seat ; and placing 
 the other letters in my pocket, proceeded to break the 
 seal with some trepidation, which increased to a sick- 
 ening degree when four letters fell out — all of them 
 sealed with black, and in Elliott's handwriting, and ad- 
 dressed respectively to " Jacob Hillary, Esq.," " Mrs. 
 
 Elliott," " Henry Elliott," and » Dr. ," (myself.) 
 
 I sat for a minute or two, with this terrible array before 
 me, scarce daring to breathe, or to trust myself with 
 my thoughts, when my wife entered, leading in her 
 constant companion, little Elliott, to take their leave, 
 as usual, before I set out for the day. The sight 
 of " Henry Elliott," to whom one of these portentous 
 letters was addressed, overpowered me. My wife, 
 seeing me much discomposed, was beginning to inquire 
 the reason, when I rose, and with gentle force put her 
 out of the room and bolted the door, hurriedly telling 
 her that I had just received unpleasant accounts con- 
 cerning one or two of my patients. With trembling 
 hands I opened the letter which was addressed to me, 
 and read with infinite consternation as follows : — 
 
 "When you are reading these few lines, kind doctor! I 
 shall be sweetly sleeping the sleep of death. All will be 
 over ; there will be one wretch the less upon the earth. 
 
 " God, before whom I shall be standing face to face, 
 while you read this letter, will, I hope, have mercy 
 upon me, and forgive me for appearing before him un- 
 called for. Amen ! 
 
 " But I could not live. I felt blindness — the last 
 curse — descending upon me — blindness and beggary. 
 I saw my wife broken hearted. Nothing but misery 
 and starvation before her and her child. 
 
 " Oh, has she not loved me with a noble love ? And 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 115 
 
 yet it is thus I leave her ! But she knows how through 
 life I have returned her love, and she will hereafter find 
 that love alone led me to take this dreadful step. 
 
 " Grievous has been the misery she has borne for 
 my sake. I thought, in marrying her, that I might 
 have overcome the difficulties which threatened us — 
 that I might have struggled successfully at least for our 
 bread ; but He ordered otherwise, and it has been in vain 
 for me to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread 
 of sorrows. 
 
 " Why did I leave life ! Because I know, as if a 
 voice from Heaven had told me, that my death will 
 reconcile Mary and her father. It is me alone whom 
 he hates, and her only on my account. When I shall 
 be gone, he will receive her to his arms, and she and 
 my son will be happy. 
 
 " Oh, my God ! that I shall never see the face of 
 Mary again, or — But presently she will look at our 
 son, and she will revive. 
 
 44 I entreat you as in the name of the dead — it is a 
 voice from the grave — to be yourself the bearer of this 
 news to Mary, when, and as you may think fit. Give 
 her this letter<and also give, yourself, to Mr. Hillary, 
 the letter which bears his dreadful name upon it. I 
 know — I feel — that it will open his heart, and he will 
 receive them to his arms. 
 
 44 1 have written also a few lines to my son. Ah, my 
 boy, your father will be mouldered into dust before you 
 will understand what I have written. Grieve for your 
 unfortunate father, but do not — disown him ! 
 
 " As for you, best of men, my only friend, farewell ! 
 Forgive all the trouble I have given. God reward you ! 
 You will be in my latest thoughts. I have written to 
 you last. 
 
 44 Now I have done. I am calm ; the bitterness of 
 death is past. Farewell ! The grave — the darkness 
 of death is upon my soul — but I have no fear. To- 
 night, before this candle shall have burned out, at mid- 
 night— Oh, Mary ! Henry ! shall we ever meet again? 
 
 44 H. E, 
 
116 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 I read this letter over half a dozen times, for every 
 paragraph pushed the preceding one out of my mem- 
 ory. Then I took up mechanically and opened the 
 letter addressed to his son. It contained a large lock 
 of his father's hair, and the following verses,* written 
 in a great straggling hand : — 
 
 " I have wished for death ; wherefore do I not call 
 for my son ? 
 
 " My son, when lam dead, bury me ; and despise not 
 thy mother, but honour her all the days of thy life, and 
 do that which shall please her, and grieve her not. 
 
 " Remember, my son, that she saw many dangers for 
 thee when thou wast in her womb ; and when she is dead 
 bury her by me in one grave. 
 
 " Thus on the point of death, writes thy father to his 
 beloved son. Remember ! 
 
 " Henry Elliott." 
 
 As soon as I had somewhat recovered the shock 
 occasioned by the perusal of these letters, I folded 
 them all up, stepped hastily into my carriage, and post- 
 poning all my other visits, drove oflfdirect to the lodging 
 of Mr. Elliott. The woman of the house was standing 
 at the door, talking earnestly with one or two persons. 
 
 " Where is Mr. Elliott ?" I inquired, leaping out of 
 the carriage. 
 
 " That's what we want to know, sir," replied the 
 woman, very pale. " He must have gone out very late 
 last night, sir — and hasn't been back since ; for when I 
 looked into his room this morning to ask about break- 
 fast it was empty." 
 
 " Did you observe anything particular in his appear- 
 ance last night ?" I inquired, preparing to ascend the 
 little staircase. 
 
 " Yes, sir, very strange like ! And about eight or 
 nine o'clock, he comes to the top of the stairs, and 
 calls out, ' Mrs. , did you hear that noise ? Didn't 
 
 * From the Apocrypha. Tobit, ch. iv., v. 2, 3, 4. 
 
THE MERCHANTS CLERK. 117 
 
 you see something V ' Lud, sir,' said I, in a taking, he 
 spoke so sudden, ' no ! there wasn't any sound whatso- 
 ever !' so he went into his room, and shut the door, and 
 I never seed him since.'' 
 
 I hastened to his room. A. candlestick, its candle 
 burned down to the socket, stood on the little table at 
 which he generally sat, together with a pen or two, ink, 
 black wax, a sheet of paper, and a Bible open at the 
 place from which he had copied the words addressed 
 to his son. The room was apparently just as its un- 
 fortunate and frantic occupant had quitted it. I opened 
 the table drawer ; it was full of paper which had been 
 covered with writing, and was now torn into small 
 fragments. One half sheet was left, full of strange 
 incoherent expressions, apparently forming part of a 
 prayer, and evincing, alas, how fearfully the writer's 
 reason was disturbed ! But where was poor Elliott ? 
 What mode of death had he selected ? 
 
 At first I thought of instantly advertising and descri- 
 bing his person, and issuing handbills about the neigh- 
 bourhood ; but at length determined to wait till the Mon- 
 day's newspapers — some one of which might contain in- 
 telligence concerning him which might direct my move- 
 ments. And in the mean time — how was I to appear 
 before Mrs. Elliott, and account for my not bringing her 
 husband? I determined to send her a written excuse, on 
 the score of pressing and unexpected engagements, but 
 promising to call upon her either on Sunday or Monday. 
 I resolved to do nothing rashly ; for it glanced across my 
 mind, as possible, that Elliott had not really carried into 
 execution the dreadful intentions expressed in his letter 
 to me, but had resorted to a stratagem only in order to 
 terrify Mr. Hillary into a reconciliation. This notion 
 took such full possession of my heated imagination, that 
 I at length lost sight of all the glaring improbabilities at- 
 tending it. Alas, however, almost the first paragraph 
 that fell under my hurried eye, in scanning over the 
 papers of Monday, was the following : — 
 
 M On Saturday, about 8 o'clock in the morning, some 
 
118 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 labourers discovered the body of a man of respectable 
 appearance, apparently about thirty years old, floating, 
 without a hat, in the New River. It was immediately 
 taken out of the water, but life seemed to have been 
 for some hours extinct. One or two letters were found 
 upon his person, but the writing was too much spread 
 and blotted with the water to afford any clew to the 
 identity of the unfortunate person. The body lies at 
 the Red Boar public house, where a coroner's inquest 
 is .summoned for to-day at 12 o'clock." 
 
 I drove off to the place mentioned in the paragraph, 
 and arrived there just as the jury was assembling. 
 There was a considerable crowd about the doors. I 
 sent in my card ; and stating that I believed I could 
 identify the body for which the inquest was summoned, 
 I was allowed to view the corpse, and ushered at once 
 into the room where it lay. 
 
 I wish Mr. Hillary could have entered that room with 
 me, and have stood beside me, as I stepped shudder- 
 ingly forward, and perceived that I was looking upon 
 — his victim ! The body lay with its wet clothes un- 
 disturbed, just as it had been taken out of the water. 
 The damp hair, the eyes wide open, the hands clenched 
 as if with the agonies of death ! 
 
 Here lay the husband of Mrs. Elliott — the fond ob 
 ject of her unconquerable love ! This was he to whom 
 she had written so tenderly on quitting him ! Here lay 
 he whom she had so sweetly consoled by almost daily 
 messages through me ! This was he to whom, with a 
 pious confidence, she had predicted her speedy and 
 happy return ! This was the father of that sweet boy 
 who sat prattling at my table only that morning ! This 
 — wretch ! monster ! fiend ! — this is the body of him 
 you flung, on an infamous charge, into the dungeons of 
 Newgate ! This is the figure of him that shall here- 
 after — 
 
 I could bear it no longer, and rushed from the room 
 in an agony ! After drinking a glass of water I lecov- 
 ercd my self-possession sufficiently to make my appear* 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 119 
 
 ance in the jury room ; where 1 deposed to such facts 
 —carefully concealing, only for Mrs. Elliott and her 
 son's sake, the causes which led to the commission of 
 the fatal act — as satisfied the jury that the deceased 
 had destroyed himself while in a state of mental de- 
 rangement; and they returned their verdict accordingly. 
 
 After directing the immediate removal of the body 
 to the house where Mr. Elliott had lodged — the scene of 
 so many agonies — of such intense and undeserved 
 misery — I drove off; and, though quite unequal to the 
 task, hurried through my round of patients, anxious to 
 be at leisure in the evening for the performance of the 
 solemn — the terrible duty imposed upon me by poor 
 Elliott — the conveying his letter to Mr. Hillary, and 
 communicating, at the same time, with all the energy 
 in my power, the awful results of his cruel, his tyran- 
 nical, his unnatural conduct. How I prayed that God 
 would give me power to shake that old man's guilty 
 soul ! 
 
 Our dinner was sent away that day almost untouched. 
 My wife and I interchanged but few and melancholy 
 w r ords ; our noisy, lively, little guest was not present 
 to disturb, by his innocent sallies, the mournful silence ; 
 for unable to bear his presence, I had directed that he 
 should not be brought down that day. I had written 
 to Mrs. Elliott a brief and hasty line, saying that I 
 had just seen Mr. Elliott ! but that it would be impos- 
 sible for either of us to call upon her that day ! adding, 
 that I would certainly call upon her the day after, and 
 — Heaven pardon the equivocation ! — bring Mr. Elliott, 
 if possible, which I feared might be doubtful, as his 
 eyes were under very active treatment. 
 
 I have had to encounter in my time many, very 
 many trying and terrible scenes ; but I never ap- 
 proached any with so much apprehension and anxiety 
 as the one now cast upon me. Fortifying myself with 
 a few glasses of .wine, I put poor Elliott's letter to Mr.- 
 
 Hillary in my pocketbook, and drove off for 
 
 Square. I reached the house about eight o'clock. My 
 
120 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 servant, by my direction, thundered impetuously at the 
 door — a startling summons I intended it to be ! The 
 porter drew open the door almost before my servant 
 had removed his hand from the knocker. 
 
 " Is Mr. Hillary at home?" I inquired,. stepping hur- 
 riedly from my carriage, with the fearful letter in my 
 hand. 
 
 " He is, sir," said the man, with a flurried air — "but 
 — he — he — does not receive company, sir, since my 
 mistress's death." 
 
 " Take my card to him, sir. My name is Dr. ! 
 
 I must see Mr. Hillary instantly." 
 
 I waited in the hall for a few moments, and then re- 
 ceived a message, requesting me to walk into the back 
 drawing room. There I saw Miss Gubbley — as the 
 servant told me — alone, and dressed in deep mourning. 
 What I heard of this woman inspired me with the 
 utmost contempt and hatred for her. What a coun- 
 tenance ! Meanness, malice, cunning, and sycophancy 
 seemed struggling for the ascendant in its expression. 
 
 " Pardon me, madam — my business," said, I per- 
 emptorily, " is not with you, but with Mr. Hillary. 
 Him I must see, and immediately." 
 
 " Dr. , what is the matter ?" she inquired, with 
 
 mingled anger and anxiety in her countenance. 
 
 "I have a communication, madam, for Mr. Hillary's 
 private ear — I must see him ; I insist upon seeing him 
 immediately." 
 
 " This is strange conduct, sir, really," said Miss 
 Gubbley, in an impudent manner, but her features be- 
 coming every moment paler and paler. " Have you 
 not already — " 
 
 I unceremoniously pushed the malignant little para- 
 site aside, opened the folding doors, and stepped in- 
 stantly mto the presence of the man I at once desired 
 and dreaded to see. He sat on the sofa, in the attitude 
 and with the expression of a man who had been sud- 
 denly aroused from sleep. 
 
 " Dr. !" he exclaimed, with an astonished and 
 
ihe merchant's clerk. 121 
 
 angry air. " Your servant, doctor ! What's the mean- 
 ing of all this ?" 
 
 " I am sorry to intrude upon you, Mr. Hillary — ■ 
 especially after the unpleasant manner in which our 
 acquaintance was terminated — but— I have a dreadful 
 duty to perform" — pointing to the letter I held, and 
 turning towards him its black seal. He saw it. He 
 seemed rather startled or alarmed ; motioned me, with 
 a quick, anxious bow, to take a seat, and resumed his 
 own. " Excuse me, Mr. Hillary — but we must be 
 alone" said I, pointing to Miss Gubbley, who had fol- 
 lowed me with a suspicious and insolent air, exclaim- 
 ing, as she stepped hastily towards Mr. Hillary — 
 " Don't suffer this conduct, sir ! It's very incorrect- 
 very, sir." 
 
 " We must be alone, sir," I repeated, calmly and 
 peremptorily, "or I shall retire at once. You would 
 never cease to repent that, sir :" and Mr. Hillary, as 
 if he had suddenly discovered some strange meaning 
 in my eye, motioned the pertinacious intruder to the 
 door,' and she reluctantly obeyed. I drew my chair 
 near Mr. Hillary, who seemed, by this time, thoroughly 
 alarmed. 
 
 " Will you read this letter, sir ?" said I, handing it 
 to him. He took it into his hand ; looked first at the 
 direction, then at the seal, and lastly at me, in silence. 
 " Do you know that handwriting, sir ?" I inquired. 
 He stammered an answer in the negative. 
 " Look at it, sir, again. You ought to know it — you 
 must know it well." He laid dowiTthe letter ; fumbled 
 in his waistcoat pocket for his glasses ; placed them 
 with infinite trepidation upon his forehead, and again 
 took the letter into his hands, which shook violently ; 
 and his sight was so confused with agitation, that I saw 
 he could make nothing of it. 
 
 " It seems — it appears to be — a man's hand, sir. 
 Whose is it ? What is it about ? What's the matter ?" 
 he exclaimed, looking at me over his glasses with a 
 frightened stare. 
 
 F 11 
 
122 the merchant's CLERK. 
 
 " I have attended, sir, a coroner's inquest this morn- 
 ing — " The letter dropped instantly from Mr. Hillary's 
 shaking hand upon the floor ; his lips slowly opened. 
 
 '* The writer of that letter, sir, was found drowned 
 on Saturday last," I continued, slowly, looking stead- 
 fastly at him, and feeling myself grow paler every mo- 
 ment. " This day I saw the body stretched upon a 
 shutter, at an inn. Oh, those dreadful eyes — that hair, 
 matted and muddy — those clenched hands ! Horror 
 filled my soul, as I looked at all this, and thought of 
 
 YOU !" 
 
 His lips moved, he uttered a few unintelligible 
 sounds, and his face, suddenly bedewed with perspira- 
 tion, assumed one of the most ghastly expressions that 
 a human countenance could exhibit. I remained silent, 
 nor did he speak ; but the big drops rolled from his 
 forehead and fell upon the floor. In the pierglass op- 
 posite, to which my eye was attracted by seeing some 
 moving figure reflected in it, I beheld the figure of Miss 
 Gubbley ; who having been no doubt listening at the 
 door, could no longer subdue her terrified curiosity, and 
 stole into the room on tiptoe, and stood terror stricken 
 behind my chair. Her presence seemed to restore 
 Mr. Hillary to consciousness. 
 
 pi " Take her away — go away — go — go," he mur- 
 mured, and I led her, unresisting, from the room, and, 
 to be secure from her further intrusion, bolted both the 
 doors. 
 
 " You had better read the letter, sir," said I, with a 
 deep sigh, resuming my seat ; his eyes remained riveted 
 on me. 
 
 " I — I — I — cannot, sir !" he stammered. A long 
 pause ensued. " If— she — had but called" — he gasped, 
 " but once — or sent — after her — her mother's death — " 
 and with a long groan he leaned forward, and fell 
 against me. 
 
 " She did call, sir. She came the day after her 
 mother's death," said I, shaking my head sorrowfully. 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 123 
 
 " No, she didn't," he replied, suddenly looking at me 
 with a stupified air. 
 
 " Then her visit was cruelly concealed from you, 
 sir. Poor creature ! — I know she called." 
 
 He rose slowly from the prostrate posture in which 
 he had remained for the last few moments, clenched 
 his trembling fists, and shook them with impotent anger. 
 " Who — who" he muttered — " who dared — I — I — I'll 
 ring the bell. I'll have all the — " 
 
 " Would you have really received her, then, sir, if 
 you had known of her calling ?" 
 
 His lips moved, he attempted in vain to utter an 
 answer, and sobbed violently, covering his face with 
 his hands. < 
 
 " Come, Mr. Hillary, I see," said I, in a somewhat 
 milder manner, " that the feelings of a father are not 
 utterly extinguished" — he burst into vehement weep- 
 ing ; "and I hope that — that you may live to repent 
 the frightful wrongs you have done ; to redress the 
 wrongs you have committed ! Your poor persecuted 
 daughter, Mr. Hillary, is not dead." He uttered a 
 sudden sharp cry that alarmed me ; grasped my hands, 
 and carrying them to his lips, kissed them in a kind of 
 ecstasy. 
 
 " Tell me, say plainly, only say — that Mary is 
 alive !" 
 
 " Well, then, sir, your daughter is alive, but — " . 
 
 He fell upon his knees, and groaned, " Oh God, I 
 thank thee ! I thank thee ! How I thank thee !" 
 
 I waited till he had in some measure recovered from 
 the ecstasy of emotion into which my words had thrown 
 him, and assisted in loosening his shirt collar and 
 neck handkerchief, which seemed to oppress him. 
 
 " Who, then," he stammered — " who was found 
 drowned — the coroner's inquest — " 
 
 " Her poor broken-hearted husband, sir, who will be 
 buried at my expense in a day or two." 
 
 He covered his face again with his hands, and cried 
 bitterly. 
 
 f2 
 
124 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 " This letter was written by him to you, sir ; and he 
 sent it to me only a few hours, it seems, before he de- 
 stroyed himself, and commissioned me to deliver it to 
 you. Is not his blood, sir, lying at your door ?" 
 
 " Oh Lord, have mercy on me ! Lord, Christ, for- 
 give me ! Lord, forgive a guilty old sinner," he groaned, 
 sinking again on his knees, and wringing his hands. 
 "I — I am his murderer ! I feel — I know it !" 
 
 " Shall I read to you, sir, his last words ?" said I. 
 
 " Yes, but they'll choke me. I can't bear them." 
 He sank back exhausted upon the sofa. I took up the 
 letter which had remained till then upon the floor, since 
 he had dropped it from his palsied grasp, and opening 
 it, read with faltering accents the following : — 
 
 "For your poor dear daughter's sake, sir, who is 
 now a widow and a beggar, abandon your fierce and 
 cruel resentment. I know that I am the guilty cause 
 of all her misery. I have suffered and paid the full 
 penalty of my sin ! And I am, when you read this, 
 among the dead. 
 
 "Forgive me, father of my beloved and suffering 
 wife ! — forgive me, as I forgive you, in this solemn 
 moment, from my heart, whatever wrongs you may 
 have done me ! 
 
 " Let my death knock loudly at your heart's door, 
 so that it may open and take in my suffering, perish- 
 ing Mary — your Mary, and our unoffending little one ! 
 I know it will ! Heaven tells me that my sacrifice is 
 accepted ! I die full of grief, but contented in the be- 
 lief that all will be well with the dear ones I leave be- 
 hind me. God incline your heart to mercy ! Fare- 
 well ! So prays your unhappy, guilty, dying son-in- 
 law. 
 
 "Henry Elliott.'' 
 
 It was a long while before my emotion, almost 
 blinding my eyes and choking my utterance, permit- 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 125 
 
 ted me to conclude this melancholy letter. Mr. Hil- 
 lary sat all the while aghast. 
 
 " The gallows is too good for me !" he gasped. 
 * Oh, what a monster ! what a wretch have 1 been ! 
 Ay, I'll surrender ! I know I'm guilty ! It's all my 
 doing ! I confess all ! It was I — it was I put him in 
 prison." I looked darkly at him as he uttered these 
 last words, and shook my head in silence. 
 
 u Ah ! I see, I see you know it all ! Come, then ! 
 Take me away ! Away with me to Newgate. Any- 
 where you like. I'll plead guilty!" He attempted to 
 rise, but sank back again into his seat. 
 
 " But — where s Mary ?" he gasped. 
 
 "Alas," I replied, "she does not yet know that she 
 is a widow ! that her child is an orphan ! She has 
 herself, poor meek soul, been lying for many days at 
 the gates of death, and even yet, her fate is more than 
 doubtful !" 
 
 *' Where is she ? Let me know ! tell me, or I shall 
 die. Let me know where I may go and drop down at 
 her feet, and ask her forgiveness !" 
 
 " She is in a common hospital — a lying-in hospital, 
 sir — where she, a few days ago only, gave birth to a 
 dead child, after enduring, for the whole time of her 
 pregnancy, the greatest want and misery ! She has 
 worked her poor fingers to the bones, Mr. Hillary. 
 She has slaved like a common servant for her child, 
 her husband, and herself, and yet she has hardly foimd 
 bread for them!" 
 
 " Oh K stay, stay, doctor. A common hospital ! my 
 daughter — a common hospital !" repeated Mr. Hillary, 
 pressing his hand to his forehead, and staring vacantly 
 at me. 
 
 " Yes, sir, a common hospital ! Where else could 
 she go to 1 God be thanked, sir, for finding such re- 
 sources, such places of refuge for the poor and for- 
 saken ! She fled thither to escape starvation, and to 
 avoid eating the bread scarce sufficient for her hus- 
 band and her child ! I have seen her endoring such 
 
 11* 
 
126 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 misery as would have softened the heart of a fiend; 
 And, good God ! how am I to tell her what has hap- 
 pened? How I shudder at the task that her dead hus- 
 band has imposed upon me ! What am I to say to 
 her? Tell me, Mr. Hillary, for I am confounded, I 
 am in despair ! How shall I break to her this fright- 
 ful event?" Mr. Hillary groaned. " Pray, tell me, 
 sir," I continued, with real sternness, " what am I to 
 do ? How am I to face your wretched daughter in the 
 morning ! - She has been unable even to see her hus- 
 band for a moment since her illness. How will she 
 bear being told that she is never to see him again ? I 
 shall be almost guilty of her murder 1" I paused, 
 greatly agitated. 
 
 " Tell her — tell her — conceal the death," he gasped ; 
 *' and tell her first, that all's forgiven, if she'll accept 
 my forgiveness, and forgive me! Tell her, be sure 
 to tell her that my whole fortune is hers and her 
 child's. Surely that — I will make my will afresh. 
 Every halfppnny shall go to her and her child. It 
 shall, so help me, God!" 
 
 " Poor creature !" I exclaimed, bitterly, " can money 
 heal thy broken heart ?" I paused. " You may re- 
 lent, Mr. Hillary, and receive your unhappy daughter 
 into your house again, but, believe me, her heart will 
 lie in her husband's grave !" • 
 
 " Doctor, doctor ! — you are killing me !" he ex- 
 claimed, every feature writhing under the scourgings 
 of remorse. " Tell me! only tell me what can I do 
 more ? This house — all I have, is hers, for the rest of 
 her life. She may turn me into the streets. I'll live 
 on bread and water, they shall roll in gold. But, oh, 
 where is she ? where is she ? I'll send the carriage 
 instantly." He rose, as if intending to ring the bell. 
 I " No, no, Mr. Hillary ; she must not be disturbed ! 
 She must remain at her present abode, under the roof 
 of charity, where she lies, sweet being ! humble and 
 grateful among her sisters in suffering !" 
 
 "I — I'll give a thousand pounds to the charity — I 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 127 
 
 will. I'll give a couple of thousands, so help me God, 
 I will. And I'll give it in the name of a repentant old 
 sinner. Oh — I'll do everything that a guilty wretch 
 can do. But I must see my daughter! — I must hear 
 her blessed innocent lips say that she forgives me." 
 
 " Pause, sir," said 1, solemnly , u you know not that 
 she will live to leave the hospital, or receive your pen- 
 itent acknowledgments — that she will not die while I 
 am telling her the horrid — " 
 
 •• What ! has she yet to hear of it?" he exclaimed, 
 looking aghast. 
 
 "I told you so, sir, some time ago." 
 
 " Oh, yes — you did, you did but I forgot. Lord, 
 Lord, I feel going mad 1" He rose feebly from the 
 sofa, and staggered for a moment to and fro, but his 
 knees refused their support, and he sank down again 
 upon his seat, where he sat staring at me with a dull 
 glassy eye, while I proceeded : 
 
 u Another melancholy duty remains to be performed 
 I think, sir, you should see his remains." 
 
 " I see the body !" Fright flitted over his face. " Do 
 you wish me to drop down dead beside it, sir ? I see 
 the body ! It would burst out a-bleeding directly I 
 got into the room, for I murdered him ! Oh God, for- 
 give me ! Oh spare me such a sight !" 
 
 " Well, sir, since your alarm is so great, that sad sight 
 may be spared ; but there is one thing you must do — " 
 I paused ; he looked at me apprehensively — " testify 
 your repentance, sir, by following his poor remains to 
 the grave." 
 
 "I — I could not! It's no use frightening me thus, 
 doctor. I — I tell you I should die, I should never re- 
 turn home alive. But, if you'll allow it, my carriage 
 shall follow. I'll give orders this very night for a 
 proper, a splendid funeral, such as is fit for — my — my — 
 son-in-law! He shall be buried in my vault. No, no, 
 that cannot be, for then" — he shuddered — " I must lie 
 beside him ! But, I cannot go to the funeral ! Lord, 
 Lord, how the crowd would stare at me ! — how they 
 
128 the merchant's clerk. 
 
 would hoot me ! They would tear me out of the coach. 
 No" — he trembled — " spare me that also, kind sir — 
 spare me attending the funeral ! I'll remain at home 
 in my own room in the dark all that day upon my knees, 
 but I cannot, nay, I will not follow him to the grave. 
 The tolling of that bell" — his voice died away — 
 " would kill me." 
 
 " There is yet another thing, sir. His little boy" — 
 my voice faltered — u is living at my house ; perhaps 
 you would refuse to see him, for he is very like his 
 wretched father." 
 
 " Oh bring him ! bring him to me !" he murmured. 
 11 How I will worship him ! what I will do for him ! 
 But how his murdered father will always look out of 
 his eyes at me ! Oh my God ! whither shall I go ; 
 what must I do to escape 1 Oh that I had died and 
 been buried with my poor wife, the other day, before 
 I had heard of all this !" 
 
 " You would have known, you would have heard of 
 it hereafter, sir." 
 
 " Ah ! that's it ! I know it, I know what you mean, 
 and I feel it's true. Yes, I shall be damned for what 
 I've done. Such a wretch, how can I expect forgive- 
 ness ? Oh, will you read a prayer with me ? No, I'll 
 pray myself — no." 
 
 " Pray, sir, and may your prayers be heard ! And 
 also pray that I may be able to tell safely my awful 
 message to your daughter, that the blow may not smite 
 her into the grave ! And lastly, sir," I added, rising 
 and addressing him with all the emphasis and solem- 
 nity I could, " I charge you, in the name of God, to 
 make no attempt to see your daughter, or send to her, 
 till you see or hear from me again." 
 
 He promised to obey my injunctions, imploring me 
 to call upon her the next day, and seizing my hand be- 
 tween his own with a convulsive grasp, from which I 
 could not extricate it but with some little force. As I 
 had never once offered a syllable of sympathy through- 
 out our interview, so I quitted his presence coldly and 
 
THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 129 
 
 sternly, while he threw himself down at full length up- 
 on the sofa, and I heard without any emotion his half 
 choked exclamation, " Lord, Lord, what is to become 
 of me !" 
 
 On reaching the back drawing room, I encountered 
 Miss Gubbley walking to and fro, excessively pale 
 and agitated. I had uncoiled that little viper — I 
 had plucked it from the heart into which it had crept, 
 and so far I felt that I had not failed in that night's er- 
 rand ! I foresaw her speedy dismissal ; and it took 
 place within a week from the day on which I had vis- 
 ited Mr. Hillary. 
 
 The next day, about noon, I called at the lodging 
 where Elliott's remains were lying, in order that I 
 might make a few simple arrangements for a speedy 
 funeral. 
 
 " Oh, here's Dr. !" exclaimed the woman of 
 
 the house, to a gentleman dressed in black, who, with 
 two others in similar habiliments, was just quitting. 
 i; These 'ere gentlemen, sir, are come about the funeral, 
 sir, of poor dear Mr. Elliott." I begged them to return 
 into the house. " I presume, sir," said I, " you have 
 been sent here by Mr. Hillary's orders?" 
 
 " A — Mr. Hillary did me the honour, sir, to request 
 me to call, sir," replied the polite man of death, with a 
 low bow, " and am favoured with the expression of his 
 wishes, sir, to spare no expense in showing his re- 
 spect for the deceased. So my men have just meas- 
 ured the body, sir ; the shell will be here to-night, 
 sir, the leaden coffin the day after, and the outer cof- 
 fin—" 
 
 "Stop, sir; Mr. Hillary is premature. He has 
 quite mistaken my wishes, sir. I act as the executor 
 of Mr. Elliott, and Mr. Hillary has no concern what- 
 ever with the burial of these remains." 
 
 He bowed, with an air of mingled astonishment and 
 mortification. 
 
 M It is my wish and intention, sir," said I, "that this 
 
 f3 
 
130 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 
 
 unfortunate gentleman be buried in the simplest and 
 most private manner possible." 
 
 " Oh, sir ! but Mr. Hillary's orders to me were — par- 
 don me, sir — so very liberal, to do the thing in a gen- 
 tlemanlike way — " 
 
 " I tell you again, sir, that Mr. Hillary has nothing 
 whatever to do with the matter, nor shall I admit of his 
 interference. If you choose to obey my orders, you , 
 will procure a plain deal coffin, a hearse and pair, and 
 
 one mourning coach, and provide a grave in • 
 
 churchyard — nay, open Mr. Hillary's vault and bury 
 there, if he will permit." 
 
 " I- re ally think, sir, you'd better employ a person in 
 the small way," said he, casting a grim look at his two 
 attendants ; " I am not accustomed — " 
 
 " You may retire then, sir, at once," said I ; and with 
 a lofty bow the great undertaker withdrew. No ! — 
 despised, persecuted, and forsaken had poor Elliott 
 been in his life ; there should be, I resolved, no splen- 
 did mockery — no fashionable foolery about his burial ! 
 I chose for him, not the vault of Mr. Hillary, but a 
 
 grave in the humble churchyard of , where the 
 
 poor suicide might slumber in " penitential loneliness!" 
 
 He was buried as I wished — no one attending the 
 funeral but myself, the proprietor of the house in which 
 he had lived at the period of his death, and the early 
 and humble acquaintance who had attended his wed- 
 ding. I had wished to carry with us as chief mourner, 
 little Elliott, by way of fulfilling, as far as possible, the 
 touching injunctions left by his father, but my wife dis- 
 suaded me from it. •' Well, poor Elliott," said I, as I 
 took my last look into his grave — 
 
 1 After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.' / 
 
 Heaven forgive the rash act which brought his days to 
 an untimely close, and him whose cruelty and wicked- 
 ness occasioned it !" i 
 I shall not bring the reader again into the guilty and 
 
the merchant's clerk. 131 
 
 gloomy presence of Mr. Hillary. His hard heart was 
 indeed broken by the blow that poor Elliott had struck, 
 whose mournful prophesy was in this respect fulfilled. 
 Providence decreed that the declining days of the in- 
 exorable and unnatural parent should be clouded with 
 a wretchedness that admitted of neither intermission 
 nor alleviation, equally destitute as he was of consola- 
 tion from the past, and hope from the future ! 
 
 And his daughter ! — oh, disturb not the veil that has 
 fallen over the broken hearted ! 
 
 Never again did the high and noble spirit of Mary 
 Elliott lift itself up — for her heart lay buried in her 
 young husband's grave — the grave dug for him by the 
 eager and cruel hands of her father ! In vain did those 
 hands lavishly scatter about her all the splendour and 
 luxuries of unbounded wealth — they could never divert 
 her cold undazzled eye from the mournful image of him 
 whose death had purchased them ; and what could she 
 see in her too late repentant father, but his murderer ? 
 
 END OF THE MERCHANT S CLERK, 
 
THE WAGONER. 
 
 King John. Hubert, throw thine eye 
 
 On yon young boy. Dost understand me ? 
 He is a very serpent in my way. 
 Thou art his keeper. 
 
 Hub. And I will keep him so, 
 
 That he shall not offend your majesty. 
 
 King John. Death. 
 
 Hub. My lord? 
 
 King John. A grave. 
 
 Hub. He shall not live. 
 
 Kmg John. Enough. 
 
 I could be merry now. 
 
 King Johx, Act III., Scene 3. 
 
 The singular — the apparently improbable circum- 
 stances which form the basis of the ensuing narrative, 
 occurred about fifty years ago. I am not aware of their 
 having been till now brought before the public eye in 
 any other shape than a brief and naked contemporaneous 
 report. I am a curious man, and somewhat successful 
 in hunting after such matters ; but the following are 
 the fruits of a discovery made a few years ago by mere 
 accident. One or two cases are on record, in the 
 criminal annals of this and other countries, in which 
 similar motives induced nearly similar conduct — but 
 infinitely less systematic, mysterious, and atrocious, 
 than what I am at present about to develop. 
 
 Shrewsbury clock was tolling twelve, on a fine 
 frosty moonlight night, ushering in the Christmas of 
 1760, as a wagoner, with a snow-white smock-frock 
 on, and a half-emptied jug of ale in his hand, sallied 
 out of the Hunting Horn inn — one of the chiefest in 
 
 12 
 
134 THE WAGONER. 
 
 Shrewsbury. His wagon was standing before the 
 door, the covering incrusted with hoar frost, and a no- 
 ble team of horses attached to the well-laden vehicle 
 were refreshing themselves with hay and water, qui- 
 etly submitting, the while, to the sibilatory civilities 
 of the hostler. The wagoner watched them with com- 
 placency, as he drained his jug ; and then lifting up 
 his smock, he extracted a few halfpence from his 
 pocket, and gave them to the hostler. \ 
 
 " And do you go into the tap, hostler," said he, 
 " and see whether these two partners o' mine are a 
 stirring themselves. Hang me, an I don't think they 
 would sit there till this time to-morrow !" He was 
 interrupted by a shout of boisterous laughter from 
 the taproom. " I say — within there ! Bill ! Thomas !" 
 cried the wagoner, returning to the room he had just 
 quitted, " what be ye doing in there sotting 1 Come, 
 come ! ye know as well as I 'tis starting time ! Do 
 you hear ? it has just struck twelve by the church 
 clock." " Then 'tis to-morrow," quoth one of the 
 wags he was addressing. 
 
 " Come, come, now!" continued the wagoner ; "we've 
 a weary week's drive before us — and you know it as 
 well as I ! Are ye moving, eh ?" " Aha, Dick ! — 
 isn't this Christmas morning 1 Come ! don't ye be 
 sulking on the beginning of this blessed day ; but sit 
 : ye down a little longer, and drink a merry Christmas 
 to one another !" " No, I won't," replied the wagoner, 
 resolutely. 
 
 M Well, then — an ye must start, do ye drive the 
 wagon slowly — and we'll both be after you before you 
 reach the Baker's Pond. There's some ale a spicing 
 for us, Dick," replied Thomas, smacking his lips en- 
 ticingly. "No, no, I know my duty — and I'm off," 
 grumbled the wagoner, quitting the room. He went 
 out, cast his careful eye over the trim of his horses, 
 and had just reached down his whip from the wagon 
 head, when one of his companions touched him upon 
 the elbow, and proffered him a cup of warm spice- 
 
THE WAGONER. 135 
 
 scented ale. " Come, Dick — come, drink it off," said 
 Bill, coaxingly — a good-natured lad of one or two and 
 twenty, that could say fair things as well „as many of 
 his betters ; " come, you won't refuse to drink us a 
 merry Christmas ? This ale is special, man ! Won't 
 ye drive on slowly for half an hour, or so — and we'll 
 be with you, as sure as death, by when you reach the 
 Baker's Pond ? Come, come, Dick — we'll do, maybe, 
 more for you at a pinch V* The good-natured wagoner 
 was not proof against fair words and spiced ale. He 
 yielded, took the cup, drained it La a twinkling, shook 
 Bill heartily by the hand, wished him a merry Christ- 
 mas, and added, " Now don't ye be long a following ; 
 for drive slow as I will, you'll have two or three miles 
 to run for it, 1 know !" 
 
 " We'll look to that, Dick — good-by," replied Bill, 
 hurrying inward, while Dick betook himself to his 
 horses' heads, cracked and smacked his whip ; his 
 horses pricked up their ears, and away they went. 
 The ponderous wagon rumbled heavily over the stones 
 of silent Shrewsbury, accompanied by the clattering 
 of sixteen pair of horses' hoofs, and the occasional 
 *' Gee — o — a — whoop ! Come up ! On, Smiler !" of 
 the driver, who was soon out of sight of the jovial 
 Hunting Horn, and fairly started on the broad London 
 road. He walked slowly by the horses' heads for 
 some time, whistling and humming to himself, and ev- 
 ery three or four minutes turning back his head to- 
 wards Shrewsbury, to see whether his companions 
 w r ere yet on the road. He had proceeded, however, 
 at his very slowest pace, for more than an hour, with- 
 out their appearing. 
 
 *' Now, this is unkind," quoth the wagoner to him- 
 self, as he trudged along ; " but did I not say it would 
 be so ? Here are Bill and Tom sitting snugly by the 
 fire — drinking till they be drunken ! What shall I do ! 
 I must go on ! Lord, Lord, how bitter cold it is !" 
 He laid his whip across the shafts of the wagon, and 
 stood still, slapping his hands against his sides for 
 
136 THE WAGONER. 
 
 warmth. By the time he had done, his wagon had 
 proceeded thirty or forty paces ahead of him. Just 
 as he was overtaking it, he passed a milestone ; and, 
 with alarm and surprise, caught a glimpse of the figure 
 of a brawny sailor-looking man, sitting beside it, with 
 a little basket by his side. 
 
 " Good-morning ! A merry Christmas to ) r ou, Master 
 Wagoner ! How are you, eh ?" inquired the stranger. 
 " Pretty well, but desperate late — desperate !" replied 
 the flurried wagoner, passing by the speaker. 
 
 " Stop, just stop a minute," said he : " have you got 
 anybody in your wagon ? Can you make room for 
 me, eh ?" " Lord, sir, no, I'se got three men sleeping 
 there already," replied the poor fellow, his heart beat- 
 ing fast — thinking he had hit upon a good device for 
 terrifying one whom he took to be a highwayman. 
 "They're all soldiers — all three of them; and I'm 
 giving them a lift for ten miles or so. They've all got 
 their muskets." 
 
 "Eh! What? soldiers, did you say?" inquired 
 the man, evidently disconcerted. " May I die if I 
 haven't !" replied the wagoner, stoutly. 
 
 " What the brings soldiers into these parts, 
 
 eh ?" " Lord, sir, I don't know. You had better ask 
 them, for they're calling to me. Good-morrow — 
 good-morrow, sir," said the wagoner, and running up 
 to his wagon, he affected to be walking in conversa- 
 tion with some one inside of it. He was very much 
 alarmed at the slight accident just recounted, and was 
 growing more and more uneasy at the prolonged ab- 
 sence of his companions. His head was filled with 
 fears of murder and robbery. Could he doubt that the 
 person he had been speaking to was a highwayman ? 
 Often did he look over his shoulder, to see whether 
 the man who had addressed him was following ; but he 
 saw nothing moving on the long line of high road he 
 had passed, and his fears began to abate. 
 
 It was now not far from two o'clock, and the morn- 
 ing continued bright and frosty. Like the eye of 
 
THE WAGONER. 137 
 
 beauty, the moon shone forth radiantly and cheeringly 
 from the unclouded blue. No sound interrupted the 
 solemn silence, except the drowsy tinkling of a few 
 bells about the horses' heads, the clattering of their 
 hoofs, and the monotonous rumbling of the wagon 
 wheels. For an hour and a half the wagoner had met 
 nothing moving on the road, except the mail, which 
 had thundered past him about twenty minutes before. 
 He seemed to have forgotten the occurrence which 
 had so alarmed him. Even the prolonged absence of 
 his two companions seemed to have ceased disturbing 
 him ; for he had made up his mind to continue at his 
 next putting-up place till they arrived. Recollecting 
 suddenly that it was Christmas, he clambered up a 
 holly hedge on the left-hand side of the road, to pluck 
 a conspicuous piece of glistening mistletoe. While in 
 the act of cropping it, he thought he saw, in a cross- 
 road at some little distance, the figure of some one 
 running very fast. But what was there alarming in 
 that ? he thought, as he leaped down, and overtook his 
 wagon. He stuck his mistletoe in the brim of his great 
 white hat, resumed his whip, and went on, cheerily 
 singing the verses of a Christmas carrol — 
 
 The holly's berry is not so red 
 
 As the blessed blood that Jesus shed ■ 
 
 Nor pretty mistletoe, 
 
 Though it be white as snow 
 
 So white as — 
 
 The words w r ere still on his lips, when, arrived at 
 an abrupt turn of the road, he was suddenly seized by 
 several men in sailor's dresses, and thrown down on 
 the ground. In spite of all his stragglings his arms 
 were fastened to his sides, his legs tied together, his 
 eyes were bandaged, and a gag was forced into his 
 mouth. He was pressed down by the knees of his 
 ruffianly assailants, flat into the road ; and a voice ad- 
 dressed him in hurried, but distinct tones, " 'Tis no 
 use to struggle. If you are not immediately quiet your 
 brains will be dashed out directly. Only be easy, and 
 
 12* 
 
133 THE WAGONER. 
 
 you will not have a hair of your head hurt ; but if you 
 attempt to make a noise, there is a pistol, always load- 
 ed and cocked, within a few inches of your head — 
 see !" and the bandage was slipped from his eyes for 
 a moment, that they might look at a large horse pistol 
 in close contiguity with his forehead. Short and fear- 
 ful as was the glance which the wagoner gave at 
 the formidable weapon, he did not fail to observe 
 that the hand holding the pistol was the fair white 
 hand of a gentleman, and that there was a spark- 
 ling ring on his finger. After what he had seen and 
 heard, the wagoner perceived the folly of attempting 
 to disturb or resist his captors. Perfectly passive, he 
 was elevated on the back of one of the men, who car- 
 ried him about twenty yards backward and forward, 
 and then roundabout, evidently to mislead him as to 
 the direction in which they were about to take him. 
 He was then placed in a vehicle — whether a post 
 chaise or a carriage he could not tell : some one en- 
 tered with him ; the door was shut, and a voice called 
 out to the driver, " Ready — drive on !" and away 
 they went rapidly. The agony occasioned by the gag 
 in his mouth, the aching of the teeth, and straining of 
 the jaws, became soon intolerable; and careless of 
 consequences, he groaned and gasped piteously, and 
 strove to articulate. The choking sounds he uttered 
 seemed to alarm one of the persons sitting beside him ; 
 for the gag was presently removed, and he was asked, 
 in a kind tone, whether the gag hurt him. The poor 
 fellow's jaws fell together the instant the gag was re- 
 moved, and for some time he could not separate them 
 so as to utter a syllable. He seemed pitied by the 
 persons beside him ; for he was told that if he would 
 but be silent, the gag should not be applied again ; but 
 that the moment he attempted to make any disturbance 
 it would be replaced, even if it tortured him to death. 
 He was told further, that wherever he might be taken, 
 it would be useless to call for assistance ; for he would 
 be taken to a place where no living being would be 
 
THE WAGONER. 139 
 
 near him but those who had him in their custody. All 
 this was said in a mild expostulating tone and manner, 
 though with evident attempts to disguise the voice. 
 Putting all things together, hasty as was his attempt 
 to reason on his situation, the wagoner's terror began 
 to give place to sheer amazement. He could not con- 
 jecture what could be the motive of those who had 
 seized him. He could scarcely think plunder their 
 object, till he suddenly adverted to his wagon, fully 
 laden — ah ! the thing was fearfully probable ! How 
 did he know but it contained, unknown to himself, yet 
 known to those who had seized him, articles of very 
 great value — money or plate 1 Horrid thought ! was 
 he being conveyed by highwaymen to their secret 
 place of rendezvous, there to be despatched, that he 
 might tell no tales ? He was trembling with the ter- 
 ror occasioned by these surmises when the vehicle 
 stopped ; the cords which bound his legs were untied ; 
 and he was told to step out. With the shivering re- 
 luctance of a sheep being urged into the bloody slaugh- 
 ter house, the wagoner obeyed, screaming, " Mercy ! 
 mercy ! mercy, gentlemen !" and he dropped upon his 
 knees. He was suddenly plucked up, however. " Si- 
 lence, sir !" whispered the voice of one who firmly 
 grasped his right arm — "remember!" and the wag- 
 oner felt the muzzle of a pistol touching his ear. His 
 limbs could scarcely support him ; so he was rather 
 dragged and pushed than anything else, along a paved 
 place. He heard the sound of a wooden gate being 
 unbarred ; and presently the scent of cattle and stables 
 that met his nostrils, led him to conclude that he was 
 in a farmyard. He was stopped a moment by his 
 conductors, and one of them whispered, in low earnest 
 tones, "Now, step very lightly, hold your tongue, 
 and make haste ; or I, who shall follow close behind, 
 with a loaded pistol almost touching the back of your 
 head, will, without hesitation, fire at you. All this 
 mystery and fright will be over in half an hour. Now, 
 
 sir 
 
 |M 
 
140 THE WAGONER. 
 
 " Oh, I will obey, sirs ! I will !" quivered the cap- 
 tive, and went whither he was urged. He ascended 
 some narrow steps, creaking and shaking under him. 
 Then he was led through a passage and a door into a 
 room, warm, with a fire heard crackling in the grate. 
 Then he was conducted out again into another pas- 
 sage by a different door, and down a long flight of 
 stone steps : these brought him to another passage, at 
 the end of which another door was unlocked, unbarred, 
 opened — and he felt himself once more in the open 
 air. He had scarcely walked a few steps, however, 
 before he was conducted through another door, which, 
 unlike any of those through which he had previously 
 passed, was carefully closed and locked after them. 
 He was then turned round till he was quite giddy ; in 
 which state he was snatched up in some one's power- 
 ful arms, carried a few steps, and set down in a very 
 close warm room. He heard another door closed on 
 them, and several voices speaking in low whispers. A 
 chair was placed behind him, and he was told to sit 
 down in it. " You are now in the presence," said a 
 voice, in a low determined tone, " of those who can 
 murder you, and bury you, so that none shall ever find 
 you or hear of you again. We can despatch you this 
 instant : our hands are filled with weapons, and our 
 hearts have no fear. We shall do no harm to you, 
 however, unless you are foolish and obstinate enough 
 to refuse what we shall require of you, which will be 
 easy and reasonable. Quick, decide !" continued the 
 voice, with sudden and startling sternness ; M will you 
 seize a chance for life ?" For some seconds the 
 wagoner was too overpowered with agitation to speak : 
 he moved his hands, as far as he was able — his arms 
 being tied — imploringly. 
 
 " Tell un, masters, tell un what I am to do !" he 
 groaned. There was a pause, and then a hurried 
 whispering. "First, swear by the great God that 
 made and can destroy you, that if you should leave this 
 place alive, you will never in any way make known 
 
THE WAGONER. 141 
 
 what has been, and shall yet be, done to you, or at- 
 tempt to find us out, or try to come again to the place 
 to which you may hereafter fancy yourself to have 
 been taken. Swear, I say !" The wagoner paused. 
 
 " Come, you hold life cheap," whispered a voice ; 
 and he heard the sound of a pistol cocking. " I 
 swear — I swear — I swear !" he faltered. 
 
 " On your knees, kissing the Bible !" The wag- 
 oner dropped on his knees, and kissed a book which 
 was held to his lips. 
 
 u Again," resumed the terrible speaker, " say you 
 wish your soul may perish for ever if you break your 
 oath!" " I do !" gasped the wagoner. "And now, 
 dear gentlemen, what am I to do ? What do you 
 want ? I will do all I can !" There was a pause. The 
 wagoner sobbed, and the tears were perceived trick- 
 ling down from under the bandage which was over his 
 eyes. 
 
 " What ails you ?" inquired some one, sternly. " I 
 am thinking of my poor old mother — and that my em- 
 ployers will call me a thief and a villain !" he replied, 
 crying bitterly. 
 
 " You may soon be free, perhaps, if you will do your 
 duty." " And what is that ?" he inquired, faintly. He 
 received no answer. 
 
 " Remove the bandage from his eyes," said an au- 
 thoritative voice ; and the bandage was instantly taken 
 off. He found himself in a small room, lighted by one 
 candle, and the walls covered with what appeared sheets 
 and blankets hung on them, as if to prevent the cham- 
 ber's being recognised. The first fearful object, how- 
 ever, that met his eyes, was a pistol held close be- 
 fore him, and by the very same white hand, with the 
 ring on, that he had noticed when he was first seized. 
 The person who thus menaced him was sitting close in 
 front of him on a table, wore a white coat, buttoned up 
 to the chin, and a white nightcap was drawn over his 
 face down to his mouth, (as when a man is hanged,) 
 evidently to conceal his features. There were three 
 
142 THE WAGONER. 
 
 others in the room, all effectually, and indeed similarly 
 disguised. 
 
 " What is your name ?" inquired the person who 
 held the pistol in his hand. 
 
 " Forster," replied the wagoner, promptly. 
 
 " Forster V 1 echoed several voices, in tones of con- 
 sternation. 
 
 " Is it really so ?" inquired the person opposite to 
 him, agitatedly — and lowering the pistol he held, till it 
 touched the wagoner's bosom — "is it so, in the presence 
 of God, on your oath ?" 
 
 " It is !",replied the wagoner, firmly, " the only name 
 I was ever called by — Richard Forster." 
 
 " I will send you perjured into hell, if you speak 
 false : is it Forster V 
 
 11 Yes ! yes ! yes !", repeated the wagoner, solemnly, 
 looking upward. The pistol was removed; the per- 
 son who held it suddenly struck down the candle from 
 the table, and the room was left in darkness. 
 
 " Pho !" exclaimed the voice that had all along been 
 speaking, in a low fierce tone ; " we are wrong, after 
 all !" There was a pause, and a hurried consultation 
 in whispers for a second or two. " What shall we do 
 with him ? " the affrighted wagoner heard asked, but 
 could not catch the reply. 
 
 " My poor fellow," said the voice now familiar to 
 him, " we have unfortunately mistaken our man. We 
 have frightened you nearly out of your senses, and all 
 in mistake ! You are not the man we want ; you can- 
 not do what we wish. Here is a trifle by way of 
 making you some amends ;" and several pieces, ap- 
 parently guineas, were put into his hand. " And if 
 you will tell us the name of the place where you live, 
 you shall have twenty pounds before the new year. 
 We shall not hurt a hair of your head, but shall put 
 the bandage round your eyes once more, and lead you 
 safely where we found you. Don't be afraid ; only 
 remember — remember your oath !" 
 
THE WAGONER. 143 
 
 " What |T inquired the wagoner, " are you going to 
 release me ?" 
 
 " Yes, directly." 
 
 The wagoner fell at full length on the floor, in a 
 swoon. "When he recovered possession of his senses 
 he found himself seated in a vehicle, driving on rapidly, 
 situated exactly as he was before. The first words he 
 heard were, M You dropped four guineas out of your 
 hand in the chapel : we have put them in your pocket, 
 where you will find them when we leave you." 
 
 This was spoken in a very kindly manner ; and 
 much more was said by the same speaker, expressive 
 of sorrow for having so needlessly frightened him, and 
 assuring him that he had been mistaken for some one 
 else. He was told again, that he would receive twen- 
 ty pounds before Newyear's day ; but that, if ever he 
 opened his lips to any one breathing, about what had 
 happened to him, or give information about it to mag- 
 istrates, or did anything to lead to inquiry, he would, 
 as surely as he was now about to be released, be shot 
 w r ithin twelve hours of his doing so, wherever he might 
 be, in whatever part of England, how many soever 
 guards and constables he might get about him. " "We 
 have got a man," continued the voice, " who will, un- 
 known to you, watch you for months after this, to see 
 if you break your oath. You will never find him out, 
 and yet he will be always near you to do our wish. 
 He is a kind of devil, and is charged to kill you, if you 
 do contrary to what you have sworn. Remember all 
 this, Richard Forster ; and be but honest and true, and 
 it shall be well with you for the rest of your life." 
 After near an hour's driving, the vehicle stopped. The 
 wagoner was again addressed : — 
 
 u You are now within about fifty yards of the place 
 from which we took you. We shall set you in the 
 hedjjeside, with this bandage still on vour eves, but 
 shall remove the cords from your arms, and so leave 
 you. You must neither stir, nor remove the bandage 
 from your eyes, for an hour, as nearlv as you can 
 
144 THE WAGONER. 
 
 guess. If you do you will be shot ; for we shall leave 
 a man to stand sentinel over you for half an hour." 
 The bewildered wagoner was then led out of the ve- 
 hicle, his arms were unbound, and he was placed by 
 the hedgeside, as he had been told. 
 
 " Now, remember !" said the voice, and the hands 
 of the speaker shook those of the wagoner ; " break 
 your oath, and the grave will yawn for you the next 
 moment. Farewell !" The wagoner heard the sound 
 of retreating footsteps, then the door of a vehicle clo- 
 sing, and it drove fast away, but in an opposite direc- 
 tion from what he had expected. 
 
 The wagoner sat still as a mouse, scarce daring 
 even to breathe, much less shift his posture, lest it 
 should be construed into an intention of rising before 
 his time. It might be all a farce about the man left to 
 watch him ; but what if it were not 1 Overcome with 
 fear, fatigue, and cold, he fell fast asleep. He was 
 woke by some one suddenly pulling off the bandage 
 from his eyes, and shouting in his ears, at the same 
 time shaking him violently by the shoulder, " Why, 
 Dick ! Dick ! Dick ! where hast thou been ? Dick 
 Forster — hey, hem — stare at me ! I will do thee no 
 hurt, God knows : but where hast been ? why and how 
 here ?" said Bill Fowler, one of the two whom Fors- 
 ter had left drinking at the Hunting Horn, and who 
 now, after a long and terrified search, stood scrutini- 
 zing his companion's features by the help of a lantern. 
 The wagon had arrived safe, though unattended, at its 
 nearest point of destination, followed shortly by the ar- 
 rival of the two wagoners who had been left at Shrews- 
 bury : and then the startling question was, " Where is 
 Dick Forster ?" Unable to answer the question, they, 
 with several others, instantly set out in search of the 
 missing wagoner. 
 
 " Why, man, where have you been ? what have you 
 been doing 1 what has come to you ? who has put this 
 bandage before your eyes ? how long have you been 
 here ?" were questions asked in a breath, without time 
 
THE WAGONER. 145 
 
 given for answers, even if Forster had been able, or so 
 disposed. He stared stupidly at the man who ad- 
 dressed him, and muttered some such incoherent words 
 as — " Don't — don't shoot me, kind sir ! — for God's 
 sake ! It was not I that took off the bandage ! For 
 our Lord's sake, don't murder me ! I will never tell !" 
 His companion recoiled from him as he uttered these 
 affrighted exclamations, and stared at him with un- 
 speakable concern and wonder. 
 
 " Why, Dick ! Dick !" said he, again shaking him 
 by the shoulder, " don't 'ee know un ! don't 'ee know 
 where thou art ? where the wagon is ? Egad ! art mad, 
 or drunk, or devil-struck ?" Dick made no answer ; 
 but stretched out his arms and legs, and groaned, as 
 through exhaustion. His companion began to get 
 alarmed, and his own apprehensions were aggravated 
 on seeing, owing to a sudden change in Dick's posture, 
 that there rolled out of his pocket several guineas. 
 
 " Why, Dick Forster ! why — why. — why" — he 
 stammered, turning pale, and holding his lantern down 
 towards the golden coins ; " who gave thee these ? 
 Where didst thou get them ? Hast thou been out a — 
 a — a — robbing ? or — hast — tell me, Dick Forster — or 
 I'll go and fetch some one that shall make thee !" and 
 he shook him violently. Dick began to come a little to 
 his senses on being so roughly handled, and was an- 
 swering some question rather angrily put to him, when 
 there was heard a faint rustling by the other side of 
 the hedge. Dick suddenly clasped his arms around 
 his companion, his eyes glared on him with wildness, 
 and he gasped — " Save me ! save — save me ! he'll 
 shoot me ! he'll murder me !" His companion stared 
 at him, first with an alarmed, and then a distrustful air, 
 folded his arms on his breast, and, with a resolute air, 
 said to him, " Now, Dick, may I die here, this blessed 
 Christmas morning, if I do not think thou hast done ill 
 since we met !" He paused with agitation. " Speak, 
 man!" he resumed; "this money; where didst get 
 it ? for what ? from whom ? Is all this thy frighted 
 g 13 
 
146 THE WAGONER. 
 
 manner but a deceiving of me ? Come, come* Dick ! 
 thou shalt tell to a magistrate, or my name is not Bill 
 Fowler !" 
 
 Dick slowly lifted himself up, and clasped his com- 
 panion's hand, whispering faintly, "Bill Fowler* let us 
 leave this lonely place — help me to the high road — 
 then to some house or other, and I will tell thee all ! 
 It will make thy hair stand like a hedgehog's !" 
 
 *' Well — come, now — that is reasonable enough ! let 
 us away ! and as for any one shooting thee, I would 
 not run from the great devil himself, with a pistol in 
 each hand. Come — I long to hear thy story, for I 
 much dread me it will be a black one ! But come !" 
 At that instant a pistol was discharged from the other 
 side of the hedge, and the bullet whizzed close past the 
 astounded wagoners. Fowler fell down with the sud- 
 denness of the shock, but found his l!;et again in a 
 trice, and made desperate but fruitless efforts to get 
 through the high and thick hedge. All the while he 
 heard the sounds of one running as it were for his life, 
 across the frozen furrows of a newly ploughed field ; 
 and though tantalized and irritated almost to phrensy, 
 he was obliged at length to give up the thought of pur- 
 suit, and hastened his companion to the high road. 
 Half dragging and half carrying him, he succe-eded in 
 bringing Forster to a small farmhouse, about a quar- 
 ter of a mile down the road, where they were both of 
 them known. Though it was five o'clock, and Christ- 
 mas morning, they found the good people stirring. 
 Each of them got a little ale, the good effects of which 
 were soon visible on Forster, for he began to look 
 about him with some composure. " Where is the 
 wagon gone ?" was the first sensible question he 
 asked. "'Tis now standing at Job Winton's," was 
 the reply. 
 
 " And where is Thomas ?" " He is, I warrant him, 
 out, searching for thee, now." 
 
 " And what is the hour ?" " A trifle past five. And 
 now, Dick," said his companion, no longer able to con- 
 
THE WAGONER. 147 
 
 ceal his impatience, u tell us all that hath happened 
 to thee." 
 
 14 No," replied Dick, firmly, " I will not tell thee a 
 word now, and here ; but take me before a magistrate, 
 and I will tell thee and him all. I have sworn before 
 God, it is true, that I would not tell a word, and may 
 be shot for doing so ; but 1 care not — I will ease my 
 soul, and put my life into God's hands. Oh, Will, Will ! 
 when we parted last evening, at the Hunting Horn, hovv 
 small thought had I of what would befall me !" Bill 
 made no answer, but grew visibly paler, and wiped the 
 perspiration from his forehead : he rose from his seat, 
 and stepped to and fro across the small room in which 
 they were sitting, with great agitation in his manner. 
 
 H Well, Dick," he muttered, " I don't know what 
 the ending of all this will be ; but I fear for thee ! I 
 dread me the devil hath been at thee ! 'Tis said he 
 walks these parts on Christmas morn !" He presently 
 resumed his seat, and tried again to extract his com- 
 panion's secret from him ; but in vain. Dick was in- 
 flexible : he took four guineas out of his pocket, and 
 gave them into Bill's hand, saying, " I don't value this 
 gold. It may be gotten ill by those who gave it me. 
 Do thou keep it, and see what the magistrate will say 
 about it ; for to one we will go this day, or my name is 
 not Richard Forster." 
 
 By two o'clock that afternoon, the two wagoners 
 found their way to the house of a county magistrate, to 
 whom Dick gave a full account of what had befallen 
 him. His words were taken down ; but there was 
 such an air of exaggeration — of blank improbability 
 about the whole, that it was evident the magistrate did 
 not attach overmuch credit to it. What could he do in 
 the matter? The wagoner swore that, if his life de- 
 pended en it, he could not tell by which of the four 
 cross roads he had gone or come ; he had never seen 
 the faces of those who had so mysteriously seized him ; 
 he could not describe the voices of any one that spoke 
 to him. 
 
 g2 
 
148 THE WAGONER. 
 
 " So, they were surprised to hear that your name was 
 Forster, eh ?" " Yes, your worship." 
 
 " They said you were mistaken for some one else !* 
 " Yes, your worship." 
 
 " Now, do you know any one among your associates 
 that has a name anything like your own ?" inquired 
 the magistrate, as if a sudden thought had struck him. 
 " Think a little, my man," he continued, seeing the 
 wagoner very thoughtful, and rubbing his forehead 
 with a puzzled air. " No, no," replied the wagoner, 
 at length ; " I don't know any one of my name, nor any 
 one like it." fc 
 
 " Oh, please your worship," said the other, " I hope 
 your worship's honour will forgive me — but my name 
 is Fowler ; but that, again, as your worship knows, is 
 not Forster." " So I should suppose," drawled the 
 magistrate, with a smile, looking at his watch, and then 
 taking down the name. 
 
 " How do you spell it, my man ?" Fowler repeated 
 the letters of his name separately. 
 
 "And are you a wagoner, like your unfortunate 
 friend, here V u Yes, your worship, and go the same 
 road, and serve the same master." 
 
 " You neither of you know any one that is likely to 
 have ill blood against you." " Lord love your wor- 
 ship — no, your worship !" replied both in a breath. 
 
 " I hope you are an honest, sober fellow, my friend ?" 
 inquired the magistrate of Fowler, amused by his 
 naivete and eagerness. Fowler hung down his head 
 and blushed. " Why, please your worship, as for the 
 matter of honesty, I am as honest (as one might rever- 
 ently say) as your worship yourself; but I own — I 
 humbly say — " he continued, with an embarrassed 
 air. 
 
 " Aha !" exclaimed the magistrate, quite tickled ; 
 u you like your glass, eh ? a friendly glass ?" " Not 
 exactly, your worship ; give me a plain jug — a plain 
 jug, with ale in it !" 
 
 His worship and his clerk laughed heartily. 
 

 THE WAGONER. 149 
 
 M And. pray, who are your father and mother? Where 
 do they live X' •* Both dead, your worship, long ago ! 
 
 M Richard Forster,'" said the magistrate, " a word or 
 two more with you about this strange story of yours. 
 Do you think you could recognise the room in which 
 you were, or the yard, doors, and passages through 
 which you were led, if you were to be taken to them 
 again ?" 4i No, your worship, on the oath of a true 
 man. Your worship will recollect that I was not only 
 blindfolded, but turned round and round, like a cockchaf- 
 fer ; besides being all the while nearly dead of fright." 
 
 ; ' Why, can't you say whether you went towards the 
 north, south, east, or west?" " No, your worship." 
 
 " Did you hear any bleating of sheep — any snorting 
 or neighing of horses — any lowing of cows, when you 
 passed through what you took to be a farmyard?" 
 ' ; No, your worship, nothing like it." 
 
 " Did it seem a large or a small house — or what 
 sort of place ?" " Please your worship, I know about 
 as much of it as a dead man knows of the shape of his 
 grave !" 
 
 " Humph !" exclaimed the magistrate, completely 
 nonplussed, rubbing his hand over his forehead. 
 
 ' ; Oh, please your worship !" said Dick, suddenly ; 
 '•' I forgot one thing. I saw the hand of one man 
 twice ; first when he seized me by my wagon, and then 
 when he held the pistol to my breast in the little room ; 
 and marked specially that it was fair and white, like a 
 gentleman's, and had a shining ring upon one finger." 
 k> Av ! ay ! ay ! are you sure of that ?" inquired the 
 magistrate, with much interest ; " a gentleman's hand, 
 with a brisrht ring on ? One might make something of 
 that !" He paused. 
 
 " And yet — pho ! What is such a trifle as that, to 
 lead to discovery ? There must be something strange 
 behind all this, I am confident !' ! 
 
 The simple fact was, that the magistrate was com- 
 pletely at a loss. What, indeed, could be done in the 
 matter? What great harm had been done, after all? 
 
 13-* 
 
150 THE WAGONER. 
 
 To be sure, there were some symptoms of threatened 
 outrage on another of his majesty's subjects, when he 
 could be found ; but, as for the present complainant, 
 he had been clearly much more frightened than hurt. 
 Here he was, sound and whole, richer by four guineas 
 tTTan he was before, unable to give a spark of available 
 formation about his seizure, capture, or journey, 
 {hat could be done in the affair ? The magistrate 
 mew not. However, he decided on sending a memo- 
 rial of the whole affair to the secretary of state's office, 
 and so throwing the business on the shoulders of gov- 
 ernment. He directed the wagoner, in the mean while, 
 to return to his ordinary work, and granted him the 
 service of two constables, to ride all the way inside 
 his wagon to London, and back again, with firearms, 
 which they were authorized in using without hesita- 
 tion, in case of emergency. His worship also direct- 
 ed Forster to keep the four guineas, and gave Bill 
 Fowler half a crown, to enable him to get a " plain 
 jug" of good ale. And so the affair ended, as far as 
 the wagoner was concerned. The result of the appli- 
 cation to the secretary of state, was an order to adver- 
 tise the affair over the whole county, offering a reward, 
 on the part of government, of 100Z. for the discovery 
 of the perpetrator of so extraordinary an outrage ; 
 which was done, but in vain. Not a tittle, not a glimpse 
 of evidence was obtained, by wnich to trace or fasten 
 the occurrence anywhere ; and after a fortnight or so 
 the affair was forgotten by the public, in spite of the 
 stimulating paragraphs that, as in our day, ran the 
 round of the papers, " vires acquirentes eundo." The 
 wagoner, Richard Forster himself, resumed his or- 
 dinary business without interruption, and gradually 
 dropped his fear, treating the whole affair, when it was 
 mentioned to him, rather as a joke than otherwise. 
 
 One word, in passing, concerning the magistrate. 
 The first thing he did, after dismissing the wagoner, as 
 has been described, and entering his library, was to 
 take off his gloves, hastily pluck off a ring from his 
 
THE WAGONER. 15] 
 
 little finger, and fling it into the fire grate. " Cursed 
 little traitor !" he exclaimed, pale and gasping with 
 fury, " lie there and be burned !" He sat down in a 
 chair ; the perspiration started upon his brow, and his 
 fist clenched with involuntary emotion. He presently 
 started from his seat, and walked to and fro in pro- 
 digious agitation. His was the hand that the wagoner 
 had spoken of; he it was that seized him by the throa^ 
 and presented the pistol to his breast ! 
 
 This atrocious, daring, and unaccountable transac- 
 tion soon slipped from public recollection, and ceased, 
 as was remarked above, to annoy or disturb even Dick 
 Forster, the wagoner. It served little other purpose, 
 indeed, so far as Dick was concerned, than to make him 
 the most popular man on the whole road from Shrews- 
 bury to London ; for everybody was curious to see and 
 converse with the man who had experienced so extraor- 
 dinary an adventure. The coachmen and guards of 
 the various coaches took an interest in him ; nay, even 
 the very mail-coachman himself, that king of the road, 
 brief as was his time for stoppages by the way, more 
 than once twitched Dick almost off his feet, to show 
 him to some one or other of his inside passengers as 
 the man that had had " the hextra-hordi-nary 'ventur 
 t'other day." It is almost superfluous to state with 
 what ridiculous glosses and variations Dick told his 
 story ; for how can any man, gifted with a spark of 
 fancy, forbear to fill the maw of curiosity gaping be- 
 fore him ? So Dick, " the kidnapped," as he had been 
 called, soon acquired the less romantic name of " Ly- 
 ing Dick," when his various auditors discovered, time 
 after time, his point blank contradictions. Many be- 
 gan to surmise that there was no foundation in truth 
 whatever for Dick's narrative : but the circumstance 
 of the four guineas, and the condition in which he was 
 actually discovered by his fellow-wagoner, sufficed to 
 vindicate at least the basis of poor Dick's flourishing 
 superstructures. 
 
 One incident, worthy of record, occurred on the oc- 
 
152 THE WAGONER. 
 
 casion of one of Dick Forster's numerous taproom pre- 
 lections. He was telling his story for the tenth time, 
 at least, at the Hunting Horn inn, in Shrewsbury, about 
 six weeks after >the events took place, before a tap- 
 room filled with a breathless auditory ; and when he 
 had got down to the concluding incident, about the pis- 
 tol shot fired from behind the hedge at himself and 
 Fowler, he was pleased to say, " There were at least 
 three shots fired at me — " 
 
 " Three ! You lie !" said a man who had been lis- 
 tening to him. The eyes of all present were in an 
 instant fixed on the uncourteous interrupter. There 
 was a pause. Dick's character for veracity had not 
 yet been flyblown ; and the parish clerk of Shrews- 
 bury, who was a very devout and frequent attendant at 
 that place of godly resort, the Hunting Horn, and a 
 shrewd man to boot, pointedly inquired, " My good 
 friend, how. do you happen to know that Dick Forster 
 has told a lie f ' 
 
 "Ay — ay — ay — how do you?" echoed many voices, 
 and Dick's among the rest ; whose temporary embar- 
 rassment seemed suddenly transferred ^with tenfold in- 
 tensity to the man who had interrupted him. He gave 
 such a poor account of himself, that a constable, who 
 happened to- be present, and was gradually inflaming 
 his imagination with the " 100Z. reward," unable to con- 
 tain himself any longer, rushed up to his man, plucked 
 out his staff of office, seized him by the collar, and 
 shouted, " Sir, you're my prisoner!" The suspected 
 man was had before the magistrate in a trice — the con- 
 stable made his statement, corroborated by a host of 
 others — the man was remanded, listening to the charge 
 with derision, and in silence ; and at length, much to 
 the mortification of the constable, discharged. He 
 soon dissipated all suspicion by freely conversing with 
 any one who questioned him on the subject, and say- 
 ing, with a laugh, that his only ground for making the 
 obnoxious observation, was his conviction that " Dick 
 Forster was gammoning them ;" for that he had him- 
 
THE WAQONEiU 153 
 
 self heard Dick tell his tale in twenty different ways, 
 and always, till then, had been content with one pistol 
 as the wind-up ! 
 
 " Then you really know nothing about the matter ?" 
 inquired the spectacled clerk. ' ; No more than your 
 prayer book of your piety, Mister Snore V replied the 
 man, and was teased no more by such inquiries. 
 
 Yet was this man, as it transpired long after- 
 ward, the very one who had stood sentinel over Dick 
 Forster, and fired at him from the other side of the 
 hedge ! He was, further, the first man who had seized 
 and thrown him down, and kept at his side till the mo- 
 ment of discharging his pistol, as has been told. What 
 a mysterious length of interval does Providence often 
 interpose between the perpetration and discovery of 
 crime ! 
 
 Passing over a period of more than two months, we 
 come to the morning of the 8th of March, 1761. It 
 was between the hours of three and four o'clock, and 
 the weather was miserably inclement. A cold east- 
 erly wind swept howling down the road, driving fast- 
 falling piercing sleet full into the face of a man w T ho, 
 almost perishing with cold, poor fellow ! sat on the 
 shaft of a small cart laden with greens, scarce able to 
 hold together with his benumbed fingers the two ends 
 of an old piece of sacking, to protect himself from the 
 wet. It was pitch dark, and the carter's thoughts were 
 sad and cheerless. While driving slowly on his way 
 to Wrexham, from which he was distant about eight or 
 nine miles, and to the market of which place his cart load 
 of vegetables was consigned, he suddenly leaped off 
 the shaft on which he had been sitting ; for he heard 
 himself called by his name from the right side of the 
 hedge. He was almost petrified with surprise and 
 alarm, and stood motionless a moment or two, while 
 his cart drove slowly past him. 
 
 "Fowler! William Fowler! speak, for your life !" 
 was repeated in a louder and more distinct tone ; and 
 the astounded carter caught sight of two or three 
 
 g 3 
 
154 THE WAGONER. 
 
 figures approaching him at but a few yards' distance. 
 A recollection of his friend Dick Forster's adventure 
 flashed across him, and off he sprung down the road at 
 the top of his speed, in a contrary direction to that in 
 which his horse and cart were moving. He made for 
 a farmhouse, about a quarter of a mile off, where he 
 was known, and whither he was pursued, but by how 
 many he knew not. He was fast outstripping his mys- 
 terious pursuers, when one of them called out, " Stop, 
 Fowler, stop, before a bullet overtake you !" Fowler 
 flew forward, however, like the wind, but suddenly 
 stumbled over a large stone lying in the highway. He 
 was in the act of rising, and again rushing forward, 
 when the report of a pistol, fired at but a short distance 
 from behind him, and the ball of which he thought he 
 heard hissing close past him, brought him to his knees ; 
 when two men, quite breathless, made up to him. 
 " You d — d fool and coward !" exclaimed one of the 
 men, panting for breath, " take that for the trouble 
 you've given us !" and he hit the poor carter a heavy 
 blow on the side of the head. Fowler, however, was 
 a little of a bruiser ; and springing to his feet in a mo- 
 ment, he levelled his assailant to the ground with a 
 swinging blow between the eyes, and was preparing to 
 do the same for the other, when a third suddenly stole 
 up to him from behind, and with the butt end of a horse- 
 whip or walking stick, felled him at one stroke to the 
 ground, where he lay completely stunned. When he 
 recovered his senses, he affrightedly found himself in 
 precisely similar circumstances to those which he had 
 so often heard his friend Forster describe. He was 
 moving on rapidly in some kind of vehicle, with his 
 eyes bandaged, his arms fastened to his side, his legs 
 tied together, and a gag in his mouth. He attempted 
 to rise from his seat, bound as he was ; but was in- 
 stantly forced down by the two men between whom 
 he sat. He moaned and gasped piteously ; when one 
 of them addressed him, saying, that if he was not a 
 fool, he must know that all resistance was useless ; and 
 
THE WAGONER. 155 
 
 that if he would but hold his peace, the gag would be 
 taken out of his mouth. " If you mean to be silent, 
 nod your head three times," continued the voice. He 
 complied, and the gag was the moment after with- 
 drawn. 
 
 " For pity's sake, what have I done ?" he commenced. 
 
 *' This pistol and your head must become close ac- 
 quaintance, unless you are silent," said the gruff voice 
 which had addressed him from the first. Fowler sul- 
 lenly resigned. himself in silence to his fate, which he 
 expected would be murder. After a long interval of 
 twenty minutes, during which not a syllable was 
 spoken by any one within the coach, he was a^ain ad- 
 dressed : " There are three persons in this coach be- 
 sides yourself, who have each loaded pistols, which 
 will be fired at you if you make the least uproar or re- 
 sistance. We shall shortly alight, and you must suffer 
 us to do with you what we wish ; and then we will not 
 hurt a hair of your head. It will be useless for you to 
 cry out; for we take. you to a house which is at least 
 a mile from all others, and there will be none but our- 
 selves. So, remember what your life depends upon !" 
 concluded the voice ; and presently the coach drew 
 up. Fowler was then led out, his legs having been 
 first untied, and conducted through the same places 
 ■which had been traversed by his predecessor, Forster, 
 till he was finally led into the same room where Fors- 
 ter had been sworn and questioned, as described. He 
 was placed in a chair ; and the same voice that had 
 spoken to Dick Forster proceeded to address Fowler, 
 and in a similar strain of solemn menace. " That 
 wretched man, Richard Forster," he was told, " has 
 deceived us, and broken his tremendous oath, taken in 
 this very room ; for which he must, and will, certainly 
 die. There is one even now, waiting from hour to 
 hour, from day to day, a favourable moment to dismiss 
 him." Fowlers blood ran cold. " But as for you — 
 we are safe. There neither is, nor can be, any mis- 
 
156 THE WAGONER. 
 
 take her,e : so, at once to business. Your name is 
 William Fowler ?" " Yes." 
 
 "Married?" "No." 
 
 " Are your father and mother both dead V 1 " Yes." 
 
 " Are you an only son V* " Yes." 
 , " What do you do for a living ?" " I am gardener 
 and servant to Thomas Tripster, a farmer at West 
 Severn." 
 
 " What do you get a week"?" "Eight shillings, and 
 board and lodging." 
 
 "You would like to have more than a pound a week, 
 without any trouble, wouldn't you V 1 Fowler paused. 
 
 " Do you hear me, sir V repeated the voice, more 
 sternly. " Yes, I hear. I should like it, if it were 
 honestly earned." There was a pause. 
 
 " You wouldn't mind, I dare say, whether you spent 
 more than a pound a week in England, or abroad V 
 " Abroad .'" echoed Fowler. 
 
 " Yes ; I say, abroad. America, for instance." 
 " What ! must I then be sent out of the country like a 
 rogue V 
 
 " Silence ! Be obedient : answer the question put 
 to you." Fowler continued silent, however, and was 
 observed to clench both fists, though his arms were 
 pinioned to his sides. 
 
 " Have you heard the question put to you, Fowler ?" 
 inquired the voice. " Yes," replied Fowler, in sullen 
 monosyllable. 
 
 " Well, William Fowler, since this is then your hu- 
 mour, we must take our measures accordingly. We 
 will give you five minutes by a watch, to consider your 
 answer to the question which has been put to you. 
 We shall not tell you when the time has expired ; but 
 if you have not given us an answer by then, you shall 
 certainly have three bullets through your head, and be 
 buried, in an hour after, under the room in which you 
 are now sitting. Think !" 
 
 There was a palsying pause. One — two — three 
 minutes passed, and yet Fowler had not opened his 
 
THE WAGONER. 157 
 
 lips. He heard the snapping sound of a pistol being 
 cocked : he fell down on his knees, groaning, " Lord, 
 have mercy upon me !" He continued silent a few 
 seconds longer : he felt the cold tip of a pistol touch- 
 ing his ear — his resolution faltered, and he murmured, 
 though scarcely audible, " Well, I don't care to Jive 
 abroad ; but I should like to know why !" " You have 
 saved your life by a hair's breadth," replied the voice 
 which had before addressed him, " but you are a stub- 
 born fool. Ten seconds longer, and you would have 
 died." 
 
 "May I now ask a question?" ''No, sir! unless 
 you are careless about living to hear the answer !" 
 Fowler muttered to himself. 
 
 "What are you saying, you sullen fool?" he was 
 asked. " Only this," he replied, with a reckless air, 
 " that if there is any one here says I'm in England, 
 and among Englishmen, I say he is a liar, that's all." 
 
 " Poor devil !" muttered a voice, in a compassion- 
 ate tone ; but it was instantly answered by several ex- 
 clamations of " St 1- — st ! — hush 1" 
 
 •* Fowler, your hands look very black and cold," said 
 the same voice, in a kind tone. " And well they may," 
 replied Fowler, sullenly, " being tied down so long and 
 tightly !"' 
 
 " Well, suppose we were to loose them ; would you 
 use violence ?" " I should be very likely, shouldn't I, 
 when my eyes are bandaged, and my legs tied," re- 
 plied Fowler, bitterly. 
 
 " Let his arms, be unpinioned," said the voice, au- 
 thoritatively ; and it was obeyed. 
 
 "There is a fire in the room?" said Fowler. He 
 was answered in the affirmative. 
 
 " I am dying with cold ; let me sit by it !"' He was 
 instantly set down beside the fire, and sat warming his 
 hands for some time in silence. 
 
 " Will you undo my legs ?" " No," was the prompt 
 reply, by several voices. 
 
 " So help me God," continued Fowler, in an lm- 
 
 14 
 
158 THE WAGONER. 
 
 ploring tone, " I will sit still, and not attempt mischief. 
 For God's sake, untie my legs — untie my legs ; and 
 then I shall be sure you do not mean to murder me." 
 
 " Pshaw, fellow, who talks of murdering you !" was 
 the petulant reply. 
 
 " Gentlemen ! only consider ! what can one do 
 against so many, even if he were ever so disposed ? 
 For mercy's sake, unbind me, or I shall go mad ; for I 
 feel like a bullock prepared for the butcher!" and a 
 visible tremour testified the reality of his emotion. A 
 faint whispering conversation went on for a few mo- 
 ments ; and he was then told, in a decisive tone, that 
 his request could not be complied with ; that he must 
 be content to sit with his legs tied for at least a quar- 
 ter of an hour longer ; and that if he said more on the 
 subject his hands would be retied also. He received 
 the answer in silence ; but his lips quivered with fury. 
 He heard a faint rustling, as if of some one moving pa- 
 pers ; and was presently further addressed by the voice 
 of one who sat beside him. 
 
 " William Fowler, you must now be convinced that 
 you are in the power of those who can do what they 
 will with you ; but all they wish is, that you would let 
 them send you, peaceably and comfortably, out of Eng- 
 land, to a place where you may live as you like, and 
 have plenty of money, on this only condition, that you 
 will not try to return. There are good reasons for this. 
 There is one here who has been told, on oath, that" — 
 (here the speaker's voice faltered, as if with the em- 
 barrassment of conscious falsehood) — '' that you are 
 bent on taking away her life — that— that — never be 
 happy till you are removed from England." 
 
 " What!" exclaimed Fowler, nearly at the top of 
 his voice, involuntarily recoiling from the speaker, 
 rising for a moment from his seat, and elevating his 
 hands with amazement. 
 
 The speaker proceeded, but in a somewhat broken 
 tone. "It matters not whether you deny it or not, or 
 even whether it be true or false in itself— it is be- 
 
THE WAGONER. 159 
 
 lleved ; and the lady will die of terror, or you must 
 quit for foreign parts, where she will handsomely pro- 
 vide for you." Fowler continued silent ; but the per- 
 son who had been speaking to him observed that so 
 much of his face as was not concealed by the bandage 
 over his eyes, was become of a corpselike colour. 
 
 " Everything has been done to persuade the lady 
 that you mean her no harm ; it has, indeed." The 
 speaker paused, as if waiting for a reply ; but poor 
 Fowler spoke not. He seemed utterly stunned by 
 what he had heard. There, was a dead silence in the 
 room for some time. 
 
 " Fowler," said the voice, in a gentle tone, while 
 the speaker took hold of his hand ; " do you hear what 
 I am saying ?" Fowler's lips moved, as though with 
 the vain attempt to speak ; and presently he was heard 
 muttering, absently, " Kill a lady .'" * 
 " You said she was here" stammered Fowler. 
 
 " Yes ; and you shall hear for yourself," was the 
 reply. " Open the door !" continued the speaker, in 
 an authoritative tone. He was obeyed : a door was 
 unlocked. Presently was heard the rustling of a fe- 
 male dress, and the sound of half stifled sobs and 
 sighs. 
 
 " Ah !" shrieked a female voice, " there he is ! I 
 shall die ! Take me away. He has sworn — " and 
 she fell, as if in a swoon. One or two of the persons 
 present affected to be attending to her ; and shortly 
 were announced symptoms of recovery. 
 
 " Do you hear, sir V- inquired the voice of him who 
 had so long addressed Fowler ; " this lady swears she 
 is in fear of her very life for you, guilty wretch—" 
 " Then she is a liar greater than there is in hell, and 
 you are all devils !" roared Fowler, springing from his 
 seat, and tearing off the bandage from his eyes ; for 
 while his hands were resting upon his knees, they hap- 
 pened to come in contact with the knot of the cord 
 which tied his legs ; and while the attention of those 
 around him was for a moment directed to the female 
 
160 THE WAGONER. 
 
 who had just entered, Fowler contrived, unperceived, 
 to slip the knot, dropped the cord, and sprang from his 
 seat, as has been told, with the air and gestures of a 
 madman. In a twinkling, he had felled to the floor a 
 man on his left, who was in the act of levelling a pis- 
 tol at him ; but he had scarcely hit the blow, when he 
 shared a similar fate, for he was the next moment him- 
 self struck senseless to the floor by a fearful blow on 
 the head, from the butt end of a pistol. 
 
 When Fowler recovered the possession of his facul- 
 ties, he found himself in such strangely altered cir- 
 cumstances, that he could scarcely persuade himself 
 that they were real — that he was himself awake. He 
 was so weak that he could hardly prop himself up on 
 his elbows in a bed, laid upon the floor of a small 
 room, apparently a cellar, which was lighted by a little 
 lamp burning in a niche of the wall, and the ruddy 
 glow of a small wood fire. He looked round him for 
 an instant with a confused bewildered stare, and then 
 fell back on his bed, exhausted with the effort of sitting 
 upright. He did not know that he had lain there for 
 upward of a fortnight, during which time he had suf- 
 fered all the agonies and paroxysms of a violent brain 
 fever, without having received any medical assistance ! 
 It was fortunate that he was, during all that time, tied 
 hand and foot ; for he might have destroyed both him- 
 self and those around him. He had been bled several 
 times in the temples by a few leeches applied by the 
 old woman who attended him ; and this, added to a 
 low spare diet, was the only means adopted to snatch 
 a poor unoffending individual from a cruel and prema- 
 ture death ! His mysterious captors, indeed, could 
 not, even had they felt so disposed, summon in medical 
 assistance without risking fatally their own safety, by 
 discovering their almost unparalleled atrocity. But 
 they would have rejoiced in nothing so much as his 
 death under disease ; for that, they supposed, would 
 have rid them from a world of suspense and trouble — > 
 an infinity of peril. Twice did one of the complotters 
 
THE WAGONER. 161 
 
 urge upon his principal the dark and bloody proposi- 
 tion of murdering their prisoner as he slept ■ but was 
 answered, that Fowler's death was not required — only 
 his absence from England. Nevertheless, one inci- 
 dent will show the fearful jeopardy in which Fowler 
 had been placed : he awoke once at midnight, and 
 found himself alone, the pinioning cords loose about his 
 arms, and a keen-edged butcher knife lying close by 
 his right hand ! 
 
 He was lying one afternoon in the darkness and sol- 
 itude to which he was now painfully accustomed, 
 watching the dull flicker of the lamp, and the crack- 
 ling of the embers of his fire. He was too weak to be 
 able to rise from his bed. His thoughts were vainly 
 pondering, for the thousandth time, over the unaccount- 
 able situation in which he was placed. He could not 
 conceive, any more than at the moment of his seizure, 
 what were the reasons of it : he was a poor, ignorant, 
 unoffending man, who had never injured or quarrelled 
 with any one ; and what, then, could be the meaning 
 of what had been done to him ? Was it true, or only 
 a recollection of delirium, that he had heard a female 
 declare her belief that he intended to murder her 1 If 
 it were true, how could she come to form such a pre- 
 posterous opinion 1 If it were false, what, in the name 
 of Heaven, could be the aim and scope of all this plot- 
 ting 1 He tried to think over every action of his life 
 for years past ; whether he had incurred the ill will of 
 any of his companions or acquaintance, who, to be re- 
 venged on him, had taken these means of ruining him, 
 by persuading a lady that he had threatened her life. 
 But, again, if that were so, why was he not lawfully 
 arrested, examined openly in a court of justice, and at 
 once acquitted or convicted ? What could the person, 
 or persons, in whose custody he was, want to do with 
 him, or require him to do ? What concern had they 
 with his family and mode of life? If his death were their 
 object, why was he still living, after they had had so 
 many opportunities of easily and secretly killing him 1 
 
 14* 
 
162 THE WAGONER. 
 
 All these conflicting conjectures served only to bffing 
 on him deeper doubt and darkness ; and in the ex- 
 tremity of his misery, he closed his eyes, and fervently 
 besought the protection of Providence. While thus 
 piously engaged, the door of his prison was opened, 
 and the old woman who attended him entered. She 
 did not speak, as indeed she rarely did, but proceeded 
 to tie the bandage over his eyes, by which he knew 
 that he was going to receive a visit from his torment- 
 ors ; and, sure enough, in a few moments he heard 
 some one step into the room, bringing with him a 
 chair, on which he sat down close beside Fowler. 
 
 " William Fowler, how are you ?" inquired the voice, 
 whose tones were now fearfully familiar. " Weaker 
 than yesterday," was the reply, in a feeble voice ; 
 " and well I may be ! Your cruelty is breaking my 
 heart, as well as my health. May God forgive you ; 
 for if I die of this illness, I am a murdered man !" 
 
 "Fowler — Fowler," continued the person beside 
 him, with some faltering of manner, '' I have anxiously 
 striven to find a means of explaining all that has be- 
 fallen you, and even setting you at liberty ; but I can- 
 not. I am, God knows, more sorry than otherwise 
 that ever I undertook what has been done ; but having 
 gone thus far — " " Ha !" gasped Fowler, in a fierce 
 though feeble under tone of exultation, " the devil is 
 deep ! He has you !" 
 
 " Well," proceeded the speaker, sternly, " be that 
 as it may, I cannot now stop, or undo what has been 
 done. It would be both ruin and death to me ; for of 
 course you would, immediately on getting your liberty, 
 tell all — " " Ay !" gasped Fowler, unable to control 
 himself, or dissemble. 
 
 " Well, then, now you have at once put it out of my 
 power to free you, even were I ever so much disposed. 
 I cannot jeopard my life to save yours. Fowler, you 
 are a stubborn, and had you the means, a revengeful 
 man : you will therefore be well looked after. I must 
 be short ; for I thought I should have found you sub- 
 
THE WAGONER. 163 
 
 dued into reason, and am disappointed. This is, per- 
 haps, the last time you will ever hear me speak to you ; 
 listen, therefore. To-night, whether you be well or 
 ill, you will be removed from this place, by men fully 
 armed, and set out on a journey to foreign parts. You 
 will be taken to America ; and fifty pounds will be put 
 into your hands the moment you land. A month after- 
 ward you will receive five pounds ; and then that sum 
 will be paid you regularly every month. You are to live 
 in America, mark me, for at least twelve years — pos- 
 sibly for the remainder of your life ; and sure means 
 are taken to prevent your ever attempting to send word 
 to England, or escape thither yourself. You will cer- 
 tainly not live one hour after you shall have set sail from 
 America. I tell you this, William Fowler, not more 
 solemnly than truly, that you may be neither rash nor 
 foolish. Only continue in America, and you shall be 
 both a rich and happy man. There are deep and 
 dreadful reasons for all this, many of which you must 
 not at present be made acquainted with. The lady 
 whom — " On hearing these last two words, William 
 Fowler attempted to spit in the face of the speaker, 
 making use of a ghastly imprecation. 
 
 " Well," continued his visiter, calmly, " I grieve to 
 see your temper so fierce, as you are yourself the 
 only one whom you can hurt. Farewell, William 
 Fowler ; farewell !" And with these words the mys- 
 terious speaker rose and stepped towards the door. 
 " Come back a moment — come back !" cried Fowler, 
 as loudly as he could, while the door was closing. It 
 was reopened, and he heard the sound of returning 
 footsteps. 
 
 " Well, what is the matter ?" " You think you are 
 concealed from me ; but you are wrong. I know you," 
 continued Fowler, in an agitated tone : " I recollect 
 your voice. You are — Sir William Gwynne /" 
 
 Fowler heard his visiter suddenly utter a gasping 
 sound, and spring from the seat on which he was in the 
 act of sitting down : then he heard the sound of a 
 
164 THE WAGONER. 
 
 stifled groan — of attempts to suppress violent emotion. 
 At length his visiter staggered out of the room, closing 
 the door after him, as with an unsteady hand. Fowler 
 was left alone for three hours : his food, wretched stuff 
 at best, was not brought him as usual ; and, faint with 
 hunger, and worn out with agitation and suspense, he 
 at length dropped asleep. 
 
 Before that time twenty-four hours, the wretched, 
 persecuted Fowler, in almost the last degree of ex- 
 haustion, was placed on board a sloop in the Channel. 
 He lay in a state rather of profound stupor than sleep, 
 in his hammock, when he was suddenly roused, in the 
 middle of the night, and carried on board another ves- 
 sel, which was a French brig, bound for America. 
 Confused as he was, he heard the respective crews 
 taking leave of one another, in a confused jargon of 
 French and English ; and presently after, all being 
 again quiet around him, he fell asleep. He had asked, 
 while on board the former vessel, for a draught of beer, 
 to quench his raging thirst; and the stupor which speed- 
 ily followed, proved that it had been drugged. 
 
 On the third day of his passage, the bandage was re- 
 moved from his eyes, and the pinions from his arms 
 and legs. The light almost blinded him for some min- 
 utes, his eyes had so long been kept closed ; and his 
 benumbed and strained limbs seemed scarce to have 
 the power of motion left to them. At length he was 
 able to see that he lay in a tolerably comfortable berth. 
 Everything about him wore a foreign appearance ; and 
 the poor wagoner, lonely and deserted, closed his eyes, 
 sobbed, and shed tears at the recollection of his suf- 
 ferings, and the illness which yet oppressed him. 
 This was his situation, when a strange figure of a 
 cabin boy, his head hid in a great hairy cap, suddenly 
 made his appearance at his bedside, and said some- 
 thing to him in the French language. Fowler shook 
 his head, intimating that he did not understand him. 
 The cabin boy, after making several motions, as if to 
 make himself intelligible to the Englishman, presently 
 
THE WAGONER. 165 
 
 withdrew, and returned with a basinful of sea soup, or 
 broth, which he proffered good-humouredly to his pas- 
 senger, who rose up in bed, and ate it with absolute 
 voracity. It was the first food he had taken with relish 
 for many a long day. He was waiting for the reap- 
 pearance of the cabin boy. to make signs for some- 
 thing to drink, when another of the crew made his 
 appearance — a tall, muscular, uncouth-looking fellow — 
 a world of ill-fitting clothes, and his head covered with a 
 great red nightcap — who in bad broken English asked 
 Fowler whether he would dress and go on deck. Un- 
 prepossessing as was his aspect, Fowler felt a regard 
 for him, merely for the sake of the few words he had 
 uttered of English. They soon got into conversation 
 about indifferent matters, chiefly touching the country 
 to which they were sailing — America : of which the 
 Frenchman gave him an enthusiastic description. 
 "When Fowler was able to leave his bed, this man 
 helped to dress him, assisted him up the cabin steps, and 
 supported him while he walked to and fro on the deck, 
 lost for some time in wonder and admiration at the 
 novel scenery — the world of uninterrupted waters 
 which surrounded him — the vessel, with all her sails 
 bellied out by the fresh breeze, bounding over the blue 
 foaming waters, which sparkled and flashed in the 
 vivid sunlight ! He forgot, for a while, his sufferings 
 — the mysterious wrongs he was enduring; and while 
 the momentary excitement and glow were upon his 
 feelings, in an hour of unguarded confidence he told his 
 new companion all that had befallen him in England, 
 and the manner of his being conveyed on shipboard, as 
 far as he himself recollected it. The sailor listened to 
 him with features full of interest, which deepened, how- 
 ever, into indignation, as Fowler went on. His ' ; Sa- 
 cres !" " Pestes !" " Mon Dieus !" " Diables !" as the 
 eager and foolish Fowler went on with his narrative, 
 were incessant. 
 
 " Aha ! vould not you kill de dam cruel man vat 
 doyoudis, verever you see him, mon pauvre Anglais:" 1 
 
166 THE WAG ONE £L 
 
 asked the sailor, clenching his fist. " No, no," re- 
 plied Fowler ; " but if I get back to England, I may get 
 him hanged for it. Do you think I could get back? 
 I suppose there are plenty of ships in America ?" 
 
 " Ay, ma foi ! ver good ; but how you get de money 
 for come V inquired the Frenchman, shaking his head. 
 " Oh, why, I'm to have fifty pounds directly t get into 
 America !" The sailor seemed confounded. 
 
 " Fifty pounds when you get America 1 and you say 
 you ill used ? Begar, mon ami ! I vish dat some one 
 would take me away from my countree, and use me the 
 ver same bad way you are !" " Oh," proceeded Fow- 
 ler, " besides that, I'm to have five pounds a month for 
 ever and ever, if I will but stop there !" 
 
 The sailor stared again, shrugged his shoulders, and 
 said, " Ah, sacre ! you be ver well content wid your 
 cruel, bon ami ! You are dam lucky man ! Begar, I 
 vish I was kidnap ! Do not you go away from Amer- 
 ica. Aha ! dam happy glorieuse countree ! better than 
 France or England ! Aha ! lucky man !" 
 
 Little did poor Fowler imagine, while making these 
 unreserved communications, that his newly-found con- 
 fidant was the ruffian, heavily feed and hired by Sir 
 William Gwynne and others, to accompany him to 
 America — to watch all his doings — to pay him all the 
 moneys spoken of — and without hesitation take his life, 
 if he attempted to return to England ! 
 
 When they reached America, Fowler had greatly re- 
 covered both his health and spirits. His curiosity was 
 abundantly roused and gratified by the new and pro- 
 digious scenes he was approaching. On landing at 
 New- York, he put up, with several of the crew, at a 
 small house of entertainment in the suburbs. All of 
 them drank deeply ; and Fowler was carried to bed in 
 a state of insensibility. When he awoke, about the 
 middle of the next day, he overthrew a stool that was 
 placed by his bedside ; and, on accidentally casting his 
 eyes to the floor, he saw it strewn with bank notes ! 
 This circumstance soon collected his scattered intel- 
 
THE WAGONER. 107 
 
 lects, and recalled him to a sense of the singular mis- 
 ery and mystery of his situation. In a foreign coun- 
 try, without a single relative, friend, or acquaintance 
 among its inhabitants — smuggled r rom home in a fear- 
 ful and atrocious manner, he knew not why or where- 
 fore — forbidden to return, under penalty of instant 
 death, which he knew not when or how to evade. 
 What was to become him ? What was he to do 1 The 
 thought never occurred to one so ignorant and inexpe- 
 rienced as he was of putting himself at once under the 
 protection of the civic authority of New- York ; and 
 even if it had, it is probable Fowler would have feared 
 taking such a step, lest his murder should be the con- 
 sequence. He lay tossing about in bed, completely 
 bewildered, and irresolute what to do. When he rose, 
 he found his ship companions had left the house, even 
 the one most intimate with him. He went down at 
 once to the ship by which he had come, sought out the 
 captain, and contrived to ask him whether or not he 
 would take him back again? He was promptly an- 
 swered in the negative ; and was told that the ship was 
 to proceed immediately to South America. Wearied 
 and disappointed, afraid of seeking out an English ship, 
 lest his life should be sacrified as had been threatened, 
 he returned to the inn he had left, and endeavoured to 
 seek solace in drink. He was soon afterward joined 
 by several of the crew, and his own intimate friend 
 among the number ; and they all fell to drinking again. 
 Fowler was informed that they had leave of absence 
 from their ship for a few days, before it proceeded to 
 South America ; and they proposed to take a journey into 
 the interior of the country. He was asked to accom- 
 pany them ; and, his fancy being inflamed with their ac- 
 counts of the luxuriance and magnificence of the scenes 
 he would witness, he consented. I need not describe 
 their excursion. Drink, merry conversation, and in- 
 cessant change of scene, soon dissipated Fowler's 
 moodiness, and he seemed to enjoy the jaunt as keenly 
 as any of the party. One incident must be mentioned, 
 
168 THE WAGONER. 
 
 as it materially influenced the fortunes of Fowler, and 
 forwarded the scheme of those who had sent him from 
 England. His favourite companion (Francis Leroux 
 by name) took the opportunity one evening, when he 
 and Fowler had strayed far from their companions, and 
 were viewing a sweet cottage, with a pretty patch of 
 land about it, the whole of which was marked for sale, 
 of making Fowler a proposal that greatly surprised 
 him. He began by saying that he had long been tired 
 of a sailor's life, and desired to settle in America, but 
 had not a favourable opportunity till then ; that he and 
 Fowler seemed to have agreed very well on shipboard, 
 and he did not see why they should quarrel on land. 
 
 " And so — what you say to we live here together 1 
 Is it not better than sail the great dam sea? You 
 tell me you have money — fifty pounds — and so have I, 
 little, what I save. We both buy this place, and both 
 live and work here together, and so we get rich — ver 
 soon — ver rich, and then we go home, you to your 
 country, and I to my own ! Eh! vat you say to this P 
 he inquired, anxiously ; at the same time taking out a 
 small leathern purse, he showed Fowler several pieces 
 of gold coin, and notes for money on American banks. 
 Fowler, as soon as his astonishment had a little sub- 
 sided, promptly refused 10 accede to his companion's 
 proposal,- saying, that " nothing should keep him from 
 England ; that he would go back, come what might." 
 
 " Ah, mon ami ! And what you do when you go 
 there P '• Find out the people that sent me away, and 
 then get them hanged." 
 
 " Aha ! First catch your fish, and then cook him ; 
 but what if him not bite \ sacre !" 
 
 To cut matters short, Fowler, who was a mixture of 
 shrewdness and simplicity, was in the end over-per- 
 suaded by his companion's earnestness and volubility. 
 Leroux drew such an enticing picture of the pleasures 
 of American life, and represented so strongly the diffi- 
 culties and dangers which must environ Fowler if he 
 were to attempt, or even succeed in his scheme of re* 
 
THE WAGONER. 169 
 
 turning to England, and the improbability of his pro- 
 ving the guilt of Sir William Gwynne, or even ascer- 
 taining that he was right in charging Sir William with 
 it, that Fowler at length told his companion that he 
 would consider of his proposal. He at length agreed 
 to continue in America for at least a year or two, and 
 try whether he got so rich as Leroux led him to ex- 
 pect. They entered, therefore, into a sort of partner- 
 ship, and with their joint funds purchased the house 
 and grounds which had attracted their admiration. 
 
 Behold, then, William Fowler in a new character ; 
 that of an American farmer, and in partnership with 
 his newly acquired companion, Francis Leroux. Many 
 were their conversations, as was natural, on the ex- 
 traordinary adventures which Fowler had undergone ; 
 and one remark was made by the Englishman which 
 seemed to strike Leroux forcibly. 
 
 " Should I be sent out of England at all this expense, 
 and kept here so handsomely, for nothing ? It must be 
 worth somebody's while !"' " Ay, but," would Leroux 
 reply, " begar, you go back and get your dam head 
 blow off if that worth your while !" 
 
 Affairs prospered with the farmers, and Fowler's 
 uneasiness began to wear off, giving place to the nu- 
 merous and active cares of business. The land was so 
 fertile, the climate so delightful, the scenery so beauti- 
 ful, living so cheap, and Leroux so unwearyingly gay 
 and good natured, that Fowler began to get not only 
 reconciled to his lot, but delighted with it ; coinciding 
 in the frequent remark of his sagacious companion, 
 " Ah, ' bird's hand worth two bushes ." " His monthly 
 allowance of 51. was forwarded to him, though at irreg- 
 ular periods, from the next post town, distant about 
 twenty miles ; and at length Fowler, finding himself 
 environed on every side with mystery, gave up fretting 
 about unravelling it, contented with the comfort and 
 plenty it produced him. 
 
 The artful rogue Leroux was a ci-devant English 
 smuggler, who had been heavily bribed by Sir William 
 H 15 
 
170 THE WAGONER. 
 
 Gwynne and another, to assist in kidnapping Fowler, 
 conveying him abroad, and watching over him with in- 
 cessant vigilance. His broken English was all as- 
 sumed. He could speak tolerably well in both lan- 
 guages — trading, as he did, between the coasts of the 
 two countries ; but thought that he could more easily 
 delude his prisoner by adopting a mixture of the two. 
 Sir William Gwynne had given him the sum of 2001. 
 at setting out, telling him to keep half of it for his own 
 purposes, and give the remainder to Fowler, as has 
 been described ; and when it was exhausted he was to 
 write for more. The mode adopted by Leroux for 
 conveying the monthly instalments to Fowler was this 
 — he took the opportunity of visiting the next post 
 town on a market day once a month, where he en- 
 closed 51. in a blank envelope, and put it in the post, 
 which duly delivered it at Fowler's residence. For 
 several years did Fowler receive this money, each 
 time expressing astonishment at the mode of its 
 conveyance ; and yet never discovered the agency of 
 Leroux! Extraordinary as this may seem, it is nev- 
 ertheless the fact. The fidelity and ingenuity of Le- 
 roux were secured and perpetuated by the vigilant skill 
 of Sir William Gwynne, who timed his remittances and 
 shaped his communications with astonishing tact. How 
 wise is the ordination of Providence, that never fails to 
 insert into guilty combinations the elements of treach- 
 ery, as, indeed, a necessary condition of its being; 
 concealment involving its own discovery ! It was 
 against this — against the risk of Leroux's perfidy, that 
 Sir AVilliam had to guard himself, and yet never for 
 an instant felt fully secure. Leroux had extorted great 
 sums from his employer beyond what jiad been prom- 
 ised him, and grew occasionally insolent in enforcing 
 both the punctuality and increase of his remittances. 
 Sir William had, besides Leroux, another bloodsucker, 
 that scarce ever left his side, in the person of a fellow- 
 smuggler of Leroux's, who grew increasingly exorbi- 
 tant in his demands, as repeated trials convinced him 
 
THE WAGONER. 171 
 
 of the firm hold he had upon the guilty baronet. Sir 
 William grew nearly frantic at finding the fearful ex- 
 tent to which he was committed, and the incessant ef- 
 forts and sacrifices necessary to quiet his ruffianly 
 agents ; and yet, perhaps, after all, only postponing 
 discovery, disgrace, and even death. The figure of 
 the poor wagoner haunted him cruelly day and night ; 
 and then he had to bear the stubborn insolence of one 
 minion, dogging and bullying him personally at home, 
 and the incessant baying of a bloodhound, borne to his 
 affrighted ears over the Atlantic ! 
 
 In one of his gloomiest and most reckless moments, 
 the unfortunate, the wretched, the guilty baronet set pen 
 to paper, and wrote to Leroux in nearly the following 
 terms : — 
 
 " You once pressed me, while was in Eng- 
 land, in our hands, to destroy him, and I refused. I 
 never wished to destroy him — my soul shrinks from 
 blood. But in the humour in which I now write, I may 
 say, in a manner, that my views are altered. I say — 
 mark me — that I do not now wish to destroy him ; I 
 
 mean only, that if were out of the way, when I 
 
 heard of it, I should not trouble myself with inquiring 
 into it. Your comrade (mentioning Leroux's fel- 
 low-smuggler) talks on the matter with cruel cunning, 
 saying, that there are many ways of your seeing that 
 
 dies, without having to charge yourself, or any one 
 
 else, directly, with the doing of it. But I always stop 
 him when he talks so. Indeed I do not know why I 
 name the thing to you. Enclosed are bank notes 
 for 100Z. Tear and burn this letter, or send it me back" 
 
 When Leroux received and read this letter, it threw 
 him into a long train of thought — for nearly an hour. 
 At length he rose from his seat, put the money into his 
 strong box, and the letter into his pocketbook, saying 
 to himself, "Now, this is a two-edged sword, and will 
 cut either way I choose !" 
 
 To return now to England. The abduction of Fow- 
 ler produced a prodigious sensation over the whole 
 
 H 2 
 
172 THE WAGONER. 
 
 county. There was scarcely a house, there were scarce 
 any premises, public or private, but were ransacked 
 for his discovery. Forster's services were in universal 
 request, to aid in identifying the scenes he had himself 
 described — and he was hurried here, there, and every- 
 where, for that purpose, but in vain. He could recog- 
 nise nothing, nor give any clew of information. The 
 affair excited greater alarm even than that of Forster; 
 and the whole country round about was rife with dark 
 and dismal speculations concerning the mysterious fate 
 of " The Wagoner." Ballads were made, and sung 
 about the streets of Shrewsbury ; and at length super- 
 stition was roused, who hinted that there were, or might 
 be, supernatural agency at work in the business ! 
 
 Sir William Gwynne was pre-eminent among his 
 fellow-magistrates, in exertions to unravel the myste- 
 rious transaction ; cheerfully devoting day after day to 
 the receiving of depositions, the granting of warrants, 
 the examination of suspected persons, and authorizing 
 the distribution of placards, offering liberal rewards for 
 the discovery of the perpetrators of such an atrocious 
 outrage. He caused the chief of a notorious gang of 
 gipsies, who had been long in ill odour, to be arrested, 
 under pretence of a secret information against him. He 
 caused the anonymous letter on which he acted to be 
 made public — and its cunning inuendoes and circum- 
 stantiality served to arrest public suspicion, and fix it 
 permanently on the gipsies ! All was useless, however. 
 Nothing could be discovered. The devil outwitted all. 
 The veteran gipsy was discharged for want of evi- 
 dence ; the reward placards gradually disappeared from 
 the walls ; new nine-day wonders arose, challenging 
 public curiosity in their turn — and all was buried in un- 
 discoverable mystery. 
 
 Now, what is the meaning — the reason of all this ? 
 the reader is doubtless exclaiming. He shall shortly 
 be informed. 
 
 About two months before the seizure of Richard 
 Forster, Sir William Gwynne, a wealthy and powerful 
 
THE WAGONER. 173 
 
 baronet in Shropshire, who had retired to his library 
 after dinner, to write several letters of importance, and 
 was in the act of drawing on his velvet dressing gown, 
 was informed by his valet that a gentleman had just ar- 
 rived at the hall, who desired to speak with him on 
 urgent business. 
 
 " Show him in," said the baronet, sitting down in his 
 study chair, which he drew around to the fire. His vis- 
 iter in a few moments made his appearance, announc- 
 ing himself as a Mr. Oxleigh, a solicitor, residing at 
 a little distance from Shrewsbury. He was a short, 
 squat, ugly, Jew-featured man, with a muddy-black 
 piercing eye — the beau ideal of a country pettifogger 
 — with " rogue" written all over his face in characters 
 of impudence. The haughty baronet was sufficiently 
 disgusted with the man at first sight — but much more 
 with his vulgar offensive nonchalance. 
 
 " Sir William," said he, carelessly, approaching a 
 chair, nearly opposite to the frowning baronet, " I'm 
 afraid this is intruding upon you — an inconvenient — " 
 " Your business, sir, I pray," interrupted the baronet, 
 with a stern impatience of tone and manner, that some- 
 what abashed the attorney ; who, instead of sitting 
 down in the chair, as he had intended, stood leaning a 
 moment against the back of it. 
 
 " Allow me, Sir William, to take a seat," said he, in 
 a somewhat humble tone, " as the business I am come 
 upon may be long and wearisome to both of us." " Be 
 seated, sir, and brief," replied the baronet, haughtily, 
 drawing back his own chair, but with a little surprise 
 in his features. 
 
 " I believe, Sir William," proceeded Oxleigh, lei- 
 surely taking out one of a packet of papers, tied to- 
 gether with thin red tape, " that the rental of the 
 Gwynne estates is from 25 to 30,000?. per annum ?" 
 
 " What the d do you mean, sir ?" slowly inquired 
 
 the baronet, sitting forward in his chair, and eying 
 Oxleigh with unfeigned amazement. 
 
 "I believe I am correct, Sir William," continued 
 
 15* 
 
174 THE WAGONER. 
 
 the attorney, with a cool composure and impudence 
 that confounded his aristocratical companion. " Be 
 good enough, Mr. — a — a — whatever your name is — 
 be good enough, sir, to state your business, and with- 
 draw !" said the baronet, in a commanding tone. 
 
 " I am afraid, Sir William, that my business will take 
 longer to settle than you seem to imagine," continued 
 Oxleigh, with immoveable assurance. The baronet 
 made an effort to control himself ; or, being a power- 
 ful man, he might have thrust his presumptuous visiter 
 out of his presence, somewhat unceremoniously. 
 
 M I should be sorry, Sir William, either to say or do 
 anything displeasing or disrespectful — but my duty 
 compels me to say, that in the important business I am 
 come about, I must be allowed my own time, and 
 my own way of going about it. It appears, Sir Wil- 
 liam — " proceeded the attorney, with would-be calm- 
 ness, though his hands trembled visibly, and his voice 
 was thick and hurried. " My good sir, your business, 
 whatever it be, had better be transacted with my stew- 
 ard. If you really have any business that concerns me, 
 sir, you clearly do not know how to communicate with 
 me. Bundle up your papers, sir, and retire," said the 
 baronet, rising to ring his bell. 
 
 " Sir William — Sir William!" exclaimed Oxleigh, 
 earnestly, rising from his chair ; " pray — allow me — 
 one — one instant, only. I can say one word that will 
 make you, however indisposed you now are, willing — 
 nay, anxious — to hear me !" " What does — what can 
 all this mean, sir?" inquired the baronet, pausing, with 
 the bell rope still in his hand. 
 
 " Only this, Sir William," said the attorney, putting 
 the packet of paper into his pocket, and buttoning his 
 coat ; " I could have wished to communicate it in a 
 friendlier manner. You think, you have a right to the 
 title of Sir William Gwynne, and these large estates. 
 You have, however, no more right to them than — your 
 obedient humble servant, Job Oxleigh, to command." 
 The baronet's hand dropped from the bell rope — the 
 
THE WAGONER. 175 
 
 colour left his cheek for a moment, and he stared at 
 the attorney in silence. " Why, you caitiff!" slowly 
 exclaimed the baronet ; and calmly approaching Mr. 
 Oxleigh, he grasped him with overpowering strength 
 by the collar, holding him for a second or two, and 
 looking in his face as one would into that of a snarling 
 dog, whom one holds by the throat ; and then with a 
 violent kick jerked him from him to the farther corner 
 of the room, where he lay prostrate on the floor, the 
 blood trickling from -his mouth, which had caught the 
 corner of a chair in falling. After continuing there, 
 apparently stunned, for a few moments, he rose, and 
 wiping the blood from his lips, staggered towards the 
 baronet, who, with his arms folded, was standing before 
 the fire. 
 
 *' Sir William Gwynne, you have drawn blood from 
 me, you see," said he, calmly, pointing to his spotted 
 handkerchief; " and, in return, be assured / will drain 
 your heart of every drop of blood it contains. I will 
 draw down the law upon you like a millstone, which 
 shall utterly crush you. Great and high man that you 
 are," he continued, in the same calm tone, uninter- 
 rupted by him he addressed, " it is in my power to drag 
 you into the dust — to strip you of all you unjustly pos- 
 sess — to turn you out of this hall a beggar, and expose 
 you to the world as an impostor. Do you hear me, 
 Sir William Gwynne V 
 
 All this was uttered by Oxleigh with the accuracy 
 and impressiveness of a man who, unwilling to trust to 
 extempore wording in a matter of the last importance, 
 has carefully pondered his language, and even commit- 
 ted words to memory. When he had finished speak- 
 ing he paused, and watched the baronet, who continued 
 standing motionless and silent before the fireplace, as 
 before ; but his countenance wore an expression of se- 
 riousness, if not agitation, and his eye was settled on 
 that of Oxleigh, as if he would have searched his soul. 
 " Mr. Oxleigh," said he, in a lower tone than he had 
 before spoken in, " whether you have, or have not, 
 
176 THE WAGONER. 
 
 ground for what you say, you are a very bold man to 
 hold such language as yours to Sir William Gwynne ! 
 You must know, sir, that I am a magistrate ; and, as 
 you profess to be a lawyer, you must further know that I 
 can at once commit you to prison for coming to extort 
 money from me by threats. That would be a serious 
 charge, Mr. Oxleigh, you know well." " Have I men- 
 tioned money, Sir William ?" inquired Oxleigh, calmly. 
 " But commit me — commit me this moment. You shall 
 the sooner get rid of your title and estate." 
 
 M Why, you impudent man, do you dare come here 
 to bandy words and threats with me ?" " Calling 
 names is not talking reason, Sir William ; and hard 
 words break no bones," replied Oxleigh, with a bitter 
 smile. " / call you no names, Sir William, and yet I 
 call you by your wrong name ; for I shall elsewhere 
 prove you to be Mister William Gwynne — not Sir 
 William ! /can afford to be civil, because I have you 
 quite within my grasp as closely as I could wish my 
 deadliest enemy. I am in condition to prove that you 
 are not the rightful heir of this property ; that there is 
 some one living who has a prior right under the 
 entail." 
 
 " You swindler!" said Sir William, striding up to 
 him, seizing him a second time by the collar, and 
 shaking him from head to foot. " Sir William Gwynne 
 — Sir William — you must pay me handsomely for all 
 this — you must indeed !" panted Oxleigh, nowise en- 
 raged. " You had better be calm, and count the cost! 
 Every kic*k, thrust, and shake you give me is worth its 
 thousands ! You are a magistrate, Sir William, you 
 tell me. Have you not committed an assault on me — 
 a breach of the peace ? However, I do not come to 
 quarrel with you, nor am disposed to do so even yet, ill 
 as you have used me ; but to tell you that your all on 
 earth is at the mercy of him you insult!" 
 
 Sir William Gwynne was boiling over with fury ; 
 yet he controlled himself sufficiently to say — or rather 
 gasp, " Wei}, sir, simply because I cannot think you 
 
THE WAGONER. 177 
 
 a madman — and a madman among the maddest you 
 must be to behave thus without knowing well your 
 ground" — (Oxleigh smiled contemptuously) — " I ami 
 ready to hear what you have to say. Go on, sir. You 
 may sit down, if you choose." The baronet sat down 
 in his easy chair, and Oxleigh took a seat opposite to 
 him. 
 
 " Not liking to trust my memory in such matters as 
 this, Sir William," said he, leisurely, " I have com- 
 mitted to paper what I have to say to you, and beg your 
 permission to read it." The baronet nodded haughtily, 
 and his features wore a very concerned air. Mr. Ox- 
 leigh drew out of his hat a sheet of paper, and distinctly 
 read as follows : " Sir Gwynne Fowler Gwynne died in 
 1673, bequeathing his estates to his eldest son, Fowler 
 Gwynne Gwynne, and the heirs male of his body ; but if 
 his first son died without havingbeen married and leaving 
 male issue, then to his second son, Glendower Fowler 
 Gwynne, and the heirs male of his body ; if his second 
 son, however, died unmarried, and without leaving male 
 issue, then to the heirs' male of Sir Gwynne Fowler 
 Gwynne's niece, Mary Gwynne Evans, on condition 
 that they took the name of Gwynne.' 
 
 " Sir Fowler Gwynne Gwynne entered, and died at 
 sea, unmarried, in 1683 ; when his brother, Glendower 
 Fowler Gwynne, entered on the titles and estates — 
 was afterward married, and had two children — " 
 
 " Both of whom died," interrupted Sir William, 
 eagerly, who had been listening with undisguised and 
 intense anxiety. "But one of them left issue" con- 
 tinued Oxleigh, calmly ; " and that issue I can produce ! 
 Gavin Evans, son of Ellen Evans, (your father, Sir 
 William,) entered in 1740 ; and had about as much right 
 to do so as I. Do I make myself clear, Sir William V 
 
 " And do you pretend, Mr. Oxleigh," said the baro- 
 net, rather faintly, yet striving to assume a smile of 
 incredulity — " do you dare to assert, Mr. Oxleigh, that 
 there is now living lawful issue of Sir Glendower 
 Gwynne V* " Yes, Sir William, 1 do — and can provo 
 
 H3 
 
178 THE WAGONER. 
 
 it. I can reduce your infirm title to dust with a breath, 
 whenever I please ; and thus : Sir Glendower — as 
 doubtless you know, Sir William — died in 1740, and, 
 as you imagine, without leaving male issue surviving 
 him ; but I can show you, that though his daughter 
 Ellen died unmarried, his son, William Fowler G wynne, 
 was married in 1733." 
 
 "It is false as hell ! It is false ! It is false I" ex- 
 claimed the baronet, vehemently — half choked, yet 
 continuing in his chair, with his eyes fixed on Oxleigh. 
 " 'Tis too true, Sir W illiam — too true for you, I'm afraid ! 
 I say, William Fowler Gwynne was secretly married 
 to Sir Glendower's housekeeper in 1733, and had a son 
 by her in 1738, a few months only before he himself 
 died. I can produce all the necessary registers and 
 certificates, Sir William — I can ! The marriage was 
 in the proper full name of William Fowler Gwynne ; 
 but immediately afterward his wife dropped the name 
 of Gwynne, and settled in a distant part of Somerset- 
 shire, under the name of Fowler ; but her son was care- 
 fully christened by the name of Gwynne. It is a strong 
 case, Sir William — wh'at we call, in law, a very strong 
 prima facie case," continued Oxleigh, bitterly. " I 
 can, at a day's notice, produce that son, who is the 
 proper heir and holder of all you now have — who is now 
 more than of age — '' 
 
 " Why, sirrah ! even on your own showing, I am safe, 
 
 you pettifogger, if by right of possession only." 
 
 " Pardon me — pardon me, Sir William ! There are 
 nine years and a quarter, and more, yet to expire, be- 
 fore that can be the case. I have calculated the time 
 to a minute ! And now, Sir William Gwynne," said 
 Oxleigh, with a startling change of tone, " pay me for 
 the kick you gave me !" 
 
 The baronet continued silent ; though the working 
 of his features showed the prodigious tempest that agi- 
 tated within. "Let me be frank, Sir William. I do 
 not presume to blame you for calling yourself a baro- 
 net, and enjoying these fine estates ; it was done in 
 
tup; WkGOHWl 179 
 
 vcrp haul, to g 
 
 D Bp, S.r W:\:.>- 
 ;i Why, improbability, if not a : 
 
 hood, on i- of what you »aid the 
 
 baronet, in a km 
 that William Fowler out of hn 
 
 o put in claim on behalf of her son till 
 1 rlef 
 
 in childbed, and bad changed hi ace, by 
 
 eek before her eonnne- 
 
 d not In plain die nature of her 
 
 ' birth, / . them urel!, 
 
 though at fint thro \ : and have for 
 
 tied out every fact mat can eat Irtish the 
 
 that ire on to 4 e title and < poa 
 
 Then - . . : • 
 
 • "■ 
 • H- of all tins r ' inquired the 
 
 a I i on fro tn }j i g fore head , and 
 
 ■•■ hjch Jay in 
 
 ■ . 
 
 • • •: | • 
 
 tore flu- • fire, w.> 
 
 in an kfr Oxl< 
 
 ben 
 
 You have burned eopiet 
 
 . ■ ■• 
 
 '■ '. ' 
 
 ■ ■- / ■ ■ ■ . i ' | • 
 
 bound hand 
 
 . . . , . ,j 
 
180 THE WAGONER. 
 
 levelling it at the baronet, " since I cannot otherwise 
 obtain civility, I shall avenge any future insult you 
 may dare to offer me on the spot. If you menace me 
 ever so little — if you lift but your little finger threat- 
 eningly towards me — by ! I'll shoot you through 
 
 the heart. I cannot be insulted even by Sir William 
 Gwynne !" said he, with sarcastic emphasis. The 
 baronet looked at him as if he were stupined with what 
 he had seen and heard. 
 
 ° Have you any further commands with me in this 
 business, Sir William, or is it now your pleasure that 
 I should withdraw V inquired Oxleigh. " Yes — with- 
 draw, sir ! Begone ! I will set off to-night for Lon- 
 don ; I will lay your atrocious conduct before the sec- 
 retary of state — I will seek the advice of eminent 
 counsel — " 
 
 " Do not you think, then, Sir William, that one de- 
 positary of such a secret as this is quite enough ? 
 Would you rather prefer being at the mercy of a dozen, 
 than one V The baronet heaved a profound sigh, and 
 looked deadly pale. 
 
 " Sit down, sir," said he, in a mournful tone — " pray 
 be seated, Mr. Oxleigh !" Oxleigh bowed, and resumed 
 the chair he had left. 
 
 " Put away your pistol, sir — " " Excuse me — par- 
 don me, Sir William! Forgive my holding it in my 
 hand, after what has happened between us, as an argu- 
 ment for coolness and consideration, till you and I 
 thoroughly understand one another !" The baronet's 
 lips — rrather his whole frame — quivered with insup- 
 pressible emotion, and his eyes were fixed with a kind 
 of anguished stare on those of Mr. Oxleigh. He sud- 
 denly hid his face in his hands, pressed his hair back, 
 and muttered, " Surely, surely, this is all dreaming !" 
 
 " It is a dreadful business," exclaimed Oxleigh, 
 " and I see you feel it to be so. I thought you would." 
 The baronet spoke not, but seemed absorbed in deep 
 and bitter reflection. " Sir William," resumed the at- 
 
THE WAGONER. 181 
 
 torney, in a low tone, " is it impossible for us to come 
 to an — an amicable adjustment?" 
 
 " Great Heaven !" groaned the baronet, rising, and 
 walking hurriedly to and fro ; " here is a wretch, ab- 
 solutely in my own house, tempting me to become a 
 villain !" " Say, rather, a friend, who would persuade 
 you to prefer safety to destruction, Sir William!" 
 
 " And pray, what do you mean, sir, by an amicable 
 adjustment V inquired the baronet, sternly — pausing, 
 and looking full in Oxleigh's face. " Surely, Sir Wil- 
 liam, it is not very hard to imagine a meaning," replied 
 Oxleigh, looking unabashed at the baronet with equal 
 keenness and steadfastness. Sir William seemed con- 
 founded at the easy effrontery of his companion. 
 
 " What, sirrah, do you mean that you would wish 
 me to meet the person you have been speaking of, and 
 buy him off heavily ?*' '•' Xo, no, Sir William ; such a 
 thought never passed through my head. It would be 
 folly personified. There are ways of cutting the knot : 
 what you name would but tie it faster." 
 
 11 You would murder him, then ?" said the baronet, 
 in a hollow tone, eying Oxleigh with horror. ft Oh 
 no, Sir William ; no ! There are other ways vet of 
 disposing of him, and firmly securing you. What, for 
 instance, if he were quietly sent out of the country, and 
 kept abroad, without knowing how, why, or by whom ? 
 If you can but keep him there for nine years, it will be 
 enough ; you are safe — his right is barred — he is shut 
 out for ever !" 
 
 ' ; What ! why do you pretend to intimate — do you 
 wish me to believe that such conduct could be prac- 
 tised with impunity ? That you could by such means 
 cheat him out of his rights, in spite of C4od and man V 
 " I do." The baronet walked about, frequently stop- 
 ping, evidently in deep and agitating thought; and at 
 length sat down exhausted in his chair in silence. 
 He closed his eyes with his hands, and looked that 
 moment as wretched a man as breathed. 
 
 " How am I to know, sir, that you are not, after all, 
 
 16 
 
1S2 THE WAGONER. 
 
 a common swindler — have come here with this trumped- 
 up stuff for the basest purposes V inquired the baronet, 
 with a scowl of mingled pride and despair. " By going 
 to the parish church of Grilstone, and for yourself com- 
 paring my copies, which I will, once ?nore, Sir Wil- 
 liam," continued Oxleigh, with stinging emphasis, 
 " cause to be put into your hands to-morrow, with the 
 original registers and certificates ; and if you prove me 
 wrong — that I have deceived you in anything — in a 
 single tittle of what I have said— hand me over at once 
 to the pillory, transportation, or death!" 
 
 "Im?z7Z, sir!" replied the baronet, with a searching 
 look at Oxleigh ; who resumed, " Sir William, I am 
 a lawyer, and a calculating one. I have looked well to 
 the end of what I am doing. Permit me, therefore, to 
 say, that my arrangements will not allow of delay. 
 You must choose your alternative — beggary, or a bar- 
 onetcy with 30,000/. a year ! And again, Sir Wil- 
 liam," continued Oxleigh, drawling oat his words 
 slowly, " there are what we lawyers call mesne profits 
 to be accounted for ! What will become of you ?" The 
 baronet shuddered. The bare possibility, the distant 
 contingency of such a thing, was frightful. To be not 
 only shorn of his title, income, and standing in society, 
 but have to disgorge two or three hundred thousand 
 pounds to his supplanter ! Fearful thoughts and pros- 
 pects ; bloody schemes began to gleam before the dis- 
 turbed intellects of Sir William Gwynne. What an 
 awful change had a few minutes only wrought in him, 
 his situation, his prospects ! Here was a low fellow, 
 a scoundrel, swindling pettifogger, bearding and bully- 
 ing him in his own house ; flashing ruin, disgrace, star- 
 vation before his shrinking eyes — coolly goading and 
 edging him on to the perpetration of villany and cruelty, 
 and requiring, doubtless, a participation in the profits ! 
 These maddening thoughts kept him long silent. 
 
 " Are you, permit me to inquire, thinking of what I 
 have said, Sir William !" " I am thinking you are too 
 great a villain to live, sir ; and that I had better knock 
 
THE WAGONER. 1&3 
 
 you on the head, and so rid the world of such a ruf- 
 fian !" replied the baronet, with a desperate air. 
 
 " Suppose you did, Sir William ; a lawyer, like an 
 eel, is hard of dying. I have made such arrangements, 
 as, even were you to succeed in killing me on the spot, 
 here, this night, and which would not, possibly, be 
 without danger" — glancing from his pistol to Sir Wil- 
 liam — " it would do you no good, but rather ruin you 
 at once in every way, with no possibility of escape. I 
 told you I had calculated, Sir William — " 
 
 " Oh ! — your terms, sir !" gasped the baronet, inter- 
 rupting Oxleigh, as though he felt his fate pressing 
 him on. " Why, I don't know, exactly, whether I could 
 name them at a moment's warning. It is, I presume, 
 superfluous to say, that I must be paid well for any as- 
 sistance I may render you. Nay, may I not name any 
 terms I choose ? Is it not / who am to dictate ?" 
 
 " What are your terms, sir ?" repeated the baronet, 
 with an air of consternation at the tone in which Ox- 
 leigh spoke : " whatever they are, name them at once. 
 Don't hesitate, sir. You know, of course, that you are 
 a scoundrel ; but circumstances have made you safe, 
 and protected you from a fury that would have annihi- 
 lated you," gasped the baronet, stamping his foot upon 
 the floor. " Name your terms at once. They may 
 be so exorbitant and monstrous, that I may determine, 
 at all risks, to refuse them, and defy you, devil out of 
 hell as you are !" 
 
 " Well, Sir William, it is of course for yourself to 
 know best your own interests. Let me, however, re- 
 quest you, Sir William, to bear in mind what small 
 courtesy you have this evening deserved at my hands. 
 J would have treated you with the pity due to misfor- 
 tune !" " Oh, God ! oh, God ! that I must bear all 
 this !" groaned the baronet, compressing his arms with 
 convulsive force upon his breast. Oxleigh smiled. 
 
 "_I have little further to add to what I have said, Sir 
 William, unless you are disposed to come to terms. It 
 will be a terrible thing for you, if 1 leave your house 
 
184 THE WAGONER. 
 
 to-night without something like a very definite under- 
 standing with you. I will be straightforward with you, 
 Sir William, and in a word or two tell you that, to se- 
 cure my secrecy and co-operation in concealing the 
 fact of this young man's, Fowler's, existence — sending 
 him abroad, and keeping him there — you must convey 
 to me the fee of a certain estate of yours, in the neigh- 
 bourhood of the house where I live, worth, as I reckon 
 it, 2000Z. per annum ; and further, must cause it to be 
 believed by the world that I have been a bona fide pur- 
 chaser of it." The baronet bit his lips, but evidenced 
 no symptoms of astonishment or anger. " Well, sir," 
 said he, " I suppose I must consider your proposal." 
 
 " But allow me, Sir William — do you consider it un- 
 reasonable, supposing you to have ascertained the truth 
 of my representations ?" " Why, certainly, sir, you 
 might have been more extravagant," replied the baro- 
 net, gloomily, and with a reluctant air. 
 
 " But, further, Sir William, this must be done with 
 no ill grace — no airs of condescension ! It must be 
 done as between gentlemen" continued the attorney ; 
 "you and I must hereafter know each other, and asso- 
 ciate together as equals" — the baronet's blood boiled, 
 and his eye flashed — " we must be intimate, and I shall 
 expect the honour of your good word, and introduction 
 to your friends of the county generally." While Ox- 
 leigh said all this, the tears of agony were several times 
 nearly forcing themselves from Sir William. He rose 
 from his chair, exclaiming, in a low tone, " I — I cannot 
 think that all this is real !" 
 
 " Will you allow me to remind you that pen, ink, and 
 paper are before you, Sir William, and will you favour 
 me with your written promise to convey to me the 
 property in question?" M It, will be time enough to 
 think of that, sir, to-morrow, after we shall have in- 
 spected the parish register." 
 
 " Excuse me, Sir William, but, with submission, we 
 can do it now, conditionally. Nothing like written 
 accuracy on such occasions as these." " Well, sir !" 
 
THE WAGONER. 1S5 
 
 exclaimed the baronet, with a profound sigh : and, 
 flinging himself down in his chair, he seized pen and 
 paper, and wrote, to the dictation of the attorney : 
 
 " Sir William Gwynne, baronet, of Gwynne Hall, 
 
 Shropshire, hereby engages to convey to Job Oxleigh. 
 
 Esq., of Oxleigh, in the same county, the fee simple 
 
 situate in the same county, and known by the name of 
 
 ' The Sheaves,' now of a rental of 20007. per annum, 
 
 provided the said Job Oxleigh shall prove the truth of 
 
 his representations, and make good the undertakings 
 
 specified by him to me, this loth of October, 1760. 
 
 And, as the said estate is portion of the estate entailed 
 
 upon me, I hereby engage to suffer a recovery of the 
 
 same, in order to cut off the entail, for the purpose of 
 
 alienating such portion thereof as is above specified. 
 
 "William Gwynne." . 
 "Gwynne Hall, 15th October, 1760." 
 
 Mr. Oxleigh carefully read this agreement over, 
 folded it up, put it into his pocketbook, and expressed 
 himself satisfied with it. " Now, Sir William," said 
 he, in an altered tone, " we understand one another, 
 and may therefore proceed to business." " Mr. Ox- 
 leigh — Mr. Oxleigh, not quite so fast, sir ! I have not 
 yet ascertained the truth of your extraordinary repre- 
 sentations : till which is done, I will not stir one step 
 in the proceedings. I expect, in the course of to-mor- 
 row, to be shown the marriage, baptismal, and burial 
 registers, and to be put into possession of the name 
 and residence of the young man we have been speak- 
 ing of. And you will allow me, sir, to take this oppor- 
 tunity of telling you two things ; that if I should find 
 myself, after all, deceived by you, by my God, I will 
 get you hanged ; or, if that cannot be done by law, I 
 will shoot you through the head. And I beg, secondly, 
 that you will not talk so much like my equal — in such 
 a strain of familiarity with me. Sir, I care not what 
 you sav to this, or how mortified vou look. I cannot, 
 
 16* 
 
186 THE WAGONER. 
 
 and will not, bear such freedom. It chokes me to hear 
 the tone of your speech to me. We shall never be 
 ( friends so long as you forget that J am a gentleman 
 * and a baronet, and you — but no matter. Sir, it is against 
 my nature to endure liberties of any kind." The bar- 
 onet said all this sternly and bitterly, and drew himself 
 up to his full height as he concluded. The attorney 
 was abashed by the flashing eye and proud bearing of 
 the baronet, and stammered something indistinctly about 
 the respect " certainly due to misfortune." 
 
 " Sir, your attention a moment," said the baronet, 
 abruptly, seeing Oxleigh rising as if to go ; " tell me 
 what is to be done in this matter, supposing all to prove 
 true that you have said. How is this young man to be 
 found? how is he to be got securely rid of?" inquired 
 the baronet, anxiously. " Why, Sir William, I see no 
 other safe and sure way than — kidnapping him in 
 the night — blindfolded — his arms bound — and in that 
 fashion conveyed abroad. We could soon get him to 
 the Channel." 
 
 " And who is to do all this ? Must we have more 
 depositaries of our secret?" inquired the baronet, with 
 a bitter smile, echoing the expression a short time be- 
 fore used by Oxleigh. " Do you pretend to say that 
 your own hands are sufficient for this cruel — this hor- 
 rid work ?" " No, Sir William ; nor yet are yours 
 sufficient, even with mine ; but we must neither of us, 
 therefore, be idle. We must hire at least two desperate 
 fellows, and pay them well — stop up their mouths with 
 bank notes ; and, besides, there is no need for them to 
 be intrusted with the reasons of what they are doing : 
 we can easily give them any story we like." 
 
 " It is a frightful business ! Here, the devil has 
 taught you how to make a villain in a moment out of a 
 man who, but an hour ago, might have believed his soul 
 to be full of honour and nobility ! 1 am undone ! I am 
 fit for hell, for even listening to you !" " Well, it is 
 easily remedied : I can tell you a way of preserving 
 spotless honour — " 
 
THE WAGONER. 187 
 
 {{ What do you mean, sir?" inquired the baronet, 
 abruptly. "By simply giving up your all — surrender- 
 ing your title and estates to a — wagoner — a common 
 wagoner — making up to him two or three hundred 
 thousand pounds — and earning your own bread for the 
 rest of your life. That, now, Sir William, would cer- 
 tainly be noble !" The baronet groaned. " We are 
 all the creatures of circumstances, Sir William: we 
 must all yield to fate !" " Patter your nonsense else- 
 where, sir !" replied the baronet, angrily ; " I want no 
 devil's preaching here /" 
 
 " I wonder, Sir William," retorted Oxleigh, thorough- 
 ly nettled by the lofty bearing of the baronet, and the 
 contemptuous tone in which he addressed him, " you 
 can so easily forget that I, who am really and in fact 
 your master, yet consent to become your friend — your 
 adviser ! Have I not been moderate in my demands 1 
 W r hat if I had demanded half your fortune ?" " And 
 how do I know but you will hereafter ? Let me advise 
 you, Mr. Oxleigh, not to irritate a desperate man ; for 
 I now tell you, that if you were to increase your de- 
 mands on me above what is already, perhaps, too easily 
 conceded, I would certainly take your life !" 
 
 " Sir William — 1 had better be frank with you, as I 
 said before — I never thought I should be free from 
 danger — though ' nothing venture, nothing have' — that 
 my life would be otherwise than in perpetual jeopardy 
 — and so I will at once tell you what arrangements I 
 have made to- provide for my own security. I have 
 drawn up a full statement of the matters which I have 
 mentioned to you this evening, sealed it up, and placed 
 it in the hands of my London agent, with explicit di- 
 f rections for him to open it, directly he hears of my 
 death, either naturally or violently, for at least nine 
 years to come ; so that not only would it do you no 
 good to take away my life, Sir William, but it would 
 immediately ruin you." " Ah ! Well, here, then, is 
 an end of our bargain. Give me up the paper I have 
 nut into your hands ! I will not treat with you on such 
 
188 THE WAGONER. 
 
 terms !" said the baronet, his face blanched to a whiter 
 hue than before. 
 
 " You cannot help yourself, Sir William V replied 
 the attorney, calmly. " Only be pleased to reflect — 
 and you will yourself see that you cannot." * * * 
 " Mr. Oxleigh," said the baronet, suddenly, " I have 
 been thinking of this matter. Supposing all to be as 
 you say, and it should prove necessary to send this 
 man out of the country, there is surely, there can cer- 
 tainly be, no need for my appearance or meddling in 
 the business ? /need not, personally, have a hand in 
 it ! Cannot I leave it all to you, Mr. Oxleigh, and 
 your assistants V 
 
 " Then, Sir William, what security would you have 1 
 How would you know that I had really performed my 
 promise to you? That I had not played you false? 
 Besides, Sir William, this is a dangerous, a very black 
 business — a perilous, a deadly job ; and I cannot con- 
 sent to bear it all upon my own shoulders — to stand 
 alone in it. You must help me, Sir William — must 
 work as hard, and risk as much as I. Our hands must 
 both assist in removing this obnoxious person ! I am 
 a man of my word, Sir William ! — I cannot forego this ! 
 Tov be equally safe, we must be equally guilty, Sir 
 William ! — equally committed to each other !" * * * 
 
 " Pray, sir, what did you say was this young man's 
 name ?" " William Fowler Gwynne — but he goes by 
 the name of William Fowler only." 
 
 " Does he know that he bears the name of Gwynne, 
 sir ? Has he any inkling of what you have now been 
 telling me V " No more than the dead !" 
 
 " What is he now ?" " I am not quite sure, Sir 
 William. He is poor and ignorant — a carter, I believe, 
 or wagoner ; but I shall know more by to-morrow." 
 
 " Till to-morrow, then, sir, we must part," said the 
 baronet. " Be here to-morrow at nine, and we will 
 say more on this subject. Good evening, sir." " Good 
 evening, Sir William ; good evening. I shall be with 
 you again at nine to-morrow ; and hope we shall then 
 
THE WAGONER. 189 
 
 be better friends. Good evening, Sir William" — and 
 Oxleigh presumptuously tendered his hand to the bar- 
 onet, who reluctantly laid his cold fingers — the flesh 
 creeping the while with disgust — in those of Oxleigh; 
 and in a moment or two he was left alone. He sat 
 back in his ample armchair, for nearly two hours, in 
 stupified silence. He was to have written three or four 
 important election letters, and one to his intended wife, 
 that evening ; but being now unequal to the task, he 
 thrust his table from him, rang for candles, and went 
 to bed, saying to his valet that he was ill. It need 
 hardly be said that he passed a fearful night ; several 
 times being on the point of leaping out of bed, and 
 committing suicide. True to his time, the villain Ox- 
 leigh made his appearance at the hall as the clock was 
 striking nine. Sir William met him with a fevered 
 brow and bloodshot eyes \ and in half an hour's time 
 both of them stepped into the carriage, which Sir Wil- 
 liam had ordered to be in readiness. They drove 
 rapidly into Somersetshire ; and Sir William returned 
 thunderstruck with what he had seen — ample and in- 
 dubitable corroboration of all Oxleigh had told him 
 overnight — a ruined, a blighted man. It was long be- 
 fore he recovered the stunning effects of the disclosure. 
 He gradually became passive in the hands of Oxleigh. 
 The servants at the hall, and Sir William's friends, 
 equally wondered what could be the reason of Oxleigh's 
 perpetual presence at the hall. 
 
 In three weeks' tyne it was a matter of notoriety 
 over the country, that Job Oxleigh, Esq., of Oxleigh, 
 had purchased " The Sheaves" estate from Sir William 
 Gwynne ; and shortly afterward occurred the seizure 
 with which this narrative commences. Sir William 
 and Oxleigh, with two desperate fellows hired by Ox- 
 leigh, were the four that set upon Forster, and, subse- 
 quently, William Fowler. Sir William became one 
 of the most miserable of men. His altered demeanour 
 and habits became matter of public observation. He 
 contrived to have it given out that he had become ad- 
 
1^0 THE WAGONER. 
 
 dieted to the gaming table ; and the subtle Oxleigh en- 
 couraged the rumour — even allowing himself to be 
 thought one of Sir William's winners ! That consum- 
 mate scoundrel contrived to write himself, in two or 
 three years' time, Job Oxleigh, Esq., M.P. ; and was 
 on terms of intimate acquaintance with most of the 
 leading men in the county. He easily made his pres- 
 ence, in a manner, necessary to the wretched baro- 
 net, whose nobler soul drooped daily under the pres- 
 sure of guilt contracted in a weak and evil hour, and 
 so wormed himself into his confidence, that, what with 
 wheedling and menace, he obtained an introduction to 
 a female relative of the baronet's, and married her. 
 
 Hurrying on an interval of several years — for the 
 few remaining scenes of this black drama must now 
 be passed rapidly before the reader's eyes — let us ap- 
 proach the mansion of Job Oxleigh, Esq., M.P., on an 
 evening in the winter of the year 1768. He was en- 
 tertaining a numerous and gay dinner party, consisting 
 of some of the most distinguished people in the county 
 Sir William Gwynne was to have been one of them, 
 but excused himself on the score of illness. Many 
 were the toasts that had been drunk, and were drink- 
 ing ; and the health of the host was being proposed, 
 and received with complimentary enthusiasm, when a 
 servant brought in a letter, which he put into the hands 
 of the Rev. Dr. Ebury, the vicar of the parish, a staid 
 and learned man, who, after a polite nod to the host,, 
 opened it, and read with much surprise as follows r — 
 " The master of the workhouse presents respects to 
 the Rev. Dr. Ebury, and begs to inform him that there 
 is a pauper in the workhouse, now in dying circum- 
 stances, who has ^so disturbed, for some time, every- 
 body in the house with his groans and lamentations, 
 that it has been found necessary to put him into a room 
 by himself. He says he has something very heavy 
 on his mind, and humbly begs the favour of a clergy- 
 man's being sent for, when he will make an important 
 confession. The Rev. Dr. Ebury is respectfully ia» 
 
THE WAGONER. 191 
 
 formed, that the man is pronounced to be in extreme 
 circumstances, and that unless the doctor can come 
 immediately, it may prove too late." 
 
 Great was the astonishment with which Dr. Ebury 
 perused this letter, which he took an opportunity of 
 reading aloud to the company, as at once a sufficient 
 and very interesting excuse for leaving. He promised 
 to return to the party that evening, and communicate 
 any intelligence he might receive. Mr. Oxleigh was 
 observed to start as Dr. Ebury went on ; and when he 
 had finished reading the letter, Mr. Oxleigh turned 
 deadly pale. Fortunately, however, for him, he had 
 been complaining of indisposition several times in the 
 course of the evening ; and what was really the con- 
 sequence of consternation and guilt, was attributed by 
 those around him to the cause he assigned. His 
 hands, his whole limbs shook ; and his eyes looked 
 glassily around the no longer welcome company ; for 
 he felt frightful misgivings that his name might be 
 implicated in the confessions which the clergyman was 
 gone to receive I 
 
 When Dr. Ebury reached the workhouse, he was 
 conducted alone to the bedside of the man who had 
 wished to see him. He sat beside the gaunt and ghastly 
 figure of a once tall and powerful mam The eyes 
 were sunk and fixed, the flesh fallen away from his 
 high cheek bones, his bloodless lips were retracted, 
 and his huge bony hands, comparatively fleshless, 
 clasped together on his breast, as in an attitude of 
 prayer. He looked a fearful figure — the remnant of a 
 ruffian. 
 
 Dr. Ebury knelt down beside the dying man, and 
 uttered a few words of prayer over him. 
 
 " And what have you to say to me, my friend V in- 
 quired Dr. Ebury, as soon as they were left alone. 
 The man bent his staring eyes glassily on the clergy- 
 man, and with some difficulty, owing to a convulsive 
 twiching about the throat, gasped, " Ay, sir, ay ! much 
 to say, and short my time ! Lord have mercy on me i 
 
X92 THE WAGONER. 
 
 Oh, good Lord, pardon my wicked soul ! Lord, Lord, 
 forgive me, and I will confess all !" The man's limbs 
 shook, and his lips worked to and fro violently, evi- 
 dencing the presence of terrible emotion. He then 
 gasped and faltered, at intervals, somewhat to the fol- 
 lowing effect : " Doctor, I have lived in guilt almost 
 from a child — wo to me that I was ever born ! I have 
 been a robber, and a smuggler, and even— even" — his 
 retracted lips disclosed his white teeth in a. frightful 
 manner — " a— murderer ! Ay — I have ! But there is 
 nothing weighs down my soul so heavily in these 
 my last moments, so heavily as one wickedness I have 
 done to an innocent, unolfending man — for, black and 
 cruel as it will seem, it may be yet in my power to 
 make amends. I shall break my oath — " Here a 
 convulsive twitching seized his whole frame, and Dr. 
 Ebury, under the apprehension that the man was dy- 
 ing, called for assistance. It was nearly a quarter of 
 an hour before the power of speech returned. " Sir, 
 will God curse me if I break an oath I ought never to 
 have made ?" Dr. Ebury solemnly replied, " No ; es- 
 pecially if breaking it will tend to repair the evil you 
 have done !" The man seemed encouraged. 
 
 " It is more than eight years ago now, sir — close 
 going for nine — that a man of the name of Isaacs and 
 I, both being smugglers at the time, were hired to help 
 in kidnapping a man of the name of Fowler — " " Fow- 
 ler! Fowler!" exclaimed Dr. Ebury, bending down 
 breathlessly to catch every word, uttered more faintly 
 every moment by the dying man. 
 
 " Yes, sir — Fowler was his name, William Fowler 
 — send him off to America, and Isaacs with him ; and 
 cruelly did we use the poor harmless fellow !" 
 
 : ' And why was it all V " Because, sir, our employers 
 told us he stood in the way of their rights !" 
 
 " What were their names ?" inquired Dr. Ebury, 
 bending down his ear to the very lips of the dying man, 
 to catch every breath of sound. " Sir William G wynne, 
 and — and Squire Ox — Ox — leigh — " 
 
THE WAGONER. 193 
 
 Dr. Ebury turned suddenly pale, and almost over- 
 threw the chair on which he had been sitting. 
 
 " Go on — go on ! God give you strength to tell all 
 you wish, and truly !" «* Amen ! amen ! amen !" re^- 
 plied the dying man, closing his eyes. His breath 
 was evidently beginning to fail. 
 
 " Speak, before it is too late — relieve your soul — " 
 "Mr. Ox— Ox— leigh— paid me— had, in all, hundreds 
 of pounds — Fowler — now in America — hope — alive — 
 New- York — Isaacs — order to kill — oh — save — save 
 — pray!" The wretched man's voice ceased, and 
 gave place to a horrid choking, gurgling sound — his 
 hands quivered a moment with final agonies — there 
 was a sudden start — his jaw dropped — his eyes looked 
 upward with a fixed leaden stare — and Dr. Ebury sat 
 gazing on as fearful a corpse as he had ever witnessed. 
 He was so stunned with what he had heard, that he 
 did not think of moving for some minutes from his seat 
 beside the dead man. " Sir William Gwynne ! Mr. 
 Oxleigh !" he repeated, scarcely believing he had 
 heard the words aright. He left the workhouse with 
 such agitation in his countenance and trepidation in his 
 gestures, as sufficiently alarmed the master and others 
 whom he encountered, and who knew the dreary errand 
 on which he had been summoned. He returned not to 
 Mr. Oxleigh's party, but hurried to his own house, be- 
 took himself to his study, and instantly committed to 
 paper what he had heard, determined, whatever might 
 happen, to preserve such a faithful record as he could 
 swear to. 
 
 About an hour after Dr. Ebury had left the work* 
 house, Mr. Oxleigh made his appearance there, having 
 suddenly dismissed his visiters on the plea of illness. 
 
 '* Is the man dead, sir V he inquired, falteringly^ 
 from the master. " What — the man Dr. Ebury came to 
 see, an hour or so since ?" " The same — ay, the same," 
 replied Oxleigh, hastily. " Yes, sir. He died while 
 Dr. Ebury was with him ; and he has — " 
 
 11 Give me a light, sir, and let me be shown into the 
 I 17 
 
394 THE WAGONER* 
 
 room alone. It is of consequence," said Oxleiglr, 
 sternly ; and presently, with a candle in his hand, he 
 entered the room where the corpse, yet untouched, was 
 lying. He shut the door, and bolted it ; approached 
 the corpse, and let the light of the candle fall upon the 
 ghastly features. His own countenance was blanched 
 in a moment. " So — it is you I Dam — ned ruffian l n 
 he gasped, in a low choked tone, his body half recoil- 
 ing from that of the dead man ; his eyes gleaming with 
 a diabolical stare upon those of the corpse ; his left 
 hand elevating his candle, and his right, with the fist 
 convulsively clenched, extended, for nearly a minute, 
 in quivering contact with the face of the deceased. 
 He struck the cold corpse — and then, overcome with 
 horror, sank down into a chair ; his candle dropped — 
 was extinguished — and then the dead and living ruffians 
 were left together in darkness. 
 
 In a state of distraction bordering on phrensy, Oxleigh 
 made his way from the workhouse, amazing the people 
 lie passed by the wildness and agitation apparent in his 
 countenance. He hurried on horseback to Gwynne 
 Hall, and asked hastily for Sir William Gwynne. He 
 was informed that the baronet, feeling worse that eve- 
 ning, had been some hours in bed. *' Nevermind, sir," 
 said Oxleigh to the thunderstruck valet; " show me 
 into Sir William's chamber instantly. Tell him my 
 name, and that my business is of mortal consequence !" 
 The valet returned shortly, and conducted Mr. Oxleigh 
 at once to the bedside of his master. 
 
 " Well, sir — well," commenced the baronet, in a low 
 and hurried tone. " What is the matter 1 For God's 
 sake, sir, what has happened?" he inquired, in still 
 greater agitation, seeing Oxleigh stand speechless, and 
 the image of despair. 
 
 " Sir William, it is all over with us ; we are discov- 
 ered !" at length replied Oxleigh, in a gasping whis- 
 per, laying his shaking hand on the baronet's shoulder. 
 Sir William sprung up in bed, as if he had received an 
 electric shock, tossed of the bedclothes, and lay curved 
 
THE WAGONER. 195 
 
 srp and crouching in the midst of them, with his hands 
 clutching" the hair of his head, and his countenance full 
 of frightful expression. It did little more than reflect 
 the horror-stricken features of Oxleigh. There was a 
 guilty pair! The baronet, without having uttered a 
 syllable, slowly sank again into bed, and lay there, ab- 
 solutely gasping. Neither of them spoke. At length 
 Oxleigh recovered himself sufficiently to say, " Sir 
 William, Sir William, this is very truth ; but we must 
 not shrink in the hour of danger. We must meet it 
 like men. We must, Sir William," he continued, ey- 
 ing the dumbstruck, stupified baronet, who scarce 
 seemed to hear him, but mumbled to himself. At 
 length, Oxleigh distinguished the words, * A Is it death, 
 or transportation ?" " You are rambling, Sir William ! 
 What are yon talking about ? It is weak to behave 
 thus, in snch an awful crisis. Remember how you 
 have implicated me, Sir William I" 
 
 The baronet was roused by these last words from his 
 lethargy. He turned his head suddenly towards Ox- 
 leigh, looked at him a few seconds, and then suddenly 
 leaped towards him, grasped him by the collar, and 
 shook him with frantic fury, exclaiming, "You fiend ! 
 you fiend 1 . — to talk thus to :.ie l* 5 He had hardly ut- 
 tered the words, however, before his hold relaxed, and 
 he dropped into bed again in a swoon. Oxleigh rang 
 the bell ; and when the valet made his appearance, he 
 informed him he was going to bring the physician, and 
 suddenly left the hall. He hurried through the lonely 
 park on foot; and when he had reached the thickest 
 clump of trees, he paused, leaned against the glistening 
 trunk of an old ash, and, with folded arms and bent 
 brows, pondered his fearful fortunes. 
 
 '• What is to be done ! Dr. Ebury has taken down 
 his confession, and has not returned, as he promised, 
 to my house! Then he knows all '. .Messengers will 
 be sent off to America, Sir William and I shall be ar- 
 rested, we shall be confronted with Fowler in a court 
 of justice— or— I must away betimes ! And yet sup- 
 
 12 
 
J 96 THE WAGONER. 
 
 pose, after all, the man died before he could make con- 
 fession ! Suppose he was unable to speak distinctly ! 
 Suppose he has not told names — has not mentioned me 
 — and all is yet safe ! There is a straw to cling to ! 
 But suppose he has ! My neck aches ! I must away ! 
 I must leave all behind me. Yes — Sir William 
 Gwynne ! Well — what if I do leave him ? Would 
 he risk his life for me ? Then why I for him ? I en- 
 tered into all this to serve my ends, not his ! I must 
 away — be off to America ! This night — ay, this very 
 night — and alone ! If I had but known where the 
 cursed caitiff that has betrayed me was to have been 
 found, I would have silenced him !" Oxleigh clutched 
 his hands involuntary, as though they were grasping the 
 dead man's throat. " This is why he has been ab- 
 sconding the last six months from Sir William and me 
 — the pitiful villain — the cowardly, treacherous devil !" 
 He sprang from where he had been standing, made 
 for where he had fastened his horse, galloped at his ut- 
 most speed over the highway, and was soon at home. 
 After a night of terrible agitation, he determined to take 
 the earliest opportunity of calling at the vicarge, and 
 seeing Dr. Ebury, where he could but learn the worst. 
 By fen o'clock he was knocking at the vicar's ; but to 
 his consternation, he found that Dr. Ebury had set off 
 an hour before in a carriage and four for London, in 
 company with Mr. Parkhurst, a solicitor in the neigh- 
 bourhood. There was no mistaking that move, thought 
 Oxleigh ! He returned home, and hastily wrote to Sir 
 William Gwynne : — 
 
 " Fate thrusts me from England. When you read 
 this I shall be on my way to foreign parts. I can do 
 no good in England for myself or for you. I leave you 
 bound to the stake by your own weakness. Accursed, 
 damned be the hour I ever saw you, or discovered the 
 means of my ruin. J. O." 
 
 He altered his intentions suddenly, however, after 
 
THE WAGONER. 197 
 
 •writing and sending the above note to Sir William 
 Gwynne ; for his terrified domestics found him that 
 morning lying in the paved yard behind his house, hor- 
 ribly crushed and mangled. He had thrown himself, 
 head foremost, out of the highest window ! 
 
 The scene must once more shift to America. In 
 the large room of an inn in New- York, one Saturday 
 evening in February, 1769, was collected together 
 the usual miscellaneous assemblage of sailors, small, 
 tradesmen, and others fond of " noisy song and stirring 
 draught." It differed little from a crowded English 
 taproom. Liquor circulated freely, and conversation, 
 if such name it deserved, was brisk and boisterous. 
 There were several recently arrived British sailors in 
 the room, who about eight o'clock left to return to their 
 respective vessels, leaving behind them two of their 
 passengers. These men seemed silent and reserved, 
 even beyond the proverbial taciturnity of Englishmen ; 
 and for upward of an hour had drunk their liquor in 
 quiet, without exchanging a syllable with any one about 
 them. They continued drinking, however, till liquor 
 opened the sluices of speech — at least of one — who 
 took the opportunity of the other's temporary absence 
 to inform a listening coterie that had gradually collected 
 about the benqh on which he sat, of -the reason for his 
 visiting America. This prudent person was no other 
 than he who was first brought before the eye of the 
 reader — Richard Forster, who had, during the seven 
 or eight years which had elapsed, been elevated to the 
 dignity of constable; and he told his gaping auditors 
 that his and his companion's errand to America, in 
 company with a 'torney and his clerk, was to discover 
 a kidnapped Englishman of the name of Fowler ! 
 
 " I suppose there isn't any one here that knows Bill 
 Fowler, or where he may be found ?" inquired the gar- 
 rulous and foolish Englishman, whose simple intellects 
 were getting more and more disturbed with what he 
 was drinking. He repeated his question. 
 
 17* 
 
198 THE WAGONER. 
 
 " Hold your tongue, you idiot !" growled his com- 
 panion, that moment returning, and resuming his seat 
 by Forster ; " hold your — — tongue, you fool !" and 
 his brother constable pinched him cruelly by the arm. 
 Forster's question was answered in the negative by 
 those around, who began to ask questions in their 
 turn. 
 
 "Does any of you — " "St! st!" whispered his 
 scowling companion, kicking Forster's shins under the 
 table. But his tongue had been set going, and could 
 not easily be stopped. 
 
 " Does any one know a fellow of the name of — 
 of — of — Le — Le — hang me, I've forgotten the name ! 
 What is it, Dobbes V he hiccoughed to his companion, 
 who was smoking his pipe with prodigious energy. 
 li Oh, you fool ! Don't speak to me. You de- 
 serve your tongue cut out of your head ! Gentlemen," 
 he continued, addressing those around, " all that this 
 silly chap has said is blather — mere moonshine. He's 
 drunk ! We have but come to America to-day, and 
 for the purpose of settling in this town if we can." 
 But his auditors' curiosity was excited, and could not 
 be so easily allayed. One of them was — Francis Le- 
 roux himself; and the consternation with which he 
 listened to the gabble of the English stranger may be 
 imagined. He had only that afternoon come up to 
 New- York to see whether there were any long-ex- 
 pected letters for him from England ; for his own let- 
 ter had been long unanswered, and he was getting 
 furious, and bent on mischief. He was too practised 
 a villain to lose his presence of mind in such an emer- 
 gency as that in which he now suddenly found himself 
 placed. Drinking a little deeper from the glass that 
 stood before him, he mingled with the throng around 
 Forster, and with as indifferent a tone as he could as- 
 sume, inquired, " Why, what does your government in- 
 tend to do with the knave ?" " It has sent out us four 
 gentlemen to seek these two men, Bill Fowler (who, 
 would you believe it, is an old friend of mine) and 
 
THE- WAGONER. 199 
 
 Le — Le — Le — what's his name 1 — back to England. 
 The whole thing is discovered ! 'Tis all known ! 
 This Bill Fowler is worth — " 
 
 " Now, I'll tell thee what, thou exceeding ass !" ex- 
 claimed his companion, a huge fellow, flinging down 
 his pipe, " if thou sayst one word more, I'll take thee 
 into the street, and put my fist upon thee till thou art 
 beaten sober again. Come away, you rascal !" and 
 Dick was dragged out of the room, amid the jokes and 
 laughter of the whole assemblage. 
 
 Neither joke nor laugh, however, fell from the quiv- 
 ering lip of Leroux. He presently left the inn, and 
 made for the post where he had tied up his nag, which 
 he saddled, mounted, and rode at a smart pace out of 
 the town, desirous of reaching his and Richard Fow- 
 ler's residence as quickly as his horse would carry him. 
 Two schemes suggested themselves to his busy thought 
 as he rode along. The one was to make drunk, and 
 then murder Fowler that very night, and then start for 
 South America. The other to conceal him, by getting 
 him to undertake a journey far inland, and keeping 
 him there on one pretext of business or another, till 
 Leroux could make terms for himself by turning king's 
 evidence and betraying his employers. 
 
 " I know ^vell how to dispose of him," thought Le- 
 roux, as he rode slowly up a hill to ease his nag ; 
 M and yet not have to charge myself with his murder. 
 Poor Fowler ! He is a harmless fellow, too — and 
 what harm has he ever done me? But I've done too 
 much against him already to stop now i Besides, Sir 
 William Gwynne's last letter — and I've sworn to obey 
 him ! So— let me see how it might be done. Sup- 
 pose I wait till to-morrow evening, and then ask Fow- 
 ler quietly to drink with me at my little place in the 
 Lake field. He is easy and simple, especially in the 
 matter of drink, which I can make him swill till he 
 knows not whether head or heels are uppermost. Then 
 I will part with him ; and to return home he must pass 
 the Dorlbad, which is a rotten and dangerous bridge, 
 
200 , THE WAGONER. 
 
 scarcely passable by daytime, and while sober — and 
 there is a rushing stream underneath, with a thirty feet 
 fall ! Suppose I send him out, then, reeling, and nearly 
 blind drunk — and shake hands with him at parting, 
 telling him to take care of himself — (Lord, there carCt 
 be murder if I say that !) Well — he comes to the 
 bridge — he staggers — his foot — his foot — his foot slips 
 — I watch him from a distance — do not see him — there 
 is a faint crash — and I am off that night for South — " 
 
 Leroux's horse had been standing still, while these 
 fearful thoughts passed through the head of its rider, 
 who suddenly heard the clatter of horses' hoofs ap- 
 proaching from behind, at a smart pace ; and, turning 
 round his head, he found a small party of horsemen ap- 
 proaching him. He was a little surprised at this, for 
 the road was lonely and unfrequented ; but surprise' 
 gave way to a very different feeling, when, on being 
 overtaken, one of the party stopped his horse beside 
 him, and — another snatching hold of his bridle — seized" 
 him with the grasp of a Hercules by the collar, and in 
 a rough English voice, said, " Isaac Isaacs — thou art 
 my man ; and, dead or alive, I will have thee in Eng- 
 land before thou art two months older. I say," he con- 
 tinued, tightening his vicelike hold ; " hast forgotten 
 what an English bulldog is, Isaac ?" 
 
 Confounded, as he well might be, with the sudden- 
 ness of the seizure, and more so at hearing his real 
 name spoken, the first time for many years, Isaacs, who 
 was a very muscular man, swung his assailant nearly 
 off his horse with a sudden jerk of his arm. Two pis- 
 tols were instantly levelled at his head. 
 
 " Dost see what are before thee V inquired the man 
 who had seized him, and still kept his hold. " They 
 will teach thee reason !" " Why — are you English- 
 men?" growled Isaac^ "and is this the way — " 
 
 " Ay, we are English — and stout men, too !" re- 
 plied the brawny constable ; " and to show thee what 
 stuff we are made of — if thou hast English blood 
 enough left in thee to relish a round at bruising, (thou 
 
THE WAGONER. 201 
 
 art a big fellow,) and wilt dismount. I will make thee 
 swear a horse kicked thee, Isaacs !' ; shaking his huge 
 fist at his prisoner. " Come ! art for a turn ?"' u A 
 likely thing!" muttered Isaacs, without stirring a 
 muscle. 
 
 <k So ! thou wilt not fight un, eh ? Well— to be sure 
 thou hast lived in America, and forgotten our English 
 ways. But we shall teach thee them, Master Isaacs!" 
 he continued — and observing his prisoner with his 
 hand in his bosom, trying to unclasp a knife, he aimed 
 such a tremendous blow at the side of his head, that 
 his prisoner would have fallen from his horse, had he 
 not still been held by the left hand of the constable. 
 Isaacs was completely stunned ; and before he could 
 recover himself, his arms were tied tightly to sr ether 
 behind his back, and the rope passed once round his 
 neck, in such a way. that if he struggled at all, he 
 would find himself nearly choked. 
 
 ' ; Now look, Isaacs," said the constable, standing 
 over his slowly recovering prisoner, * : I have often 
 seen thy ugrly face in Shropshire, and knew the sort of 
 trade thou didst carry on, though mayhap thou knew- 
 est naught of me. I heard thee ask Dick Forster 
 here, them questions at the inn ! I saw thy face go 
 white as a new-washed shirt ! And now, to be short, 
 having thus quietly taken thee, we will as quietly keep 
 thee ! Isaacs, an thou art for leaving America ah 
 do thou harken to me, and tell me where Bill Fowler 
 is, or we'll hang thy great carcass on the first tree we 
 come to ; which is the English way of doing things in 
 America." 
 
 •* Where is your warrant for all this V growled 
 Isaacs. '"Here!" said the* Englishman, taking a pis- 
 tol out of his coat pocket : M sure this will be enough 
 for thee ! Isaacs, we be charged to bring home thee 
 and Sir William Fowler Gwynae, by fair means or 
 foul, and we will, Isaacs V 
 
 u Well — let me know one thing. If I should show 
 you where he is, safe and sound — will you release 
 
202 the wagoner. 
 
 met" There was a pause. "No — I will be plain 
 and true with thee like a man. We will not let thee 
 go ; we will have thee back to England, dead or alive." 
 
 "Well— if I show him to you — and we both reach 
 England — what will be done with me, think you? — 
 hanging?" "Why — no; I doubt whether thou art 
 worthy of that. Thou wilt, perchance, be put into the 
 stocks, morning, noon, and night, for three years ; and 
 then publicly whipped ; and then be kicked out of 
 Old England, and sent to a somewhat different place from 
 this — and when thou art there, how soon thou gettest 
 shot, or hanged, matters not." Every one laughed at 
 the eloquence of the constable but Isaacs. 
 
 " What — will it not make in my favour to tell you 
 where he is, gentlemen ?" said the crestfallen Isaacs, 
 quite cowered before the plain-spoken, resolute, athletic 
 Englishman. " To be sure it will ! An thou dost 
 not, thou shall not live to get hanged in England, for I 
 will knock out thy brains here !" Isaacs seemed re- 
 flecting a while. 
 
 11 Well," said he, at length, " I see how it is — and 
 perhaps 'twere better to tell all at once ! Look'ee, 
 gentlemen ! — I'm an injured man." There was a 
 laugh. " I've done all in my power to release Fowler, 
 and get him back to England — but could not compass 
 it. I have used him handsomely, and given him 
 almost all the moneys that were sent me from Eng- 
 land." " Come, then — he'll be better able to tell us 
 that himself," said the constable, urging his prisoner, 
 and helping him on horseback ; " thou must mind say 
 all that before my lord the judge in England, who will 
 have to sentence thee. I am a plain man, and don't 
 see the use on't ! Now lerfd thou on, Master Isaacs !" 
 
 Nearly bursting with fury, Isaacs, his horse's bridle 
 held by the constable, directed the party in what di- 
 rection to proceed ; and in about two hours time the 
 cavalcade entered the quiet farmyard of Fowler and 
 Isaacs — and one of the party knocked at the house- 
 
THE WAGONER. 203 
 
 door. It was about twelve o'clock, and Fowler was 
 greatly alarmed, thinking himself beset by banditti. 
 
 M Do but come down to us," said Dick Forster, one 
 of the party, thoroughly shaken into his sober senses, 
 before setting out on the expedition, by his angry com- 
 panion. " Do but come down to us, and we will tell 
 you the greatest piece of news you ever heard. Come ! 
 — come, an it be with a cocked pistol in each hand, 
 and under both arms ! Why, man, 1 am loving Richard 
 Forster from England! And here be never so many 
 friends come with me, to bear me company to you !" 
 Fowler nearly leaped out of the window from which 
 he had been reconnoitring the party in the yard. In a 
 trice he was down stairs, in the midst of them, with 
 his cap and night shirt; and singling out Forster, who 
 rushed forward to meet him, clasped him in his arms, 
 laughing and crying by turns. 
 
 •• Whv, dearest Dick, what art thou come here for? 
 Who be all these ?" All bowed and removed their hats, 
 and their eloquent spokesman proceeded — " We be 
 come for to tell you of your rights, and riches, and 
 honour, and titles, and our loves. You be no longer 
 Bill Fowler, but Sir William Fowler Gwynne, a baro- 
 net of Gwynne Hall, Shropshire, with a hundred thou- 
 sand pounds a year besides ! An't he, gentlemen, eh V 
 — turning round with a confident air to his bowing 
 companions. 
 
 " Sir William — Sir William — what ? " inquired 
 Fowler, standing stupified among them. " Ay, ay, 
 Bill — I mean Sir Bill— that is. Sir William," stam- 
 mered Dick Forster — " you be really a very great 
 man, and here's one behind us will tell thee so, be- 
 sides '." And stepping aside, poor Leroux, with his 
 hands tied behind him, and in the grasp of the gigantic 
 constable, stood forth to view. Fowler stared at him, 
 breathlessly. 
 
 " Isaacs!" said Forster, " I mean, Le — Le — what's 
 it? — isn't all this true? Isn't Bill Fowler that was, a 
 baronet now, by the name of Sir William Fowler?" 
 
204 THE WAGONER. 
 
 " Ay, I suppose so !" grumbled Isaacs, ashamed to 
 look his ci-devant captive in the face. 
 
 " What ! is it all true !" said Fowler, approaching 
 him, with a wondering air. " Is it no dream 1 — no 
 mockery ?" " You are Sir William Gwynne !" replied 
 Isaacs, sullenly. 
 
 ** And why are you tied in this way, eh ?" pursued 
 Fowler, elevating his hands in astonishment. " Be- 
 cause he's a rogue as you are a baronet !" replied Dick 
 Forster, promptly. 
 
 Fowler still looked bewildered. " Gentlemen," said 
 he, suddenly, " I can't make it out ; but I shall know 
 better what to think, when I've slept upon it ! But — ■■ 
 if I'm really a baronet — why, I'll make you all drink 
 this night with the greatest man you ever drank with 
 before ! I will empty all my ale casks for you, and 
 you can drink them. Come in, gentlemen—come in, 
 I say !" 
 
 The baronet was obeyed ; and in a short time was 
 sitting in his parlour, with a new-lighted fire, surrounded 
 by his English friends, and with a fresh-tapped cask 
 of ale upon the table, which supplied such excitement 
 to them all, as found vent in songs that might have been 
 heard a mile off, and were heard with peculiar satis- 
 faction by Isaacs, who, with his legs tied together and 
 his arms pinioned, lay in the room overhead. It need 
 not occasion surprise to hear that the rising sun beheld 
 the newly made baronet, and his jolly friends, lying 
 huddled together on the parlour floor, in prostrate adora- 
 tion before the shrine of Bacchus. It was arranged 
 that they were all to set off for England without the 
 delay or a day. Sir William Fowler was not long in 
 making his preparations ; but one of the expected 
 guests did not evince such alacrity for the voyage as 
 his companions. It was Isaacs ; who took the oppor- 
 tunity, in some inexplicable way, of making his escape. 
 When his mortified captors came, hardly sobered, into 
 the room where they had left him, lo ! their man was 
 
THE WAGONER. 205 
 
 gone ! All search proved useless ; no traces of him 
 were ever discovered. 
 
 Let us travel faster to England than Sir William and 
 his attendants, and view the aspect of matters awaiting 
 his arrival. 
 
 Dr. Ebury lost no time, as he was, in proceeding up 
 to London, and laying before the secretary of state the 
 shocking confession he had received, thereby explain- 
 ing the sudden and mysterious abduction of Fowler. 
 The villanous plot began to unravel itself; but, as an 
 affair of such magnitude, and criminating a man of the 
 rank and fortune of Sir William Gwynne, the secre- 
 tary of state enjoined the utmost deliberation and cir- 
 cumspection. The moment, however, Oxleigh's sui- 
 cide was communicated to him, he felt warranted, at 
 the instance of Mr. Parkhurst, the solicitor accompany- 
 ing Dr. Ebury, in sending a commission of four per- 
 sons to America ; two of them constables from the 
 neighbourhood, and acquainted with the person of Fow- 
 ler, to bring back the kidnapped heir to the titles and 
 estates of Gwynne. In the mean time, Mr. Parkhurst 
 hurried down .to Shropshire with a warrant to arrest 
 Oxleigh, and reached his house, with officers, during 
 the time that a coroner's inquest was sitting on the 
 body. He then proceeded to Gwynne Hall ; but found 
 Sir William in too dangerous circumstances to be 
 moved. Very heavy bail was taken for him, and an 
 officer besides left in the house. A most rigorous in- 
 vestigation into the whole affair was set on foot by Mr* 
 Parkhurst and Dr. Ebury. The claims of the absent 
 Fowler were thoroughly sifted, and found to be irre- 
 fragable. Morning, noon, and night, did Mr. Parkhurst 
 devote cheerfully to the laborious inquiry ; writing with 
 his own hands hundreds of folios. When, at length, 
 he had collected all his materials, and, as the phrase 
 is, " licked them a little into shape," he set off with 
 them for London, to secure the opinion and advice of 
 the celebrated attorney general. Great interest was 
 excited about the cause, even in the metropolis ; and 
 
 18 
 
20$ THE WAGONER. 
 
 all parties waited with anxiety for the decision of the 
 attorney general — as if his fiat had been that of the 
 judges. 
 
 The day appointed by the attorney general for de- 
 livering his opinion on the voluminous case laid before 
 him, happened, singularly enough, to be that on which 
 the new baronet and his friends arrived in London, 
 from America. Mr. Parkhurst soon received intelli- 
 gence of the event ; and procured the attendance of 
 Sir William, with himself, Dr. Ebury, and another, at 
 the attorney general's chambers in the Temple, where 
 he had intimated his intention of reading to them and 
 explaining his opinion. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said he, " I do not think I ever devoted 
 such anxious care to a case as this, i have gone 
 nearly a dozen times over this pile of papers, and had, 
 all the while, the assistance of my eminent brother, 
 the solicitor general. We completely agree in one 
 opinion ; which is, that the title of Sir William Gwynne 
 cannot be disturbed." Mr. Parkhurst almost sank 
 into the floor. " There are two reasons for this," pro- 
 ceeded the attorney general, calmly ; " first, the statute 
 of limitations came into operation six months ago, in 
 Sir William's favour : and I ne*ed not say, that when 
 the statute once begins to run, nothing can stop it. But 
 even supposing that ground to be doubtful, as it may, 
 possibly, be beat into a questionable shape, there is 
 yet a fatal obstacle in the way of the person whose 
 pretensions you have so zealously and ably espoused ; 
 Sir William Gwynne is the right heir at law." 
 Mr. Parkhurst looked aghast. " In a matter of such 
 moment as this, I have availed myself of a certain in- 
 formation, which was tendered to me in consideration 
 of my office. I have here, and shall deliver into your 
 hands, a document, formerly in the possession of the 
 deceased Mr. Job Oxleigh, and unquestionably in his 
 handwriting, stating, with proofs, that the wife of the 
 late Mr. William Fowler Gwynne, the alleged mother 
 of the person now present" — pointing to the sci-disant 
 
THE WAGONER. 207 
 
 baronet — <{ died, certainly having given birth to a son ; 
 but that sox pied within a week of his christening. 
 This young man, who has always hitherto Borne the 
 name of William Fowler, 'was an orphan son of a poor 
 woman that died in the neighbourhood of Mrs. Fowler, 
 who took her child, nursed it, gave it the name of Wil- 
 liam Fowler, and died, leaving it about two years of 
 age. The whole has been the singularly artful con- 
 trivance of the late Mr. Job Oxleigh, to hold Sir Wil- 
 liam G uynne in bondage, and extort from him the 
 estate called ' The Sheaves,' of which Mr. Oxleigh 
 was possessed. I may take the liberty of suggesting, 
 that, though the baronet has acted cruelly and illegally, 
 under the circumstances, a prosecution against him 
 would not be more than barely sustained. He has 
 suffered greater torture for the last nine or ten years, 
 than the law can now 7 inflict upon him. It is of course, 
 however, for you and others to consider this, which I 
 merely offer as a suggestion. Sir, I beg to hand you 
 my w r ritten opinion, as w r ell as the document to which 
 I have alluded ; and to intimate that I am compelled to 
 withdraw, being summoned to attend the king." 
 
 The attorney general bowed, and withdrew into 
 another room, leaving Mr. Parkhurst, and indeed all 
 present, completely thunderstruck. 
 
 " What ! Be I no baronet, then, after all V* in- 
 quired Fowler, wofully chopfallen. Mr. Parkhurst 
 gave him no answer. 
 
 " W 7 ho is to send me back again to America V 
 
 These were puzzling and unwelcome questions. 
 How the poor fellow was eventually disposed of, I 
 know r not ; though, it is said, he was seen, shortly 
 after, in his old character of a wagoner ; and his 
 splendid adventures silenced for ever the claims to pop- 
 ularity of poor Dick Forster. Mr. Parkhurst did not 
 continue in town two hours after the attorney general 
 had delivered his opinion ; but stepped into a post- 
 chaise and four, and hurried down into Shropshire, to 
 release Sir William Gwynne from all restraint, and 
 
208 THE WAGONER. 
 
 communicate the extraordinary turn which circum- 
 stances had taken, He reached Gwynne Hall in time 
 to see the return of the mournful funeral procession 
 which had attended Sir William's remains to the vault 
 of his ancestors. The griefworn, broken-hearted bar- 
 onet — the victim of villany almost unequalled in sys- 
 tematic atrocity — had expired about a week before, 
 begging he might be buried as quickly as possible — as 
 though he were ashamed for his remains to be upon 
 the face of the earth. The titles and estates went to 
 a remote member of the family. 
 
 END OF THE WAGONER, 
 
MONKWYND: 
 
 LEGENDARY FRAGMENT. 
 
 Bast. Your sword is bright, sir : put it up again. 
 Sal. Not till I sheath it in a murderer's skin. 
 
 King John. 
 
 The soft sunlight streamed sadly through many a 
 dim and gloomy vista of Monkwynd Forest, towards 
 the close of a sultry afternoon, in the autumn of 1399. 
 On every side, beyond the eye's ken, stretched vast 
 sylvan colonnades of amber-hued trees, here and there 
 interrupted by a gaunt and hoary oak, who seemed 
 struggling to maintain his patriarchal supremacy over 
 his leafy brethren — and irregular clumps of towering 
 elms. Dimly through the distance was occasionally 
 seen the form of a solitary deer, glancing swiftly among 
 the trees, as if in search of his strayed comrades. 
 Solemn and unbroken stillness reigned throughout the 
 gloomy depths of Monkwynd. Rich masses of broken 
 sunlight fell at intervals on the soft, glistening moss, 
 which looked as though it had never been crushed be- 
 neath the proud footsteps of man. The sun was as yet 
 at a considerable height above the vast outline of the 
 Welsh mountains, which bounded the horizon. 
 
 A slight gloom overcast the rich and tranquil scenery ; 
 and the aspect of the sky betokened the rapid approach 
 of a thunder storm. The sun, with his regal train, 
 presently disappeared behind a dense phalanx of tow- 
 
 IS* 
 
I 
 
 210 . ' MONKWYND. 
 
 ering clouds, which seemed as though collecting from 
 all parts " the loud artillery of heaven." A few mo- 
 ments ensued, of that intense and sultry stillness which 
 usually precedes a storm. Nature seemed to sink with 
 fearful apprehension of what might follow. At last, a 
 few large drops of rain were heard pattering slowly 
 through the motionless branches ; they were soon fol- 
 lowed by an astounding peal of thunder, which seemed 
 to shake the whole forest, as its long and deep re- 
 verberations died away among the distant groves. 
 Several awfully vivid sheets of lightning shed over the 
 scenery a transient ghastly light ; and in a few mo- 
 ments the rain poured down in torrents. There was 
 something freshening, in hearing its ceaseless clatter 
 among the hurtling leaves and branches, and viewing 
 it streaming on the emerald grass and moss beneath. 
 
 On a slightly elevated mound of grass, at some dis- 
 tance from the surrounding trees, in the very heart of 
 the forest, apparently unconcerned amid the torrents of 
 rain, the reverberating thunder claps, and the livid, in- 
 cessant flash of lightning, stood the tall figure of a 
 stranger. His arms, folded on his breast, drew tightly 
 around him the folds of a long dark cloak ; it doubled 
 over his head in the shape of a hood, which, in the 
 present instance, was thrown rather aside. It was the 
 monkish costume. His pale, stern, and forbidding 
 countenance, and restless vulture eye, conveyed to the 
 spectator the idea that he contemplated a monument of 
 ruined ambition. He was gazing on the sky ; and the 
 fitful lightning shed over his features a most wild and 
 unearthly expression. His lips were compressed sul- 
 lenly together ; and his broad forehead, partially shaded 
 with black hair, was knotted with a gloomy air of in- 
 tense thought and disquietude. 
 
 " Ay !" he exclaimed, in a deep tone, after witness- 
 ing a terrific flash of lightning, " an I envy not that 
 cloud, may Satan asshrive me this night ! It hath cast 
 forth from its dark chambers a troublesome guest, and 
 now flitteth on its journey easily. Holy St. Botolph ! 
 
MONKWYND. 211 
 
 would 1 were able to cast forth the lightning which 
 scorcheth me secretly — ay, blighteth every hour of my 
 accursed life ! And that thunder — why the earth 
 seemed to leap with horror at the hearing on't — yet it 
 shaketh not the soul o' him that standeth thereon ! I 
 weeten* that these fresh rain drops would cool my 
 burning brow — but alack ! they roll off hot — hot ! 
 Marry ! that was a doughty feat, in sooth !" said he, as 
 the lightning descended on a giant oak, and rent it 
 asunder with a loud crash. " That same lightning 
 hath taught me a lesson. It careered over the sky till 
 it had collected all its might — and then it flung down 
 at once the whole of its fiery vengeance ; and see how 
 it hath blasted the proud old king o' Monkwynd ! In 
 like manner I have wandered from far, over lonesome 
 hill and valley, and crossed the troublous seas — and 
 now will I do in like manner, by the mass !" As he 
 spoke these last words with subdued eager bitterness, 
 he reached over his hand to his left side, as though he 
 felt something beneath his cloak. A wild smile passed 
 over his face. " An't shall piease thy reverence," ex- 
 claimed a husky voice, thou hadst better turn within, 
 and abide under cover, till the rain be overpast." The 
 voice issued from the door of a small cave, which con- 
 veniently opened between the trunks of two trees, at 
 about ten paces distance from the mound on which 
 stood the moody stranger. The speaker was a jolly 
 obese little friar, with a smooth-shaven crown, and ver- 
 milion tinted nose. The stranger stalked slowly to the 
 cave, and stood leaning against one of the elm trees. 
 He glared silently on the lightning, as it flashed inces- 
 santly afar off*. 
 
 " Sancta Maria ! what a dreary even is this !" quoth 
 Father Gootle, fingering his dusky beads. il Yon 
 lightning looketh " like fiery snakes i' the sky : an't 
 please ye, sir serpents, I wot ye would keep far from 
 
 * In several parts of the ensuing narrative I have adopted the col- 
 loquial phrases of the period at which our story commences. 
 
212 MONKWYND. 
 
 this our comfortable resting-place ! Dost thou dread 
 the lightning, holy father f 
 
 " I prithee peace, sirrah : trouble me not with thy 
 malapert questions. Rather sit thee down within there, 
 and go to sleep," replied the monk, sternly. 
 
 " If it please thy reverence, I have but aroused a 
 little while from my nap — and even then an unman- 
 nerly peal o' thunder awoke me. But I can tell thee o' 
 something that will comfort thy soul : ay, in sooth, it 
 will comfort thy soul." 
 
 " Out with it, then !" said the monk, looking negli- 
 gently over his shoulder. 
 
 *' Body and soul be sworn brothers — charissimifra- 
 trcs, as saith one of the fathers, if it please thy rever- 
 ence to recollect. Sith it so stand, it follows that they 
 have all things in common. When one is griped, and 
 pinched, why so is the other, as it were. Thy mind 
 is now disquieted, after a certain sort ; and by close 
 examination thereof, according to the command of the 
 holy church — but thou rememberest what Father Am- 
 brose saith — i 
 
 ' Sint pura cordis intima 
 Absistat et vecordia' — 
 
 I found that it was not disquieted because of aught evil 
 in itself, (blessed be the mother of God !) but purely 
 because the body is wanting in due and fitting nourish- 
 ment : the stomach — the stomach — hem, hem." 
 
 " Out on thy drivelling ! What wouldst thou say to 
 
 me 
 
 " Marry, that I have an excellent mutton pasty 
 within here, which a certain pious damsel gave me 
 this morning for absolution from an unspeakable thing. 
 Doubtless thout wilt fall to, and partake thereof." 
 
 44 Thou fat old dotard !" exclaimed the monk, turning 
 his back on him angrily. 
 
 " Nevertheless, I feel a certain craving after food, 
 which must be satisfied. Doubtless when the savoury 
 smell of my pasty ascendeth to thy nostrils, thou wilt 
 
MONKWYND. 213 
 
 be of other mind than thou art now, for thou hast trav- 
 elled far to-day," replied the good friar ; and drawing 
 a small knife from his vest, which seemed always ready 
 on such occasions, he cut out a large piece, which he 
 immediately began to eat, with great zest, and in si- 
 lence. For some moments the monk stood gazing on 
 the storm, which yet raged with unabated violence ; 
 but at last, it seemed that the prediction of his com- 
 panion was verified, for he turned slowly round and 
 seated himself within the cavern. 
 
 " An thou likest, thou mayst portion mc out a morsel, 
 for I wax something faint with travelling, and a long 
 fast. I have that to do which doth not admit of weak- 
 ness — else I had vowed not to eat till — " He broke 
 off suddenly, and a gloomy pause ensued. 
 
 " Surely the damsel from w T hose fair hands did come 
 this pasty, is blessed with excellent skill in the fash- 
 ioning of pasties," said the friar, handing a slice to the 
 monk, who ate a few mouthfuls in silence. At length 
 he flung down the remainder, with violence. 
 
 " Sancta Maria ! doth it not suit thy palate ? Is it 
 seasoned too highly ?" inquired the astonished friar. 
 " Thou couldst not have done more, an it had been 
 poisoned — which our blessed Lady forbid, for I have 
 eaten a reasonable quantity !" he continued, passing 
 his hands over his protuberant paunch, and looking 
 rather alarmed. The monk, evidently striving to con- 
 ceal from his companion his great perturbation, stam- 
 mered confusedly, as a reason for his strange conduct, 
 
 " Carnis terat superbia 
 Potus cibique parcitas. 
 
 " Dost not thou know what that meaneth, thou that art 
 gorging like a hog beneath an oak tree ? I will taste 
 no more o' thy vile dainties." 
 
 He seemed fearfully agitated. He quivered from 
 head to foot : and glared so wildly around him that the 
 friar, terrified by his vehemence, and apprehending 
 that a long fast had somewhat deranged hira, pulled out 
 
 
 
214 MONKWYND. 
 
 a small flask of wine, and offered it to him : he drained 
 it off at a draught. 
 
 - " Was that blood thou gavest me ?" inquired the 
 monk, in a hollow tone, fixing an appalling stare on the 
 affrighted friar. 
 
 " Blood ?— blood ? Holy St. Becket ! Why should 
 I give thee blood ? Thou ravest ! Thou art certainly 
 ill ! Look at this holy wood, father, and be blessed !" 
 and he held before him a small crucifix. 
 
 M Ha !" exclaimed the monk, with a long shuddering 
 gasp, gazing on the crucifix with a bursting eye. He 
 suddenly snatched it from the trembling grasp of the 
 friar, and dashed it into fragments upon the stone floor. 
 
 " Sancta — sanctissima Maria ! Henceforth a curse 
 clingeth to thee for ever!" screamed the astonished 
 friar, as the monk darted from the cavern, and stag- 
 gered to the mound where he had previously stood. 
 He shook himself violently, as though he had been 
 flinging off the coils of a serpent, pressed his hands to 
 his forehead, and gazed upward with an eye quiver- 
 ing with agony and despair. He turned round with 
 sudden calmness. He seemed with a gigantic effort 
 to have allayed his terrible excitement. He walked 
 slowly to the cave, at the entrance of which stood the 
 pale and agitated friar, rapidly counting his heads. 
 
 . " Go thou within, Father Gootle ; I have somewhat 
 for thy ear." 
 
 " How shall I sit near one who hath broken and 
 despised the blessed cross!" inquired the trembling 
 friar. A look from the monk silenced his scruples, 
 and he obeyed. The monk seated himself opposite to 
 him. 
 
 " Dost thou remember," he resumed, solemnly, lay- 
 ing his cold hands on those of the friar ; " dost thou 
 remember San Marco ?" 
 
 The shuddering friar made no reply. 
 
 " I see thou dost," continued the monk, gloomily ; 
 " but why art thou so startled ? Dost thou remember 
 in the inner court of the abbey, in the still of the eve- 
 
MONKWYND. 215 
 
 ning, what words they were which I spoke to thee ? 
 What I said about England—about Cheshire?" 
 
 " Holy father, I pray thee, take off from me thy 
 burning eye ! Thy fiendish stare hath maddened me. 
 Help; I faint!" 
 
 " Weak fool !" exclaimed the monk, as he supported 
 him till he recovered. 
 
 M Father Gootle ! I ask thee, dost thou remember the 
 word which I whispered in thine ear, when the bell 
 rung to vespers V 
 
 " I do ! I do !" replied the friar, gasping with terror. 
 
 " That word hath brought me from Italy to England, 
 although thou thoughtst I was intrusted on an errand 
 of state to Cardinal Superbe. That word hath been 
 my support amid troubles and sorrows unutterable. 
 That word hath been to me for breath and for food. 
 That word hath made me to laugh at the grave." 
 
 " And that word will be thy passport to hell !" re- 
 plied the friar, vehemently. 
 
 " Hell .'" ejaculated the monk, with a bitter smile. 
 " Now, father, do thou mark me, and mind me. I go 
 to do a deed, which neither thou nor any other man 
 must see. Stay thou within this cavern until I return, 
 or thy blood be on thine own head. An thou stirrest 
 bevond these two trees till I return — by the cross 
 which I brake, but this is thy grave !" said the monk, 
 in a voice of thunder. 
 
 The friar fell on his knees, and clasped his hands in 
 speechless agony. 
 
 "What meanest thou? What wouldst thou?" in* 
 quired the monk, sternly. 
 
 " By thy hopes of heaven,, do not this dark and 
 bloody deed !" 
 
 "Thoumayst cease thine entreaties, father. Can 
 the stamp of a foot crumble yon mountains into dust ? 
 Then may thine entreaties melt the rock of my reso- 
 lution. I tell thee I shall have my revenge, an there 
 be truth in heaven or in hell. Once again I warn thee. 
 
216 MONKWYND. 
 
 if thou leavest till I return, I will slay thy body, and 
 curse thy soul for ever, an it were in my power." 
 
 With these words he left the cave, and Father Gootle 
 more dead than alive. He strode rapidly to the mound 
 he had previously occupied. The armies of the storm 
 had furled their flags, and left the sky to the brief but 
 serene dominion of the setting sun. Purple-tinged 
 clouds floated around him in dim pomp and shadowy 
 magnificence. The freshly laved trees glowed in his 
 soft lustre ; and the winds swept through their foliage, 
 as though they chanted the faint and mournful requiem 
 of the departing day. The scene was delightfully 
 tranquil ; but not so he whose eye dilated upon it with 
 sullen indifference. 
 
 The monk frequently cast his eye towards a grove 
 of silvery sycamores, round which wound a circuitous 
 pathway leading to Wrexham, as though anxiously 
 waiting the approach of an expected passenger. He 
 often muttered to himself, " When will he come ? What 
 an, after all, I am misled? But, lo ! there he cometh 1 
 ay, he cometh ! Why doth my blood stand still, and 
 why mine eyes grow dim? What meaneth this sick- 
 ness ? this deadly faintness at the heart ? Hold ! an 
 it fail me now, so shall my life !" 
 
 He drew his cowl over his face, and began to walk 
 around, in a thoughtful mood, so that he might be 
 speedily overtaken by the horseman who followed. It 
 was an elderly man who rode on a large white horse. 
 He was dressed in a long buff tunic, somewhat the 
 worse for wear, with a broad leather band buckled 
 round his waist, and had on a coarse thrum bonnet* 
 Covetousness and rapacity seemed to twinkle in his 
 keen, deep-set, gray eyes, and to be stamped upon 
 every feature of his countenance ; and a dirty-grayish, 
 straggling beard attached to his peaked chin, gave a 
 perfect idea of a miser. He rode^at a leisurely pace, 
 and soon overtook the monk, who walked on with his 
 chin inclined on his hand, in a posture of deep thought- 
 fulness. 
 
MONKWYND. 217 
 
 " The blessing of St. Botolph be with thee, good 
 stranger ; hast thou alms for one of the holy church's 
 poor servants ?" inquired the monk, in a stifled voice. 
 
 " Good even' to thee, holy priest : but syn thou 
 askest alms, let me tell thee, I have not sufficient for 
 mine own wants." 
 
 " An it were ever so little, give it, I prithee : wottest 
 thou not of the widow's mite ?" 
 
 " I tell thee," replied the stranger, peevishly, " I 
 have scarce sufficient for mine own wants ; and how, 
 then, can I minister to thine ?" 
 
 " How sayst thou so ? Report babbleth that thou 
 hast an indifferent good estate, adjoining — is it not 
 so ? Dacie o 1 Monkwynd passeth for richer than any 
 within many a rood, an I am not misled." 
 
 " Then report is a liar — an thou icilt have plain 
 words. Even suppose I had some trifling property in 
 tenements, and so forth — thinkest thou I am not suffi- 
 ciently burdened with young King Richard's extor- 
 tion ? Every month that cometh is saddled with some 
 new exorbitant tax. Marry, I tell thee, I am poor." 
 
 " An it were never so small a trifle," continued the 
 monk, imploringly. 
 
 " Thou shouldst not, because thou couldst not have 
 it !" replied Davie, angrily, at the same time quicken- 
 ing the pace of his horse. But the monk still kept 
 close to his side. 
 
 " Leave me, leave me, thou importunate beggar I 
 Thou dost disgrace thy cloth !" said Davie, impatiently : 
 had he seen the withering scowl with which the monk 
 regarded him, he would have set off at full gallop ; as 
 it was, he urged his horse to brisker speed than before : 
 but the monk, with long and rapid strides, still kept 
 even with him, and, seeing Davie inclined to set off at 
 a gallop, he laid his hand on the bridle. 
 
 M Why — what meanest thou ? By'r Lady, wouldst 
 thou rob me ! Dost know that the greater half of this 
 forest is owned by. me?" said Davie, with grea' trep- 
 idation. 
 
 k 19 
 
218 MONKWYND. 
 
 " An that be so, how canst thou be so poor as to be 
 unable to give me a mark or two ? I pray thee give 
 me alms, in the name of the Blessed Virgin !" 
 
 " I will see thee hanged first, priest as thou art !" 
 vociferated Davie, losing all patience. 
 
 " Then mark me !" said the monk, in a slow and 
 solemn voice, " I will give thee a gift !" 
 
 11 Ay, i'fait ? — ay?" inquired Davie, eagerly; "money 
 or goods ? Money or goods ? Stay — perchance thou 
 meanest thy blessing? If so, keep it to, thyself: a 
 monkish blessing I value not half a sterling." 
 
 " Davie, wouldst thou know what my gift meaneth ?" 
 asked the monk, impressively. " It is this ! Gaze 
 till thine eyes be blighted !" and he drew from beneath 
 his cloak a keen, long, and glittering knife, spotted 
 with blood. 
 
 " Holy Mary ! Dost thou mean to murder an old 
 man ?" stammered Davie, while he strove, but ineffec- 
 tually, to urge his horse to a more rapid pace. 
 
 '* Murder thee ! St. Dunstan forbid ! Dost thou 
 think a monk a murderer ? Take thou this blade, and 
 examine it well. I warrant thee thou shalt, by-and-by, 
 discover in it something strange and wondrous," re* 
 plied the monk, as he extended the knife to his com- 
 panion. 
 
 " By the bones o' Saint Becket, I will not touch it ! 
 Thou art a fiend, and no man," replied Davie. . 
 
 " Take it, or rue it !" thundered the monk. Davie 
 took it with a trembling hand. '* And what am I to do 
 with it?" he inquired, faintly. 
 
 " Mark it well, and give it me again/' 
 
 Davie viewed it with a dim and sickening eye, and 
 returned it in silence to his companion, who clutched 
 it with fierce eagerness, and replaced, it beneath his 
 cloak. 
 
 "Dost thou remember it, Davie? Dost thou re- 
 member it ?" 
 
 " No !" replied Davie, casting a wild and fearful 
 
MOXKWYND. 219 
 
 glance on his companion, who drew his cowl closer 
 over his face. A long pause ensued. 
 
 "And so thou art poor, art thou?" inquired the 
 monk, with feigned calmness. 
 
 "Thou speakest truly, reverend father." 
 " How long hast thou lived in these parts ?" 
 " I have dwelt here syn my youth," replied Davie, 
 with trembling submissiveness. 
 
 " Hadst thou ever a brother ?"* inquired the monk, 
 abruptly, in a voice which thrilled to the very marrow 
 of his shuddering auditor. 
 
 " Ay !" he replied, at the same time grasping the 
 pommel of his saddle, as if he with difficulty preserved 
 his seat. 
 
 " Why dost thou tremble, and turn so white in thy 
 face, Davie V inquired the monk, with a fierce smile. 
 " A passing fit of sickness, such as I often have. 
 Would that Gideon Drench, the leech, were here : I 
 lack his assistance. I pray thy reverence to remember, 
 that I am a weak and year-stricken man." 
 
 " Doubtless it is so ; but — thy brother ?" continued 
 the monk, with cold solemnity ; " is he alive now V 
 Davie was silent. 
 
 " I ask thee, Davie — is thy brother alive V repeated 
 the monk. 
 
 M With great grief of heart, I must tell thee, he is 
 dead. God's peace be with his soul !" stammered 
 Davie, as if his words choked him. 
 " When did he die, Davie ?" 
 
 " It is now a matter of ten years, so please thy 
 reverence." 
 
 " I prithee, did he die at home — in his father's 
 house f 
 
 " Alack, no ! He died at Wat Tyler's rebellion. 
 He was slain by a knight, in Smithfield. I grieve to 
 say he was a traitor." 
 
 A long pause ensued, which neither seemed inclined 
 to break. 
 
 k2 
 
220 MONKWYND. 
 
 * Where didst thou say he died?" inquired the monk, 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Peace be with him ! He followed the Duke o' 
 Hereford to Lithuania, and was left dead on the field of 
 battle. I had like to have gone beside myself with 
 sorrow for him — for I was the only one of the family 
 that loved him." 
 
 " I thought thou saidst he was a rebel, and died in 
 Wat Tyler's insurrection, in Smithfield?" said the 
 monk, slowly, fixing a keen and startling glance on 
 Davie, who made no other reply than by gasping, 
 "Heaven pity me — I grow distracted !" 
 
 " Hadst thou other brothers than he, Davie ?" 
 
 " No, he was the elder and only one." 
 
 The monk drew his cowl closer over his face, and 
 said, in a. voice which seemed to rise from the depths 
 of the grave, " Davie, thou didst murder thy brother !" 
 
 The reins fell from Davie's hands, and he fixed on 
 the shrouded face of his companion a cold, unmeaning 
 stare, while the monk continued, in the same sepul- 
 chral tone — 
 
 " Davie, dost thou remember the Elder Tower ? Dost 
 thou remember who sat in it at midnight, when still- 
 ness was upon the earth ? Dost thou remember that 
 thy brother received from thine hands a cup of sack — 
 drank it — and presently fell asleep? Dost thou re- 
 member that thou didst take from thy tunic a knife ? 
 Dost thou remember baring the cloak from thy brother's 
 bosom ? Dost thou remember the hot blood that 
 gushed over thy clasped hands ? Dost thou remember 
 the hooting of an owl, who settled opposite to thee, on 
 a hazel tree, and sang thee a death song on thy deed ? 
 Dost thou remember the broad eye of the moon that 
 wellnigh froze thee into stone, as thou lookedst on it ? 
 Dost thou remember hearing a wild shriek — that a 
 maiden started from the bower, where she had been 
 sleeping, close by, and was awaked by the owl — that 
 thou wast following her, with thy red knife in thine 
 hand, when thy feet failed thee on the ground slippery 
 
MONKWYND. 221 
 
 with blood ? Ha ! dost thou remember that ghastly- 
 night ? Thou didst not see the blue hell fire which 
 flickered around the shrubs and bushes by thee ! Da- 
 vie ! I tell thee thy soul is died with blood ! Blood — 
 blood — blood crieth out against thee for vengeance ! 
 It was licked up by the thirsty earth, into its dark 
 womb, where it is preserved until now! Cain! — dost 
 thou hear the curse which is denounced upon thee V 
 inquired the monk, through his closed teeth. 
 
 During the whole of this heart-freezing recapitula- 
 tion, Davie had gazed fixedly on the gloomy speaker, 
 with a lacklustre eye, and his features bedewed with a 
 clammy sweat. His horse had for some time ceased 
 to move, as if the withering words of the monk had 
 operated as a spell on the horse as well as the rider. 
 At length the monk shook him from his lethargy. 
 
 " Davie ! dost thou hear thine accuser ?" 
 
 " Oh, thou fiend, thou fiend ! why dost thou fright 
 me ?" gasped Davie, striving to trace the figure of the 
 cross. 
 
 " Away home, Davie ! J will meet thee again ! 
 See thou be prepared for my coming!" 
 
 More dead than alive, Davie urged his horse gently 
 forward. The monk watched him till the winding 
 pathway had hid him from his view, and then darted 
 through the trees, where he was heard rapidly urging 
 his way among the crashing and creaking bushes, as he 
 pushed them on each side. 
 
 Davie rode along for some time, at a very slow and 
 mournful pace ; but a sudden recollection of the last 
 words of the terrible stranger — the fearful mystery in 
 which he was shrouded — and the dreariness of his own 
 situation, altogether, so awed his imagination, and over- 
 cam© his feelings, that with sudden and desperate 
 vehemence he struck his horse, till it bore him along 
 at a rapid rate. He soon reached the borders of the 
 forest, and rode up towards a pair of dim and lofty 
 gates, on each side of which was placed a rudely 
 sculptured boar, scowling with great fierceness. He 
 
 19* 
 
222 MONKWYND. 
 
 dismounted, and fastened his horse to the gate with a 
 trembling hand. With hurried, unsteady steps, he 
 passed through the courtyard, which was growing 
 gloomy with the shadows of evening. He approached 
 a large, irregularly built mansion, heavy with cumbrous, 
 dingy-hued timberworks ; and each angle was garnished 
 with a small square turret ; but for what earthly use is 
 beyond conjecture. The door was beneath a ponder- 
 ous stone porch. He raised his hand to the latch; but 
 he could not move it. Again and again he shook the 
 door, with what little strength he had left, but he heard 
 only its faint echoes through the silent chambers. He 
 called out faintly, " Jeanet /" but received no answer. 
 As he turned round to examine the ground casement, 
 his startled eye caught a glance of a tall dim figure, 
 gliding swiftly and noiselessly by the gates through 
 which he had entered ; and his ear caught the low 
 querulous neighing of his horse, as though it had been 
 startled or disturbed by the being, whoever it was, that 
 passed. 
 
 Once more he shook the oaken door, but in vain. He 
 leaned disconsolately against the porch, and groaned. 
 He was gazing on the door, when he saw it move : he 
 pushed it and it fell back. After a moment's pause of 
 apprehension, he crossed the threshold. Had he pos- 
 sessed sufficient recollection and presence of mind, he 
 might have been surprised and alarmed at the sudden 
 opening of the door — but it escaped his notice. As 
 he paced the dim passage, his heart leaped within him 
 at the echo of every footfall. He was surprised at the 
 unusual, the dreary, the ominous silence which per- 
 vaded the house. Sickening with a vague apprehen- 
 sion of horror, he ascended the oaken stairs which led 
 to his sleeping chamber. He opened the door. The 
 last lingering sunlight, which shed a melancholy gleam 
 around, revealed to him the figure of his wife, stretched 
 in blood on the floor, which had issued from a wound 
 in her breast, where the fatal instrument yet remained. 
 He seemed petrified, as his reeling eyes encountered 
 
MONKWYND. 223 
 
 the staring eyeballs of his murdered wife. While he 
 gazed in silence on the frightful spectacle, he heard a 
 wild unmeaning laugh behind him : he turned round 
 with tottering steps, and beheld the monk. 
 
 u Ha, Davie ! art thou at thy trade of blood again?'* 
 he inquired, with bitter derision. 
 
 Davie's limbs refused him any longer support ; and 
 he fell down by the side of his wife, his eyes still riv- 
 eted on the fiendish figure of the monk. 
 
 The monk drew back his sleeves from his hands, 
 and knelt down deliberately by his side. He slowly 
 drew out the long knife, which stood in the gashed 
 bosom of the wife. 
 
 " Dost thou remember, I said I would meet thee 
 again ? Art thou prepared F 
 
 He wiped the wet blade upon his sleeve, and, with 
 terrible calmness, unbuckled Davie's tunic. He laid 
 his hand upon Davie's heart. 
 
 M Thou art still warm with life, Davie : it is warm !'' 
 he continued, and it seemed as though a pang of mo- 
 mentary remorse thrilled through his black heart ; for 
 he folded his arms on his breast, and gazed anxiously 
 on the haggard countenance of his unresisting victim. 
 
 " Davie ! dost thou remember me F asked the monk, 
 flinging wide his hood. 
 
 * My brother !" gasped the dying wretch. 
 
 The words had scarcely quivered from his lips, when 
 the monk uplifted his knife, and plunged it thrice into 
 his bosom, yelling, " Die, accursed ! — die, die, die ! 
 
 - It is done !" groaned the monk ; " now for Italy." 
 He sprang from the scene of fratricidal horror, and 
 hurried through the courtyard. 
 
 Soon after the monk had left the cavern in Monk- 
 wynd Forest, Father Gootle contrived to rouse his sink- 
 ing spirits, by an appeal to a sure and often-tried friend 
 
 a flask of Gascon wine, which he had concealed 
 
 in a dark corner by way of dernier resort. Never 
 had a similar application been so instantaneously suc- 
 cessful. It infused new life and vigour into his system, 
 
224 MONKWYND. 
 
 and recruited his mental energies. He commenced a 
 
 soliloquy. 
 
 " An it please Heaven, this deed of blood shall 
 either be prevented, or visited with due punishment. 
 It will be a deed of excellent service to the church. 
 But what an 1 should perish, in working this good 1 
 Could the holy mother church afford to lose me ? Truly, 
 I fear not. Marry, this is my consolation, Sanguis 
 martyrum semen ecclcsice, as one saith. My singular 
 eloquence hath often, in times past, edified the church ; 
 and I have done many other excellent things, which it 
 becometh not me to name. And — supposing I should 
 die, at a sudden push, in defence of the church's purity 
 — hem, hem," chuckled the friar — "methinks it would 
 sound indifferent well in after ages, for folks to beseech 
 the intercession of Blessed St. Gootle ! But I must 
 be doing : ay, i'faith ; and what shall I do ?■ Here a 
 short pause ensued. " I will hie me to Wrexham, 
 (which lieth at little more that half a mile's distance,) 
 to Irongripe, the bailiff, and bring him, with some few 
 other stout fellows, to Davie's house ; and our Lady 
 grant I may be in time to prevent the shedding of 
 blood !" 
 
 It is true, the fierce threats of the monk came to his 
 remembrance ; but then he easily consoled and forti- 
 fied himself with mentioning the words, " Blessed St. 
 Gootle" So away went the good father, as fast as his 
 limbs could carry him, puffing all the way to Wrex- 
 ham. He was successful. Irongripe, a very valiant 
 and noted thieftaker, instantly accompanied him with 
 three other bloodhound followers. They met the monk 
 riding rapidly along on the horse of Davie. 
 
 " See — see the blood on his cloak ! Loofc, stout 
 Irongripe !" 
 
 The monk heard the voice of the friar, and looked 
 up : for he was riding along moodily, with his eyes 
 bent towards the ground. He saw Father Gootle, who 
 had considerably preceded Irongripe and his party. 
 He sprang from his horse, exclaiming, 
 
MONKWYND. 225 
 
 «Thou here, caitiff? Die!" 
 
 Before he had seized the trembling friar, the monk 
 was locked in the strong arms of the bailiff and his 
 constables, 
 
 " Die ! thou caitiff friar! Die, caitiff!" thundered 
 the monk, his eye still singling out Father Gootle — at 
 the same time that he struggled to burst from those 
 who held him, 
 
 u Haste thee ! Haste thee, holy rather ! Mount 
 that horse, and ride off for thy life !" roared out one 
 of the men. Fear lent agility to the exhausted friar : 
 he managed to clamber, with some little difficulty, into 
 the saddle, and was out of sight presently. 
 
 The infuriated monk struggled like a giant with his 
 resolute and powerful assailants. Twice he burst from 
 their united grasp, and flung Irongripe and his head 
 constable on the ground with stunning violence. But 
 his opponents, besides being familiar with such en- 
 counters, were well-trained wrestlers, and rose unhurt 
 from every fall. 
 
 " Unhand me, knaves ! Bloodthirsty villains, away !* 
 roared the monk, as he hurled them off on all sides. 
 He perceived, however, that his strength began to fail, 
 while that of his assailants seemed wholly exhausted. 
 His eyes glared furiously around him ; in the darkness 
 he discovered his revenge. 
 
 "The cliff! the cliff! He drags us to the cliff's 
 edge ! Hold, away, or we are lost !" shouted the con- 
 stables. The powerful monk swayed his devoted foes 
 nearer and nearer to the fatal verge. Around three 
 he wreathed his giant arms : he had devoted them to 
 destruction. 
 
 "Help, as ye are men! Help!" roared Irongripe, 
 as a body of horsemen appeared, bearing torches^ 
 headed by the indefatigable friar. - Again, trusting to 
 their instant arrival, he rushed to the rescue of his 
 companions. But the monk also had seen the ap- 
 proaching reinforcement ; and, with a last tremendous 
 effort, whirled himself and his four assailants from the 
 
226 MONKWYND* 
 
 precipice. Close clasped together in the embrace, of 
 death, they fell, crashing from crag to crag v into the 
 river beneath. 
 
 When the horsemen, with their waving torches, 
 galloped to the scene of this terrible catastrophe, it 
 was overspread with the pall of silence and darkness. 
 
 Ever after this terrible transaction, superstition hung 
 her portentous ensign over the ancient forest of Monk- 
 wynd and the house of the murdered Davie. The 
 peasant who dared to linger within its dreary precincts 
 an hour after sunset, was esteemed unusually stout 
 hearted. But as for Davie's mansion, if report may be 
 credited, none ever had the temerity to enter its blood- 
 stained walls, which were suffered, year after year, to 
 crumble in solitary gloom and desolation. Many le- 
 gends of the spectre monk (first promulgated, perhaps, 
 by Father Gootle) were current in the neighbourhood. 
 Nay, one very valiant fellow went so far as to say he 
 had several times seen, in the gloom of evening, a tall, 
 gaunt, dim shape, sitting on the edge of Monkwynd 
 Cliff, (as it was called,) which then sank down out of 
 sight : which circumstance, as he very sagaciously 
 predicted, evinced that his soul was doomed to suffer 
 penance there, for nobody knows how many centuries. 
 
 As for Father Gootle, I have never beeil able to 
 meet with any information respecting his history ; and, 
 as one never hears, in the Cornish calendar, of the 
 name " Blessed St. Gootle" we may fairly infer that 
 he was never thought worthy of canonization. 
 
 END OF MONKWYND. 
 
THE BRACELETS.* 
 
 A SKETCH FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 It was late on the evening of a gloomy and bitter 
 day in December, about the middle of the seventeenth 
 century, that Carl Koecker, a student of Goettingen 
 University, having sipped his last cup of coffee, was 
 sitting thoughtfully in his room, with his feet crossed 
 and resting on the fender of his little fireplace. His 
 eyes were fixed on the fire, which crackled and blazed 
 briskly, throwing a cheerful lustre over his snug study. 
 All the tools of scholar craft lay about him. On a 
 table by his side lay open various volumes of classic 
 and metaphysic lore, which showed evident marks of 
 service, being much thumbed and fingered ; sundry 
 note books, filled with memoranda of the day's studies, 
 and a case of mathematical instruments. Two sides 
 of the chamber were lined with well-filled book shelves; 
 on one side was the window, and the corresponding one 
 was occupied by a large dusky picture of Martin Lu- 
 ther. All was silent as the most studious German 
 could desire ; for the stillness was, so to speak, but 
 
 * The subtle schemes resorted to by the Inquisition for the detec- 
 tion and seizure of its victims, are too well known for an intelligent 
 reader to charge any portions of the ensuing narrative with improba- 
 bility or exaggeration. In a word — all that the wit and power of 
 devils can devise and execute, may wellnighbe believed of the mem- 
 bers of that execrable institution. 
 
228 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 enhanced by the whispered tickings of an oldfash* 
 ioned family watch, suspended over the mantelpiece. 
 As for Carl himself, he was of u goodly look and stat- 
 ure." His shirt neck lay open, with the spotless collar 
 turned down on each side ; his right hand lay in his 
 bosom, and his left, leaning on the table, supported his 
 " learning-laden" head. His brow was furrowed with 
 thoughtful anxiety, which, together with his sallow 
 features and long black mustaches, gave him the ap- 
 pearance of a much older man than he really was. As 
 for his thoughts, it were difficult to say whether, at the 
 moment when he is presented to the reader, they were 
 occupied by the mysterious pneumatological specula- 
 tions of Doctor Von Dunder Profondant, which Carl 
 had been attempting to comprehend in the morning's 
 lecture ; whether his fancy was revelling in recollec- 
 tions of the romantic splendours of last night's opera, 
 or whether they were fixed, with painful interest, on 
 the facts of a seizure made that day in Goettingen by 
 the terrible myrmidons of the Inquisition, on the double 
 charge of heresy and sorcery. The frightful tribunal 
 alluded to was then in the plenitude of its power, and 
 its mysterious and ferocious doings were exciting nearly 
 as much indignation as they had long occasioned con- 
 sternation. Carl was of a very speculative, abstract 
 turn, and having been early initiated into the gloomy 
 depths of transcendentalism, had begun latterly to turn 
 his thoughts towards the occult sciences. 
 
 About the period when this narrative commences, it 
 was generally understood that a professor of the art 
 diabolic had visited the principal places of Germany, 
 and was supposed to have made several converts among 
 the learned, as well as to have founded secret schools 
 for teaching the principles of his science. The lynx- 
 eyed Inquisition soon searched him out, and the unfor- 
 tunate professor of magic suddenly disappeared, without 
 ever again being heard of. The present object of those 
 holy censors of mankind, the principals of the Inquisi- 
 tion, was to discover the schools he had founded, and 
 
THE BRACELETS. 229 
 
 the disciples attending them. Several of the leading 
 students at Goettingen had fallen under suspicion, and 
 Carl Koecker, it was said, among the number. He 
 was cunning enough, however, to avoid any possible 
 pretext for offence, by saying little — and even that little 1 
 in disparagement of the objectionable doctrines. 
 
 Carl had just set down his coffee pot on the hob, 
 after an abortive effort to extract another cup from it, 
 and was stirring together the glowing embers of his fire, 
 when he was startled by a loud knocking at his door. 
 It is not asserted that the sound caused him to 
 change colour, but that he heard it with a little trepi- 
 dation, is undeniable. Who, on earth, could be want- 
 ing him ? 
 
 Rap, rap, rap ! Rap, rap, rap ! 
 
 Carl gently laid down the poker, but did not move 
 from his seat. He listened — his heart beat quick and 
 hard. I seemed evident that the obstreperous applicant 
 for admission was resolved on effecting his purpose 
 one way or another ; for, in a few seconds, the door 
 was shaken, and with some violence. Carl, almost 
 fancying he had been dreaming, started from his seat, 
 and cast an alarmed eye towards the scene of such un- 
 seemly interruptions. Ay — the door was really, visibly- 
 shaken, and that, too, very impetuously. Who could it 
 be — and what the matter ? Was it one of his cred- 
 itors ? He did not owe five pounds in the world. A 
 fellow-student? The hour was too late, and Carl, be- 
 sides, of such a reserved and unsocial turn as to have 
 scarce one acquaintance at college on visiting terms 
 A thief ? He would surely effect his entrance more 
 quietly. Were some of his relatives come to Goet- 
 tino-en? was any member of his family ill! was it 
 merely drunk Jans, the janitor? Who— who could it 
 be ? thought the startled student. 
 
 Rap, rap, rap, rap ! Rap, rap, rap ! 
 
 Carl almost over-threw the chair he was standing by, 
 snatched up his little lamp, and stole to the door. 
 
 «* Who the d — 1 is without, there?" he inquired, an 
 
 20 
 
230 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 grily, but not very firmly, with one hand hesitatingly 
 .extended towards the door handle, and the other hold- 
 ing his lamp ; the flame of which, by-the-way, he fan- 
 cied flickered oddly. 
 
 " Who is without there V he asked again, for his 
 first question had received no answer. 
 
 Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap ! Rap, rap, rap — 
 
 " In the devil's name, who are you ?" 
 
 M Who am I V replied a husky and somewhat hol- 
 low voice from without. " Who am I, i'faith ? Let 
 me in ! Let me in ! Mercy — you could not be more 
 uncivil, or perchance affrighted, if I were Jans Cut- 
 purse, or the spirit of the Hartz mountains. Let me 
 in, Carl Koecker, I say^ — let me in!" 
 
 " Let you in ! Der teufel I" 
 
 " Come, come — open the door \ n 
 
 •* Who are you ? Who the d — 1 are you, I say V 7 
 continued Carl, pressing his right hand and knee 
 against the door. 
 
 " Let me in at once, Carl Koecker — let me in, I say, 
 or it may fare fearfully with you !" 
 
 " Mein Gott !" exclaimed the confounded student, 
 looking askance at his lamp, as though he expected to 
 find a confidential adviser in it. The knocker, how- 
 ever, recommenced operations with such astounding 
 rapidity and violence, that Carl, in a momentary fit of 
 fear and confusion, unguardedly opened the door. A 
 tide of objurgatory expressions gashed up to his tongue, 
 when some one suddenly slipped through the door past 
 Carl, made his way to the fireplace, and sat down in 
 the armchair which had been recently occupied by 
 the student. This was done with xhe easy matter-of- 
 fact air of the most intimate acquaintance. Carl Ko- 
 ecker still held the handle of the door, staring open eyed 
 and open mouthed at the stranger, with unutterable 
 amazement. 
 
 "Good Carl, prithee, now, shut the door — for 'tis 
 bitter cold," exclaimed the unbidden guest, in a fa- 
 miliar tone, dragging his seat close to the fire,, and rub- 
 
THE BRACELETS. 231 
 
 bing together his shrivelled fingers, to quicken the cir- 
 culation. 
 
 "Come, Carl! shut the door, and sit down here," 
 continued the stranger, entreatingly. Carl, completely 
 bewildered, obeyed, and sat down in a chair opposite 
 the stranger. The latter seemed not unlike a Jew 
 pedler. He was small in stature, but of sinewy make. 
 He wore a short, coarse, drab-coloured coat or tunic, 
 with double rows of huge horn buttons. His vest was 
 of the same material, and cut ; and, as was usual in 
 those days with itinerant venders of valuable articles, 
 he had a broad leathern girdle about his waist, with a 
 pouch on the inside. His short, shrunk, curved legs 
 were enveloped in worsted overalls, soiled and spat- 
 tered with walking in the mud. Removing a broad- 
 brimmed hat, he disclosed a fine bald head fringed round 
 the base with a few straggling gray hairs. His face 
 was wrinkled and of a parchment hue ; and his spark- 
 ling black eyes peered on the student with an expres- 
 sion of keen and searching inquisitiveness. Carl, in 
 his excitement, almost fancied the stranger's eyes to 
 glare on him with something like a swinish voracity. 
 He shuddered ; and was but little more reconciled to 
 the strange figure before him, when a furtive glance 
 had assured him that at least the feet were not cloven! 
 ^Yhen he allowed himself to dwell for a few moments 
 on the strange circumstances in which he was placed 
 — alone — near midnight, with nobody knew whom — a 
 thief, a murderer, a wizard — a disguised satellite of 
 the infernal Inquisition — a devil, for aught he knew— 
 when, in a word, he gazed at the strange intruder, sit- 
 ting quietly and silently by the fire, with the air rather 
 of host than guest, and reflected how far he was out of 
 hearing or assistance, if aught of violence human or 
 supernatural should be offered — it was no trifling effort 
 that enabled him to preserve a tolerable show of calm- 
 ness. 
 
 " Heighho !" grunted the old man, in a musing tone, 
 
232 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 with his eyes fixed on the lire, and his skinny fingers 
 clasped over each knee. 
 
 " H — e — m !" muttered Carl, his eyes, as it were, 
 glued to those of his guest. 
 
 " Well, Carl," said the stranger, suddenly, as if 
 , starting from a re very ; "it grows very late, and I 
 must begone ere long, having far to travel, and on press- 
 ing errands. So shall we discourse a little touching 
 philosophy, or proceed at once to business ?" 
 
 "Proceed to business?" 
 
 " Yes, I say, proceed to business. Is there any- 
 thing so very odd in that ?" inquired the old man, slowly, 
 with a surprised air. 
 
 M Business ! Business .'" exclaimed Carl, muttering 
 to himself ; and he added, in a louder tone, addressing 
 himself to his visiter — " Why, what the dev — " 
 
 <; Pho, pho, Carl ! We have nothing whatever to do 
 with the devil — at least J have not," replied the old 
 man, with an odd leer. " But, with your good leave, 
 Carl, we will settle our business first, and then proceed 
 to discourse on a point of Doctor Von Dunder's lecture 
 of this morning." So this extraordinary personage had 
 been present at Doctor Von Dunder's that morning — 
 and, further, knew that Carl had ! 
 
 " Carl," continued the stranger, abruptly, " are you 
 still anxious for the bracelets ?" 
 
 The question suddenly blanched Carl's face, and his 
 eyes seemed starting from their sockets, as he mut- 
 tered, or rather gasped in faltering accents. " Devil ! 
 devil! devil! — what want you with me? Why are 
 you come hither ?" He shook in his seat ; for a certain 
 circumstance occasioned a suspicion of the stranger's 
 being an emissary of the Inquisition to flash across the 
 mind of the affrighted student. 
 
 " Who sent you hither ?" he inquired, in faltering ac- 
 cents. 
 
 11 Why, in Heaven's name, are you so disturbed, Carl ? 
 I am really neither the devil nor one of his minions — 
 
THE BRACELETS. 233 
 
 having neither wit nor power enough for either," said 
 the stranger, mildly. 
 
 "Then you are worse — you are from the Inquisition 
 — and are sent to ensnare my soul to hell, and my 
 body to tortures horrible !" rejoined Carl, a cold sweat 
 suddenly bedewing his whole frame. 
 
 " Why, if it were so, I must surely be bolder than 
 wise, to venture on such odds as are here. I am old 
 and somewhat shaken of strength ; you young and lion- 
 like. Which would have the better, think you, in a 
 struggle V continued the stranger, meekly. 
 
 " Why," replied Carl, still shivering with the fearful 
 suspicion, " you speak fairly and reasonably ; and let 
 me then as fairly tell you, that whoever you be, if you 
 be but mortal, and wrong me, or attempt me mischief, 
 I will put you to death as calmly and surely as I show 
 you this" — and he drew a small poniard from his vest, 
 clasped it fiercely in his hand, and extended the keen, 
 thirsty -looking blade to the stranger, who merely 
 crossed his hands on his breast, and looked upward 
 with an innocent air. 
 
 " Did I not say I was in your power, Carl 1 And is 
 it probable I shall seek an offence with you ? Would 
 I, an old feeble man — " 
 
 u What brought you hither ? What made you cause 
 the uproar at my door just now?" inquired Carl, with 
 some show of self-possession. 
 
 li Oh, faith — that is easily answered. Business — 
 business ! I have much to do with you, and but small 
 time to do it in. Truly, your fears are all false ! I 
 am, I repeat it, but a man, even as you are — with the 
 difference of an odd year or two— ugh ! ugh ! ugh !" 
 continued the stranger, with a feeble asthmatic laugh. 
 " But, to be short. If your heart is still set upon the 
 bracelets — I may, perhaps, put you in the way of ob- 
 taining them." 
 
 Carl strove to look calm — but the thing was impos- 
 sible. His colour faded, his heart seemed fluttering 
 
 20* 
 
234 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 about his throat as though it would choke him, and his 
 eyes emitted coruscations of fire. 
 
 " Old man ! whoever, whatever you are — I suppli- 
 cate you to tell me how you know anything about the 
 matter you speak of! How came you to know that I 
 had any care about the — the — the bracelets ?" — he 
 could scarce get out the word — " for I have not breathed 
 a syllable about them to any one human !" 
 
 " How did I know it ? Pho ! it might be a long, 
 perchance a dull tale, were I to explain how I came 
 by my knowledge in this matter. Enough that I know 
 your soul gapes to get the bracelets. In a word, I 
 came not here to tell you how I know what I do, but 
 simply to put you in the way of obtaining your wishes." 
 
 A cold stream of suspicion flowed over Carl's mind 
 while the stranger spoke — and when Carl reverted to 
 the many subtle devices known to be adopted by the 
 Inquisition for entrapping their prey. Still Carl's anx- 
 ious curiosity prevailed over his fears. The old man, 
 after fumbling a while about the inner part of his girdle, 
 took out what seemed to Carl a large snuff or tobacco 
 box. Opening it, he slowly removed two or three 
 layers of fine wool ; and then there glistened before 
 the enchanted eyes of the student one of the most re- 
 splendent bracelets that had ever issued from the hands 
 of cunning jeweller. He was lost, for a second or 
 two, in speechless ecstasy. 
 
 " Oh, rare ! oh, exquisite — exquisite bracelet !" he 
 gasped at length, so absorbed with the splendid bawble 
 that he did not notice the almost wolfish glare with 
 which the old man's eyes were fixed on his. " And 
 may this be mine ? Did you not say you could put it 
 into my power ?" 
 
 " Ay, Carl, it may be yours !" replied the stranger, 
 in a low, earnest tone, still fixedly eying his compan- 
 ion's countenance. 
 
 «« Ay, ay ! it may ? Name, then, the price ! Name 
 your price, old man !" exclaimed Carl, eagerly. Check- 
 ing himself, however, he added suddenly, in a des- 
 
THE BRACELETS- 235 
 
 ponding tone, " But why do I ask its price ? Fool that 
 I am, my whole fortune — ay, the fortunes of all our 
 family, would not purchase one only of these jewels !" 
 
 The more Carl looked at the gorgeous toy, the more 
 was he fascinated. It was studded with gems of such 
 amazing brilliance, as to present the appearance of a 
 circle of delicate violet and orange hued flame, as the 
 stranger placed it in different points of view. Carl 
 could not remove his eyes from the bracelet. 
 
 " Take it into your own hands — it will bear a close 
 scrutiny," said the old man, proffering the box, with 
 its costly contents, to the student, who received it with 
 an eager but trembling hand. As he examined the 
 gems, he discovered one of superior splendour and 
 magnitude ; and while his eyes were riveted upon it 
 — was it merely his nervous agitation— or, gracious 
 God ! did it really assume the appearance of a human 
 eye, of awful expression ? 
 
 Carl's eyes grew dim, the blood retreated to his 
 heart, and his hands shook violently as he pushed back 
 the box and its mysterious contents to the stranger. 
 Neither spoke for some seconds. The old man gazed 
 at Carl with astonishment. 
 
 " What — what shall I call you?" murmured Carl, as 
 soon as he had recovered the power of speech. " What 
 means that — that — that damned eye that looks at me 
 from the bracelet? Do your superiors, then, use even 
 sorcery to inveigle their victims ?? His teeth chattered. 
 «' Away with your damned magic ! Out on you ! 
 Away — or I shall call for help from without !" And 
 Carl drew half out his poniard. 
 
 " Tut, man," rejoined the stranger, calmly, after 
 listening with patience to Carl's objurgations. " Now, 
 to hear you rave in this wise ! You — a man — a 
 scholar ! The days of sorcery, methinks, are gone for 
 ever ; and as for the Inquisition that you din into my 
 ears, I myself fear, but more hate, that cruel and ac- 
 cursed institution." This was said slowly and deeply 
 *=-the speaker's eyes searchingly fixed on those of him 
 
236 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 he addressed. The student, however, answered not, 
 and the old man resumed. 
 
 " 'Tis but your own heated fancy, that has likened 
 one of these jewels to an eye — he, he, he !" said he, 
 with a poor attempt at laughter. " What is it that has 
 frightened you but a large diamond ? A human eye, 
 i'faith — he, he, he ! But, to away with these wo- 
 manish fancies, I would know, at once, Carl, whether 
 you wish to call yourself the owner of this bracelet !" 
 
 Carl paused. 
 
 "Will you give me no answer, Carl?" 
 
 " Ay — Heaven knows I would fain be its master — 
 for 'tis an enchanting, a dazzling — yet a fearful — " 
 
 •' Pshaw !" exclaimed the old man, impatiently. 
 
 " Well, then," continued Carl, doubtingly, "since 
 temper fails you, I will to the point. Suppose, then, I 
 were in a manner disposed — 1 mean — hem ! What I 
 would say, is — in short, if it were to come to pass that 
 I were earnestly desirous (which I am not) of having 
 this bracelet — not for myself, mark me, but for an- 
 other — " 
 
 " To the point, man ! — to the point !" interrupted 
 the stranger, with anxious asperity. 
 
 " Well, I say, if I were disposed to purchase the 
 bracelet, what would be your terms ? What must I 
 do? What give?" 
 
 M Oh, my terms are most easy and simple. You 
 may perchance laugh at hearing them. Find but the 
 fellow to this bracelet — and both shall be yours." 
 
 Carl suddenly became cold and pale. The stranger's 
 peculiar words and manner had roused painful suspi- 
 cions in the breast of the student — transiently, however 
 — that certain doings of his must be intimately known 
 in certain awful quarters ; and the stranger's plan was 
 but a subtle trap for making him develope them. This 
 feeling, however, gradually yielded to one of sheer as- 
 tonishment, as the stranger repeated his terms, in a 
 significant tone, and with great earnestness of manner. 
 
 " I — 7, Carl Koecker — find you the fellow to this 
 
THE BRACELETS. 237 
 
 bracelet !" exclaimed the student. " Surely you must 
 be mad, or mocking me." 
 
 " Whether I be mad or not, concerns you little, so 
 as I can make good my promise. You have my 
 terms." 
 
 " Will you give me till to-morrow night to consider 
 whether I will accept them ?" 
 
 " No," replied the stranger, imperatively. 
 
 " Hem !" exclaimed Carl, suddenly, but with a puz- 
 zled air, wishing to put the stranger off his guard — 
 " so you have but one bracelet. How came you by it ! 
 You know, old man, that if I buy it, I must be satisfied 
 that I can keep it." 
 
 "Keep your questions to yourself. Enough foryou 
 that I hare it," replied the stranger, sternly. 
 
 " Another question, nevertheless, I must put. Where 
 is the other bracelet V 
 
 " It must be sought for," replied the old man, 
 gloomily, placing his broad-brimmed hat on his head, 
 as if to overshadow his eyes ; " and it is worthy the 
 search, though a prince were the seeker. He who 
 shall have this, has a clew mfallible to the discovery 
 of the other." 
 
 "Then why not search for it yourself?" inquired 
 Carl, quickly. A flush overspread the stranger's face, 
 and he seemed, for a moment, somewhat confused. 
 
 " You are sent hither by the Inquisition," said Carl, 
 with a cold shudder — at the same time plunging his 
 right hand into his bosom, in search of his poniard — 
 half resolved to take summary vengeance on the daring 
 and cruel spy. He controlled himself, however, and 
 repeated his question in a calmer tone. 
 
 " Why do not you seek for the fellow-bracelet, old 
 man ?" 
 
 " I may not, Carl. That must be sufficient for you. 
 You need not enter on the search — you need not take 
 this bracelet ; but if you will venture, and should suc- 
 ceed, 'twill be the greatest day's work you ever did. 
 It will bring you riches and honour ; and, above all, 
 
238 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 you shall see both these beautiful trinkets glistening 
 on the white arms of her — " 
 
 " Hold ! I madden ! Speak not !" gasped Carl, 
 springing with sudden emotion from his chair — pressing 
 his hands against his forehead, and gazing fixedly on 
 the bracelet, which the stranger still held in his hands. 
 
 " 'Tis an overwhelming thought, truly ! It is ! — but 
 — but — /find the fellow to tins bracelet V he continued, 
 with a bewildered air ; " where, in Heaven's name, am 
 I to search for it V 1 
 
 " Where you can, and where you dare," replied the 
 stranger, emphatically. Carl was struck with the tone 
 and manner. 
 
 " And how long shall I have to try my fortune ? 
 Tut! — 'tis an idle — a mad question truly, a foolish 
 scheme ; but supposing — in a word, how long will you 
 give me !" 
 
 " Two days from this time ; and on the third I will 
 come and see you again." 
 
 Alone V inquired Carl, with a searching glance. 
 
 " Yes — alone," replied the stranger, pointedly. , 
 
 " And can you give me no clew whatever? — none ?". 
 
 " No, assuredly. Else the merit of your search 
 would fail. You will not be long in finding one, if you 
 do but set about the search heartily. Ah, Carl, Carl," 
 he added, suddenly, with as much gayety as his ex- 
 traordinary features could assume, "you have a white 
 hand, and a small wrist !" Carl glanced at them com- 
 placently. " I wonder, now, whether it were small 
 enough for this bracelet ? Try it on, man — try it on ! 
 Your wrist, I think, is but a trifle larger than hers — " 
 The last words brought the blood into Carl's face, even 
 to his temples — and a tempest to his soul. Scarce 
 "knowing what he did, he took the glittering bracelet, 
 and with a little difficulty clasped it about his wrist. 
 
 " Aha ! — how wondrous well it suits you ! In 
 truth, it might have been made for you ! Your wrist 
 might have been a lady's !" said the old man, laughing ; 
 and, rising from his seat, he scrutinized the bracelet 
 
THE BRACELETS. 239 
 
 narrowly, and adjusted it more nicely. " And now, 
 Carl Koecker — see you part not with it, in your search ! 
 Farewell, Carl !" The stranger stepped towards the 
 door. 
 
 " Stay — stay, old man !" exclaimed the student, with 
 surprise. "Whither are you going? Ha — ha, der 
 teufel !" he continued, almost leaping from the floor 
 with sudden fright. " Why, thou fiend ! I cannot re- 
 move the bracelet ! It clings to my wrist like ada- 
 mant ! It will cut my hand off! Ah — ah — it is cutting 
 to the bone," he groaned. He strove violently to 
 wrench it off. " Take it off! Take it off — I cannot 
 move it ! Help, help ! — dear, good old man, for 
 mercy's sake — " But his visiter was opening the 
 chamber door, anxious to be gone. Carl followed him, 
 using frantic efforts to dislodge the bracelet from his 
 wrist, which suffered a frightful sense of compression. 
 
 ' ; Good sir ! Kind old man — whoever you are, what- 
 ever you come from — whatever your errand, for God's 
 love, help me to remove this bracelet ! Oh !" he 
 groaned, " will you not take it off?" 
 
 "Off? — never!" shouted the old man, with an un- 
 earthly laugh, and an eye of horrible derision. The 
 student dropped his hands, fell back aghast a pace or 
 two, and stared at the stranger, with eyes that seemed 
 bursting from their sockets. The perspiration started 
 from every pore. 
 
 ' ; Never — oh, never — did you say ?" gasped Carl, 
 renewing his desperate efforts to remove the bracelet. 
 He grew desperate. " Villain ! fiend ! You have 
 played a hell trick against me ! Will you yet say 
 never ? n 
 
 " Ay — never, till you find its fellow," replied the old 
 man, shaking his shrivelled finger at the s:udent. 
 
 " Accursed wretch ! Deceiving devil ! Then will 
 we struggle for it. Ho ! have at you !"' aloud shrieked 
 Carl, springing forward to grapple with his tormentor ; 
 who, however, at that moment slipped through the open 
 door, shutting it in Carl's face \ and as the old man 
 
240 THE BRACELETS, 
 
 went rapidly down stairs, Carl heard him exclaiming 
 in tones of wild and echoing laughter — fainter and 
 fainter as the distance increased, " Never, Carl — never, 
 never !" 
 
 Carl staggered stupified to a seat, and sat for some 
 moments the image of despair. He would have rushed 
 out after the old man, but that a deadly faintness seized 
 him. He could not bring his scattered senses to bear 
 for an instant on any one point of the preceding inter- 
 view. He felt like a man suddenly roused at midnight 
 from a frightful dream. Had he been asleep and 
 dreaming ? Alas, no ! There was fearful evidence, 
 palpable and visible, of waking reality. His eye hap- 
 pened to alight on the bracelet glistening with now ab- 
 horred splendour on his wrist. With frantic effort, he 
 once more strove to disengage it, but in vain. He 
 could not move it ; it seemed to have grown into him ! 
 He rose from his chair, and paced his room in an ec- 
 stasy of alternate fear and fury. What had come to 
 him ? Was he under the spell of witchcraft ? Was 
 he the sport of diabolical agency ? Or, worse than 
 either — the sealed victim of the Inquisition? Had 
 they sent their emissary to probe him, and leave this 
 cunningly framed bracelet as an irremoveable evidence 
 of their man — even as sheep are marked for the 
 slaughter? As this latter suspicion flashed across his 
 mind with increasing probability, he sunk in his chair, 
 overwhelmed with anguish and horror ; and from his 
 chair to the floor. What was to become of him ? 
 What could he do ? Whither was he to fly ? How 
 ascertain the criminatory extent of the information on 
 which they acted? He knew not! . He closed his 
 eyes, for everything about him seemed turning round, 
 and assuming grotesque images and positions. After 
 lying for some minutes on the floor, he suddenly 
 sprang to his feet, convinced that the extraordinary 
 occurrences of the evening could have no other found- 
 ation than fancy — that he must have been suffering 
 from the nightmare. He stepped into his sleeping 
 
THE BRACELETS. 241 
 
 room, and plunged his head and face into a bowl of 
 cold spring water. The shock for a few moments re- 
 vived and recollected his wandering faculties ; but in 
 wiping his face, the accursed bracelet scratched his 
 cheek — the delusions of hope vanished in an instant, 
 and flinging aside his towel, he rushed from the room 
 in despair. The silence and solitude of his apartment 
 were horrible. Whither should he go, that the Inqui- 
 sition's hounds could not follow, find, and seize him ? 
 He began to imagine that they had pressed the arts of 
 sorcery into their assistance. He felt, in a word, that 
 his fears were maddening him. He could bear his 
 rooms no longer : so putting his cap on his head, and 
 throwing a cloak over his shoulders, he went out hoping 
 to see, or at least hear tidings of, his dreadful visiter. 
 
 The night, far advanced, was cold and gloomy — the 
 winds blew chilly, and the snows were fluttering fast. 
 He spoke to one or two of the drowsy shivering watch, 
 and asked whether they had seen any one answering 
 to the description of his visiter. One of them told him, 
 with a yawn, that only a quarter of an hour before, he 
 had seen an old man pass by, that stooped, and wore, 
 he thought, a broad hat and drab coat ; that he walked 
 at a great rate down the main street, followed by two 
 mcnin dark dresses! Carl fell into the arms of the 
 watchman, deprived of sense and motion. The last 
 clause of the man's intelligence had confirmed his 
 worst fears — the Inquisition were after him ! 
 
 After a while, the attentions of the humane night 
 guardian, backed by a little hot ale which he carried 
 in a leathern bottle, sufficed to revive Carl, who was 
 able, soon after, to proceed, after giving the watchman 
 some small coin. What was Carl now to do 1 To 
 return to his rooms was impossible. He hurried on 
 through the street, why, or whither, he know not. He 
 felt a sort of drowsiness or stupor creeping over him. 
 Suddenly he nearly overthrew what .proved to be a 
 female figure muffled in a long dark dress. His hair 
 stood on end — for at the first moment, he mistook her 
 l 21 
 
242 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 figure for that of one of the M men in dark dresses," 
 spoken of by the watchman — of the familiars of the In- 
 quisition. While recoiling shudderingly from her, he 
 fancied he heard himself addressed. " Follow !" said 
 the low hurried voice of a woman — " follow me, and be 
 silent. You have been expected this half hour. 'Tis 
 foolish — 'tis cruel thus to delay !" 
 
 «' 1 — I expected . ? " gasped the staggering student— 
 " why, do you know me ?" 
 
 " Know you \ — why, Carl Koecker, of course," re- 
 plied the female ; adding, in a low imploring tone, 
 " Oh, follow — for Heaven's sake, follow instantly, or all 
 will be lost !" 
 
 " Lost ! — why, am not 7, rather, lost ? In God's 
 name, whither would you lead me ? Are you in league 
 with that old — " Carl was interrupted by his com- 
 panion's whispering hurriedly, M Hush ! the good folks 
 of Goettingen will hear you !" 
 
 She had scarce uttered the last words, before Carl 
 thought he heard the faint echo of many voices at 
 some distance, from behind — and which seemed, as 
 they grew nearer, to be loud and tumultuous. He 
 suddenly turned towards the quarter from which the 
 sounds of distant uproar came, when he beheld several 
 torches gleaming dimly far off, and held by persons 
 hurrying to and fro in all directions. The sounds ap- 
 proached, and became more distinct. They were 
 those of alarm. 
 
 c * What in God's name is stirring now ?" inquired 
 Carl of the female he was accompanying. " Can you 
 tell me wherefore is all that uproar?" The spectral 
 stare almost froze Carl's blood, as she answered in a 
 low quick tone, "Ah — do not you know, Carl Koecker ? 
 A deed of blood and horror — " She was interrupted 
 by the startling clangour of the alarm bell, pealing 
 with prodigious rapidity and violence. Carl shuddered 
 — and well he might. What is capable of inspiring 
 more thrilling terror than the gloomy toll of a church 
 bell, heard with sudden loudness at midnight ? 
 
THE BRACELETS. 243 
 
 The whole town of Goettingen was roused. Carl 
 listened — his hair stood on end — his knees tottered — 
 his brain reeled — for the cries were those of murder 
 and revenge : and amid all the tumult of the voices, 
 and the sullen tolling of the bell, Carl distinctly heard 
 — his own name ! Half stunned with the thought, he 
 listened — he strained his ear to take in every sound 
 that sent it. " Carl Koecker" was the name uttered by 
 a hundred tongues ; and Carl Koecker was sought 
 after as a murderer. He would have shouted in answer 
 — he would have discovered himself, conscious of his 
 innocence — but he felt a suffocating pressure about his 
 throat, and his heart seemed fit to burst through his 
 side. Strange lights flashed before his eyes, and his 
 tottering knees seemed about to refuse him any longer 
 their support, when his unknown companion suddenly 
 grasped his hand between her cold fingers, whispering, 
 *' Carl, Carl — you must hasten ! Fly ! — fly ! You 
 will fall into their hands ! They are yelling for you ! 
 They are as tigers drunk with blood !" 
 
 " I care not ! I am innocent ! I have done no 
 crime ! Why, then, should I fly 1 No, I will stay, 
 with God's help, till they come up," murmured the 
 fainting student. Meanwhile the clamour of voices 
 grew nearer and louder. Innumerable torches flitted 
 to and fro, casting a discoloured glare over the dusky 
 atmosphere. 
 
 " Haste, Carl ! Haste, murderer — haste ! haste !" 
 muttered the woman by his side ; " Justice flieth quickly 
 after her victims !" 
 
 tc Wretch ! what are you saying ?" stammered Carl, 
 beginning to suspect himself the victim of diabolical 
 villany. He tried to grasp his companion by the arm 
 — but his hand was powerless. A sudden recollection 
 of the stranger who had given him the bracelet, and of 
 the mysterious circumstances attending the transaction, 
 flashed with fearful vividness before his mind. 
 
 " Woman, woman !" he faltered, " who is mm> 
 dered ?_ Is it — is it — " 
 
 l2 
 
244 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 " Fly, fool ! Fly, fly, fly ! The familiars are near 
 at hand ! The blighting brand of the Inquisition will 
 discover — " 
 
 " The what — what !" groaned Carl, his eyes dark- 
 ening for an instant, and his voice choked. 
 
 " Only thou fly, fly !" continued the woman, hurrying 
 him forward. The crowd of torch-bearers seemed 
 now at but a very little distance ; and Carl, over- 
 whelmed and bewildered — his consciousness of inno- 
 cence drowned in the apprehension of pressing danger 
 — needed but little urging to step into a vehicle stand- 
 ing at the corner of a street they had just entered. He 
 scarce knew what he was doing. Immediately on his 
 sitting down, the door was closed, and away shot the 
 vehicle, rolling as rapidly as four fleet horses could 
 carry it. 
 
 Carl found himself alone in the coach — if such it 
 was — for his conductor had suddenly and most unex- 
 pectedly disappeared. The utter extremity of fright, 
 amazement, and perplexity, is too feeble a term to con- 
 vey anything like an adequate idea of the state of Carl 
 Koecker's feelings, when thus, after such an astounding 
 series of events, hurried away no one knew how, why, 
 or whither. 
 
 Visions of inquisitorial horrors flitted before his per- 
 turbed mind's eye. To what scenes of ghastly — of 
 hopeless misery was he now, perchance, conveying? 
 He sunk back on the seat, and swooned. How long 
 he continued insensible, he knew not. When he re- 
 covered, he found himself rattling onward at. a prodigious 
 rate, and amid profound darkness: he stretched his 
 hand out of the window of the vehicle, and the snow 
 fell fast and thick upon it. He listened, but heard no 
 sound, except the rapid and regular tramp of horses' 
 hoofs, and the rustling of the branches, against which 
 the roof of the vehicle brushed in passing. He could 
 not hear the voices either of driver or attendants. In 
 a sudden fit of phrensy, he threw down one of the win- 
 dows, pushed out his head, and roared for rescue — but 
 
THE BRACELETS. 245 
 
 his cries were unattended to. He then strove to forco 
 open the door, that he might leap out, though at the 
 hazard of his life ; but his utmost efforts were useless ! 
 He tried if the window spaces were large enough to 
 admit of escape— but they were too small to admit of 
 a child's exit ! What was to become of him ? After 
 again and again trying to force open the doors, he 
 wearied himself, and fell at full length on the seat, 
 sullenly resigned to his fate, under the conviction that 
 he was either in the toils of the Inquisition, or the 
 hands of thieves and murderers. But what could the 
 latter want with a poor student 1 For the former sus- 
 picion his quaking heart could readily assign grounds ! 
 
 He lay in a state of stupor, till the sudden stoppage 
 of the vehicle almost jerked him from his seat, and suf- 
 ficiently roused him to perceive that the carriage was 
 standing before the gates of a magnificent building. 
 Where he was, or how long his journey had lasted, he 
 knew not ; and unutterable, therefore, was his astonish- 
 ment to behold the altered aspect of nature. The time 
 appeared about two or three o'clock in the morning. 
 The gloom and inclemency of the former part of the 
 night had entirely disappeared. The scenery, at 
 which he glanced hastily, seemed of a totally different 
 class from that which he had been accustomed to be- 
 hold. The glorious gilding of the full moon lay on 
 every object — alike on the snowy shroud glistening over 
 endless plains and hills — as on the quarried clouds 
 lying piled irregularly, one above the other, in snowy 
 strata along the sky. Their edges seemed all melting 
 into golden light. 
 
 The building before which the carriage had drawn 
 up, seemed a vast gray mass of irregular structure, the 
 prevailing character of which was Gothic. W T hether, 
 however, it were a castle, a palace, a prison, a nunnery, or 
 a monastery, Carl's hurried glance could not distinguish. 
 He had scarce time to scan its outline, before the car- 
 riage door was opened, by removing a large bar from 
 across the outside, Carl noticed— and a string of at- 
 
 21* 
 
346 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 tendants, habited somewhat in military costume, stood 
 ready to conduct the solitary visiter to the interior of 
 the building. After a moment's pause of stupiiied ir- 
 resolution — uncertain whether or not to make a des- 
 perate attempt at escape — he alighted and followed the 
 chief of the attendants towards the interior of the 
 building. Every step he took within the splendid, 
 though antique structure, convinced him that he had 
 entered a regal residence. He paced along seemingly 
 endless galleries and corridors, with the passive, or 
 rather submissive air of a man led along guarded prison 
 passages to execution. He was at length ushered into 
 a large tapestried apartment, in the centre of which 
 was spread a supper table, sinking beneath a costly 
 service of gold and silver. Scarce knowing whether 
 or not — in the vulgar phrase — his head or heels were 
 uppermost, Carl sat himself down mechanically at the 
 table ; and the obsequious attendants instantly removed 
 the covers of several dishes. When Carl saw the ex- 
 pensive dainties spread before him, and the magnificent 
 plate which contained them, and marked the solemn 
 and anxious deference paid him by the servants, he 
 felt convinced that through some inexplicable blunder, 
 he had been mistaken for an expected visiter of dis- 
 tinction. The tumultuous and terrifying scenes which 
 had ushered in his journey, were for a while obscured 
 from his recollection. Carl found it impossible to par- 
 take of the exquisite fare before him. He contrived, 
 however, to quaff an ample cup of rich wine, which 
 soon revived his torpid faculties. He turned towards 
 the silent servants, stationed at due distance from him, 
 and inquired, in a stern tone, what they were going to 
 do with him ; " whether they know who he was ?" A 
 respectful obeisance was the only answer. "Carl Ko- 
 ecker — a student of Goettingen University." A second 
 and lower bow. A third time he repeated his question, 
 but the only answer he could obtain, was a brief inti- 
 mation, couched in the most deferential terms, that 
 "her highness" was waiting his appearance in the 
 
THE BRACELETS. 247 
 
 audience room. Carl clasped his hands over his fore- 
 head, lost in wonder and despair. 
 
 " Who — who, in God's name, is 'her highness?"' 
 he inquired. 
 
 " She has been long expecting your arrival with 
 anxiety," replied one of the servants, apparently in 
 nowise surprised at the disorder of their youthful guest. 
 " Waiting — and for my arrival ? Impossible ! You 
 are all wrong, fellows! I am not he whom you sup- 
 pose me ! I am mistaken for some one else — and he 
 must be nothing particular, seeing I, through being 
 mistaken for him, was kidnapped away ! Harkee, 
 sirrahs — do you understand'*' The servants looked 
 at one another in silence, and without a smile. ** Do 
 you know who I am ?" continued Carl, in a louder key 
 --but in vain ; he received no answer. The servants 
 seemed to have been tutored. 
 
 " Alas !" resumed Carl, in a low tone, " I ask you 
 who I am, when I verily know not myself! Ah! 
 — who am I ? — where ? — why here ? Answer ! — tell 
 me i — speak there !" continued Carl, resolutely, relying 
 on the wine he had taken, and which he felt supplying 
 him with confidence. 
 
 «' Once more, I say — who ami?" repeated Carl. 
 " That, we suppose, your highness best knows — but 
 our duty is to wait and conduct you into herhighness's 
 presence," was the only answer he received, delivered 
 in the same steadfast respectfulness of tone and manner. 
 " Where will all this mummery end?" thought Carl, 
 pouring out, mechanically, another cup of wine. The 
 thought suddenly struck him, and the more he enter- 
 tained it, the more probable it appeared — that, after all, 
 the whole evening's adventures might be the contrivance 
 of one of those celebrated and systematic hoaxers, of 
 whom, in Italy, the illustrious Lorenzo was chief. 
 Every occurrence of the evening seemed easily ex- 
 plicable upon this hypothesis but one — the general 
 uproar in the streets of Goettingen at the period of his 
 leaving. That savoured too strongly of serious reality 
 
248 THE JBRACELETSi 
 
 to be part of a hoax ! While he was turning about 
 these thoughts in his mind, one of the servants opened 
 a door, and stood by it, as if hinting that Carl should 
 rise from table and follow. Resolved patiently to 
 await the issue, he rose, and walked towards the door. 
 He was conducted up an ample staircase leading to a 
 lofty hall, supported by marble pillars. After traversing 
 it in silence, his conductors opened a pair of large 
 folding doors, and ush€red Carl through them — gently 
 closed the high doors upon him, and retired. Carl 
 now found himself in an apartment equally magnificent 
 with the one he bad left. Still, however, there was 
 not — as in the other — artificial light ; but the room 
 was, so to speak, flooded with a radiant tide of moon- 
 light. Everything about him, to CarPs disturbed ap- 
 prehensions, wore an air of mystery and romance. 
 The silence of the sepulchre was there, and it op- 
 pressed him. He dared hardly draw his breath, fear- 
 ful of its being audible. He was reluctant to move 
 from the spot where he had first stood, lest he should 
 dissipate the nameless charm of the chamber, or en- 
 counter some unwelcome and startling spectacle. 
 Whichever way he looked, there was a dim and dreary 
 splendour which transcended the creatures of poety. 
 Almost the whole extent of the farther extremity of the 
 chamber consisted of a large Gothic-fashioned window, 
 with a door in the centre of it, opening upon a narrow 
 slip of shrubbery or terrace. The prospect through 
 this window was glorious. The moon was still 
 
 " Riding at her highest »oon," 
 
 like a bright bark over a sea of sapphire, scattering her 
 splendour over streams glittering like veins of silver 
 amid a noble extent of champaign country ; and ren- 
 dering visible, in the distance, hoary structures of pro- 
 digious extent, relieved against a background of pro- 
 found forest shade. A little to the right lay a lake of 
 liquid silver ! But the most marvellous circumstance 
 
THE BRACELETS. 249 
 
 X)i the whole, was the disappearance of the snow he 
 had so lately seen. Was it possible — thought Carl, 
 pressing his hands to his forehead — that he had slept 
 through an interval of twenty-four hours since he saw 
 the snow ? Had he taken drugged draughts at supper, 
 and but now awcke, unconscious of the interval that 
 had elapsed ? This extraordinary absence of snow 
 was, as already said, the first thing observed by Carl, 
 hurried as was his glance ; but ere long a very different 
 object, within the chamber, arrested his attention, ab- 
 sorbing every faculty in mute astonishment and admi- 
 ration. At the upper extremity of the chamber the 
 resplendent moonbeam fell on the figure of a lady, 
 white as snow, reclining* on a couch, with her head 
 supported by her arm. Never before had Carl beheld, 
 even in dreams, a vision of such dazzling beauty. So 
 perfectly symmetrical her features, so delicately mould- 
 ed her figure, so gracefully negligent her attitude, and 
 so motionless withal, that Carl, as he glided slowly to- 
 wards her, his eyes and hands elevated with rapturous 
 astonishment, began to suspect he was mocked by some 
 surpassing specimen of the statuary's art. As he drew 
 nearer, he perceived that the lady was asleep — at least 
 her head drooped a little, and her eyes were closed. 
 He stood within a few paces of her. He had never 
 before seen features so perfectly beautiful. Her brow 
 wore the pure hue of alabaster ; her eyebrows were 
 most delicately pencilled and shaded off; her nose, of 
 soft Grecian outline, was exquisitely chiselled ; and her 
 small closed lips seemed like a bursting rose bud. The 
 lilied fingers of the little hand supporting her head, 
 peeped out in rich contrast from among her black 
 tresses ; while her right hand lay concealed beneath the 
 folds of a long rich veil. What with gazing on this 
 lovely recumbent, and the generous potency of the wine 
 he had been drinking, Carl felt himself, as it were, 
 under a new influence. Fear and doubt had passed 
 away. He fell softly on his knees before the beautiful 
 incognita. Her features moved not. 
 
250 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 Now, thought Carl, was she inanimate — a cunning 
 piece of waxwork, and were the contrivers of the hoax, 
 if such it were, watching him from secret parts of the 
 room, to enjoy his doings ? 
 
 He thought, however, after steadfastly eying her, 
 that he perceived a slow heaving of the bosom, as 
 though she strove to conceal the breath she drew. In- 
 toxicated with his feelings, Carl could continue silent 
 no longer. 
 
 u Oh, lady, if mortal you be — oh, lady, I die at your 
 feet !" stammered Carl, with a fluttering heart. 
 
 " Carl, where have you been ? You cannot — no, 
 you cannot love me, or you would not have delayed so 
 long !" replied the lady, in a gentle tone, and with a 
 glance " fuller of speech unto the heart than aught 
 utterable by man." What dazzling eyes were fixed 
 upon the sinking student ! 
 
 " [ would to Heaven," he stammered, u I might 
 believe you — loved me ; but — but — lady — " 
 
 44 But what ? All, Carl ! Do you doubt me ?" in- 
 quired the lady, gazing at him with an eye of anxious 
 tenderness. Carl's tongue refused him utterance for 
 some moments, and he trembled from head to feet. 
 
 " How, fair one, can you say you love one you know 
 not ? Me you know not — " 
 
 "Not know me! Oh, Carl, Carl!" and she looked 
 at him with a reproachful smile. The student stared 
 at her in silence. 
 
 " Lady, I am bewildered ! I know not where I am, 
 nor how I came hither ! Yes, blessed be Heaven, 
 that I have thus seen you. I could die with your 
 image in my eye ! It would pass me to heaven ! Oh, 
 forgive me, lady, knowing that I rave ! Your beauty 
 maddens me ! I sink — I die beneath it ! I know not, 
 nor can control, what my tongue utters \ The only 
 thing I know is, that I am unworthy of you — " gasped 
 Carl, dropping his head upon his bosom. 
 
 " Then, Carl, is my love for you the greater, seeing 
 it can overlook all unworthiness ! But, dear Carl, 
 
THE BRACELETS. 251 
 
 why speak I thus ? You are not unworthy — no, no ! 
 You are of great wit — graceful, noble — in a word, 1— *" 
 
 " Speak, lady ! speak, speak ! Delay not ! I faint 
 — I die !" murmured the impassioned student. 
 
 " Well, I love you, Carl ! I have long loved you, 
 since first my eye fell on you. Pardon the scheme — " 
 Here the lady became inarticulate with agitation. A 
 long pause of mutual trepidation and embarrassment 
 ensued. Each cast but furtive glances at the other ; 
 the conscious colour went and came alternately, in the 
 cheeks of either. 
 
 Carl, still bending on his knee, gently strove to dis- 
 entangle the hand which lay concealed beneath the 
 folds of her veil. He succeeded, feeble as was the 
 force he used ; but the hand was still enveloped in the 
 folds of a long white glove. 
 
 " May I not kiss these fair fingers but through a 
 glove ?" inquired Carl, fondly, and with returning self- 
 possession. 
 
 " Why, you are truly of a sudden grown chivalrous 
 as an old knight," replied the lady, in a tone of sub- 
 dued gayety ; " but since such is your ambitious fancy, 
 why should I refuse you so small a favour, who can 
 refuse you nothing ? So, here is my right hand, sir 
 knight. What wouldst thou?" 
 
 She disengaged the hand on which her head had 
 been leaning, and gave it to Carl, who smothered the 
 taper fingers with kisses. Infatuated with sudden un- 
 accountable passion, Carl, in a sort of phrensy, started 
 from his knee, threw^ his arm around the sylphlike 
 figure of the lady, and imprinted a long, clinging, half- 
 returned kiss upon her soft lips ! 
 
 He had neither time nor inclination to reflect on 
 what he was doing — on the unaccountable freedom of 
 his behaviour to a lady evidently of the highest consid- 
 eration, with whom he had had — and that in the most 
 unsatisfactory and mysterious manner — only a few 
 minutes' acquaintance. In vain did he strive to calm 
 and settle his unsteady faculties, or sober himself into 
 
252 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 a consciousness of his real situation — of how he came 
 thither — and how had come to pass the astounding 
 events of the evening. He forgot all his harrowing 
 suspicions of inquisitorial diablerie; he thought no 
 more of the possibility that his frantic feats were the 
 subject of suppressed laughter to invisible powers ! 
 Everything merged into his intense consciousness of 
 present pleasure. He yielded to the irresistible im- 
 pulse of his feelings, blind and indifferent to conse- 
 quences. 
 
 " 'Tis all owing to the wine I drank in the supper 
 room V thought Carl ; but, alas, how little did he 
 know of the important events with which he had got 
 extraordinarily implicated ; of the principle and subtle 
 influence which was at work preparing for him scenes 
 of future change and suffering ! 
 
 A few minutes' time beheld Carl pacing slowly up 
 and down the spacious chamber, supporting his beau- 
 tiful and mysterious companion, watching with ecstasy 
 her graceful motions, and pouring into her ear the im- 
 passioned accents of love ; not, however, without an 
 occasional flightiness of manner, which he could neither 
 check nor disguise. When he listened to the dulcet 
 melody of her voice, which fell on his ear like the 
 breathings of an iEolian harp ; when he observed her 
 dovelike eyes fixed fondly upon him; and felt the 
 faint throbbings of her heart against the hand that sup- 
 ported her, he almost lost all consciousness of treading 
 among the lower realities of life. 
 
 While Carl was thus delightfully occupied, his com- 
 panion suddenly turned aside her head, and to Carl's 
 amazement and alarm, burst into a flood of tear3. 
 Burying her face in the folds of her veil," she began to 
 weep bitterly. " For mercy's sake, dear lady, tell me 
 what ails you?" inquired the startled student, He re- 
 peated his question ; but in vain. His reiterated ques- 
 tions called forth no other answer than sobs and tears. 
 
 " Lady ! dear, beloved lady, why are you bent on 
 breaking my heart ? Have I then so soon grown un- 
 
THE BRACELETS. 253 
 
 worthy in your eyes !" again inquired Carl, a little 
 relaxing the arm that supported her, as though grieved 
 and mortified at her reserve. 
 
 " Oh, Carl, Carl ! Indeed you are most worthy of 
 my love, of all my confidence ; but you cannot help 
 me ! No, no, I am undone ! Lost, lost, lost for ever !" 
 replied the lady, in heart-breaking accents. 
 
 Carl begged, entreated, implored, to be made ac- 
 quainted with the cause of her agitation, but in vain. 
 His thoughts (alas, what is man?) began to travel 
 rapidly from "beauty in tears" to "beauty in sul- 
 lens ;" and commiseration was freezing fast into some- 
 thing like anger, or rather contempt. 
 
 " Lady, if you think me thus unworthy to share your 
 grief, to be apprized of its source, that so I may ac- 
 quit myself, I — I — I cannot stay to see you in suffer- 
 ings I may not alleviate ! I must — yes, I must leave 
 you, lady, if it even break my heart !" said Carl, with 
 as much firmness as he could muster. She turned to- 
 wards him an eye that instantly melted away all his 
 displeasure — a soft blue eye glistening through the 
 dews of sorrow, and swooned in his arms. 
 
 Was ever mortal so situated as Carl, at that agita- 
 ting moment? Inexpressibly shocked, he bore his 
 lovely but insensible burden to the window; and 
 thinking fresh air might revive her, he carried her 
 through the door, which opened on the narrow terrace 
 as before mentioned. While supporting her in his arms, 
 and against his shaking knees, and parting her luxu- 
 riant hair from her clamp forehead, he unconsciously 
 dropped a tear upon her pallid features. She revived. 
 She smiled with sad sweetness on her agitated sup- 
 porter, with slowly returning consciousness, and passed 
 her soft fingers gently over his forehead. As soon as 
 her strength returned, Carl led her gently a few paces 
 to and fro on the terrace, thinking the exercise might 
 fully restore her. The terrace overlooked, at a height 
 of about sixty feet, an extensive and beautifully dis- 
 posed garden ; and both Carl and his mysterious com- 
 
 22 
 
254 . THE BRACELETS. 
 
 panion paused a few moments to view a fountain un- 
 derneath, which threw out its clear waters in the moon- 
 light, like sparkling showers of crystal. How tranquil 
 and beautiful was all before them ! -While Carl's eye 
 was passing rapidly over the various objects before 
 him, he perceived his companion suddenly start. Con- 
 cern and agitation were again visible in her features. 
 She seemed on the point of bursting a second time in- 
 to tears, when Carl, once more, with affectionate ear- 
 nestness, besought her to keep him no longer in tor- 
 turing suspense, but acquaint him with the source of 
 her sorrow. 
 
 " Lady, once more I implore you to tell me whence 
 all this agony V* She eyed him steadfastly and mourn- 
 fully, and replied, " A loss, dear Carl — a fearful — an 
 irreparable loss." 
 
 *' In the name of mercy, lady, what loss can merit 
 such dreadful names V inquired the student, shocked 
 at the solemnity of her manner, and the ashy hue her 
 countenance had assumed. She trembled, and con- 
 tinued silent. Carl's eyes were more eloquent than 
 his lips. Seeing them fixed on her with intense curi- 
 osity and excitement, she proceeded : — 
 
 *' It is a loss, Carl, the effects of which scarce befits 
 mortal lips to tell. It were little to say, that unless it 
 be recovered, a crowned head must be brought low !" 
 She shuddered from head to foot. Carl's blood began 
 to trickle coldly through his veins, and he stood gazing 
 at his companion with terrified anxiety. 
 
 " Carl !" continued the lady, in a scarcely audible 
 murmur, " I have been told to-day — how shall I breathe 
 it ! — by one from the grave, that you were destined to 
 restore to me what I have lost — that you were Heaven's 
 chosen instrument — that you alone, of other men, had 
 rightly studied the laws of spiritual being — could com- 
 mand the services of evil spirits," she continued, fix- 
 ing a startling glance on Carl, who quailed under it. 
 
 " Lady, pardon me for saying it is false, if it has 
 been so slanderously reported to you of me ; ay, false 
 
- THE BRACELETS. 255 
 
 as the lips of Satan ! I know naught of spirits — naught 
 of hereafter, but through the blessed Bible," replied 
 Carl, in hurried accents, a cold perspiration suddenly- 
 bedewing him from head to foot. His feelings began 
 to revolt — to recoil from his companion — whom he 
 could not help suddenly likening to the beautiful ser- 
 pent that beguiled Eve ; but she twined her arms 
 closely around him, and almost groaned in heart-moving 
 accents, ' : Oh, Carl, Carl ! that I might but tell you 
 what I have heard of you, or rather what I know of 
 you !" 
 
 There had been something very terrible in her de- 
 meanour, latterly. She seemed speaking as if of set 
 purpose, and her eye was ever alive, probing Carl's 
 soul to see the effect of what she uttered. At least so 
 Carl thought. All his apprehensions about the hideous 
 Inquisition revived, and with tenfold force. Was this 
 subtle and beautiful being one of their creatures I A. 
 fiend, cunningly tutored to extract his soul's secret, 
 and then betray him into the fiery grasp of torture and 
 death ! 
 
 It was long before he could speak to her. At length 
 he exclaimed, " For mercy's sake, lady, tell me what 
 frightful meaning lurks beneath what you say ! What 
 is your loss ? What do you know, or have heard of 
 me ! Tell me, though I should expire with terror !" 
 
 " Can you then bear a secret to the grave, unspoken ?" 
 she inquired, gazing at him with an expression of mel- 
 ancholy and mysterious awe. 
 
 " Did Thurialma appear again . ? " 
 The student turned ghastly pale, and almost dropped 
 her from his arms. 
 
 " I know not what your words mean/' stammered 
 Carl, almost swooning. His companion's eye was 
 fixed on him with wellnigh petrifying effect. 
 
 " Carl," said she, in a low tone, 4; I am about to tell 
 you the source of my sorrows — that is, my loss. There 
 is none near to overhear us f she inquired, faintly, 
 without removing her eyes from Carl's. 
 
256 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 " None ! none !" murmured the student, a mist cloud- 
 ing his eyes ; for, at the moment of his companion's 
 uttering the words last mentioned, he had distinctly 
 seen a human face peering over the edge of the terrace. 
 
 He shook like an aspen leaf, shivering under the 
 midnight wind. 
 
 " What have you lost ?" he inquired. 
 
 " The fellow to this," replied the lady, drawing off 
 the glove from her left hand, and disclosing a bracelet 
 the very counterpart of that in Carl's possession. His 
 brain reeled ; he felt choked. 
 
 " What— what of him — that— hath its fellow ?" he 
 faltered, sinking on one knee, unable to sustain the 
 burden of his companion. 
 
 " He is either a sorcerer, a prince, or a murderer !" 
 replied the lady, in a hollow broken tone. 
 
 Carl slowly bared his shaking arm, and disclosed 
 the bracelet gleaming on his wrist. He felt that in 
 another moment he must sink senseless to the earth ; 
 but the lady, after glaring at the bracelet, with a half- 
 suppressed shriek, and an expanding eye of glassy- 
 horror, suddenly sprung from him, and fell headlong 
 over the terrace, at the very eiige of which they had 
 been standing. 
 
 " Ha — accursed, damned traitor !" yelled a voice 
 close behind him, followed by a peal of hideous laugh- 
 ter. He turned staggeringly towards the quarter from 
 which the sounds came, and beheld the old man who 
 had given him the bracelet, and now stood close 
 at his elbow, glaring at him with the eye of a demon, 
 his hands stretched out, his fingers curved like the 
 cruel claws of a tiger, and his feet planted in the earth 
 as if with convulsive effort. 
 
 " Thrice accursed wretch !" repeated the old man, 
 in a voice of thunder; "what have you done? Did 
 not her highness tell you who you were !" 
 
 « Tell me '.—what ?" 
 
 The old man suddenly clasped Carl by the wrist 
 covered with the bracelet ; his features dilated with 
 
THE BRACELETS. 257 
 
 fiendish fury ; his eyes, full of horrible lustre, glanced 
 from Carl to the precipice, and from the precipice to 
 Carl. 
 
 " Tell me ! — what ?" again gasped the student, half 
 dead with fright, striving in vain to recede from the 
 edge of the terrace. The hand with which the old 
 man clasped Carl's wrist quivered with fierce emotion. 
 " Tell me," once more murmured Carl — " what 
 did she say f 
 
 " Baa !" roared his tormentor, at the same time 
 letting go Carl's wrist, and, slipping over the ed£e of 
 the terrace, he was out of sight in an instant — leaving 
 Carl Koecker broad awake, and in darkness, for he 
 had broken his lamp, and overthrown both chair and 
 table. His fire had gone out to the last cinder, and a 
 ray or two of misty twilight, struggling through the 
 crevices of the window shutters, served to show him 
 how long he had been dreaming. 
 
 He groped his way to bed, shivering with cold, and 
 execrating the opera he had recently witnessed, whose 
 ill-assorted recollections, with other passing fancies, 
 had been moulded into so singular and distressing a 
 dream. 
 
 END OF THE BRACELETS. 
 
B L U C H E R; 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE ADVENTURES 
 
 07 
 
 A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. 
 
 WRITTEN BT HIMSELF. 
 
 I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau, 
 f dogs write histories, or no. 
 
 It so happened, that, once upon a time, a New- 
 foundland dog was pleased to take it into his head to 
 run away from his master, where he had ever been 
 kept like a gentleman, (according to his own confes- 
 sion,) and come up to London, to seek after adventures. 
 I saw him in his glory. He was a noble fellow : there 
 was something imperial in the wagging of his bushy tail ; 
 and his eyes, on particular occasions, assumed the fire 
 of a lion's. He was well combed and washed twice a 
 week ; and, on the whole, behaved as well as could be 
 expected under the operations. In fact, he was the 
 best-bred dog that ever I saw ; and, by a particular 
 habit he had got, (which, by-the-way, I would heartily 
 recommend to all his canine relations,) of jumping and 
 frisking about the mat, so as to clean his feet well be- 
 fore he entered a room, he won the especial favour of 
 my lady, who christened him by the name of "Blu- 
 cher." He had a large and airy kennel, (built against 
 the snug side of the yellow-walled stable,) painted of a 
 decent slate colour, which was carefully replenished 
 
260 BLUCHER. 
 
 with straw twice a day. Nay, on one side there was 
 a kind of trough to hold his water, and on the other a 
 platter to contain his victuals. 
 
 Now, although he lived in such a handsome man- 
 ner, he was not satisfied. The fact is, that a gentle- 
 man, (Sir Leonard Bull whistle,) on a visit to his master, 
 brought a fat, pursy, wheezing animal in his carriage, 
 which was eventually the ruin of Blucher. Our friend 
 eyed the stranger askance at first, and drew himself up 
 with great dignity, wagging his tail in a most lofty man- 
 ner. But "familiarity begets contempt." Prowzer,(the 
 stranger's name,) by sundry humble acts, such as fetch- 
 ing Blucher a bone — leaving the trough when he came 
 to drink — sleeping next the outside, (for they boarded 
 and lodged together,) and various other unspeakable 
 attentions, quite won upon the generous heart of the 
 noble animal. I am very much inclined to think, from 
 all accounts I have been able to obtain, that Blucher's 
 knight-errantry was first engendered in sundry conver- 
 sations with his new friend ; for they were frequently 
 remarked to run away together to a wood at some dis- 
 tance, and there, under the shadow of a beech tree, 
 doubtless were arranged all the plans of Blucher's 
 elopement. The innovations arising from his inter- 
 course with his town-bred friend, first manifested them- 
 selves in a certain angry impatience on washing and 
 combing day ; and then he turned up his nose at the 
 wholesome food brought him one morning by the but- 
 ler. The magnificent description of Prowzer had 
 clean turned his head. His ambition was fired. "It's 
 no use — I must see life; I was never born to be cooped 
 up in this narrow box all my days," were the reflec- 
 tions with which he suddenly started from his kennel, 
 one bright, crisp, cold, frosty March morning, ran swift- 
 ly down the park, bounded nimbly over the gate, and 
 took the high road to London. His journal must tell 
 his adventures. 
 
BLUCHER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 261 
 
 Showing that Dogs have got Souls as well as Men, and that they 
 know what is best for themselves. 
 
 March the 13th, 1824. This morning I escaped 
 from Ashburd Park. I don't regret it, not I. I'll show 
 myself a dog of spirit. I ran very quickly several 
 miles, when the thought struck me that I should have 
 first eaten my breakfast. But it cannot be helped now. 
 I'm not going to sneak back, and be laughed at and 
 ridiculed by my dear friend Prowzer. I'll show him 
 that country dogs have resolution as well as your sleek 
 town ones. But that is no reason why I should not 
 get my bellyful of victuals as soon as convenient. Ha ! 
 there's a public house ! will they take pity on me T 
 I'll tell them I've got a soul, and a body too, as well as 
 they, and that I need support for both ; but will only 
 trouble them for the latter at present. 
 
 I have been to the Pig and Whistle Inn, as it is 
 called. There was an Irish labourer there, sitting in 
 the taproom, eating bread and cheese and onions, and 
 drinking porter. So I walked in, and stood oppo- 
 site to him, and looked pathetically at what he held 
 in his right hand ; I wagged my tail ; I whined. He 
 understood me. " Arrah, my honey ! but the dare 
 cratur seems hungry ! — my jewel ! and won't I give 
 you some praties ! to be sure 1 will I" With that the 
 kind-hearted fellow gave me a plateful, which he emp- 
 tied from a coarse canvass bag. I ate a bellyful, 
 though it was nothing to be compared with what I 
 got at home. But what of that? as my friend Prow- 
 zer says, 1 am an independent dog now ; I am free to 
 buffet with the world as I best may. I moistened my 
 breakfast with some — (I am sorry to say it) — with 
 some ditch water ! Faugh ! As I heard the landlord 
 say that the London coach went by at twelve o'clock, 
 
262 BLUCIIER. 
 
 and it was now ten, I resolved to go leisurely on my way 
 till it caught me. However, when I saw the flaring 
 sun, the bright though barren country, and the merry 
 passengers, I could not keep on in such a heartless 
 pace ; so I trotted briskly along, forming vast schemes 
 of future aggrandizement. At length I heard the 
 heavy rumbling of the Shamrock coach ; it soon caught 
 me, and we kept companions for many a long mile. 
 At length night came on, cold, dark, and cheerless. 
 The coach and I stopped at Thatcham, a snug, pretty, 
 comfortable inn. I went into the kitchen : a famous 
 dish of ham and veal, and gravy, and bread, was set 
 by in a corner for the hostler, by his sweetheart the 
 cook. She was as red as could well be, fuming and 
 fretting over a sirloin of beef, roasting richly before a 
 huge roaring fire. I ate up the convenient victuals as 
 quietly and expeditiously as possible. I had then no 
 further occasion to be in the kitchen ; so, thanking the 
 kind servant in my heart, and licking my chops in tes- 
 timony of my appreciation of my good cheer, I walked 
 leisurely into the yard, while they were getting ready 
 the second coach. I stood by, and no one saw me, for I 
 kept away from the little red twinkling lanterns. At 
 length the man had occasion to go into the stable, and left 
 the coach door open. Was ever happiness like mine ! 
 I had found a capital supper ; and here a bed offered it- 
 self for my convenience. I was always a dog of decisive 
 character ; so I bolted into the coach and crept under the 
 seat. I had soon the unbarkable satisfaction of hear- 
 ing the drowsy coachman come, slam the door, (they 
 had no inside passenger except myself,) call out " All's 
 right," and away we rattled, in such a delightful fash- 
 ion, as sure never dog rattled before. The place in 
 which I slept seemed made for my convenience ; it 
 was half full of nice, clean, sweet hay, and as warm as 
 my heart could wish. I slept soundly. 
 
BLUCHER. 263 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A singular Adventure ; and the Termination of my Journey. 
 
 I conjectured it to be five o'clock, when I was 
 awaked by the sudden halting of the coach. What 
 could this mean 1 Sure we had not yet arrived at Lon- 
 don ! I almost began to tremble lest some ugly acci- 
 dent — a dreamy and unconscious barking in my sleep, 
 to wit, to which habit, Prowzer informed me, I was of- 
 ten subject at Ashburd — had betrayed me. So, with 
 a bold heart I issued from beneath the seat, and stood 
 fronting what I conjectured to be the door, for I could 
 not see in the darkness; when I heard this dialogue: 
 <; Huoya, coachee ! hast thee ever a place inside o' 
 thee ? Lud-a-mercy, let's in, for 'tis bitter cold." "Ay, 
 the coach is empty! Jack," (to the guard,) " open the 
 coach door for this gentleman." Open the coach door ! 
 my heart leaped up to my throat. I heard the guard 
 .jump heavily from the wheel on to the ground, open 
 the coach door, and as the bumpkin had got one foot 
 on the step, I leaped clean over his head, carrying, 
 however, his hat in my course, and alighted exactly in 
 a prickly hedge, (for it seems the coach had turned to 
 one side for the passengers convenience.) I could not 
 stir from my situation, lest the coachman's whip, an 
 instrument to which I ever had an insuperable aversion, 
 should find its way to me ; so I remained on the ten- 
 ter branches of expectation. It was a ludicrous scene. 
 "Lud, lud, lud!" exclaimed the affrighted countryman, 
 in a voice fainter and fainter, till I heard him fall heav- 
 ily along the road, in a fit, as I conjectured. The 
 guard, notwithstanding he was reckoned a very valiant 
 fellow, tried to whistle it off; but it was of no use. He 
 had felt the sulphur of his Satanic majesty, (as I was 
 told he informed his wife,) and seen his red goggling 
 eyes, and his tail a yard and a half long, having a sting 
 
264 BLUCHER. 
 
 in its end. Now, for mine honour I must here be al- 
 lowed to say, that mine own tail is not above two feet 
 in length, and never had, or will have, a sting. But 
 this is a digression. The coachman, who was looking 
 another way, had seen or heard nothing of these super- 
 natural horrors. So he called loudly, " Ho ! guard, 
 where art gone ? Is the jontleinan got inside V " Oh, 
 coachee," was the faint reply, "I've seen a thing — oh! 
 I don't care to name it ;" and he sat down by the pros- 
 trate and insensible form of the countryman. " H — 
 h — how ! — why — why — what sayst thou V inquired 
 coachee, faltering from his usual bluff voice, while 
 I heard the reins fall slapping on the backs of the 
 horses. , "Ho! oh! hoom! — how the d— 1 did the old 
 enemy get inside V quivered forth the affrighted guard. 
 But the morning was getting gradually lighter, so that 
 I could not remain longer in the hedge with any hope 
 of concealment. Determined, therefore, to escape as 
 became a ghost, or something worse, I gave a long, 
 melancholy, tremendous howl, and bounded at once in- 
 to the high road, scampering off as swiftly as my feet 
 could carry me, and with as much secrecy as my quad- 
 rupctantc sonitu allowed me. 1 never heard to this 
 day how my coach friends recovered from their fright. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Containing my Reflections on entering London. 
 
 March the 14th, 1824. I had now, as I once heard 
 a beggarly Irishman tell my master, to " pad the hoof" 
 for the rest of my journey to the metropolis. But my 
 night's rest and an excellent supper (my lips water 
 now when I think of it) had wonderfully recruited my 
 health and spirits. Although the morning was not 
 precisely such as I could have wished, being chill and 
 foggy, yet I remembered my high resolve ; and, more- 
 over, that I had bargained to gratify my curiosity at 
 
BLtCHER. 265 
 
 the expense Of much personal convenience. So I held 
 on my journey joyfully, and put as good a face on mat* 
 t-ers as possible. It is true I felt inclined at divers 
 times to be snappish ; but I reined in dogfully my 
 natural impetuosity of temper. I often thought of my 
 sage friend and adviser Prowzer ; I once caught my* 
 self so far tripping as heartily to wish myself snug and 
 warm by his side in my kennel. But doubtless he has 
 cleared up my character, and explained my motives for 
 my present course to the powers that be at Ashburd ; 
 for I abhor anything savouring of ingratitude. 
 
 But now, to return to my journey, the increase of the 
 passengers, the noise, bustle, and frequent passing and 
 repassing of London coaches, announced my arrival at 
 that great emporium of men and dogs. My heart beat 
 fast when at length I saw the outline of the turnpike 
 gate at Hyde Park Corner, indistinctly defined through 
 the foggy air, When I arrived at the toll bar, and 
 looked on the fat, red, bottle-nosed tollman, and saw 
 him Jeering at me in particular, (I must here digress to 
 state that the Londoners have an impertinent talent of 
 staring in the face everybody whom they meet.) I could 
 not help laughing inwardly, though I took care to hide 
 it from him by assuming as demure and Quakerian a 
 countenance as was in my power. His eye was fol- 
 lowing me, when a postboy brought him a glass of 
 brandy. Oh, the liquorish rapture with which he 
 transferred his optic gaze from me to the brown spirit- 
 ous liquor before him. 
 
 I was now in London ; yet I don't exactly know how 
 to analyze my feelings ; for I sneaked slowly along, 
 my tail pressed humbly between my legs and my head 
 inclined downward. Albeit, I fancied that everybody 
 I met knew me, and that they would take me severely 
 to task for my scurvy trick ; which would doubtless 
 lead to a result which I could never stomach : that is, I 
 should be sent back haltered to Ashburd* Therefore 
 whenever I saw a man inclined particularly to scru- 
 tinize me, I ran off as swiftly as I could ; which is 
 M 23 
 
266 BLUCHEIt. 
 
 " giving him the go-by" as I once heard a man in 
 London, one Pierce Egan, call it. 
 
 My mind was rilled with sublime reflections on en- 
 tering London. Would it be a scene of happiness or 
 misery — of degradation or exhaltation — of shame or 
 glory to me ? Might it not prove to me " the death- 
 bed of ,hope and the young spirit's grave ?" (as my 
 friend Thomas K. Hervey, an intelligent youngman, and 
 whom I initiated into the art of writing rural sonnets, 
 during a few days' stay he made at Ashburd, says.) 
 Perhaps it might ; but was that any reason why I 
 should not put forth all my energies ? None whatever. 
 " The town was all before me, where to choose." I 
 was determined not to submit to the drudgery of trade, 
 for I had been bred a gentleman dog ; and resolved to 
 turn my attention to literature and politics, having no 
 doubt that I should be able to procure a handsome 
 maintenance ; and that was all I wanted. Nor let me 
 be accused of narrow selfish feelings here. Bless my 
 heart ! are not dogs to get their living as well as the 
 biped variation of their species 1 and am I, for instance, 
 if I turn my attention to the law, to be hammering 
 away fine epithets, and tinkling alliterations, and re- 
 sounding antitheses, to drowsy judges and obtuse ju- 
 ries in Westminister Hall, for no other purpose than to 
 lose my wind, for the pleasure of going home to starve ? 
 I would not even put on my wig under one guinea, and 
 a refreshing fee. Doubtless these were all very fine 
 reflections ; but what I wanted at present, was to find 
 animal subsistence. 
 
 CHAPTER IT. 
 
 Showing that a hearty Meal is a most desirable Thing ; but how to 
 get it is the Question; with my Adventures in search of one. 
 
 After a long perambulation up and down Piccadilly, 
 I struck into Pall Mall, in order to feast my eyes with 
 a sight of Carlton Palace ; for I had always cherished 
 
BUTCHER. 267 
 
 a love of architectural magnificence ; and had my ci- 
 devant master but formed as high an opinion of my 
 abilities that way as I had myself, I would have made 
 my kennel a model of elegance and stability. But to 
 return. From Waterloo Place, Carlton Palace looked 
 like a long spelling book, supported, as a roof, by a 
 number of old tobacco pipes, like I have often seen my 
 master's children do. There were four men with red 
 jackets, standing bolt upright in little boxes, with guns 
 bv their sides. I apprehend they were merely stationed 
 there to shoot any stray crows which might presume to 
 nestle on the imperial roof. Having quite satiated my 
 eyes, at the expense of my belly, (which gave frequent 
 and manifest tokens of deplorable emptiness,) I jogged 
 slowly along Pall Mall, and commenced a walk up the 
 Strand. My heart ached within me, to see how in- 
 significant a figure I cut, while '.' wearily wending my 
 way" up this vast thoroughfare. It is true, I strove to 
 put a good face on the matter, and walked as slowly 
 and deliberately, and silent and stately, as I could ; but 
 when I saw, every now and then, an open carriage 
 go by, with a sleek, fat, goggling mongrel, with an em- 
 broidered collar round his stumpy neck, and reclining 
 daintily on beautiful women's laps, then, burst my dog- 
 ly heart; and 'tween my hind legs curling up my tail, 
 great Blucher sneaked indignantly along. But my ire- 
 ful feelings did not form an oblivious antidote to my 
 hunger. 
 
 At length, when I had twice gone up and down be- 
 tween Charing Cross and St. Pauls churchyard, on 
 anxious lookout for food of any kind, I came to a de- 
 cent " ham shop and eating house." I stood some mo- 
 ments looking wistfully at the window, wherein were 
 displayed long rows of polonies, black puddings, sau- 
 sages, roast, cold, boiled, hot meat, &c., in such a 
 tempting manner, that my mouth began to water, and 
 the mere contemplation of such dainties made me lick 
 my hungry chops. I edged nearer and nearer to the 
 window; there was nobody there that I could see 
 
 m2 
 
268 BLUCHER. 
 
 Why need I make many words about it 1 I dashed 
 through the window pane — plunged my nose into a 
 quartetto of black puddings — and scampered off with 
 them as fast as possible. I soon found a blind alley ; 
 there I ate my delicious fare at my leisure ; nor did I 
 once think of my comfortable trough and platter at 
 home. But these were soon demonstrated ; and 1 
 thought I would retrogade a little, for the purpose of 
 seeing what else might be got from the eating house. 
 Alas ! I had no sooner shown my head, than 1 was 
 wheedled into the shop, a rope thrown round my neck, 
 and I was led to the door. There the angry owner of 
 the shop opened out such a clamour as was quite won- 
 derful ; but that did not prevent my feasting on some 
 ready cut ham, while the man was earnestly harangu- 
 ing the mob. Wtien I had done, 1 wiped my mouth on 
 his apron, and listened to him, l < Well, is there ne'er 
 a jontleman owns this 'ere woracious, thievish dog ? 
 It's werry strange, I must say ; for though he's a bad, 
 yet he's a good-looking fellow : so I shall keep him in 
 this 'ere shop, an' adwertise him, an' give him his bel- 
 lyful of wittals." With that the crowd dispersed, and 
 I was taken behind the counter, and fed with all man- 
 ner of choice things, ready to bursting. Mr. Bubble- 
 squeak (my hospitable entertainer's name) was just 
 patting my back, when a tall, swaggering, jockey-look- 
 ing fellow came into the shop, and, to my utter amaze- 
 ment, said he had come to claim his dog. I was near 
 fainting ; for I suspected that my master had sent up a 
 man who had tracked my course. M What may his 
 name be !" inquired my shrewd host. With ready and 
 unblushing effrontery he replied, "Lion." Hereat I 
 gave a loud and sudden bark of anger and vexation. 
 " You see he knows me," answered the wily fellow, 
 " but the fact is, he's ashamed to look me in the face, 
 'pon honour. We had a brush this morning, and he 
 ran away." The purveyor of sausages was quite con- 
 founded. M What am I to pay you 1" " Ho ! ahem — 
 four puddings, one shilling ; window, two and sixpence ; 
 
BLTJCHER. 269 
 
 breakfast, one shilling ; keeping, two shillings — six 
 and sixpence, sir." " Egad ! 'tis a deuced extortion ; 
 however, I'll pay you seven shillings, and you must 
 give me the rope. He may run away again." The 
 money was given — the cord put into his hand — but I 
 barked and struggled dogfully, l'or he was evidently a 
 scoundrel. However, - 1 was compelled to follow, 
 chiefly out of respect to a large whip which he often 
 brandished over my back, in terrorem. We went at an 
 orderly pace down the street, when a slight mischance 
 happened to my master. " At it again, Master Hop- 
 the-twig 1 How long is't since you left Newgate ? 
 
 Stealing dogs again, by !" were the words with 
 
 which a burly officer, who had been watching him, 
 clapped him on the shoulder, thrust a pair of handcuffs 
 over his wrists, and we were both led away in state to 
 street office. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I am dragged along the Streets as a Malefactor : I am examined before 
 a Magistrate in Bow-street ; of which an account is given. 
 
 Accompanied by my soi-disant owner, who paddled 
 along in a very sheepish tristful mood, hardly daring 
 to cast a side glance on me, who ambled ruefully on 
 my way, attached to the officer's huge fist by a halter, 
 I soon found myself walking down St. Martin's lane. 
 The unlucky dog-fancier (for that is the name I per- 
 ceiye they go by) several times endeavoured to coax 
 his Cerberus guide into conversation ; but in vain. 
 His sour visage was screwed up into the pleasing re- 
 semblance of a pair of nutcrackers. 
 
 " I say, Mister Officer, vhere are vee going to — to 
 the vachhouse V* 
 
 " You'e going where you'll be well watched, master, 
 I'll warrant you." 
 
 " Mv hands are werry tight, sir ; could you loosen 
 23* 
 
270 BLUCHER. 
 
 these handcuffs a little V — and he cast his longing eye 
 on a blind alley a little forward on the opposite side of 
 the way. 
 
 " None of your gammon, ye thief, ye ! Loosen your 
 handcuffs ! Gemini ! I'd sooner see ye hang'd first — 
 as I hope, please God, to see ye, after the next Old 
 Bailey sessions." 
 
 " Dear ! oh, Mister Officer ! how can you be so hard 
 hearted?" "All's one for that, old boy, you're safe 
 now ; and it's not my fault if you arn't so as long as 
 you're in my care. On — quicker, or I'll tighten your 
 handcuffs." 
 
 " Gemini ! they're tight enough already, in all con- 
 science." 
 
 " On, ye blackguard — on ! You talk of conscience I 
 — ha. ha, ha !" and he hurried quicker, for a consider- 
 able mob had congregated around us, trotting all our 
 way. My nose felt quite hot with shame and vexa- 
 tion. What a precious commencement of my London 
 adventures ! I shrunk involuntarily from sundry kind 
 pats and caresses bestowed by the mob ; 1 felt they 
 esteemed me a criminal ! In the bitterness of my heart 
 I once leaped to the full extent of the halter ; the sud- 
 den jerk I occasioned to the hand of the officer, pro- 
 duced such a kick on my posteriors as I remember to 
 this day ; so I was fain to bear my " durance vile" with 
 as good an air of submission as possible. I still, how- 
 ever, attempted to bite off the rope, and comforted my- 
 self with the fable of the mouse nibbling away a large 
 cable : I might as well have tried to leap through a 
 stone wall. 
 
 At length we arrived at the police office. A few ill- 
 looking people were loitering near the door, as if wait- 
 ing for the trial of some of their comrades. Our con- 
 ductor and his train soon made their way through a 
 long, dark, narrow passage, and on knocking at a door, 
 entered the room where the trials were going on. 
 After a considerable time spent in trembling anxiety, (I 
 heard my heart go pit-a-pat,) our turn came. M Well," 
 
BLUCHER. 271 
 
 said his worship, putting on his spectacles, which he 
 had been wiping on the corner of an Indian handker- 
 chief — " well, Mr. V , and what have we here ?' 
 
 '* An it like your worship," answered he, stroking 
 back his hair, hemming, and chucking me right full 
 into the awful presence of the magistrate, " this here 
 man, (pointing to the shivering culprit.) who is a well- 
 known thief — one of your dog-fanciers, your worship 
 — seeing Mr. Bubblesqueak, the cook, in the Strand, 
 come to his door, holding a dog by this here halter, and 
 hearing him inquire whose it might be, stops very 
 quietly till the people was all gone, your worship — " 
 
 " Ay, ay, I suppose so. Go on — that is not mate- 
 rial," said the magistrate, hastily. 
 
 "|Well, your worship, what does my gentleman do 
 — I was watching him all the time — but take himself 
 into the shop, and say the dog was his, your worship ! 
 So I waited outside, and saw him come out presently, 
 holding this here dog by this here halter, your worship ; 
 so I makes me no more to do, but claps my gentleman 
 on the handcuffs — " 
 
 " In fact, here he is, that's very plain ; no matter how. 
 Now, what have you to answer to all this V addressing 
 the prisoner, who was quite chopfallen. 
 
 " Please your vorship, there's ne'er a man in this 
 'varsal world that's more honester than myself, so please 
 your vorship" — here the officer turned round to the 
 strangers, and leered — " and — and — but it's no use," 
 he added, suddenly, " to say anything here, as it's 
 werry likely your vorship will send me off to Newgate ; 
 so I shall keep what I have to say till then, please 
 your vorship." Among experienced thieves, this avow- 
 al is looked on as a tacit confession of guilt. The 
 magistrate fully committed him to Newgate, and he was 
 taken from the room. 
 
 " D'ye not know whom this dog belongs to, Mr.. 
 Officer ?" inquired the magistrate, wreathing his hand 
 in his whiskers. 
 
 11 No, your worship, I never seed the dog before No 
 
272 BLUCHER. % 
 
 one knew whose he was — for he came and broke open 
 the shop window, your worship, and (here I bowed my 
 head between my fore legs) stole four black puddings, 
 your worship !" 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! — a cunning felon ! — ha, ha, ha ! This 
 is beyond all I ever saw ! What in the name of won- 
 der shall we do with him? And what became of the 
 black puddings, eh ?" 
 
 " Eat 'em, your worship," replied the officer, licking 
 his lips. 
 
 " Why, ecod ! I never heard anything like this be- 
 fore. Did you see all this, sir?" 
 
 "No, your worship ; but I heard Mr. Bubblesqueak 
 tell the people as much." 
 
 " And no one came forward to own the dog ?" 
 
 "None but he your worship has just committed." 
 
 " Sure it wasn't his own ?" inquired the magistrate, 
 winking sagaciously. 
 
 " Please your worship, he's the greatest dogstealer 
 on the town ! His own ? — it's his own by theft, if it 
 is at all." 
 
 " Then, shoot me, if I know what to do." 
 
 " No more do I, i'fackins," replied a fat brother on 
 the bench. 
 
 11 Would your worship advertise him ?" inquired the 
 officer. 
 
 " Ay, ay, that will be the thing. Mr. McScribble, 
 (the office clerk,) draw up an advertisement of this 
 dog, and give a description of it." Then addressing a 
 turnkey, " In the mean while, Tom, you keep him here, 
 seed him well, and show him to all comers, till you 
 hear again from me. Now, what comes next?" In 
 the mean time, I was made to leap on a bench before 
 the clerk, and show myself, that he might take accurate 
 note. This was the advertisement he drew up : 
 
 "Whereas, on March 15, 1825, a Newfoundland 
 dog was brought by an officer of the establishment to 
 Bow-street, unowned ; this is to give notice, that the 
 owner, if any such there be, may again obtain posses- 
 
BLUCHER. 273 
 
 sion of the same, by applying before the 22d of this 
 month, and paying all expenses of keep and advertise- 
 ment." Then followed a long and flourishing descrip- 
 tion of my person, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I find myself in very curious Quarters. — My Spirits are very low. — A 
 Description of my Companions. 
 
 After Mr. McScribble had done, he nodded to a 
 Bow-street minion, who, understanding the signal, 
 moved off with me. I walked after him in mortified 
 silence. He led the way to some backward rooms; 
 and after opening a broad iron-bound door, we entered 
 a large chamber, in the farther end of which, in a huge 
 grate, was crackling and blazing an enormous fire. 
 There were two windows on the sides of the room ; 
 one looked on a high dead wall, and the other on a yard 
 where three old women were washing. Opposite, and 
 on each side, of the fireplace, were placed three forms; 
 I crept under these, and stretched my wearied frame in 
 the centre. I was here surrounded by a motley group. 
 Several tall stout men sat around, evidently police of- 
 ficers, intermingled with many country-looking people 
 — withered old crones and giggling young maidens — 
 substantial farmers and cozy London citizens. A few, 
 from time to time, engaged in conversation. 
 
 " Mayhap you are here on the same errand as we 
 is V said a fat, pursy, jolly Londoner, half choked with 
 fat, with little, gray, twinkling eyes, seeming buried in 
 their sockets — his two fists thrust, John-Bull-like, into 
 his waistcoat pockets — addressing a tall, lank, spectre- 
 looking man, enwrapped in a slender, well-darned, 
 olive-coloured top coat, his cheeks sucked in as though 
 with famine, and his hungry eyes fixed ravenously on 
 a piece of mutton pasty which a woman opposite was 
 eating con amove. 
 
274 BLUCHER. 
 
 " Mayhap you be here of the same errand as we is 
 — to be witnesses /"' 
 
 " I come, sir, from that noble Parnassian summit, a 
 — a — in common words, sir, I come from an attic in 
 G — g — rub-street, where, next the aerial sky, I imbibe 
 ethereal inspirations, and run riot in the wild and fan- 
 ciful exuberance of a rich and cultivated imagination." 
 
 l * Eh — ha — hum ! learned lingo, all that ! Pray, 
 what may it all mean, sir?" winking hard at those 
 next him. 
 
 "I, sir, am an author — a poet — a philologist !" re- 
 plied he of the threadbare coat, drawing up his lean 
 person with great dignity. 
 
 " Lack-a-day, sir !" wheezed a fat matron, "fVy- 
 olodgy ! Rimini ! what may that mean ? In this 'varsal 
 world I never heerd o' such a thing." 
 
 *' I'm laith to say, mem," replied a sharp, gray-eyed 
 Scotchman, who had been peering in silence around 
 him, " that ye ken naethin' at all aboot it, mem. Phce- 
 lology, mem — ahem !" 
 
 " Marry come up, sir ! and who may you be as dares 
 to contradict me?" 
 
 "I daur to contradeect any one, mem ; Pse na mair 
 afraid o* ye than o' the dog i' the centre, mem — (mean- 
 ing myself) — an' it's amaist true an' parteeclar fac', that 
 ye still ken naethin' aboot pheelology, whilk is a de- 
 veene science / ha' spent twal' years in learning, 
 mem." 
 
 11 1'fackins, an' ye might ha' spent your time much 
 better, Pm thinking." 
 
 "And dootless mickle waur, mem. It's na* just 
 geeven to siccan folk like ye, mem, to conrpreherf sic 
 things. It's clean past ye're mark, mem. The common 
 folk in Englan', mem, are aye an unlearned people, 
 unlike to the canny Scotch." 
 
 " And who may you be, sir, that dares to libel we 
 English ?" inquired the first speaker — the fat Londoner 
 - — bristling with anger. 
 
 " Ma certie, man ! ye're far owerhet, and I'm boun' 
 
BLYCHER. 275 
 
 to tell ye, sir, it's naethin' at all to you, xcho I am." A 
 stout farmer, next the spectral poet, was seen fumbling 
 about his oaken plant, and was heard muttering some- 
 thing about " beggarly Scotchmen," when the Caledo- 
 nian mildly inquired of his friend the philologist — a 
 term, whose assumption had provoked all this dispute, 
 *' May I take the liberty, my especial friend, to in- 
 quire what has brought ye here ?" " Ah, my dear 
 friend — a loss ! — a deep, woful, unutterably dreadful 
 loss !" The company stared with wide-opened eyes 
 on the speaker, amazed at this appalling exordium. 
 Then hurried whispers ran round — dating the sum at 
 one — two — -four 1 — six — ten thousand pounds ; and they 
 commiserated the unfortunate gentleman, who broke a 
 dead silence, by explaining — 
 
 u The labour of ten years, my dear sir ! It was 
 wrought amid pain, sickness, and sorrow. It was my 
 solace in all my vexations. It was my jewel, my 
 priceless jewel, in all my p — p — overty ! It was my 
 fair bright star, beaming through all the murkiness of 
 want and affliction ! It was my beacon to fame, hon- 
 our, and emolument. It would have made me repara- 
 tion for all my sufferings !" 
 
 " I canna, for the life o' me, conceeve what it ma' 
 ha' been," said the Scotchman, quite puzzled, as I 
 thought, at this piteous enumeration. "Dootless it 
 was a maist sair misfortune, but what can it ha' been 1 
 — a feelosopheecal treatise, perhaps — an erudite work 
 on the mathematics — a key to algebraic — " 
 
 " Good and wise things in their way, I question not," 
 said the disconsolate spectre, "but all nothing — no- 
 thing in comparison of the great work I have lost !" 
 
 " Ma certie !" ejaculated the astounded Scotchman, 
 turning his eyes and hands upward, " what can it ha' 
 been?" 
 
 " Oh, kind sir, hear what it was — The Battle of 
 Bunker Hill, a poem of forty-nine cantos." 
 
 " Whew — whew !" whistled the Scotchman, M I can- 
 
276 BLUCHER. 
 
 na but think ye need not ha' valued it at siccan a fearfu' 
 rate. A wee bit o' poetry ! — whew and whoo !" 
 
 11 Fhat may pe ta name o her poem ? will ta shen-^ 
 tleman say fhat is her name again V inquired a little 
 gorbellied Welshman, with both hands crossed on a 
 parcel wrapped up in a dingy yellow cotton handker- 
 chief, resting on his lap. 
 
 44 The Battle of Bunker Hill, sir ; and I am come 
 here to solicit the advice of the magistrate how to re* 
 cover it." 
 
 44 Heugh ! heugh !" answered the Welshman, quick- 
 ly untying the parcel. It proved to be a thick, quarto- 
 paged, closely written volume, with stiff blue paper 
 backs. He pushed aside the fly leaf, and peering on 
 the title page, read aloud, " The Battle of Bunker 
 Hill ; an Heroic Poem, in 49 Cantos, by Pigwhistle 
 Dronepipe, Esquire." 
 
 The instant that the spectre heard the annunciation 
 uttered, in a strong Welsh accent, he leaped over to 
 where the possessor of his treasure sat, almost scream- 
 ing with rapture. 
 
 11 Glory ! glory ! thanks ! — oh, how can I thank ye ? 
 Honour and distinction are now open ! — sweet, pre 1 
 cious, inestimable treasure !" and he hugged it in 
 ecstasy, 44 how often has my brain reeled while tracing 
 thy scenes by the dull flickering rushlight at midnight ! 
 Star of my recovered hope ! — jewel of my brighten- 
 ing fortunes ! — I kiss thee ! Oh for words ! — -words ! 
 — I cannot speak my thanks ! And what shall I pay 
 thee, honest sir?" and he put his hand into an — empty 
 pocket. 
 
 44 She fhil tak nothing fhatefer ! — no, tat she won't ! 
 She found it only yesterday, as she was falking along 
 Barbican, about dusk." 
 
 44 Well done, Taffy! Well done, Taffy! A true 
 Welshman !" echoed gladly round the room, with many 
 other shouts of approbation and expressions of sym- 
 pathy ; in the deafening din of which I fell fast asleep, 
 as warm and snug as my heart could wish. 
 
BLUCHER. 277 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I am retained in ignominious Bondage, and exposed to the rude 
 Examination of Strangers. 
 
 March 16th, 1824. When I awoke I was surprised 
 to find myself alone, and in comparative darkness. I 
 lay easily stretched before a few ruddy cinders, in 
 place of the huge roaring coal fire at which I fell asleep. 
 The room was untenanted, except by mine own self. 
 A few lumbering forms were around me ; and from two 
 diamond-shaped holes in the high window shutters 
 against the yard, could be seen the misty streaming 
 rays of incipient daybreak. I rose on the coarse rug, 
 and shook myself well — only to lie down again, and 
 watch the gristling cinders — for I did not know what 
 else to do with myself. 
 
 I consumed several hours in a kind of dreamy dozing, 
 in which I was perpetually recurring to Ashburd Park. 
 I could not help feeling a thrill of remorse, on consid- 
 ering the anxiety and vexation I must have occasioned. 
 Then I imaged the fat pursy Prowzer, lolling at ease 
 in my warm kennel — the butler bringing him his vict- 
 uals — following his own imperial will and pleasure ; 
 and contrasted it with myself — stretched, half shivering, 
 before the skeleton of a fire — obliged to steal my dinner 
 — for which I am locked up in the police office, and 
 advertised as a worthless vagabond ! In the middle of 
 these " thick-coming, bitter fancies," I felt a heavy 
 thwack on my shoulders ; and starting up with half a 
 howl and half a bark, saw foggy daylight coming 
 through the wide window shutters, which were thrown 
 aside. A cold draught crept shuddering over me ; and 
 on looking up I beheld a tall strapping servant wench^ 
 leaning on her brush, and looking, I fancied with 
 pitying eye, upon me. I started from the place I occu- 
 pied, and she went on with her sweeping. When 
 the chamber was set to rights — the forms were ad* 
 
 24 
 
278 BLUCHER. 
 
 justed — and the fire was comfortably lighted — I again 
 lay down in my former posture, and soon had a most 
 excellent and substantial breakfast brought me. 
 
 During the course of the day, a vast number of ap- 
 plicants came to view me, and if possible to claim me 
 as their property ; but the police took prudent care to 
 bid each describe minutely my person. Many funny dis- 
 putes occurred outside the door. " I vhant to see this 
 here dog," said the voice of a cockney, as I judged 
 from his accent and pronunciation. 
 
 M How so ? Is't yours, sir ?" 
 
 " Ay, it is, I varrant you ! He ran off from our shop 
 two days ago." 
 
 " What colour may he be, master ?" 
 
 "What colour! Why — a — a — in fact — what col- 
 our? Why — d'ye think I don't know my own dog? 
 He's mine, I tell you, and I'll have him. So, open the 
 door." 
 
 " Not in such a hurry, master. Surely your honour 
 must know your own dog. At least say ; is he white 
 or black ?" 
 
 " He — he — in fact he's neither, but brown /" replied 
 the bestial, ignorant cockney. 
 
 u Then spare yourself further trouble, master," re- 
 plied the man, opening the door, and disclosing a dog, 
 streaked with broad patches of white and black. He 
 slunk away heartily ashamed. 
 
 After a great number of such applicants, for a 
 week's time, the magistrate determined that I should be 
 sold at once ; for, as he said, I ate enormously. A 
 pretty independent life was this ! Sold, and bartered, 
 and thieved, and imprisoned every moment since I 
 came to London. Oh, for Ashburd — tut — I merely 
 wrote this in a qualm of sickness. 
 
BLUCHER. 279 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 I am sold.— Description of my new Master. 
 
 March 23d, 1824. It fell to my lot to be bought 
 by an apothecary, for three pounds, three shillings, and 
 three pence three farthings ; for the sable creature 
 higgled and haggled for an odd farthing. He was soon 
 furnished with a rope ; and I was led grumbling and 
 growling to the door, whereat stood a crazy, dingy, 
 nondescript vehicle, which he dignified by the name of 
 a one-horse chay, but which i" humbly beg leave to 
 translate into a "pillbox, drawn by an old leech." 
 Into this machine was I presently hoisted ; the flap 
 was buttoned down — Mr. McDrenchem whistled, the 
 whip descended, and away we rumbled ; my unhappy 
 body jolting about hither and thither, according to every 
 rut we encountered. At last the one-horse chay stopped, 
 opposite to a house in Holborn. As the flap was unbut- 
 toned to let out Mr. McDrenchem, while he descended 
 to rap at the little dingy green door, I stood ruefully 
 observing my future domicile. It was a slim house of 
 four stories ; the windows, two abreast, were level with 
 the walls ; they were high, narrow, and short paned. 
 The bottom was a broad bow, with a green blind let 
 down ; and in each corner was a piece of fine linen, 
 whereon was painted these letters : 
 
 " Gideon McDrenchem, 
 
 " Surgeon, Apothecary, and Accoucheur. 
 
 " N.B. At home till 10 in the morning, and after 6 in the 
 
 evening. Advice gratis to the poor." 
 
 I was soon summoned. I entered the shop, where 
 a pale listless apprentice sat at a desk, kicking his 
 heels against his stool. My heart sickened at the long 
 rows of bottles, white and green, slim and gorbellied ; 
 
2S0 BUUCHER. 
 
 I cast a shuddering glance at the ranks of ointment 
 jars and pill pots, and hurried into the surgery. There 
 sat an old wheezing man with one eye, awaiting the 
 doctor ; a dirty vial was balancing on his shrivelled 
 fingers. 
 
 " Eh, gratis patient ! Past the hour, freen'— past 
 the hour, freen' — " 
 
 " Please, sir, it's just seven minutes past ten, and 
 I'se so bad with the rhewmatise." 
 
 " Come to-morrow, come to-morrow. It's mair 'an 
 ten minutes syn St. Andrew's chappit ten. Glad to 
 see ye to-morrow, freen'-*-be sure ye're here afore 
 ten." So the gratis patient was fain to hobble out at 
 double quick time, and my new master dragged me up 
 stairs. He was a little, thin, wrinkled, money-getting 
 fellow, with a huge pair of spectacles on liis nose. 
 His wife was a tall, gaunt, ghastly-hued woman, who 
 nevertheless affected somewhat of the fine lady. 
 
 " Ye ken, Maggie, a said a would bring ye some- 
 thing guid ! Look ye !" and he pushed me on before 
 him. 
 
 "Eh! lauk! Why, how much did ye give for him?' * 
 
 "Three pounds, three shillings, and three pence 
 three farthings." 
 
 " Wouldn't take no lower, I suppose ?" 
 
 *' Ha, na, Maggie ! The chaps are aye unco hard 
 at aught o' a bargain. There's na coming ower near 
 them ; there's na coming ower near them, I'se assure 
 ye, Maggie." 
 
 " Indeed, so I think, lovy ; it's a most gashly sum to 
 give for a dog — and such a dog!" At hearing such 
 shameful depreciation, I could not refrain from growl- 
 ing deeply. 
 
 '* See'd ye ever such a vicious creature !" 
 
 " I'fackins ! I think I might ha' dun better wi' three 
 pounds, three shillings, and three pence, Maggie," re- 
 plied the apothecary, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Hout ! it can't be help'd now, you know, Gideon ; 
 only add sixpence to each draught that Alderman Cop- 
 
BLUCHER. 281 
 
 pernose and Deputy Tunbelly have, and I'll vouch for it 
 you'll soon pull it up." 
 
 ** Hech ! hear till her! It's aye easy to talk, Mag- 
 gie. If I were to do siccan a thing as set down * draught 
 aperient 2^.' in loco, (as we say in Latin,) ' Haustus 
 aperientis, 1*. 6d.,' Guid guide us, I should ha' them 
 raving here in a fearfV awsome manner ! Hegh, 
 Maggie ! I wad ye had seen how Mister O'Firkin 
 (that's the butterman at the corner, ye ken) gaed on, 
 just 'cause I set him down 'a glyster, 2*. 6d. !'" 
 
 " Tut, Gideon ! Ye will make it up, some way, I 
 don't at all doubt." 
 
 " Why, ay, wify, there's naethin' left for't but that, 
 I'm thinking. But he'll do to follow the chay, and sleep 
 in the shop, an' mind it while Mr. Topknot is at meals, 
 ye ken. Sae, I'se call the lad, and bid him feed him. 
 There's some grits an' stale braith, I'se thinking, wi' a 
 few wee bits o' odds an' ends." My heart sank within 
 me at this pitiful enumeration. I had a great mind to 
 bolt through the drawing room windows in reckless de- 
 spair. But the errand boy now knocked with his knuck- 
 les at the parlour door. He was commanded to enter. 
 He was a neat, tidy, humble boy, with coarse yellow- 
 ish hair, combed lankily on one side. 
 
 " Jacob, tak' ye this dog down stairs, and gie him 
 for his victuals, what odds an' ends there may be in 
 the kitchen ; and then get yourself ready to gae out 
 wi' some pheesic to Mister Squelch." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I am sorely dissatisfied with my Situation.— A Description of Mr. 
 Topknot, the Apprentice, and of the Shop. 
 
 I trotted down stairs into the kitchen, and was com- 
 pelled by hunger to devour such execrable riff-rafT as 
 — patience help me ! — makes my stomach heave even 
 now ! To what a despicable situation was I reduced ! 
 My brain was ready to be turned upside down, when I 
 
 24* 
 
282 BLUCHER. 
 
 compared my present situation with what I had left, 
 and felt that I deserved it. Here was I obliged to 
 gulp down all manner of nauseous filthiness — or 
 starve — and be cooped up in a narrow house, half suf- 
 focated with the stink of drugs — at the mercy of Mr. 
 McDrenchem — the old asthmatic servant — the appren- 
 tice — and the errand boy ! But the latter, I must do 
 him the justice to say, was a simple, kind-hearted fel- 
 low, and took a great liking to me. He always gave 
 me a small portion of his own scanty meals ; and 
 combed and washed me with particular attention. I 
 often licked his hand in return. 
 
 As soon as I had finished what Mr. McDrenchem 
 was pleased to miscall my meal, I was led into the 
 shop. This, to be sure, though rather oldfashioned, 
 was a clean, tidy, comfortable place. The floor was 
 covered with mosaic-pavement oilcloth ; and Mr. Top- 
 knot's desk, at the window, had railings, and nice green 
 silk. The bottles, jars, pots, &c, &c, were regularly 
 disposed, and the counter was clean and well rubbed. 
 Mr. Topknot might be about nineteen ; he was a good- 
 looking young man, but had a head like a footman, 
 with his stiff grayish hair twisted forcefully into a cone. 
 There was a certain haughtiness, too, in his manner, 
 and an affectation of dignity, which were mightily dis- 
 agreeable. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure !" quoth he, listlessly, wriggling 
 from off his stool, on seeing the errand boy lead me into 
 the shop — " and pray, my good fellow, what and whose 
 may that be 1 — eh ? A good-looking spiritish fellow, 
 by !" 
 
 " Please, sir, 'tis master's ; he bought him to-day." 
 
 " Ay, indeed ! Pray, my little fellow, what may he 
 have cost?" 
 
 " Master hasn't told me, sir. He gave me him to 
 feed (here methought his features were stealthily mod- 
 elled into a grin) and take care of."" 
 
 " Hem ! hem ! — a pretty decentish piece of goods, 
 I must say, Jacob." 
 
BLUCHER. 283 
 
 4t Glad you think so, sir. He's to be left here till I 
 come in from Mister Squelch's, sir," taking a bottle 
 of physic and a plaster from the counter — u will you 
 please to take care of him, sir V 
 
 " Ay ! ay ! ay ! to be sure. Come you here, sir ! 
 Eh, Jacob — I say ! — what's the name of this fellow ?" 
 
 " Master says he'll have him called Bolus, sir." 
 
 « Ho ! — Bolus ? Well — he's certainly a right to 
 call his own property by any name he likes — eh, Ja- 
 cob?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," for the prudent lad always took care to 
 coincide in the opinion of his superiors. As soon as 
 he went out, I was summoned to leap on the counter. 
 
 "So, so, Mr. Bolus! Heigh! You are a lad of 
 metal, are you] Upon my word, you've been well 
 kept! We" — and he spoke in a low cautious tone of 
 voice — " we shall see how long you will look sleek and 
 fat at Mr. McDrenchem's, or I'm monstrously mis- 
 taken." 
 
 As his master was gone out on his rounds, we were 
 very happy together, in frisking and leaping after each 
 other, in as much as the small space of the shop and 
 surgery admitted. At last, when he was in momentary 
 expectation of the arrival of Mr. McDrenchem, he sat 
 down very demurely at his desk, affecting a profound 
 study of "Dr. Culleri 's Nosology ;" while I crouched 
 down on the rug in the surgery, by a small but cheerful 
 fire, immersed in bitter reflection. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Detailing the Progress- of my Initiation into the Art and Mystery of 
 an Apothecary. 
 
 My situation at Mr. McDrenchem's was not so ex- 
 cessively laborious as I at first feared. I had little 
 regular occupation ; for of what service could a dog 
 be (even such a dog as myself!) in the profession of 
 physic 1 for I am free to confess, that neither of my 
 
284 BLUCHER. 
 
 paws is at all calculated for feeling pulses ; and that I 
 cannot contrive, like my master, to stalk along with a 
 silver-headed walking-stick in my hand. Yet, during 
 the first week I remained at Mr. McDrenchem's, I 
 obtained a very respectable knowledge of practical 
 physic. For example : Suppose a man — a woman — 
 a child — or a puppy — come to me, and say, rt Mr. 
 Blucher, I've got a bellyache — I want some stuff;" 
 I should hem and haw a good deal, to collect my wits 
 about me, and then tell the patient to put out his or her 
 tongue. 
 
 Whatever be the appearance at present, I imme- 
 diately say, " Sir, your stomach is out of order." 
 
 " Well, sir, and what would you recommend ?" 
 
 " Why, you see, sir, that the precepts of Hippoc- 
 rates recommend bleeding in all cases of intestinal 
 inflammation — especially in the region of the stomach, 
 behind which, my dear sir, is situated the grand sym- 
 pathetic nerve." 
 
 " Grand sympathetic nerve !" exclaimed the patient 
 in horror — " sure, doctor, that is not out of order !" 
 Here I shrug my shoulders, nod my head, wink my left 
 eye, and glance ambiguously. Having thus tortured 
 the wretched patient according to the most approved 
 method, and worked up his malaide imaginaire almost 
 into a paroxysm of real illness, I recapitulate the most 
 usual antiphlogistic remedies — and sum up the whole 
 with advising the patient — to take a dose of sulphatis 
 magnesia, or, vulgo vocato, Epsom salts. If ever a 
 patient chanced to ask me a puzzling question, I shook 
 my head ; and after a long silence, uttered, u Hie, 
 hcec, hoc — infinitement oblige, mounseer — tempus est 
 ludendi, quod erat demonstrandum." This jargon sel- 
 dom fails to satisfy the patient, who goes off with the 
 profoundest reverence for my consummate wisdom. I 
 made considerable progress in the study of pharmacy. 
 I am naturally enterprising ; but there was one thing 
 with which I could have easily dispensed — Mr. Top- 
 knot was in the habit of trying all his experiments on 
 
ELUCHER. 2S5 
 
 me. For instance — if he wished to see how small a 
 quantity of submuriate of mercury would produce a 
 salivation, he had nothing to do but enclose the requi- 
 site quantity in a lump of conserve of roses, (a drug for 
 which he discovered I had a great partiality,) put it in 
 my way, and it was sure to be gulped down, sans cere- 
 monie, the instant it was discovered. Three experi- 
 ments out of ten played the mischief with me. 
 
 But I now began to think it my turn for trying ex- 
 periments. Be it known unto the reader, then, that 
 there was a noble torn cat, who lived next door, and 
 with whom I was on very good terms. The way in 
 which I first conciliated his esteem was thus : Master 
 Tom, one morning, had been lying in wait near the 
 lair of a huge monster of a rat ; he chanced to pop out 
 his head ; and its enormous magnitude clean frightened 
 Tom. I chanced to be near the spot, -and saw him 
 spitting and shivering ; I knew by his manner there 
 was something in the wind, so I took my station oppo- 
 site. By-and-by the rat leaped out — the cat absolutely 
 yelled — for I never heard a cat utter such a sound be- 
 fore — and jumped on my back. I bounded after the 
 object of his horror — half suffocated, the meantime, by 
 the tight grasp of his claws round my neck — and suc- 
 ceeded in snapping the vermin almost in halves, with 
 exceeding fierceness. Tom loved me sincerely ever 
 after this exploit. 
 
 This was the animal on which I had resolved to 
 commence the practice of my experimental chymistry. 
 So, one morning, just after the boy had done sweeping 
 out the shop, and before Mr. Topknot had come down, 
 (for he was an infamously late riser,) I coaxed Tom 
 into the surgery. I then went into the shop, leaped on 
 the counter, and stood eying some small powder bot- 
 tles with intense earnestness. It was an awful mo- 
 ment. All was profound stillness around, save and ex- 
 cept when the dustman tinkled his bell, or the shrill 
 cresswoman published the contents of her rural basket. 
 The cat was basking cosily on the hearth before the 
 

 286* BLUCHER. 
 
 fire in the surgery. My heart fluttered. How did I 
 know but that in mistake I might hurry him off to his 
 long home, with a dose of arsenic, or oxymuriate of 
 mercury ? The thought startled me — my nose grew 
 stone cold, and I jumped off the counter. I soon re- 
 vived, and grew ashamed of my pusillanimity. Up I 
 leaped again, I opened my mouth, and grasped a bottle, 
 which, as I conceived, contained the calomel. I soon 
 contrived to pour out about a scruple's weight into a 
 piece of paper ; the powder was of a damp dingy 
 white. It seemed, as I fancied, rather grittier than 
 calomel — but what of that ? I had never before seen 
 it so closely. I directly enveloped it in a tempting 
 piece of conserve ; and then, with the piece in my 
 mouth, trotted into the surgery. Poor Tom little 
 imagined the horrors brewing for him ! How inno- 
 cently he lay, blinking at the ruddy flames ! For a 
 moment I felt ashamed of the scurvy trick I was about 
 to play : but my curiosity burned fiercely — it overcame 
 all obstacles. I feigned to romp, as I had often done 
 with Tom. At last, I contrived to open his mouth — I 
 held asunder the jaws, and then dropped in the nau- 
 seous compound. The cat turned up the whites of his 
 
 eyes — and then swallowed it! — 
 
 ******* 
 
 I lay down by his side, earnestly regarding his coun- 
 tenance. For a while he lay very quiet, with his 
 mouth resting on his soft velvet paws. I beheld all 
 was going on well, and blessed myself on my success. 
 All on a sudden the cat jumped on his feet — his teeth 
 chattered — his eyes turned round in all manner of di- 
 rections — he grinned in a ghastly manner — his flanks 
 
 heaved like a pair of bellows. 
 
 ******* 
 
 My head seemed turning round ! At length he was 
 seized with a fit of horrible sickness, and all the nau- 
 seous consequences regularly followed in such a loath- 
 some manner, as I hope never again to witness ! This 
 latter circumstance would never do ; so I grasped him 
 
BLUCHER. 287 
 
 by his neck, and carried him into the yard. I shivered 
 all over like a leaf rudely shaken by the wind, The 
 cat, in fact, was evidently enduring mortal agonies. 
 1 was his murderer ! — for in half an hour he expired in 
 a frightful fit of convulsions. 
 
 I disposed of the corpse with secrecy and despatch 
 — down a place which need not be mentioned. His 
 fate, to all but myself, was enveloped in the profoundest 
 mystery. The crime, however, was principally laid at 
 the door of poor Mr. Topknot. 
 
 " Ey, ey, sair ! Am werry sairtain you've been 
 physicking the cat — poor dear creature ! — an' he suck 
 werry excellent mouser ! Ey ! — ant ye ashamed o' 
 yourself?" said the owner to him one morning, after 
 his master was gone his first rounds. In vain poor 
 Topknot swore and protested he knew nothing of the 
 creature ; it wouldn't do ; the good woman seemed to 
 bring home to him the charge, and to establish its cer- 
 tainty in her own mind by the following most regular 
 and correct syllogism : — 
 
 " Mr. Topknot is fond of trying experiments on 
 wermin ; my torn cat is missing ; therefore, Mr. Top* 
 knot has physicked him to death ! ! !" 
 
 Several sage discussions on the subject were held 
 in the parlour by Mr. and Mrs. McDrenchem for want 
 of something better to talk about, while I, the murderer, 
 lay shivering under the table, or before the fire. But 
 the most terrific tragedy must have a finis. In a few 
 weeks poor Tom and his hard fate were consigned over 
 to oblivion. Not but that my conscience often ex- 
 perienced some sharp twinges of remorse ; but an 
 apothecary, especially an enterprising one, soon forgets 
 and despises such trifles. 
 
288 BLTJCHER. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Showing that 
 
 " Blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, 
 And though a late, a sure reward succeeds." 
 
 I cannot help thinking that I am a great fool for 
 heading chapter the eleventh with this motto ; it ought 
 rather to be — in my case, at least — 
 
 " For curses ever wait on barbarous deeds, 
 And," &c. 
 
 I would substitute for it this latter version ; but the 
 fact is, I have not time to scratch out, and my penknife 
 is very blunt. 
 
 There is a certain luxury attending the recollection 
 of great achievements, and even of the pains, vexations, 
 and anxieties attending their performance. The mind 
 delights, when, as it were, safe arrived on a fine flowery 
 island, to turn round, and cast her eyes on the turbulent 
 ocean, and to deride its angry foaming billows : but I 
 cannot help thinking that the excitement and terror it 
 endured thereon begetteth an inclination for a repeti- 
 tion of the same ; because pleasure is sweet after pain, 
 rest after trouble, and happiness after misery — the con- 
 trast in everything. Now, in my own case — the cat 
 and the emetic tartar (as I have since learned was the 
 name of the drug, which I unfortunately mistook for calo- 
 mel) occasioned me a little world of trouble and ex- 
 citement. I called forth the energy of mind which be- 
 fore I knew not that I possessed. The bold enterprise 
 ■ — the delicious agony of uncertainty — the finale — the 
 result — are very pleasant subjects for calm retrospec- 
 tion. When I retired for the night to my bed of straw 
 beneath Mr. Topknot's desk — when all was quiet around 
 me, in dreary inspissated darkness, I often meditated 
 on my rash experiment and its fatal consequences. 
 
BLUCHER. 289 
 
 Yet, I seemed bewitched, for though the latter would 
 stand in grim array before me, I longed — yea, even 
 longed for another opportunity. But, alas, there were 
 no more cats to be had in the neighbourhood. I did 
 not know how to account for it ; but whenever I 
 chanced to meet a neighbouring cat after this circum- 
 stance, they all avoided me, hawking and spitting fu- 
 riously at me. I seemed to be branded on the fore- 
 head with cruelty. But, as I was saying, my desire 
 for experiments was now stronger than ever, and I cast 
 about daily in my mind for a fresh subject for them. 
 Will any one believe it ? I at length fixed— on the er- 
 rand boy I ! 
 
 I must have been drunk when such an unlucky fancy 
 entered my head. I fancied poor Jacob could read my 
 determination in my guilty countenance. I was al- 
 ways casting a sheep's eye on him ; I was always 
 casting about for a fit and proper opportunity to put in 
 practice my resolution ; but when I recollected all his 
 innocent kindness towards me — I blushed for shame, 
 even on the inside of my mouth ! 
 
 At one time, I own, a substitute for him entered 
 my head, in the person of Mr. Topknot ; but I relin- 
 quished that idea in despair. What opportunity had I 
 for physicking the apprentice, who took his meals 
 up stairs ? How could I get the drug, when he who 
 had charge of them was in the shop ? And suppose I 
 should be — detected ! Now you must know that Jacob, 
 the errand boy, had his meals in the shop during the 
 times which were employed for that purpose by Mr. 
 Topknot up stairs. His dinner generally consisted of 
 three thick pieces of bread and butter, folded up in a 
 dingy white handkerchief. He frequently left this open 
 on the lid of an oilskin-covered basket, while he was 
 for a moment summoned on an errand. One day at his 
 dinner, just as he had saved a very choice morceau — 
 a titbit, as it was very nicely cut and squared, well 
 covered with salt butter — the shrill voice of the house- 
 keeper suddenly summoned him down stairs, and he 
 
 25 
 
290 BLTJCHER. 
 
 left it on the farther corner of his basket. I sat on the 
 mat before him, leering upon him out of the corner of 
 my eye, although I feigned sleep. As he closed the 
 shop door, I had an opportunity of putting in practice 
 my scheme immediately. So, I— -in fine, I accom- 
 plished my purpose ! — no matter how for the present! 
 
 Now, it so happened, that when Jacob was summoned 
 down stairs, it was for the purpose of supping up some 
 soup, of three days' standing, which the beneficence of 
 Mr. McDrenchem, when himself found it undrinkable, 
 had ordered to be inflicted upon his errand boy. As 
 soon as he had finished the nauseous liquid, with sun- 
 dry ejaculations and contortions, which happily passed 
 unobserved by the blinking eyes of the housekeeper — 
 he was suddenly summoned forth on some errand, and 
 I was commanded to attend Mr. McDrenchem, on a 
 visit to Sir Diggory Drysalt. On my return I was 
 handed my supper, such as it was — being a collection 
 of all the vile morceaus to be found on the premises. 
 As soon as I had done — for what can a dog do, when 
 his only alternative is to eat such stuff, or starve ? — as 
 I was clearing out my throat, I once or twice no- 
 ticed something of exceeding grittiness, though en* 
 tirely tasteless ; I supposed some sand, as usual, had 
 fallen into my victuals. Presently the errand boy came 
 down stairs. 
 
 u Please ye, mem, where's my piece o' bread and 
 butter V 
 
 lt Preat and putter, ye farment ! Tif ye think / 
 know ought o't?" 
 
 " But it was such a nice square piece, mem." 
 
 " Oh ! — fhat — ye mean tat piece left on your pas- 
 ket ?" 
 
 *' Yes, yes, I thank'ee, mem ; that's it." 
 
 " Oh — f hell ! — master comes town a little time since, 
 and seeing it there, ' It's an unco shame,' quo' he, * to 
 waste guid brede an' butter in siccan a sinfu' manner ! 
 Hout o' the dainty callant ! Maggie, lovy ! tak tent 
 it's taken down stairs, an' given to Bolus' — (myname, 
 
BLXJCHER. 291 
 
 as you recollect) — an' so it fhas, inteet, and ta tog has 
 just eaten it ! ! •" 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 I felt every single hair on every single limb start up- 
 right, as if it intended to take its departure ! What a 
 judgment ! At last I had fallen into the snare designed 
 for others ! 
 
 Faugh ! — in a few moments after the dame's annun- 
 ciation, I felt such an astounding sensation all over me 
 — such an uproarious commotion inside — such rum- 
 bling — swelling — tweezing — and then — I fell flat on 
 the iloor, and thought there was an end of the world. 
 I have some faint recollection of a burst of laughter 
 among the spectators — and then they joined together, 
 and pitched me — where, gentle reader- — on some clean 
 hay or straw — and then sending for a farrier I— -they 
 pitched me — into the coal hole, barred the door, and 
 left me ! Oh ! the ghastly, unutterable horrors, mental 
 and corporeal, of that dismal night ! 
 
 Tom flitted across my fancy — his ghost I mean, (jmx 
 illocum !) and grinned, and chattered, and spit at me ! 
 He came close to me — he brushed up his hairs — he 
 rolled his eyes ; my brain reels with the recollection ! 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I am somewhat refractory. — Horrible wretchedness of an Apothe- 
 cary's Domicile. — An Incident. 
 
 On* Sunday afternoons, Mr. Topknot was generally 
 visited by a few lanky young men — embryo linendra- 
 pers, grocers, small clerks, &c. — who knocked on the 
 shutters thrice with their thumbs — whistled as often — 
 (to ascertain if "the gowernor" wasn't in) — before 
 whom he wished to appear to great advantage. As 
 soon as he heard the signal outside, he pulled up his 
 collars, adjusted his ' ; topknot," and then rapped with 
 his knuckles on his desk. He once, on a similar oc- 
 casion, took a fancy to exhibit my docile obedience* to 
 
 N 2 
 
292 BLUCHER. 
 
 him. He whistled, and whistled ; and bawled " Bolus ! 
 — Bolus !" — but I was resolved not to hear. He rattled 
 the plastic line — I growled ! 
 
 " It's werry wonderful ! — werry impendent o' the 
 animal !" simpered Bodkin Draper. 
 
 "Bolus! — Bolus! — Bolus!" roared poor Mr. Top- 
 knot. None are so deaf as those who will not hear ; 
 at last, provoked at my obstinacy, and the giggling of 
 his smirking companions, he uttered a vast number of 
 unmannerly scurrilities, summing up with such a smart 
 thwack on my rump, as made me spring forth — my eyes 
 flashing fire, and growling gruff defiance ! They all 
 turned white ; two (Pickle Varnish and Bodkin Dra- 
 per) laid their hands on the shop door, to ensure a ready 
 retreat ; and poor Topknot asked me pardon, with his 
 eyes. But I don't know how to account for one cir- 
 cumstance. In our contests with man, though adven- 
 titious circumstances may conspire to give us a tem- 
 porary advantage, we are always sure to come off the 
 worse for it in the long run : at least, I always found it 
 so. Yet there was something in the form and look of 
 the human eye which quite undogged me. I could 
 never stand it. It seemed the organ of some un- 
 fathomable intelligence, which quite conquered me. 
 At times it had a certain lurking depth of expres- 
 sion — a fiery glare of anger, which made my blood run 
 cold. But the thing is, that when we get refractory, 
 few people have sufficient presence of mind to try the 
 experiment. My conscience pricks me for disclosing 
 this canine secret. 
 
 Ever after this shop incident, Mr. Topknot bore me 
 a grudge. He once or twice mingled a quarter of a 
 pound of Epsom salts in my dinner ; but the first 
 mouthful generally sufficed. He would place frag- 
 ments of broken vials, &c, at the bottom of victuals; 
 whereby my tongue and mouth were frequently se- 
 verely lacerated. He applied cowhage — or, in the lan- 
 guage of the Pharmacopoeia, dolichos pruriens, to my 
 back, head, tail, &c, whereby the most excruciating 
 
BLUCHER. 293 
 
 fit of itching ensued. He gave me an ill name to Mr, 
 McDrenchem. He called me a thief, &c. He would 
 sometimes drop on my back, or nose, or into my ears, 
 as it were by chance, hot and stinking ointment. But, 
 at last, when I had been so far provoked out of my 
 proper reason as to give him a sharp snap on the calf 
 of his leg, he planned one of the most diabolical plots 
 I ever heard of. He suddenly seemed to lay by all his 
 ancrer, and never spoke to me but with the most soft and 
 smiling cordiality. He patted my back ; he combed 
 me ; he played with me ; he bought me presents. We 
 were, once more, excellent friends ; I did all he bid me. 
 
 One Sunday evening, he thus accosted his master : — 
 
 " Please, sir, I've done all the physic. May I go 
 out this evening, sir, for an airing ?" 
 
 " Guid guide us ! — an' fhat for o' Sunthay evening?'' 
 
 " I vant to exhale," replied Topknot, simpering, " the 
 sweet wernal breezes. Ton my soul, master, 'tis too 
 great confinement." 
 
 u Hout awa wi' ye ! Too great confinement? Is't 
 na just your duty?" 
 
 "Sir," replied the apprentice, bristling, "I'se make 
 bold to answer, 'tis not my duty to go into a consump- 
 tion for vant of fresh air !" 
 
 " Eigh ! eigh ! Maister Topknot, gang intil a con- 
 sumption ! Gang intil a consumption of victuals, ye'll 
 be meaning, man ! Why, ecod ! its costs me na' mair 
 nor less 'an sevenpence farthing a day to keep ya !" 
 
 " And what if it does, sir ?" replied Topknot, red- 
 dening with anger ; " don't ye think, sir, I am worth 
 more than sevenpence farthing per diem to ye ? Didn't 
 I pay ye a premium of one hundred and thirty-nine 
 pounds seventeen shillings and eightpence halfpenny? 
 Once more, sir, may I go out this evening?" 
 
 " Ye must be back by a quarter past eight o'clock, 
 Master Topknot," replied my master, who began to see 
 he had the worst of the previous argument. 
 
 " I will, dear sir. Now may I presume — bold war- 
 mint that I am, (he was very fond of this ohrase,) to 
 
 25* 
 
294 BLUCHER. 
 
 ask ye a favour?" he continued, in a winning, whining 
 tone — " may Bolus go with me, sir ?" 
 
 u Yes, yes, I'm thinking, Maister Topknot, I'm just 
 thinking an out will do him, poor fellow, na mickle 
 harm." 
 
 Mr. McDrenchem walked up stairs ; Mr. Topknot 
 straightway bustled about tight in readiness for his ex- 
 cursion. I could not help noticing, with considerable 
 surprise, that he curled up a thin rope, and put it in his 
 hat, beneath an imitation-silk pocket handkerchief. He 
 walked up the City Road. It swarmed with strutting 
 apprentices, pale-faced tailors, giggling milliners' girls, 
 servants, &c. — all stiff and bedizened in their Sunday 
 finery. We walked up to the Shepherd and Shep- 
 herdess Fields, and then turned off into the new road. 
 This conducted us to the New River. Just about 
 opposite Canonbury House, Topknot cast about for 
 a stone. He found one of considerable magnitude. 
 " This will do," said he, and forthwith sat himself down, 
 tied one end of the rope round it, and brought it to 
 the margin of the deepest part of the river. He sat 
 down, with the stone on his right, and me on his left 
 side ; the string, or rope I should say, went behind him. 
 This he easily fastened round my neck, for I knew 
 nothing of his intention, and then gave me a sudden 
 jerk. The impetus was too great for him ; he suddenly 
 lost his balance — fell into the water, and instantly dis- 
 appeared. As for myself, the rope, fortunately, was 
 much longer than he expected, and allowed me to re- 
 gain my footing, without drawing in after me the fatal 
 stone. Poor Topknot soon rose, at about a yard and a 
 half distance, and the look he cast on me I shall never 
 forget. He could not swim a single stroke, and went 
 down instantly a second time. I was constrained to 
 remain an inactive spectator of this terrible tragedy ; 
 how could I save him, attached as I was to the stone, 
 which he had designed for the instrument of my de- 
 struction ? My heart seemed bursting within me. He 
 was my deadly foe — my intended murderer ; but his 
 
BLUCHER. 295 
 
 snares had entrapped himself! I yelled, and howled, 
 and barked — alas, uselessly ! The shadows of the 
 evening were falling around — the busy hum of the re- 
 tiring visiters sounded faintly and afar off; there was 
 one old gentleman at about twenty yards' distance, 
 apparently reading a book, and walking slowly to- 
 wards me. 
 
 As the unfortunate Topknot appeared at the surface 
 for the last time, I yelled with the fierceness, the agony 
 of despair. I attracted the notice of the gentleman — 
 he ran towards me with hurried steps, and looked 
 petrified with amazement ! Well he might ! Floating 
 on the water was a man's hat ; on the margin sat a 
 large Newfoundland dog, fastened by a rope to a large 
 stone, earnestly looking on the water. Several bubbles 
 rising sullenly to the surface, caught his eye — he turned 
 of an ashy palenesss. The dreariness of the scenery 
 — my low, querulous whining — my astounding situa- 
 tion — the bubbles of water — the hat — all all were 
 overpowering. He sunk down, and fainted. I don't 
 think, however, that dogs have the fainting gift ! but I 
 went very near it, My eyes swam in their sockets— 
 they grew dim — they smarted — I tottered — I shivered 
 all over ! 
 
 I have a faint recollection, at this distance of time, 
 of a group of dark figures near the river's edge — of 
 glaring torches — of low hurried mutterings — of drag- 
 nets splashing and agitating the water — and a dim re- 
 membrance of their at last raising to the surface — a 
 bloated, stiff, unseemly, discoloured form. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 An Advertisement, and Change of Situation. 
 
 " Late on Sunday evening, as the Rev. Jacob Writhe- 
 text was walking near the New River, opposite Canon- 
 
293 BLUCHER. 
 
 bury House, he was attracted to the water's edge by 
 hearing the strange howling of a large Newfoundland 
 dog, which, on approaching, he found, to his great 
 amazement, sat on the margin of the river with his 
 neck attached to a large stone by a rope. It was look- 
 ing fixedly on the water; on which Mr. Writhetext 
 discovered, with horror, a hat floating near, and ob- 
 served, about the centre of the water, air bubbling up, 
 as from the bottom. With that firmness and decision 
 which always distinguish his character, Mr. Writhe- 
 text instantly summoned some men to the water's edge 
 with dragnets, &c, and about four in the morning, after 
 indefatigable toil and perseverance, succeeded in raising 
 the body of a young gentleman of respectable appear- 
 ance, bloated and swelled with the water. His face 
 was much discoloured. He appeared to have been in 
 the water many hours. On opening his coat, a pocket- 
 book was discovered, inside of which were several 
 memoranda, almost effaced by the water; but here and 
 there Mr. W. deciphered these words : ' Treac — e 
 — nd laud — num makes S — rup of p — pp — es. Burnt 
 Sp — ng — e a deobstruent. Sir — p of Viol — ts made 
 w — th common Sug — r — nd Ind — go.' Then followed 
 this triplet more distinctly : — 
 
 " James Topknot — s my n — me, 
 Holb— n — s my dwelling place, 
 Ch — t — s my salv — tion." 
 
 " Diligent crying having been made in Holborn, 
 
 McDrenchem, Esq., a medical gentleman recognised 
 the body as that of his apprentice. No clew, as yet, 
 has been found to this mysterious affair. The dog in 
 question has been detained at Mr. Writhetext's and pur- 
 chased by him of Mr. McDrenchem, who refused any 
 longer to receive it into his house." 
 
 Such was the paragraph which was inserted in all 
 the metropolitan Monday evening papers. I was taken 
 to Mr. Writhetext's, a clergyman, living in Parson Ter- 
 race, Islington. His household consisted of himself, 
 
BLUCHER. 297 
 
 nine squalling children, a lazy trolloping wife, with a 
 young sen-ant girl, ditto. He was an afternoon lecturer 
 at church, and occasionally preached at Bumble- 
 bone Square chapel of ease. His annual income 
 amounted to seventy-five pounds. 
 
 I had a wretched time of it here : what with eating 
 most abominable trash — being beaten and otherwise 
 maltreated by the servant girl — being cuffed, ridden, 
 and provoked by the children — I longed for my " cold, 
 cold grave !" My only intervals of comparative com- 
 fort, and even those were few and far between, were 
 when I was allowed to enter my master's study. This, 
 be it known, was a nutshell of a place — a back attic, 
 where the window rattled in its frame, at the instigation 
 of every passing gust ; assigned to the poor henpecked 
 parson, as a particular favour, by his termagant spouse. 
 It was the only place in the house which he could call 
 his own ! Round the walls (the room was about ten 
 feet square) was a scanty assortment of books ; and 
 on a three-legged table (the leg wanting was supplied, 
 when requisite, by a broken mopstick) lay a small, 
 second-hand, well-worn writing desk. I generally lay 
 between his legs while he was writing his sermons. 
 He was a quiet, amiable, inoffensive, man. I w r as in 
 great danger of being starved here ; and if I had had the 
 heart, I should certainly have eloped from my new mas- 
 ter. At length one fine Sunday afternoon, when he went 
 
 to preach at church, I accompanied him, and lay 
 
 down by the chancel, in front of the seat of a rich man, 
 whose eye I frequently observed fixed eagerly on me ; 
 in fact, I had struck his fancy, and on the Monday 
 following he purchased me of Mr. Writhetext, who, 
 poor man, little suspected that I had filled the mind of 
 one of his richest hearers, while he in the pulpit was 
 humming away his finest, though his doughtiest argu- 
 ments, garnished with all manner of fine tropes, figures, 
 metaphors, and tinkling with alliterative antitheses ! 
 But it is now time that I introduce the reader to the 
 person of my new purchaser. 
 
 n3 
 
298 BLUCHER. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Giving an Abstract of the History of Sir Diggory Drysalt. 
 
 The first thing that is remembered of Diggory Dry- 
 salt, was his being found, filthy and half naked, upon 
 a dunghill, in the parish of St. Giles — that receptacle 
 of all that is great, good, and dignified in human na- 
 ture. He had eloped from a country work house, car- 
 rying with him about two shillings and threepence in 
 farthings. The next was his being whipped at the 
 cart's tail for a petty larceny, with unexampled sever- 
 ity. The next week after this salutary chastisement, 
 he was found walking down the Edgeware road, in a 
 most sorrowful and contemplative mood. Suddenly 
 he struck his fist on his forehead, and with vehemence 
 exclaimed — " It's done — Til be a rich man — III be a 
 second Whittington .'" He turned round, and went in 
 quest of employment ; never mind how mean and dis- 
 graceful. He turned into an oilman's shop and begged 
 hard for a score or two of bundles of matches ; it 
 would save him from starvation. There was some- 
 thing in the lad's earnestness that pleased the mer- 
 chant of oils and pickles. He gave him what he re- 
 quested. As soon as he had got them beneath his arm, 
 he threw aside his wonted air of insolent sauciness, 
 and appeared humble, obliging, and industrious. He 
 courteously sought customers for his sulphurous 
 wares ; he sold them all, and at night found himself 
 possessed of eighteen pence. How to turn this to the 
 greatest advantage now employed his thoughts. He 
 bought matches, and in two days' time reckoned three 
 shillings and ninepence. Very good. He had more 
 than doubled his money. It was encouraging. 
 
 By slow and laborious stages, he at length accumu- 
 lated two pounds ; by shovelling up coals, brushing 
 
fiLUCHER. 299 
 
 shoes, occasionally holding gentlemen's gigs, &c. With 
 this he prudently equipped himself with a strong and 
 durable suit of clothes ; they consisted of two parts — 
 jacket and breeches, made of coarse yellow leather. 
 Enormous-soled shoes, and a thick fur cap, completed 
 his dress. He found himself, notwithstanding this 
 outlay, in possession of twelve shillings. He hired 
 himself as errand man (he was now eighteen) to a 
 wholesale tea warehouse, in the most humble capacity. 
 He wheeled drags, carried burdens, w r aited on the men, 
 &c. At length, his steadiness and propriety of be- 
 haviour struck the head clerk, and he was employed 
 in a more trustworthy place. He earned now seven- 
 teen shillings a week ; and, w T ith almost starving econ- 
 omy, (bread and cheese and pump water his only food, 
 and slept in the warehouse on a few sacks,) he was 
 enabled to lay by, out of seventeen shillings a week, 
 fifteen. In twelve months' time, what with divers 
 other small perquisites from the workmen, clerks, &c, 
 he reckoned 40/. of clear money, in guineas, silver, 
 and copper. This he put in a savings bank, redoubled 
 his assiduity, and was promoted to the station of regu- 
 lar workman, worth two pounds a week. He lived as 
 frugally as ever, and could never be persuaded to sleep 
 elsewhere than on the sacks he first used, nor to enter 
 a public house. This year he earned 97/., which he 
 carried to the savings' bank. He now possessed 137/. 
 of sterling money. 
 
 One evening, as he was walking home past the bank, 
 his foot kicked against something- in the street. He 
 took it up, examined it with a lynx eye, discovered a 
 clerk's pocketbook, with bills in it. to an immense 
 amount His brain reeled, he staggered home, and 
 kept it nearest his heart. Next day his fellow-labour- 
 ers began to talk about a vast reward being adver- 
 tised on the walls and in the papers, for the recov- 
 ery of a lost pocketbook. He trembled with excess 
 of joy. He determined to restore it. How could fie 
 
300 BLUCHEK. 
 
 keep 90,000/. without detection? He issued forth, 
 and read the following advertisement, in large capitals 
 and flaring red paper : — 
 
 " £500 reward ! ! ! Whereas, on the evening of 
 
 , on July 9th, 17 — , a pocketbook was dropped, 
 
 as it is conjectured, in the region of the Bank of Eng- 
 land, or the Stock Exchange, containing bills and bank 
 notes, upward of 90,000/. ; of all of which, payment 
 has been stopped this morning. This is to give no- 
 tice, that jive hundred pounds" (in letters two inches 
 long) " reward will be paid to the person who shall 
 bring the same to Omnium, Bullion, and Co., bankers, 
 Lombard-street." 
 
 Thither he carried his prize. The whole house 
 was in commotion. Business was stopped. The un- 
 fortunate clerk sat in the centre, on a chair, with his 
 neck handkerchief unbuttoned, pale as death. 
 
 " Where's the 500/. ?" inquired Diggory, advancing 
 to the clerk. The sound electrified all before him. 
 The clerk's eye gleamed wildly with hope. He un- 
 buttoned his coat, tore open his waistcoat, and handed 
 to him the identical pocketbook. The young man 
 sank back and fainted. He was paid the sum in five 
 100/. Bank of England notes, on the spot. Thoy en- 
 gaged him as a kind of porter. Here he learned, with 
 immense, labour and unyielding application, to read 
 and write. He was scribbling every moment of his 
 vacant hours. In a year's time he wrote a good run- 
 ning hand, and was tolerable expert at accounts. 
 Through the influence of the clerk whom he had so 
 greatly advantaged, he obtained a kind of inferior 
 clerkship in the same wealthy concern, with a salary 
 of fifty pounds a year. As usual, he was diligent and 
 frugal, even to excess. He at length ventured to spec- 
 ulate ; he bought the sixteenth of a lottery ticket, it 
 came up a prize of 50/. His share was trifling ; what 
 of that ? It was a prize. Try again. He bought an 
 eighth — came up a blank. He seemed infatuated. 
 Bought a half — came up a twenty pound prize ; eon- 
 
BLUCHER. 301 
 
 sequently gained nearly his purchase money. In a 
 fit of excitement he purchased the whole of No. 17,335, 
 and paid twenty six pounds for it. 
 
 At length the drawing day drew near : he could 
 scarcely attend to his business ; ten times he dreamed 
 he got the golden prize ; oftener, that he got a blank. 
 He began to look pale. His eyes lost their vivacity. 
 He was always moping in corners. He had not a 
 strong mind. He had weak nerves. The suspense 
 was too great for him. At length the 19th of October 
 dawned. Four o'clock in the evening was the time. 
 The morning was cold, bleak, and rainy. As the day 
 advanced, the weather grew more lowering ; at three 
 o'clock a violent storm arose, it thundered with appal- 
 ling loudness, and the fierce flickering lightning gleamed 
 like fiery serpents across the murky atmosphere. He 
 left his house. He directed his steps to the lottery 
 office. Vast crowds thronged the street; he had 
 scarcely strength sufficient to push his way through 
 them. However, he did ; he elbowed up to the door 
 of Ironmongers' Hall, in Basinghall-street ; the doors 
 were opened ; he rushed up stairs, got to the front seat 
 of the gallery. Below, at the farther end, sat a num- 
 ber of gentleman. On each side were laid large and 
 ponderous wheels ; at each side a little blue-coated 
 boy sat on. a stool. A signal was given ; the holes of 
 each wheel were opened ; each boy thrust in his hand ; 
 he drew out a thin, crisp little roll of paper ; handed 
 them to two men, who opened them ; one bellowed 
 forth the number — the other the fate of that ticket. 
 Then they were overlooked by an old gentleman, who 
 feat there for that purpose, to see that they called them 
 over correctly ; lastly, they were written down, dock- 
 eted, and filed. Half an hour elapsed ; about a hun- 
 dred numbers had been called over; two rolls were 
 severally taken out — unfolded — an astounding clap of 
 thunder burst over them — the lightning flashed rud- 
 dily over the men in whose hands were the rolls — one, 
 sonorously and in a peculiar tone, read, " Seventeen— 
 
 26 
 
302 BLUCHER. 
 
 thou-sand — three hun-dred — thir-ti-five ;" a dead si- 
 lence for an instant ensued ; the other man opened his 
 fold, and, with a thundering voice, shouted, " Thirty- 
 thousand pounds ! ! God prosper the possessor or pos- 
 sessors !" His sight failed him, he sank back amid 
 the deafening cheers which usually follow the annun- 
 ciation of any of the grand prizes. 
 
 He was now worth thirty-two thousand pounds. 
 He married the widow of a ci-devant lord mayor. He 
 speculated in the funds with success. He engaged in 
 co-partnership as a drysalter. He prospered enor- 
 mously. He took a house in Bloomsbury Square, 
 kept his carriage, footmen, with all the paraphernalia 
 of opulence. He is now niggardly and close fisted ; 
 he grudges a shilling ; but his wife has stunned him 
 out of attending any longer to his business. He is 
 now a fat pursy alderman, his eyes almost squeezed 
 out of his head, has the gout fashionably twice a year, 
 in humble imitation of my Lord Liverpool and Mr. Can- 
 ning, and expects to be elected lord mayor in two years' 
 time. Such is an abstract, no matter how obtained, 
 of the life of my new master, Sir Diggory Drysalt. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Being a dramatic Exhibition of opulent Noble-mindedness 
 
 " How d'ye do, Parson Writhetext ?" 
 
 " Most profoundly obedient, Sir Diggory, how is 
 your worship ?" 
 
 " Pretty tolerable, pretty tolerable. Rather subject 
 to the gout, sir ; much the same, sir, as my Lord Liver- 
 pool." 
 
 " Eh ! eh ! Great men have sympathies in common 
 with each other, I perceive, Sir Diggory 1" 
 
 " Why, I suppose you are right, then, my good sir. 
 It's been often thought I'm a good deal like the earl in 
 mind and body." 
 
BLUCHER. SOS 
 
 <c Happy to hear it, sir — happy — " and poor Writhe- 
 text's innate honesty would not let him get any further 
 with a palpable, a gross deception. 
 
 " But, parson, I'm come about that 'ere dog of your's, 
 that you brought to church yesterday afternoon. Whip 
 me, if it wasn't in my head all the afternoon. Fine 
 animal, my dear sir V 
 
 " Noble fellow, Sir Diggory ! Glad you like him." 
 " Why right, you're very right. Always coincide 
 with those above you. What do you ask for him V 
 
 "What do I ask for him, your worship? Didn't say 
 I'd part with him, Sir Diggory." 
 
 " Ay, ay, all's one for that, I want him. He's hit 
 my fancy wonderfully, that's enough for you. What's 
 your price f" 
 
 "Indeed, your worship — " simpering. 
 " Out with it, out with it, my dear sir ! What d'ye 
 ask for it?" 
 
 " Why, Sir Diggory, 'pon my word, haven't given it 
 a moment's consideration." 
 
 " Fal-lal, sir ! I want the dog, and, thank Provi- 
 dence, can afford to pay for it indifferently well. 
 Name your sum, sir !" and he took out a handful of 
 gold, silver, and copper. Poor Writhetext's eyes wa- 
 tered, he pulled me to him, and began unconsciously to 
 fondle me. 
 
 " D ye, parson ! D'ye think I want to steal 
 
 your dog ?" 
 
 *' God forbid, your worship ! Only — only — I cannot 
 part with him, your worship." 
 
 " Not part with him, when I ! Sir Diggory Drysalt! ! 
 alderman ! ! ! worth ten thousand a year ! ! ! ! want 
 him ! ! ! ! !" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; but — but — " and he was going to say, I 
 was his only comfort at home, as I conjectured. 
 
 " Come, come, parson — won't ye part with him ? 
 He's half starved ! Tut ! — have such a huge animal, 
 rawboned, lean !" 
 
304 BLUCHER, 
 
 " Misfortune, Sir Diggory, ought to increase our love 
 for those who are helpless and dependant upon us." 
 
 " Look ye here, then," and he thrust the money up 
 into his face, till a golden guinea touched the nose of 
 poor Mr. Writhetext. The effect was magical. They 
 thawed away the ice of his reluctance instantly. 
 
 " How much would ye mention, Sir Diggory V 9 
 
 " How much ? 'Drat it ! What d'ye ask f 
 
 " Four guineas, Sir Diggory." 
 
 *' Four guineas ! ! !" 
 
 " Yes, your worship !" 
 
 li Four guineas ! ! ! !" 
 
 " Ton my word, sir, can take nothing less ! My 
 salary is not eighty pounds a year ; have a large fam- 
 ily — wife and nine children to support." 
 
 " Mr. Writhetext — what the d is all this to me ?" 
 
 " Nothing, sir, only — only you seemed amazed at 
 my mentioning the small sum of four guineas, when I 
 gave three pounds for him." 
 
 " Monster of extortion ! Would you gain 1?., 4$. on 
 three pounds ! and you a parson ? Scollop me !" 
 
 " I did not ask you to buy him, Sir Diggory." 
 
 "You did not ask me, sir ! Would you presume to 
 insult me, sir! ! !" 
 
 " Heaven forbid, that I, a clergyman, should insult 
 any one. Good-day, Sir Diggory !" 
 
 M Good-day, d'ye say ? Come here ; I've not done 
 with you yet. Four pounds, ye asked, eh ?" 
 
 " No, Sir Diggory, I asked four guineas." 
 
 " The d you did ! It's ghastly exorbitant !" 
 
 11 Cannot help that, sir." 
 
 " Well," fumbling about, " what do you say to four 
 pounds two shillings V* 
 
 " Sorry I can't take it, your worship." 
 
 " Sure of that ? Why, d'ye know that it takes 
 twelve large pieces of new copper to make a shilling ?" 
 
 " Therefore I shall lose twenty-four of them if I ac- 
 cede to your proposal, Sir Diggory." 
 
 *• 'Sbloodj sir !" replied the knight, confusedly, caught 
 
BLUCHER. 305 
 
 in his own trap. " Will you let him be mine for four 
 pounds, two shillings, and sixpence ?" 
 
 " No, your worship." 
 
 4 What the d — e ! A parson so exorbitant ! so cov- 
 etous ! ! so mean! ! !" 
 
 " Were it not that my cloth will not allow me to re- 
 venge an insult, you should not go on thus, Sir Dig- 
 gory," replied Writhetext, spiritedly. 
 
 " Here, then ! — take ye four pounds three shillings." 
 
 u Once more, your worship, / will take four guineas 
 and nothing less. 1 '' 
 
 " Take this then," chucking the money in his lap, 
 " and go, get ready a sermon against covetousness." 
 I was handed to the knight, (feeling heartily inclined 
 to snap off the calf of his leg,) and led into the carriage. 
 Away we bowled to Bloomsbury Square. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Description. — A taciturn Footman. — A Dialogue. — Discussion of rny 
 Worth, &c. 
 
 At length the carriage stopped opposite a large dingy- 
 hued mansion in Bloomsbury Square. A long shining 
 brass plate, running half across the door, displayed in 
 Roman capitals, " sir diggory drysalt, knt." 
 
 The footman stepped down from his standing board, 
 and dealt such an astounding number of blows with the 
 knocker, as half stunned my plebeian ears. The door 
 was presently opened by a fat bullet-headed porter, 
 with green-fringed livery. Johnny (the cant name for a 
 man servant) then opened the door, let down the steps, 
 and put out his arm, to support his master, while he 
 achieved-a descent from his carriage. He then sum- 
 moned me to follow him ; I obeyed him reluctantly, 
 and jumped sullenly on the pavement. As soon as we 
 had got inside, the door closed, and Sir Diggory re- 
 mained standing on the mat, inquiring of the porter, 
 who sat in his little box, where lived the most cheap 
 
 26* 
 
306 BLUCHER. 
 
 carpenter — for he wanted a kennel made for me : then 
 for the tory warehouse ; and commissioned him to pur- 
 chase, as cheaply as possible, a good-sized collar, and 
 to get his name put on it, with that of the dog, which 
 he named to be " Fackins." When he had made an 
 end of speaking, he walked up stairs, commanding me 
 to follow him. The footman was at the parlour door, 
 answering some questions of his mistress. 
 
 " You know the street, Charles V 
 
 " Yes, my lady." 
 
 " Not that on the left-hand side, you know,"" 
 
 " No, my lady." 
 
 " Be very particular about the price," 
 
 " Yes, my lady." 
 
 " Don't give too much, Charles." 
 
 " No, my lady." 
 
 " You'll be sure to remember all I've told you, eh ?" 
 
 " Yes, my lady." 
 
 " Remember you do not forget it, Charles." 
 
 " No, my lady." 
 
 " Now you may go, Charles." 
 
 " Yes, my lady." 
 
 Then the steps of his lord were heard. 
 
 " Stay, Charles — there is some one on the stairs- 
 is there not ?" 
 
 " Yes, my lady." 
 
 «' Is't Sir Diggory ?" 
 
 He looked down. " Yes, my lady." 
 
 " By himself, Charles ?" 
 
 " No, my lady." 
 
 He was then met by the lord of the mansion. 
 
 " How now, fellow, where ar't going?" 
 
 *' To Lollypop-street, Sir Diggory." 
 
 " Where's that, Charles ?" 
 
 " On the left-hand side, Sir Diggory." 
 
 " Who are you going to f • 
 
 " To Mr. Swillgin, Sir Diggory." 
 
 " Eh — the spirit merchant ?* 
 
 M Yes, Sir Diggory," 
 
BLUCHER. 307 
 
 11 What 're ye going for V* 
 
 " Bottle of Hudson'' s convenient, Sir Diggory ?" 
 
 u Ay, indeed ! Pray, fellow, what's that V 
 
 " Cherry brandy, Sir Dig — " 
 
 •' Who for ? — who for ? Cherry brandy ! — who 
 for?" 
 
 "My lady, your worship." 
 
 " Well — I suppose — I suppose you must go Charles" 
 — and he grabbled in his breeches pocket. 
 
 "Yes, Sir Diggory." 
 
 He then went back, and opened the dining room door 
 — " Sir Diggory, my lady." The knight and myself 
 walked in — the servant went away, and closed the door. 
 There was a vast deal of heavy clumsy finery in this 
 dining room. On the lofty ceiling were huge carica- 
 tures of angels, cherubs, &c, tumbling a crown on the 
 head of a fat little man, who held in his hand a sword 
 bigger than himself. Probably it was in anticipation 
 of his election to the office of chief magistrate. My 
 lady — a tall, corpulent, red-faced, good-natured-looking 
 woman, lay stretched on a Grecian sofa, reading the 
 playbill. "Heighho, ma dare! — Meddim Rowze De 
 Begnis don't sing to-night !" 
 
 " Can't help that, my love. What's madam — what 
 d'ye call her — to me ?" 
 
 " A remarkable fine woman, ma dare — and a most 
 diwine singer ? Oh ! 'tis werry delicious to hear her 
 sing ! What shall I do with myself all the eve- 
 ning?" 
 
 " Drink cherry brandy, ma'am." 
 
 "Ehe!" rising swiftly — " ehe — Sir Diggory! — 
 what diw you mean, Sir Diggory ?" 
 
 ** Oh ! why, mayhap I'm wrong, and ought to have 
 said, Hudson's convenient, my lady." 
 
 " It's a very great piece o' assurance, my love, for 
 you to stop my servant ! — cannot send him for a bottle 
 of medicinal cordial for the rheumatiz." 
 
 " Heigh, ma'am ! — rheumatiz ! — why, how long is't 
 since you've been bless'd with that, my love ?" 
 
308 BLUCHER. 
 
 " For this month past, my dear." 
 
 " Then you have told a most abominable bouncer, 
 my sweet love ! For last night, when you axed me to 
 take you to the opera house— you said you was never 
 better in your whole life, my love !" 
 
 My lady looked wondrously confused, but said no- 
 thing. "Never mind it, dear Jennie! Look ye! — 
 I've bought a fine Newfoundland dog this afternoon." 
 
 " What did ye give for him V 
 
 " Would you believe it ? — I shall be ruined by my 
 extravagance some of these days — I gave 4Z. 4s." 
 
 " Ruined, my dear ! Ye've gotten him cheap enow, 
 in all conscience." 
 
 " But then ye forget there's the expense of keeping 
 him — wictuals — kennel — collar." 
 
 " Don't look blue about it, my love ! Ye should 
 have thought of all that before." 
 
 M Ha, but, Jennie, if ye had but known what a world 
 o' trouble and labour it cost me to earn four guineas 
 twenty-one years since." 
 
 " Whatever it did then, Sir Diggory, you're rolling 
 in gold now !— and that's enough. But I'll ring the 
 bell, and order the dog to be well fed below. Stay — 
 what's his name, my dear?" 
 
 " 4 Fackins,' my love, which was the name of your 
 uncle." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Description of Sir Diggory's Family, and a Visit from my old 
 Master, Dr. McDrenchem. 
 
 There were four men servants, including the butler, 
 coachman, porter, and footman ; and four women, in- 
 cluding the cook, chambermaid, housemaid, and ser- 
 vant of all-work — in Sir Diggory's establishment. All 
 but the latter of each sex led a most easy and lux- 
 urious life: there, also, I lived, in a very plentiful 
 manner, my occupation being only to run after the car- 
 
BLUCHER. 309 
 
 riage on fine days. The kitchen, with its jovial in- 
 mates, was always merry. And I heard many curious 
 discussions on the affairs of my master. " I zay, 
 Tom," asked the fat porter, " canzt thee tell a man 
 whuoy a mistress' feaz be always so red? I'fegs, 
 her noaz would light a body in the dark, I'm a think- 
 mg." 
 
 " Ffackins," replied the cook, briskly, for she was a 
 favourite with Lady Drysalt, " you're very imperdent, 
 Mister Porter, to medel with the consarns of us ladies ! 
 Face always so red! Quotha! — why art thou so 
 fat and blowsy V " Caz you zee, cooky," replied the 
 good-natured fellow, " ye make zo many good things 
 zweet ajid zweeter, that a gentleman cannot help fat- 
 tening on them. If I was one o' your long, lean, lanky 
 pantalooners — with a sunkun face, with zkin like zolid 
 parchment, and bonezes poking thro' my cloathz, as 
 'twere — I ax ya pardon, but it would be all laid to 
 your door, mem." 
 
 " Ye are a good-nater'd fellow, ay, that ye are, Mister 
 Porter, and shall never want anything 'at 'ere way as 
 long as Nancy Bastewell rules over the kitchen." 
 
 " Ye were asking, Maister Porter," said the Scotch 
 butler, " what for the lady's face and nose were so very 
 reed? Hem! hem! Na, na — noo a thing on't, I'll 
 no say a word o' what I meant !" 
 
 " Is not Sir Diggory a main rich man ?" inquired the 
 porter. 
 
 " I'll na be dooting it at all, sair, an' what's mair 
 than that, he's wise and carefu' as though he had na 
 sax pounds i' the warld !" 
 
 " I'm wery happy to tell ye something, gents," said 
 the footman. " I was a little while since going past 
 Mr. McSneezer's the tobacconist ; he called me in, 
 and said to me — said he, ' I say, Charles, what a most 
 abominable old blackberry fellow is your master !' 
 " ' Ay, indeed,' said I ; ' and pray why so V says I. 
 " ' Because,' said he, ' this morning he called in, and 
 asked for some o' the best rappee snuff. And, though 
 
310 • BLUCHER. 
 
 he only bought two ounces an' a quarter, he higgled and 
 haggled, and sniggled and snaggled for the odd half- 
 penny !' " 
 
 " I'll na be dooting but Sir Diggory had some soun' 
 pheelosophical reason at the bottom o't." j 
 
 u ' Of course he had. There's a most excellent phi- 
 losophy in the saving of a halfpenny ! — ha, ha, ha J" ' 
 
 The conversation was suddenly interrupted by the 
 arrival of some one at the street door, and I, for a 
 change of scene, trotted up stairs into the dining room, 
 where sat Sir Diggory and Lady Drysalt. Presently 
 the door was opened — I turned my head from contem- 
 plating the glowing and brilliant fire, to see, whom ? — 
 Gideon McDrenchem, Esquire, my ci-devant master ! 
 My teeth chattered in my head. I attempted to sneak 
 behind the sofa — but, alas, he soon discovered me. 
 
 " Heigh, Sir Diggory ! — Is na that a maist wicked 
 animal ?" 
 
 " No, no, sir, 1 cannot say so. He has always be- 
 haved himself to me and my family in a most dogly 
 manner." 
 
 " But, did na ye fin' him ower nice about his vict- 
 uals ?" 
 
 " We never make a practice of watching the vict- 
 uals of our domestics, even of a dog, Mr. McDrench- 
 em," replied Lady Drysalt, proudly. The apothecary 
 changed his topics. 
 
 " How's a' wi' ye the day, Sir Diggory ?" 
 
 " Not so well as I could wish, sir. Not so well as 
 I could wish, sir." 
 
 " Might I make bold to ask the peticlar ailing V 
 
 " A twinge of the gout, my dear sir ! I still take 
 after my Lord Liverpool, my good sir. Our sedentary 
 occupation favours the inroads of this malady." 
 
 M Dootless, dootless, sair. It's an unco pest to great 
 men." 
 
 ■ Nay, I take it to be a test o J great and shining 
 abilities." 
 
 n Doctor, ye are a most discerning man. I have 
 
BLUCHER. 311 
 
 alw?ys found huge benefit from your professional ad- 
 vice." 
 
 " I greatly thank ye, sair. My poor services — 
 ahem — hem ! You look pale, Sir Diggory !" — and he 
 felt his pulse in a most knowing manner. 
 
 " You had better take a saline draught or two, Sir 
 Diggory." 
 
 " I really — really cannot afford it, my dear doctor ! 
 Bankrupt, bankrupt, I assure you !" 
 
 " Sair, ye canna be thinking I only visit you for 
 what I can get ! Impossible, Sir Diggory ! ! It's 
 clear out o' my nature ! ! ! I would attend ye tenderly, 
 an ye were the poorest beggar i' the workhouse !" 
 
 This was too much. I ran howling out of the room. 
 What monstrous hypocrisy ! 
 
 However, I soon grew tired of my life at Sir Dig- 
 gory's. It was dull and monotonous. He and his 
 lady would sit opposite each other for hours, nodding 
 in the most polite manner. If I happened to disturb 
 the former, I was sure to be saluted with a growling 
 curse; if the latter, with a querulous malediction, 
 though couched in gentler terms. But the day was 
 speedily to dawn of brilliant brightness. Little did I 
 know of the magnificent exaltation preparing for me. 
 
 Here let me moralize. 
 
 I cannot presume to intrude my dry reflections on 
 the reader. To whom, for the present, I bid adieu ! 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Containing a diurnal Sample of High Life. — And a Note of 
 Preparation. 
 
 The routine of the daily life of such a man as Sir 
 Diggory Drysalt must, I conceive, be rather interest- 
 ing. I shall therefore trace him through one day, as a 
 sample of all the rest, except Sundays. He rose gen- 
 erally about half past nine o'clock, though my lady did 
 
312 BLUCHER. 
 
 not leave her chamber till eleven. When he entered 
 the parlour, breakfast was ready ; consisting of coffee, 
 hot rolls, and slices of ham, &c. ; of which latter he 
 sometimes gave me a fraction of an inch, when in a 
 particularly good humour. He then perused the Old 
 Times paper. When the edible paraphernalia were 
 removed, he ordered his carriage or chariott, and 
 drove to the Stock Exchange, the Royal Exchange, 
 Lloyd's Coffee House, &c, &c. ; buzzing and strut- 
 ting about at all the public commercial places to which 
 he had access, although, in fact, he never transacted 
 any business, or made a purchase of stock to the 
 amount of one shilling. His chief occupation would 
 be to listen to the small talk of Mr. Rothschild, and 
 other great moneyed men, with his hands thrust into 
 his hind coat pockets, sucking in the precious words 
 with extreme avidity. Then he would bowl away to 
 Lloyd's, and retail, to such of the merchants that thought 
 it worth their while to listen to hm, for the want of 
 something better to do, what scraps he had collected 
 at 'change. For example : "Security stocks — made a 
 vast purchase — at least 95.000 three per cents — Snap- 
 pern Schemer sunk eleven thousand pounds in Spanish 
 bonds — BitenO Brokerage kicked out of the 'change — 
 Fleece Greenhorn broke — cleared out — flat as a floun- 
 der — laid up on the shelf," &c, &c, &c. 
 
 When all these topics were exhausted, Sir Diggory 
 would go up into the auction mart, bid some trifle on a 
 small country estate, or cheapen a caricature of the 
 ministers. It would be by this time nearly four o'clock. 
 What of it ? Drive home, because everybody else is 
 going thitherward — but look in first to invite Mr. Dep- 
 uty Donkey to dinner ; loiter over dinner, dessert, &c, 
 till my lady is pleased to let him come up to tea ; 
 chatter over that till eight or nine o'clock ; then sup- 
 per ; then give orders about his horses, coach, &c, and 
 rate everybody for any extra disbursements of cash, 
 &c. \ then retire to bed. On Sundays, he tumbled 
 about in bed till church time ; then, for an airing, 
 
BLUCHER. 313 
 
 drove to church about sermon time; came home to 
 dinner ; slept all the afternoon ; then tea ; read the 
 papers in the evening ; and went to bed about nine 
 o'clock. One morning, my lady planned a grand sup- 
 per party and ball. They were both employed a full 
 morning in hammering out the following invitation to 
 an illustrious guest : — 
 
 " Sir Diggory and Lady Drysalt beg most humbly 
 to present their obsequious compliments and profound 
 respects to their graces the Duke and Duchess of 
 Dunderwhistle, and to solicit the extreme honour of 
 being favoured with the privilege of their company 
 to supper and a ball on any day their graces may deem 
 most convenient themselves. 
 
 " P.S. Have the honour to inform your graces, that 
 her Grace of Grizzlepate has obligingly promised her 
 company. 
 
 " N.B. Their graces may depend upon the absence 
 of Sir Slimpurse ShufHecard. 
 
 " The privilege of an answer is requested." 
 
 The following was the answer returned to this cu- 
 rious epistle ; it was dictated by his duchess, (for he 
 himself was a simple, good-natured, eccentric, hen- 
 pecked husband,) since, had the duke been allowed to 
 follow the bent of his own inclination, he would have 
 written in a very different strain. 
 
 " The Duke and Duchess of Dunderwhistle will do 
 themselves the honour of waiting upon Sir Diggory and 
 Lady Dry-salt." 
 
 A vast number of other fashionables were invited. 
 Why, it is next to impossible to particularize the 
 Lady Dowager Gawky, and her eleven "lean, thin-por- 
 tioned daughters, which " one couldn't be off of invi- 
 ting," as my lady said ; Mr. Counsellor Graybeard, 
 wife, and two sons ; Lord Merrytune ; Lord Squander ; 
 the Honourable Hotbrain Cockspur ; (of whom partic- 
 ular mention was made in the Monitor, as an unques- 
 tionable authority of Theodore Hook ;) Lady Smirk ; 
 
 27 
 
314 BLUCHER. 
 
 Lady Show ; Lady Trail ; Lord Toper ; Lord Guzzle, 
 Sic. j &c, &c. 
 
 The awful day at length arrived. The house 
 seemed about to be turned upside down. The cook, 
 red hot and impetuous ; (can my pate ever forget the 
 blow she gave it with the silver ladle, because I ven- 
 tured to snap up a new potato ?) the footmen hurrying — 
 flurrying— running hither — jumping thither ; the but- 
 ler making more haste than good speed, smashing a 
 bottle of Burgundy, cursing his own clumsiness, and 
 instantly sending another, by way of corollary, to bear 
 it company. Sir Diggory hopping in and out of every 
 chamber in his house ; fanning, fretting, fidgeting, my 
 lady screaming for her turban from the milliner's ; my 
 unlucky self sneaking about, hissed, kicked, and brow- 
 beaten, plunged into a huge bucket of freezing cold 
 water ; then into a tub of scalding hot water ; then 
 wiped, and rubbed, and combed ; merciful power ! how 
 did I survive it all ? To me it was a perfect pugatory, 
 worse than ever was experienced by a shivery Roman 
 Catholic ; a very Pandemonium. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Containing a Sketch of High Life and Manners. 
 
 Let me conduct my readers to the grand sitting room. 
 It was lighted up with superb glittering chandeliers, 
 adorned with pictures ; a grand piano standing here, a 
 harpsichord there ; Sir Diggory on the right side of the 
 mirrored fireplace, rubbing and twisting his thumbs and 
 fingers together ; my lady opposite, fluttering, fanning, 
 and sighing with fatigue ; mine ownself, in capital trim, 
 with a scarlet collar round my neck, and combed reg- 
 ularly from top to toe, squatting in the centre of the rug. 
 
 The door was suddenly swung open wide enough to 
 admit a troop of cavalry. The footman with astound- 
 ing loudness announced — 
 
BLUCHER. 315 
 
 " Their graces, the Duke and Duchess of Dunder- 
 whistle." 
 
 Up leaped Sir Diggory, almost overbalancing him- 
 self; up started my lady ; both bowing and courtesying 
 — jumping and smiling. Her grace walks up stairs 
 with my lady ; his grace squats down with my master. 
 
 " Eh, Drysalt ! — how is't 1 first here ! Ecod, I don't 
 think I ever sinned in this manner before." 
 
 " Sir, your grace has come punctually ! Mean no 
 offence, your grace — hem, ahem !" 
 
 " Don't think you do, Drysalt," replied his grace, 
 wiping his forehead with his perfumed muslin handker- 
 chief. " Horrid hot, isn't !" 
 
 " Horrid, horrid, horrid hot, your grace. Was your 
 grace at the house last night ?" 
 
 " I slept there, I believe, about a couple of hours. 
 Faith ! the very sight of ray lord chancellor is enough 
 to close one's eyes to sleep." 
 
 "Learned man that, your grace; a very clever 
 man, your grace ; a vastly learned man, your grace, 
 isn't he ?" 
 
 " Never said he wasn't, Drysalt ; but no man can be 
 learned without being a great proser, to my thinking 
 —eh r 
 
 "Your grace is perfectly correct. Latin, Greek, 
 mathematics — pugh ! what are they, and all that sort 
 of things, your grace ?" 
 
 " Et hoc genus omne — as we used to say at Eton. 
 But beg pardon — do, i'faith, Drysalt ! a thousand par- 
 dons. Haven't learned that sort o' thing, I suppose, 
 Drysalt, eh?" 
 
 " No, your grace, I never heeded all that lingo — no, 
 not I, your grace. Wasting time to no purpose, your 
 grace." 
 
 " In the right on't, I assure ye. Have you seen my 
 Rattlesnort ?" 
 
 " Rattlesnort, your grace — " 
 
 " Rattlesnort, Sir Diggory. All the world knows 
 my horse Ratt — " 
 
 o2 
 
316 BLUCHER. 
 
 " Oh, ay — Rattlesnort ! A thousand pardons, your 
 grace — saw ye ride him beautifully last month, over 
 Hounslow — " 
 
 His grace burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. 
 
 " Eh, eh, eh ! Ye must be drunk, Drysalt ! saw me 
 ride Rattlesnort ? — ha, ha, ha ! — why, he's only been 
 mine three days — he hasn't, 'pon my life ! Bought 
 him at Tattersall's for a trifle — some three thousand 
 guineas." 
 
 " Indeed, your grace !" replied Sir Diggory, blush- 
 ing and stammering in unutterable confusion ; " then I 
 suppose I mistook ye, your grace." 
 
 " Don't doubt it at all, man. Who comes here ? a 
 thundering rat-tat !" 
 
 A dead silence enSued. Presently the door opened 
 — the footman appeared — a voice was heard — 
 
 "Mr. Counsellor and Madam Graybeard, and the 
 Masters Graybeard !" 
 
 The duke nodded slightly, and walked to the pier- 
 glasses, where he stood adjusting his cravat and dia- 
 mond brooch. Madam Graybeard retired to change 
 her dress. Mr. Counsellor Graybeard was a tall, thin, 
 pale-faced, acute-featured man, with keen dark eyes, 
 like those of a lynx. As soon as he sat down, he pulled 
 out a small packet of paper, took out a double reading 
 glass, and was soon deeply engaged, conning over a 
 brief for aught I know. The young gentlemen thrust 
 their hands into their breeches pockets, and wandered 
 about the room, looking on the costly furniture and 
 superb embellishments, lost in admiration. At length 
 the youngest took a fancy to me, and we began romp- 
 ing together very good-naturedly. 
 
 " Be quiet, sir !" thundered his father, sternly. The 
 duke turned round, and a sneering smile passed over 
 his countenance. He then entered into conversation 
 with his host, in a low tone. 
 
 "What, in the name of all that's good, did ye ask 
 that bore Graybeard here ?" 
 
 "My wife would have him," replied Sir Diggory, 
 
BUTCHER. 317 
 
 whispering in the ear of the noble duke ; " couldn't 
 persuade her not, your grace." 
 
 " Did you hear how he foamed at the mouth in the 
 lower house, last night ? 1 don't like to be near that 
 man, Drysalt — shoot me if I do." 
 
 " Prodigously sorry, my lord duke ! If I had thought 
 so, i'fackins I would not have — " 
 
 " It can't be help'd now, you know, but mind you 
 don't introduce him particularly to me — you understand 
 me, Drysalt '?" 
 
 " Perfectly, your grace." 
 
 The company now began to throng in. Mr. Gray- 
 beard removed into the farthest corner, and seemed 
 lost in intense thought. I don't know how. it was; 
 but there was something in him that struck me exceed- 
 ingly. It was not a love, but a fear of him. He seemed 
 above every one. He seemed to look at rank and 
 riches as bubbles and trifles. I crept by his side. By- 
 and-by he took out a silver pencil case, and com- 
 menced writing rapidly. He became furious as he pro- 
 ceeded. His hand went over the paper so swiftly, that 
 he would hardly allow himself time to form the letters. 
 He drew together the muscles of his mouth, his eyes 
 flashed with fury ; his teeth were clenched ; he mut- 
 tered fiercely, " Oh, they shall repent, it bitterly !" I 
 grew frightened, and crept away. The duke, in an- 
 other part of the room, had collected round him an 
 admiring circle, to whom he was discussing the merits 
 of Madam Catalini. 
 
 " Ton my honour, she's a divine creature — next to 
 my Maria Amaryllis, shoot me if I don't love her dear- 
 est of anybody in the world — not excepting her grace," 
 he added, whispering cautiously. 
 
 " Hang it, there's a compass in her voice," quoth my 
 Lord Toper. 
 
 " A volume, you mean, my lord," interrupted the 
 duke ; " and a richness, a ripeness, a mellowness." 
 
 " She's an angel, as I'm a sinner," replied Cockspur. 
 27* 
 
318 BLUCHER. 
 
 " She's like a nightingale piping among the trees on 
 a fine moonlight night," said his grace. 
 
 " Or a thrush," quoth Cockspur. 
 
 " Or rather a blackbird," replied Lord Toper. 
 
 " She's all — she's all," interrupted Sir Diggory. 
 
 " Your grace — my lords, we are summoned to din- 
 ner." Down went all but Counsellor Geaybeard. I 
 stopped behind to watch him. He seemed not to no- 
 tice the departure of the company, but continued wri- 
 ting as quickly as ever. 
 
 Presently a footman came. 
 
 "Please you, sir, dinner is waiting, sir, if you 
 please, sir." 
 
 " Is it ? — tell them I will be there in two seconds." 
 Away went the footman ; Graybeard went deeper and 
 deeper into abstraction. I heard him mutter, almost 
 gasping at intervals, " Sacrilege ! — blood ! — thunder ! 
 — knell of despair ! — ruin !" 
 
 The footman came again, and repeated his errand. 
 
 "I cannot come!" replied Graybeard, fiercely. 
 Down went the man ; but the counsellor did go, and 
 that instantly. I followed in his course, hoping to slip 
 unobserved into the dining room, and come in for a few 
 choice morceaux ; but I was whipped up stairs by a 
 man servant with a towel, before I had reached the 
 door. I went up to the door I had quitted, laid myself 
 sullenly down on the mat, and, as I suppose, went to 
 sleep, so that I cannot give any account of the dinner. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Showing the usual Style of Women's Gossip, when deserted by the 
 
 Men. 
 
 When I awoke, I found myself surrounded by ele- 
 gantly dressed ladies. Her grace the Duchess of Dun- 
 derwhistle sat at the top, and next to her, as hostess, 
 wa splaced Lady Drysalt, 
 
BLUCHER. 319 
 
 K Permit me to inquire, my dear Lady Drysalt," whis- 
 pered one of the Misses Gawky, " where you purchased 
 that charming turban V 
 
 " Much obleeged t'ye, mem, for inquiring ; I pur- 
 cheesed it at Meddim de la Fanfarmade's, meddim." 
 
 " That woman seems getting into notice, I believe," 
 said her grace. 
 
 " I have aided her a trifle with my peetronege, my 
 lady duchess/' replied Lady Drysalt. 
 
 " Have you ever heard of Urling's lace, my Lady 
 Trail ?" inquired my Lady Smirke. 
 
 " Yes, ey believe ey have. It is a most neat and 
 elegant article — very much worn among the fashion- 
 ables. Ey believe from all that ey have been able 
 to hear, that is of a very sound and excellent texture, 
 my lady," replied my Lady Trail. 
 
 " Lawk, mamma," commenced one of the Misses 
 Gawky. 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Miss Emmeline Emmeraldina 
 Joanna ! Do I not often tell you, my love, that it is rude 
 to be always calling me mamma in company ?" inter- 
 rupted the Lady Dowager Gawky, a stout buckramed- 
 up lady, who abhorred nothing more than being publicly 
 exposed as the mother of eleven tall elderly-looking 
 young women. Her age was some threescore years ; 
 but she softened it down gently to forty-seven, and 
 would fain appear a fine, ripe, matronly woman ; but 
 surrounded by eleven daughters ! 
 
 "Madam Catalini seemed horribly out of voice last 
 night," said Lady Show ; " don't you think so, my lady 
 duchess !" 
 
 " Ey think, indeed, that she is an odious singer, and 
 the duke is very absurd to praise her among his friends, 
 (although Heaven knows he dare not do it in my pres- 
 ence !)" said the duchess, with great stateliness, " as a 
 paragon of all that is excellent and noble. For my 
 part, ey see nothing at all worth praise in her." 
 
 " Indeed, I cawntbut coincide with your grace," an- 
 swered Lady Drysalt ; although she had but two days 
 
320 BLTJCHER. 
 
 ago, flattered and extolled the very same singer to the 
 skies ; " for her voice seems to have no vollem, my 
 lady duchess," she continued, regardless of the smirk- 
 ing and tittering around her. " For my part, I vow and 
 declare, your grace, I would as soon near a gashly 
 scritch owl, or a hodious urdy-gurdy. She skreeks — 
 I cawnt for the life o' me conceive where the taste of 
 the men is gone, not I." 
 
 " Very eloquently spoken, my lady," replied barter- 
 ing Lady Show, winking at the company. 
 
 " You seem to have made music your study ; as an 
 amateur, I mean." 
 
 " 1'fackins, of course, my leedy ! D'ye think that 
 a woman o' my condeetion would condesceen to get 
 my living by studding moosic? — as an amatoor, of 
 course — an amatoor, my leedy." 
 
 " Ey much wonder where these gentlemen can be ?" 
 inquired her Grace of Dunderwhistle. 
 
 " It's an odious custom among the men to stop there 
 sotting over their wine, for all rational discourse is 
 banished when we are gone," replied Lady Trail. 
 
 '* A most sinful quantity of wine is drunk, when by 
 themselves ; why, the duke himself piques himself on 
 being a four-bottle man, and never leaves till he can 
 hardly reel up to the ladies," replied Lady Smirke, 
 unmindful of the indignant frown of the duchess ; who, 
 whatever sway she might arbitrarily exercise at home, 
 still had too much respect for the public character of 
 tlie duke to expose his follies and frailties in public. 
 Conversation was now run dry. They were quite at 
 a standstill ; when, at last, one of the Misses Gawky, 
 Miss Sapphira, was prevailed upon to sit down to the 
 music. And there was she strumming and humming, 
 till the drums of mine own ears ached again. 
 
BLUCHER. 321 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A tedious and desultory Conversation. — My sudden Change of 
 
 Masters. 
 
 Presently the door was thrown open, and the gen- 
 tlemen made their appearance, all rather flushed and 
 unsteady. The poor duke was led in between Sir 
 Diggory and Lord Squander, and laid along on a settle 
 in the farther part of the room. As soon as he was 
 asleep, an animated conversation ensued. Counsellor 
 Graybeard, who seemed under unnatural excitement, 
 was at once bold, brilliant, and energetic ; and I lis- 
 tened with great attention to a discussion of the ques- 
 tion of Catholic Emancipation. I however, although 
 I have by me copious notes of it, will not obtrude it 
 upon my readers. At length, when the topic was 
 exhausted, their conversation turned into a different 
 channel. 
 
 u Have any of the gentlemen ever read any of Mr. 
 Maturin's romances V* inquired Lady Trail. 
 
 " D'ye mean, my Lady Trail, the curate of St. John's 
 in Dublin ?" 
 
 " Yes, my Lord Squander, that is the man." 
 
 " Well, my lady, though I be not much of a Christian 
 myself — hang it, and I'm sorry to say so much — I 
 don't at all approve of a minister's spending his time 
 in romance writing." 
 
 " But he says that necessity urges him." 
 
 " Tut — beg pardon, my lady — a mere farce — a ruse 
 de guerre, as it were. It was the success of Bertram 
 that first turned his head," replied Graybeard, " and 
 though he has doubtless a strong and vivid fancv, con- 
 siderable energy of style, and a creditable command of 
 language, yet there is something in his imaginative 
 writing with which I cannot be satisfied. He must 
 always bring in a fiend. He must endeavour to ter- 
 
 • * 
 
322 BLUCHER. 
 
 rify the mind. I will not deny that there are many 
 most powerful scenes in his work — that the language 
 is often beautiful, and that the descriptions are exceed- 
 ingly brilliant. But I have detected in. his chief work, 
 Melmoth, a most glaring and impudent plagiarism. 
 Would any lady or gentleman present suppose that the 
 whole of the second volume — I mean that part which 
 describes the horrible sufferings of a young nobleman 
 in a Catholic monastery in Spain — is, merely substi- 
 tuting a woman for a man, copied verbatim et literatim 
 from the French of Monsieur Diderot's Nun." 
 
 ik You amaze me, Mr. Gray beard," replied Lady 
 Trail ; " do you knoiv that to be a fact ?" 
 
 " My lady, I have read Diderot's novel myself, be- 
 fore I even saw or heard of Mr. Maturin's. The cir- 
 cumstance of the bishop's coming to examine well the 
 circumstance — his own personal character — the abomi- 
 nable expedient resorted to to impress upon the bish- 
 op's mind a belief that the young person was actually 
 under the influence of demoniacal agency — all is ver- 
 batim copied from Monsieur Diderot!''' 1 
 
 " Yet, notwithstanding that circumstance, which I 
 am heartily grieved to hear, sanctioned as it is by such 
 unquestionable authority as your's, Mr. Graybeard — " 
 
 " You do me honour, my lady." 
 
 u Yes, sir, I think he has many original — redeeming 
 beauties." 
 
 " Yes, madam. The awful state of — indeed, mad- 
 am, the name has slipped my memory, but I mean 
 the usurper of the castle ; the uncle of Sir Paladour 
 de la Langland — when he is enclosed in the burning 
 chamber, having himself thrown away the only means 
 of deliverance, the key, is indescribably appalling. 
 I could specify many other beauties if necessary." 
 
 " By Jupiter, but 'tis time I should be gone," sud- 
 denly said my Lord Squander. Now, I ought previ- 
 ously to have mentioned, that I had somehow attracted 
 the favourable notice of this gay and jolly young no- 
 bleman. I had sat several times between his legs, and 
 
BLUCHER. 323 
 
 he had been amusing himself by patting my head, 
 scratching my shoulders, tweaking my ears, &c, in a 
 very gay and gentle mood. Before he left the room, 
 he called Sir Diggory aside — offered him three guineas 
 more than I had cost him — the bargain was accepted 
 — the money paid on the spot by a check — the young 
 nobleman went to the door — whistled to me — I under- 
 stood his signal— leaped after him, and followed him 
 down stairs. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Character of Squander. 
 
 When we arrived at the hall door, Lord Squander's 
 groom was awaiting his lordship with two horses. 
 
 •• Well, Billy — my man o' ten thousand ! — tell me how 
 it goes with the Grand Vizier?'' 
 
 " By ! my lord, he's sore galled in the back ; 
 
 but I rubbed the sore with the Wash your lordship and 
 I bought t'other day." 
 
 " Didn't he wince under it — eh, Billy V 
 
 " Deusedly, my lord ! If I did not expect to leave 
 the stable with a broken leg, may our next spree get 
 us into trouble, my lord," answered the groom, with im- 
 pudent familiarity. 
 
 His lordship then mounted, whistled me to his side, 
 and followed by his groom, we all went down Brook- 
 street. 
 
 Lord Squander was a clever, wild, thoughtless, dis- 
 sipated, good-natured young man, just fresh from col- 
 lege — and possessed of an estate of eleven thousand 
 per annum, which it was his hourly study to squander 
 with as much eclat as possible. His Bible was his 
 " Treatise of Farriery" — his church, the stable — his 
 horse, his God — the race course, his Elysium. He had 
 got imperceptibly connected with a band of swindlers, 
 who were draining out every farthing of his noble 
 
324 BLIJCHER. 
 
 property — introducing him to every man of fashionable 
 extravagance, and tempting him to venture the most 
 enormous sums at the gaming table. These infernal 
 scoundrels had a certain exquisite eloquence of man- 
 ners, a specious plausibility of language, and an appa- 
 rent enchanting openness, a bluff English frankness of 
 disposition, which completely blinded Lord Squander. 
 They were leading him up, with his eyes open — sur- 
 rounded with merriment, and excited with vice, amid 
 music, and dancing, and revelry — to the terrific verge 
 of ruin — and then they would leave him ! 
 
 His was by no means a singular character. He was 
 not wanting in decision, in promptness, in energy. 
 Let violent opposition front him for the purpose of 
 thwarting and conquering him, and he would brave and 
 defy it, as doth Mount Skiddaw the howling of the 
 northern wind ; but let it come in soft, languid, per- 
 fumed breezes, and he would open his whole inmost 
 heart to its influence, as by listening to the bewitching 
 flattery and wiles of Delilah, Samson was shorn of his 
 strength — quenching for ever the star of his mighti- 
 ness. His great error lay in a false perception of 
 kindly feeling. The way he answered his doubts and 
 misgivings was thus : " These fellows flatter me — I 
 know they are insincere in their hyperbolical phrases ; 
 but whatever be their latent motive, they evidently 
 think me worthy of using their utmost endeavour of 
 pleasing. It would be shockingly brutal to answer 
 them with frowning sternness." Thus he lulled his 
 better sense to a state of unnatural repose, by false and 
 dangerous opiates. The delicious agony of incertitude 
 in gaming, charmed his soul to ecstasy. He experi- 
 enced alarming losses ; his pride was cunningly aroused 
 — he was bewildered — infatuated, and doubled, trebled, 
 quadrupled his stake with half-maddened vehemence. 
 He was now twenty-three years old — alone in the 
 world. His parents had died while he was in a state 
 of infancy — his guardian was a bustling political char- 
 acter, who led him through the usual routine of a 
 
BLITCHER. 325 
 
 nobleman's education, and on his twenty-first birthday 
 tendered up to him the accounts and investments of his 
 property, blessing himself that he had now got rid of 
 the anxiety they had occasioned. His groom, Billy, 
 was a most subtle scoundrel, in the high pay of the 
 swindling sharpers, who had plotted the ruin of the 
 thoughtless nobleman he served, and veiled his consum- 
 mate villany beneath an air of simplicity, openness, and 
 vulgarity. It forcibly presented to my fancy — for even 
 dogs have fancies — a huge snake stealthily coiling 
 himself round the noble, powerful, but unsuspecting 
 lion. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 An Adventure, leading to a bloody Conflict; in which I had the 
 Happiness to render my noble Master a trifling Piece of Service. 
 
 It was a moonlight night. Lord Squander rode 
 along in the direction of Stamford Hill. He occasion- 
 ally hummed snatches of an opera tune. 
 
 " Tom !" said his lordship. His groom rode up to 
 his side. 
 
 w Tom ! — how far are we from the old oak ?" 
 
 "What oak, my lord?" 
 
 "Why, that which was blasted with lightning, you 
 know, in the year 1800." 
 
 " Can't say, indeed, sir. Believe it to be about a 
 quarter of a mile off." 
 
 " Very well — fall behind, Tom," said his lordship. 
 At length the oak appeared distantly in sight — its 
 toothed trunk reflected the cold rays of the moon, 
 glistening like a hoary sentinel of the night. All was 
 quiet, except the clattering of their horses' hoofs. Lord 
 Squander seemed growing melancholy, for he ceased 
 his opera tune, and rode on slowly, guiding his horse 
 negligently. Suddenly he heard his groom give a loud 
 and shrill whistle through his fingers. 
 
 28 
 
326 BLUCHER. 
 
 " Holla !" said my lord, «' Tom — what the deuse is 
 the meaning of that, you impudent rascal ?" 
 
 " Only a bit of amusement, my lord," replied the 
 fellow, with insolent assurance. He had said he did 
 it for amusement ; but the event turned out differently. 
 They were just riding past the oak before alluded to, 
 when three men started from behind it, disguised as 
 clowns in smock frocks, and with hideous masks on 
 their faces. They walked up to his lordship's horse, 
 arm in arm ; they stopped it. 
 
 •' Why — how now 1 What — what — what's the mat- 
 ter ?" inquired Lord Squander, amazedly. 
 
 " Why," replied the tallest of the three, " we are 
 gentlemen of the king's highway ; patrols o' the night, 
 as it were : but then we are paid, not by the king, 
 but by passengers." 
 
 "Highwaymen, by !" muttered his lordship, in 
 
 consternation. 
 
 " Now," continued the first speaker, " look you here, 
 my lord." 
 
 " Why, how i' the name of Goodness do you know 
 that I am a nobleman ?" 
 
 " Thou fool, Will !" whispered the second highway- 
 man, " it's all up now — so, to him like a man." 
 
 " My lord," resumed the tallest again, " we are three 
 honest patrols ; we have been waiting here in the cold 
 
 more than two hours, and, by ! we will be paid 
 
 for it. So, out with your purse." 
 
 " Away, villain, away !" said his lordship ; and touch- 
 ing a spring of his cane stick, the case fell off, and a 
 long, thin, sharp sword appeared. The tallest robber 
 put his hand into his bosom — and, simultaneously 
 with his companions, drew out a large horse pistol. 
 
 11 This tidy little gentleman, my lord," said the fel- 
 low, pointing his murderous weapon at the breast of 
 Lord Squander, M wants a little work — flush work, as 
 it were. Out with your money — or your money shall 
 get out of you, and you out of this w r icked world." His 
 lordship, with his left hand, calmly buttoned up his 
 
BLUCHER. 327 
 
 coat ; he then called to his sen-ant to stand by him. 
 The scoundrel laughed, and stirred not. The rob- 
 bers, seeing his lordship making such resolutep repar- 
 ations, seemed bent on desperate measures. 
 
 " Shoot the dog," said the tallest, as he levelled his 
 pistol at the nobleman, and tired ! But my lord hap- 
 pening to make a sudden and unexpected turn, he 
 escaped injury, and his treacherous servant was shot 
 dead on his horse. The villain who had received 
 orders to shoot at me cocked his pistol, and fired un- 
 der my body ; for apprehending his intent, 1 instantly 
 sprung forward, seized the caitiff by the neck, bore him 
 to the earth, and pinned him there, mounting guard on 
 his breast. As for the fellow who fired, his pistol 
 was no sooner discharged, than his lordship's dirk had 
 pierced his eye, penetrated the orbit, and entered deep 
 into the brain ; before the dirk could be (although the 
 motion of Lord Squander was very quick) snatched 
 back, the villain had fallen a dead man on the earth. 
 There was now one robber to contend with, who, on 
 seeing the fate of his comrades, levelled at Lord Squan- 
 der, but his pistol missed fire. He instantly sprang 
 back, and picked up a thick oaken stick, which he had 
 had the precaution to drop by his side, in the event of any 
 sudden emergency. While he was in the act of getting 
 it into his hand, his lordship leaped from his horse. 
 They were now at desperate issue. He was an ex- 
 cellent swordsman. His motions were as quick as 
 thought : but he had to contend with a brawny Hercu- 
 lean fellow, who now wielded over his head a tremen- 
 dous oaken staff. He avoided the fierce strokes of 
 Lord Squander with considerable agility, springing 
 from side to side with great nimbleness, at the same 
 time that his nervous arm plied his cudgel with fearful 
 velocity about the head and shoulders of the gallant 
 nobleman. At length, he made a desperate effort ; but 
 just as his cudgel descended on Lord Squander's left 
 arm with fearful force, his lordship's dirk had pierced 
 
328 BLUCIIER. 
 
 his heart, and he fell over his companion without a 
 groan. 
 
 Notwithstanding the dreadful struggles of my power- 
 ful prisoner, I held him fast. 
 
 " Now, thou villain !" panted his lordship, approach- 
 ing him, " what hast thou to say for thyself?" 
 
 " That I would rejoice to blow out your brains," re- 
 plied the man, sullenly. His lordship patted me kindly 
 on the back, and then went to examine the counte- 
 nances of the two men he had slain. He pulled oil* at 
 once both their masks. Their countenances were 
 pale, and spotted with blood ; that of the tallest, whose 
 eye and brain had been pierced by the keen blade of 
 Lord Squander, presented a shocking disfigured ap- 
 pearance. As soon as he saw their countenances, he 
 exclaimed in great agitation, " Is it possible that such 
 blackness should sully the pure front of human nature !" 
 Ay, indeed it was possible ; for according to the depth 
 and rottenness of its internal corruption, is too fre- 
 quently the alluring brightness of its outward aspect. 
 It is the deadly assassin, clothed in raiment of white. 
 The night patrols came galloping up, for Lord Squan- 
 der (though his left arm had received a dreadful in- 
 jury, and hung powerless by his side) had mounted 
 his horse, and ridden to this beat, which happily was 
 not far off. 
 
 " My lord, you have seen indifferent good service 
 here, I observe," said the chief, as he looked on the 
 three gory corpses, and their three large horse pistols, 
 thrown about. 
 
 u Why, yes, it was a deadly — a desperate struggle. 
 That dog has proved himself capable of performing the 
 arduous duty of a police officer ; so steadily, so deter- 
 minate^, has he secured his prisoner — hey, gentle- 
 men ?" 
 
 " Ha — ha — ha ! M was the reply, as they bound my 
 charge hand and foot, and threw him before one of 
 their mounted companions. With the most perfect 
 indifference they bound the two corpses back to back, 
 
BLUCIIER. 320 
 
 and placed them before a tall patrol on horseback. 
 A third took charge of the corpse of the treacherous 
 valet ; and so they made for London. My lord mount- 
 ed his horse, and rode on to his country house. When 
 arrived, the family physician was instantly summoned; 
 and after a minute inspection of the injured parts, he 
 declared that no bones were broken, and that, with the 
 use of a little aperient physic, and cold applications to the 
 tumefied part of the arm, after eighteen leeches had 
 been applied, no permanent evil would ensue. I never 
 quitted his side for an instant. Many a fine morning 
 has he sat in his magnificently furnished drawing room, 
 with me lying by his side, and Sir Walter Scott's noble 
 romance of " Ivanhoe" stretched before him. Our af- 
 fection was mutual, calm, and deep. Nothing could 
 have induced him to change his dog ; nor me my noble- 
 hearted master. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A short Specimen of Newspaper Composition. 
 
 Two days after, Lord Squander read the following 
 paragraph from the Morning Chronicle : — 
 
 " It has seldom been our lot to record a more dread- 
 ful circumstance than the present. Late on Tuesday 
 
 evening, 25th, 1824, as the Right Honourable 
 
 Lord Squander and his valet were riding towards his 
 lordship's superb villa at , they were suddenly at- 
 tacked by three highwaymen, who insolently demand- 
 ed his lordship's purse. With that decisive resolution 
 and unconquerable bravery which seems inherent in 
 his lordship's family," &c, &c, &c, " his lordship re- 
 fused their demand, and drew his dirk, (we are given 
 to understand it was made by that ingenious mechanic, 
 Mr. Geo. Bilberry, No. Ill Tottenham courtyard,*) 
 
 * Such puffs as these in our diurnal literature are not by any 
 
 28* 
 
330 BLUCHER. 
 
 calling to his servant to second his endeavours. The 
 villain laughed, and remained aloof ; from which cir- 
 cumstance it is inferred that he was in league with the 
 highwaymen. After a desperate struggle, in which no 
 man ever showed equal bravery, resolution, and self- 
 possession, Lord S., with the aid of, as we understand, a 
 most superb Newfoundland dog," [on hearing this very 
 handsome compliment, I positively knew not how to 
 give utterance to my thanks. If the writer of that 
 paragraph, however, should happen to read No. 13 of 
 the Diorama, he will observe this tribute of my grati- 
 tude,] " succeeded in obtaining the mastery, and 
 stretched two of the villains dead at his feet ; while 
 his faithful Newfoundland dog, with admirable and in- 
 tuitive sagacity," [how distressing it is to lie under an 
 obligation one cannot return !] " held the third in ' du- 
 rance vile.'' We forgot, however, to mention an ex- 
 traordinary instance of retributive justice ; the first shot 
 aimed at Lord S., owing to his sudden change of posi- 
 tion, dreadful to relate, blew out the brains of his 
 treacherous servant ! Although this gallant young no- 
 bleman was severely injured in his left arm, he instant- 
 ly mounted his horse, and rode after the night patrol. 
 They immediately bound the living malefactor, and 
 carried him away, together with the three corpses. 
 The miserable wretch yesterday underwent a long ex- 
 amination in private, before Botherem Baytail, Esq., 
 
 at street office ; after which he was committed to 
 
 Newgate, and Lord S. is bound over to prosecute. We 
 understand, that on hearing of this dreadful affair, Lord 
 S.'s intended bride, the beauteous Lady Phillipina 
 Claronville, was taken suddenly ill ; and continues in 
 the utmost peril. Dr. Liniment is in constant attend- 
 ance upon her ladyship." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! — did ever mortal hear the like of 
 that ?" said my master, as he read the latter adjunct. 
 
 means uncommon ; but when they are introduced with such ex- 
 quisite adroitness as in the present, they are handsomely paid for. 
 
 Blucher. 
 
BLUCHER. 331 
 
 But towards the end of the paper he found this sen- 
 tence : " We stop the press to state, that the infor- 
 mation contained in the last sentence of the paragraph 
 recording the affair of the Right Honourable Lord 
 Squander by the highwaymen, is totally without foun- 
 dation. It may be attributed to the agitation of our 
 mind on receiving the alarming intelligence. — [Ed- 
 itor.]" 
 
 As the Old Bailey sessions commenced in a fort- 
 night, the trial of the highwayman was then to take 
 place ; and as it was expected to be among the earli- 
 est called for, I awaited, as also did Lord Squander, 
 with very great anxiety. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A Specimen of Old Bailey Legislature. 
 
 At length the day of trial arrived. About nine in 
 
 the morning, Lord Squander left his residence in 
 
 Square, taking me with him in his carriage. We arrived 
 presently at the Old Bailey. The path by the Sessions 
 House was straw-strewn. It was a very gloomy day ; 
 for the rain descended in torrents. Every avenue was 
 crowded to excess, for the affair, owing to the diurnal 
 stimulants of curiosity contained in every paper, had 
 made a great stir. When Lord Squander's rank was 
 announced, as soon as the steps of his carriage were let 
 down, the Governor of Newgate, accompanied by an 
 officer bearing an umbrella, came and conducted us to 
 the Justice Hall. We entered by the door behind the 
 judges' seat. Most of my readers must be familiar 
 with the place; an elaborate description thereof is con- 
 sequently unnecessary. Suffice it thus much : Before 
 us was a circular table, where sat the gentlemen of 
 the long robe ; and on the present occasion there 
 was a very full attendance of them. On the outside 
 
332 BLUCIIER. 
 
 of that was the witness box, with a small sounding 
 board. Beyond this was the dock. A mirror is there 
 so suspended, as to reflect everything. The sides 
 are fringed with large iron spikes. Still farther on is 
 the entrance whereby the prisoners are conducted from 
 Newgate prison. On the right-hand side was the pub- 
 lic gallery ; on the other — I forget whether it was of- 
 ficial or no — many respectable persons appeared. Be- 
 neath it, parallel with the grand was the jury box. 
 Those arrangements being made, the trial commenced. 
 
 Judge. " Let the prisoner be called into court." 
 
 Governor of Newgate. " He shall, my lord." Pres- 
 ently an officer entered, bringing in the prisoner. He 
 was a dark, short, stout man, with a very sullen and 
 malignant expression of countenance. The indict- 
 ment was read, charging him, " David Dreddon, with 
 assaulting the Right Honourable Lord Squander on 
 his majesty's highway," &c. 
 
 When the clerk of arraigns had concluded, the trial 
 proceeded. 
 
 Justice. Prisoner, how will you be tried ? 
 
 D. Dredd. I don't care. If I had my will, I would 
 not be tried at all. 
 
 Governor, [whispering to the prisoner.] Imperti- 
 nence to his lordship will but make your case worse ; 
 as a friend, I advise you to be submissive : answer the 
 judge properly. 
 
 D. Dredd., [sullenly.'] Well, and what must I say 1 
 
 Governor. " By God, and my country," to be sure. 
 
 D. Dredd., [muttering.] Well, if I must, I must. 
 [AZowd.] — By God and my country, my lord. 
 
 Judge. Very well, prisoner. 
 
 Mr. Sergeant Silverfee opened the case, speaking in 
 this fashion : — 
 
 "MylVd, and gentlemen of the jury. You have 
 heard the endictment read, charging the prisoner with 
 highway robbery. In stating the very aggravating 
 circumstances attending this desperate assault, I will 
 be as brief as possible." He then gave a lucid ac- 
 
BLUCHER. 333 
 
 count of the transaction ; which, however, I don't think 
 it necessary to relate a second time ; and he then, 
 amid dead silence, thus proceeded: — 
 
 " Now, my l'a'd, having briefly stated the circum- 
 stances of the case, I will presently, with your lord- 
 ship's permission, unravel one of the most diabolical 
 plots ever laid, for the ruin of this young nobleman. 
 My Lord Squander, my l'a'd, and gentleman of the jury, 
 has just come of age, and into the possession of a 
 princely fortune. He immediately repaired to Lon- 
 don ; and as happens to most young men of rank, was 
 instantly surrounded by hosts of those who live upon 
 the frailties and follies of mankind. They led him to 
 every scene of fashionable extravagance. They in- 
 itiated him into the abhorred mysteries of the gaming 
 tables. They led him into temporary embarrassments 
 in his pecuniary affairs, and then introduced him to a 
 member of their gang, disguised as a money lender ; 
 from whom he borrowed money at enormously exor- 
 bitant interest. My l'a'd I am credibly informed that 
 these miscreants frequently lent him money at seventy 
 per cent.!" (a murmur of anger ran through all present.) 
 11 Still his money poured not fast enough into their ra- 
 pacious hands ; his eyes gradually were opened to 
 discern their monstrous, their iniquitous devices. As 
 soon as they were sensible of it, they resolved, by a 
 bold stroke, to obtain — but I will explain the rest of my 
 case by witnesses. The Right Honourable Lord 
 Squander — please to inform us, my lord, of the spe- 
 cific sum of money on your person, on evening, 
 
 the of — r 
 
 Lord S. I had three bills of 11,000 each in my 
 pocketbook. 
 
 Counsellor Silverfee. Very good, my lord. Pray, 
 had your lordship any reason to suppose that others 
 among your former associates knew that you had re- 
 ceived so large a sum ? 
 
 Lord S. Not the slightest whatever. 
 
 Counsellor Sih. Allow me to request your lordship 
 
334 BLUCHER. 
 
 to resume your seat for the present. Now, George 
 Gregory — stand you here, if you please. 
 
 This was a decent, cockneyfied man, with a very 
 knowing expression of countenance. 
 
 Counsellor Silv. Now, Mr. Gregory, please to in- 
 form the court where you were on the evening, or 
 
 rather latter part of the afternoon, of ? 
 
 G. Greg. My lord, I vas in Lon'on. 
 Counsellor Silv. I suppose so — I suppose so : but 
 whereabouts ? 
 
 G. Greg. I vas passing the Blackleg public house, 
 and being rather dry, I vent in, and called for a bit — a 
 drop of beer. So, my lord ; whip me, if I'd a been 
 there above four — nay, about — stop, it might have been 
 pretty near two minutes and three quarters. 
 
 Judge. Witness, witness ! we really have not time 
 for this trifling. Speak to the point at once. 
 
 G. Greg. Your sanctified vorship — reverence — eh 
 — eh — dign — lordship, I mean ; I had not been there 
 above a little while, when I hears, through the wooden 
 p'tition, three or four men, talking in a werry queer 
 manner ; so, says I to myself, '"Drat it !" says I, " what 
 harm can I do 'em by listening?" So I makes me no 
 more to do, but stoops me down, and listens. 
 
 " Will," whispered one of d'em, " Lord Squander 
 travels to his country house to-night — he does, i'fackins." 
 " And what of that, Tom ? What have we to do 
 with the titled ass's travelling?" says another. 
 
 " What have we to do, Will ? I'll be hang'd if we 
 haven't a great deal to do, for whip me if he doesn't 
 carry in his pocket some cool thirty-three thousand 
 pounds !" 
 
 " S'death !— but does he ? We'll be with him ; we'll 
 be with him, Tom !" And then, my lord, they went out. 
 Couns. Silv. Now, sir, can you, d'ye think, recog- 
 nise the voice of either of those speakers, on hearing 
 them again ? 
 
 G. Greg. No, no, sir — 'drat it, no ! They did but 
 whisper, as it were. 
 
BUTCHER. 335 
 
 Couns. Silv. My l'a'd, I have done with this witness. 
 
 (Witness examined by the court.) 
 
 Judge. Witness — what is your motive in giving this 
 testimony ? 
 
 G. Greg. Hem, hem ; my lord, hem, hem. Fair 
 play is the word with honest George Gregory. 
 
 Judge. Pray, witness, speak more soberly. Tell 
 us how you came to compare and establish a connection 
 between the fact, circumstance, and occurrence, which 
 you have now given, sworn, and testified — and the trial 
 now going forward. 
 
 G. Greg. I will, so please your mightiness. I was 
 sitting at home with my rib, your learnedness — it might 
 have been supper time. My rib had been axing me if 
 there wasn't no news in the paper. " Lovy," quoth I, 
 " wait till I read." So, as soon as I had finished my 
 porter, and read the backside — that's the further end of 
 the paper — I comes to read a pe'rgref about 'at 'ere 
 noble's being 'tackted by robbers : and a little further 
 on, lo and behold ! — it was on the same evening that I 
 heard that conversation which I has just here told to 
 that smooth-voiced gemman, 'at as just sitted down. 
 " 'Od rat it, wife," says I, " I knows somewhat more 
 o' this than I cares for to tell you." " La'ard !" says 
 she, in a flustrum, " sure you wasn't one o' them there 
 warmint ?" " No, my sweet," says I, " but I'll be con- 
 ceiving I know 'em 'at were." So after that, mum was 
 the word with me, till I come here to-day. 
 
 (Cross-examined by Mr. Counsellor Snap. N. B. 
 When witness saw this learned gentleman rise for the 
 purpose of cross-questioning him, having before expe- 
 rienced his tartness and severity, he turned pale, wiped 
 his forehead, and ejaculated, " Lord! Lord!") 
 
 Couns. Snap. What are you, Mr. Gregory ? 
 
 Witness. An honest man, sir, thank God and my 
 good conscience. 
 
 Couns. Snap. That remains, sir, to be proved. How 
 do you get your living? I mean, what trade are you ? 
 
 Witness, (stammering.) Why, sir — ahem— hem ; in 
 
336 BLUCHER. 
 
 fact, sir — hem, hem, hem — I am ; but to be sure — a — 
 a — yet, what does that matter, I should like to know ? 
 Why, I am, thank Providence, what I was months ago, 
 sir, I'm my own business, sir. 
 
 Courts. Snap. Let us have no equivocation, sir. 
 What business are you ? 
 
 Witness, [confusedly.) A g — e — nt — le — m — an. 
 
 Couns. Snap. A gentleman ? very good, sir. What 
 are your means of support ? — if I may make so bold as 
 to inquire. 
 
 Witness, (angrily.) A very imperdent question, I'm 
 sure. Why, they is the same as all gemmen has — 
 money. 
 
 Couns. Snap. Mister George Gregory, you see I 
 am a sober man — 
 
 - Witness. I see you are, sir, for once in a way ; 
 and I'm very glad oft, I'm sure. You know, sir, it 
 wouldn't be the thing if you was to reel or stagger drunk 
 into this here court. To be sure, you don't smell much 
 of brandy to-day ; but your nose, sir, would do excel- 
 lently well for something. 
 
 Couns. Snap, (furiously.) Speak, sirrah : what, 
 puppy? 
 
 Witness, (triumphantly.) Why, sir, to light a pipe 
 of tobacco, when the taproom fires are out — ha, ha, ha ! 
 Here I heard a burst of laughter ; then Mr. Counsellor 
 Snap sat or rather threw himself down. The judge 
 then spoke. 
 
 Judge. Witness, you are extremely insolent. If I 
 hear a repetition of it again, you will suffer for it. And 
 you, Brother Snap, I must say, are much too severe. 
 Be more moderate, Brother Snap ; be more moderate, 
 Brother Snap. 
 
 Couns. Snap, (rising slowly, thumbing violently his 
 brief.) Now, sir, I'm quite cool. I am, I am. You 
 are such a superlative — but you're beneath my notice. 
 What are you, sir ? — I ask you once more. 
 
 Judge. Witness, you must answer the question. 
 
 Witness, (reluctantly.) I gets my living sometimes 
 
BLUCHER. 337 
 
 by tavern-waiting ; sometimes by looking after horses 
 and gigs — and so ; and so — 
 
 Couns. Snap, (thundering loudly.) And I tell you, 
 sirrah, that you are a villain ! — a pimp and a pander to 
 young heirs and nobles ! 
 
 Witness, (foaming.) And I tell you, that you are a 
 d— d liar ! 
 
 ( Witness turned round, and looked anxiously at the 
 door, as if he intended to decamp.) 
 
 Judge. Mr. Governor, see that there be officers 
 placed between the witness box and the door. Pro- 
 ceed, Brother Snap. And as for you, George Gregory, 
 if you refuse to answer one single question of any kind, 
 I will order you into custody immediately. Be brief, 
 for we have a great throng of cases to proceed with. 
 
 Couns. Snap. I will, my lord. Attend to me, wit- 
 ness. I know more about you than you suppose. 
 
 Where were you on the night of ? — I mean the 
 
 night when his lordship was robbed. 
 
 Witness, (shivering.) Where was I ? — at home. 
 
 Couns. Snap. No, sir, you were not twenty yards 
 from the scathed oak tree when this desperate affray 
 commenced ! 
 
 Witness. Lord, Lord ! Who told you so ? 
 
 Couns. Snap. That is of no consequence to you. 
 Can you deny it, sirrah 1 
 
 Witness, (pale and disordered.) Why, it's posu. A uie I 
 might have chanced to be passing by at the time. 
 
 Couns. Snap. Do you know these, sirrah ? (taking 
 from a draicer in the oval table at which he sat, a large 
 horse pistol, a mask, and a smock frock.) 
 
 The witness made no answer, and presently sank, 
 fainting, into the arms of an officer. He was put at 
 the bar with the prisoner, and then Mr. Counsellor 
 Snap thus addressed the bench : — 
 
 " My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, I won't keep 
 you long. The prisoner, David Dreddon, the two men 
 who were killed by Lord Squander, and this George 
 Gregory, are leagued together. A band of more infa- 
 
 29 
 
338 BLUCHER. 
 
 mous characters the links of roguery surely never con- 
 nected together. It was this George Gregory who told 
 the other three what we have heard from his own lips 
 was uttered at the Blackleg public house. He arranged 
 the plot. For he was present at one of the coffee 
 houses when the three large bills of money were paid 
 into Lord Squander's hands. He knew from his valet 
 the day when his lordship intended to ride to his lord- 
 ship's country house. He had arranged the plot in this 
 wise : the three other men were to meet his lordship, 
 and demand his money, while he, George Gregory, 
 should await the issue at a distance, in order that, in 
 case of sudden emergency, he might ride in to their re- 
 lief. But when he observed, from his lurking place, 
 that his companions were wholly worsted, he threw 
 aside his arms and disguise, and took to his heels. 
 Hoping thereby to escape detection, he has this day, 
 with consummate assurance, come forward to criminate 
 his wretched companion at the bar." 
 
 But I cannot give a further account of the trial. 
 Suffice it to say, that several totally unexpected wit- 
 nesses arose, and by their unwavering testimony estab- 
 lished a chain of circumstantial evidence which brought 
 home the guilt to the prisoners. In fact, so incapable 
 were they of rebutting the charges, that they at length 
 both confessed every tittle of the endictment, and sen- 
 tence of death was pronounced upon D. Dredden. In 
 a fortnight's time he was executed, and George Greg- 
 ory was transported for seven years. He now lives 
 at New South Wales ; and, by the latest news from 
 thence, I hear that he was well whipped for picking the 
 pocket of the governor. 
 
BLUCHER. 339 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Being a somewhat lengthy Piece of musty Morality, joined to a Speci- 
 men of Amiability and Tenderness in High Life. 
 
 The preceding adventure of Lord Squander's, as he 
 reviewed it and its consequences, gradually worked a 
 very decisive change in his character. It showed him 
 the preposterous folly of the course he was pursuing 
 — that vice and subtlety lurk beneath all the apparent 
 virtue and openness of the worldling — and that the 
 glittering sunshine of fashion, although it may dazzle, 
 bewilder, and astonish for a moment, too frequently 
 lights the path of its deluded votaries to an untimely 
 — a dishonourable grave. He beheld it, in prospect, 
 suddenly tear off its mask — assume its native hideous- 
 ness, and point its hapless victim to a suicidal end. 
 He himself, as far as he had gone, was an illustration 
 hereof. He had entered upon the tempting scenes of 
 folly and dissipation, with all the fierce ardour of de- 
 sire and exuberance of youthful feeling. He looked 
 delightedly upon the flowery bank — but discerned not 
 the envenomed serpent lurking beneath it. What had 
 fashion done for him 1 It had corrupted his morals — 
 embarrassed his fortune — enervated his mind. As he. 
 took, one fine July evening, a melancholy retrospect of 
 his past life, he was fully sensible of all the bitterness of 
 his situation. Few feel the unkindnesses and decep- 
 tions of mankind so keenly as youth. Accustomed, 
 themselves, to look upon the world as a theatre, upon a 
 large scale, where noble and honourable actions were 
 displayed — where virtuous examples were admired, re- 
 spected, and imitated, and where any incipient scenes 
 of villany were hurried from the sight of all ranks of 
 the community — they enter upon the scenes them- 
 selves, as actors. They see, to their dismay and con- 
 sternation, vice triumphant — setting its foot upon the 
 neck of insulted virtue, amid millions of infatuated 
 
 p 2 
 
340 BLUCHER. 
 
 wretches, who raise a discordant yell of satisfaction, 
 as the monstrous and damnable pageant proceeds. 
 Let my young friends (for I am not without hope, that 
 in the course of my adventures I have obtained many 
 such, to whom I take this opportunity of presenting my 
 affectionate remembrance) endeavour to depict to them- 
 selves the feelings of grief and disgust which throng 
 within the bosom of virtuous youth, on beholding such 
 a lamentable spectacle. 
 
 Somewhat in the same channel with these remarks, 
 ran the reflections of Lord Squander. His adventures 
 with the robbers, and the concomitants elicited on the 
 trial, had been transferred with malignant eagerness, 
 from column to column of the diurnal, hebdomadal, and 
 monthly press — and retailed in every party of high life, 
 with the most mortifying, and even criminal exaggera- 
 tions. Lady Smirk confidently informed her very dear 
 friend, the Honourable Miss Emcraldina Joanna Louisa 
 Harrington^ that she had it from unquestionable au- 
 thority — in fact, she would mention the name of the 
 party, did not delicacy forb'ul — that Lord Squander had 
 actually formed a league with his vile companions, to 
 rob on the highway, (it might have been a frolic, but 
 yet, she thought it a very odd coincidence that his lord- 
 ship, just about that time, had lost a large sum at an E. 
 O. table — but she scorned mean suggestions,) after the 
 example of Prince Henry, FalstafF, and their compan- 
 ions, at Gad's Hill. On hearing this, Miss Emeraldina 
 Joanna Louisa Harrington faithfully carried it to the 
 august ears of a royal duke y with a trifling addition 
 of her own, to wit, that she had heard it confidently 
 remarked, that his lordship was very deeply implicated 
 in the tremendous crimes of a late celebrated defaulter, 
 (Mr. F.,) and received from that gentleman, not more 
 than two months since, seven thousand pounds, as a re- 
 ward (this was whispered, as though she were jealous 
 of a spirit's listening to her words) for a slight and in- 
 significant service — merely imitating another person's 
 writing, and putting the signature at the bottom of a 
 
BLUCHER. 341 
 
 bank post bill. His royal highness then whispered 
 to a noble marquis what the fair lady had communi- 
 cated to him, hinting, at the same time, whether it were 
 not likely that he, Lord Squander, might have rather 
 more to do than he wight, with his uncle, the Earl of 
 
 , who was at the head of a lofty and important 
 
 situation of government. Thus each person added a 
 darker shade to the character of this unfortunate young 
 nobleman. He could not now show his face at a rout 
 or a dinnerparty, without observing a smile, and being 
 tortured with listening to a suppressed titter. 
 
 But the worst of all was to come. His lordship was 
 on the eve of marriage with a rich and titled young 
 heiress — and on going to her house one evening, he 
 was received with cold and scornful haughtiness ; and 
 informed that she had no ambition to be connected with 
 an Old Bailey prosecutor, and a pot companion of high- 
 waymen and swindlers. I was present at the inter- 
 view. On hearing Lady 's latter taimt, poor Lord 
 
 Squander burst into a wild laugh, and left the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 I don't exactly know how to define this Chapter; suppose I call it — 
 Beautiful Prospects, and their Effect on my Mind. 
 
 '.* I will see whether the air of Wales is impreg- 
 nated with villany and deceit," was the language of 
 Lord Squander, as he sat in his travelling carriage, 
 which rolled swiftly towards Flintshire. I sat oppo- 
 site to him. He reclined on his seat, with his head 
 resting pensively on his hand. Except the clattering of 
 the six horses' hoofs, and the heavy continuous rumbling 
 of the carriage wheels, no sound disturbed the serene 
 quietness of the scene. Oh ! how delightful was it for 
 me to snuff up the fresh and balmy zephyrs, with the 
 scent of fragrant nodding forests, verdant vales, and 
 towering mountains, and contrast them with the noxious 
 — stifling — filthy atmosphere of London and its en- 
 
 29* 
 
342 BLUCHER. 
 
 virons ! It was sunset. The orb of day was just 
 sinking beneath the distant mountains, and shed forth 
 his departing rays with a mild, lustrous, and steady 
 brilliancy, over the rich green of the fields, the dappled 
 and unsteady foliage of the trees — tinted already with 
 the brown of autumn — and the silent waveless sheet of 
 a distant lake. When I looked through the carriage 
 window, upon the mellow, the placid scenery, I do pro- 
 test I seemed ready to leap out, and go — I know not 
 whither ! I would mount atop of the whispering trees 
 — leap on the hoary brow of the silent mountain — 
 bound over the green velvet of the fields — and plunge 
 into yonder golden-surfaced mirrory lake. My soul 
 {for I again repeat it, dogs have soule) seemed purified 
 and revived with these exquisite breezes. 
 
 Poor Lord Squander even raised himself up, and 
 looking through the window, gazed on the beautiful 
 prospect with melancholy listlessness. He sat down 
 again — looked earnestly at me, and bursting into tears, 
 said, " Laridon !-*-Laridon ! — thou wilt not leave me ! 
 Come hither!" 1 I sprang to him — he put his arms 
 round me, and wept on my neck. I don't like this 
 grief — for it played strange pranks with me. My heart 
 seemed bursting. I knew not what was the matter 
 with me. I wish I could have eased myself with 
 words, like men ; but that hath been denied to me. I 
 whined piteously — and wagged my tail — and that was 
 the only visible symptom of my love that I could have 
 given, except my pressing closer and closer to him, 
 and fondly licking his hands. I thought — oh, if a rob- 
 ber was to attack my beloved master ! — whip me ten 
 times round St, Paul's, if I would not play the ven- 
 geance with him. 
 
 ******* 
 
 I know not whether there may be some who will 
 condemn my prosing sentimentality : be it so. I am 
 Blucher. I never did a thing of which I need be 
 ashamed — pugh ! those black puddings do haunt me 
 cruelly ! I mean, always excepting that unlucky cir- 
 
BLUCHER. 343 
 
 cumstance. And being such a dog, I am bold, and do 
 consider myself at liberty to write what I like. But 
 this and the preceding chapters have exhausted — that 
 is, for the present — my stock of observation on scenery 
 and human character ; and I much fear they are the 
 driest in my history : yet I console myself with a very 
 philosophical sentiment"; that he who has eaten ripe 
 blooming peaches all his life, ought, when need be, not 
 to repine at exercising his teeth upon a raw potato. 
 Benignant reader — do thou digest well this savoury 
 apophthegm. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Philosophical Student of a Day. 
 
 To Lord Squander had been proffered the cup of the 
 world's false pleasures — he had rashly raised it to his 
 lips — and, in a state of half-maddened excitement, 
 quaffed off its vicious contents, even to the dregs : in 
 his mouth they were sweet — but in his belly bitter. 
 This had taught him a useful lesson. In fact, he was 
 surfeited — satiated : he nauseated the bare idea of a 
 repetition of the dose. What was he to do then ! Live 
 he must — but how 1 He was still young, and full of 
 the sanguine, buoyant spirits of youth. He had con- 
 siderable talent — respectable personal attractions — 
 and a noble income — but what would have become of 
 all these advantages in a month's time, had he pursued 
 his former pleasure-taking system 1 He was aware of 
 this. He thought on it long, patiently — and, as he 
 conceived it, acutely and wisely. A sudden scheme 
 of total reformation in his life and habits struck his 
 fancy. He was instantly convinced (like all young 
 men) of its feasibility. He resolved to put it in prac- 
 tice. Reader, what thinkest thou this mighty scheme 
 was ? I will tell thee in a few and simple words. 
 The Right Honourable Lord Squander resolved to turn 
 
344 BLUCHEIt. 
 
 recluse — and to devote his days and nights to profound 
 study — and every Sabbath to the practice of benevo- 
 lence. An organized plan was soon struck out ; he 
 viewed it with enthusiasm, as he copied it on a re- 
 splendency adorned sheet of embossed ivory paper, 
 which he gave orders should be encased in a superb 
 frame. Well, in a few days came home this " plan." 
 It was forthwith suspended above the large mirror in the 
 front room of his antiquated mansion. The first morn- 
 ing he sat looking at it with intense gratification. We 
 will give our readers a copy of it. 
 
 " A brief synopsis of the plan I have resolved to 
 adopt, for accomplishing the great purpose of reforma- 
 tion of my mind and manners : — 
 
 " I. Ascertain what is the great object of my living 
 in the world. This I conceive to be two fold : the 
 promotion of the present and eternal interest of myself 
 and fellow-creatures. 
 
 " II. By what means am I to endeavour to fulfil it? 
 
 " 1. By calm and profound investigation of mankind, 
 in their relative states and conditions, in order that I 
 may be qualified to discover such means as are appro- 
 priate to their benefit ; and that I may be enabled to 
 use them properly. 
 
 " 2. For this purpose is necessary — abstemious liv- 
 ing, &c. A regular scheme of study ; to prosecute 
 which I must have uninterrupted seclusion. 
 
 " N.B. I do not mean to exclude Laridon, my be- 
 loved dog : his presence will be at once a gratifica- 
 tion and incentive to study : ergo, Esto perpetua me- 
 cum, LaridoneF 
 
 I will just say, en passant, that this admission which 
 he gave me to his most retired moments, speaks 
 volumes in my favour — but I love modesty. We shall 
 now see how Lord Squander persevered in his devout 
 scheme for man's amelioration. 
 
 Squander Hall was situated in Flintshire, near the 
 village of Holywell. It was a noble relic of antiquity, 
 with this exception, however, to the usual class of 
 
BLUOHER. 345 
 
 such " relics," that, though venerable with the impress 
 of ancient times, it was also adapted to modern resi- 
 dence. If you looked at it from the Carglynngharydd 
 hills, you would think that the architect had been puz- 
 zled whether to make it a castle or a country mansion. 
 It is true, there was no moat round it ; nor did a pon- 
 derous drawbridge need to be rattled down with omi- 
 nous clank, for the reception of every visiter ; nor were 
 there the three ballia, nor the embattled rampart, of 
 fortified places : but then there were pepper-box tur- 
 rets almost innumerable; and the angles of the build- 
 ing were rounded off into towers, with loopholes in 
 them, in a very warlike fashion. It was almost buried 
 among hoary trees, and was built in a deep, silent, and 
 sequestered vale ; in which, however, at night, could 
 be heard the deep but soft gushing of St. Winifred's 
 Well. Now, in that part of the edifice which looks 
 upon the blue, distant Welsh moimtains, was situated 
 his lordship's library : an octagonal chamber, whose 
 sides were piled with books. The morning after his 
 '« plan," imbedded in most gorgeous gilding, had glis- 
 tened on his front room wall, he was so fortified in his 
 mind by a prospect of the pleasures of study and se- 
 clusion, that, after breakfast, he hurried to his library — 
 commanding that no one should disturb him, on the 
 most learful penalty. He then locked and bolted the 
 door, and, in the first place, his breast swelling with 
 all the juvenile rapture of anticipation, leaped twice 
 across the room. He then threw up the window, which 
 looked on a beautiful prospect, and leaned through it, 
 fondly imbibing the rich fragrance of the air. After 
 about a quarter of an hour spent in this way, he con- 
 ceived his mind to be sobered down into that quiet and 
 mellow frame which was required for the successful 
 commencement of his studies. But, as he walked 
 slowly past his book shelves, with his arms on his 
 breast, the thought struck him — where shall I begin 
 my researches 1 — bah ! — with ancient literature, to be 
 sure. He walked to the classical department of hit 
 
 p3 
 
346 BLUCHER. 
 
 library, whose dusky volumes reposed in all the silent 
 dignity of dusty slumber. He took down Virgil: he 
 remembered faintly the sweet pastoral descriptions in 
 which he abounded. That was just the thing he want- 
 ed : but now a second thought recurred to him : he 
 had forgotten how to read it! — 
 
 " Tityre, tu patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi 
 Sylvestrem tenui musam meditaris avena." 
 
 He remembered as much about it as he knew of the 
 Singhalese language. This was provoking — bitterly 
 vexatious. He regretted the loss of his scholastic 
 literature : he thought, and thought, and thought, till, 
 with frantic energy he exclaimed, " Farewell, a long 
 farewell to all my study !" And then, I am sorry to tell 
 thee of it, reader, he flung the book down on the floor 
 with spiteful vehemence. 
 
 And is this the conduct of a philosopher ? — whis- 
 pered something within him, as I conjecture ; for he 
 presently stooped down, and picked up the book with 
 great tenderness, as if wishing to atone for his unmer- 
 ited insult. He continued turning over the leaves 
 with a kind of soft, languid, listless inattention. At 
 length he ejaculated, " Oh, how I wish I had retained 
 my college learning ! how many poor fellows, with 
 scarcely a coat to their backs, or shoes for their feet, 
 are many degrees higher than me in the scale of learn- 
 ing, and consequently of real intellectual enjoyment! 
 What are the adventitious advantages of rank and for- 
 tune, compared with their unalienable possessions ? 
 they are safe from the contingencies of sorrow and 
 misfortune, and supply to their possessor a deep, clear, 
 and constant stream of peaceful happiness ; while I — 
 alas ! what is rank ? what are riches ? The former is 
 a ball, to be shot at by the arrows of envy and malice, 
 the latter ' make unto themselves wings, and fly away!' 
 and then what becomes of me ; I am the jackdaw, 
 
BLL'CHER. S47 
 
 stripped of the peacock's feathers. I am, in fact, re- 
 duced to the level of the meanest Irish bog-trotter. 
 Deplorable misfortune ! I will not be as I am any 
 longer. I will study, if I study myself into my grave ! 
 The flare of the midnight lamp shall leave a ghastly 
 sallowness on my complexion ; and the sultry flash of 
 the noonday sun shall irradiate my wrinkled and care- 
 contracted forehead !" Doubtless all this was very 
 fine, and appropriate for an enthusiastic young man of 
 two-and-twenty. 
 
 A quarter of an hour saw Lord Squander seated at 
 a table, with a reading frame before him, on which 
 was stretched the redoubtable Virgil : flanked on on© 
 side by Ainsworth's Dictionary — on the other by the 
 Latin Grammar — and on his lap (although he tried to 
 conceal it, even from himself) was placed a copy of 
 Dryden's translation of Virgil ! After half an hour's 
 study, he mastered the first ten lines ; construing and 
 parsing with tolerable accuracy. Then he discovered 
 that his head ached ; secondly, that his eyes smarted; 
 thirdly, that the long difficult Latin lines seemed to 
 quiver mistily before him : and lastly, he found out, al- 
 though he struggled sorely against it, that it was far 
 pleasanter to look out upon the fresh and luxuriant 
 green prospect through the window. Still he remained 
 heroically in the chair, with his head inclined intently 
 towards his books. He presently encountered a diffi- 
 cult line ; it was obstinate — he could not (query — 
 icould not) master it — he angrily rang his bell for re- 
 freshment. Up came a bottle of Sherry, and some 
 ham, &c. He partook of them with infinite zest, anon 
 tossing me a piece. They were discussed, and taken 
 away. Then he returned to his chair. He applied 
 himself to the tough line : whether the wine made his 
 faculties more obtuse I know not — but his eyebrows 
 were knit with an air of angry impatience. Then he 
 leaned his throbbing head on his hand. By-and-by 
 he yawned ! Yes ! — yawn the second ! Ay — yawn 
 the third ! Then he shut his grammar with a very 
 
348 BLUCHER. 
 
 snappish air, as I thought. Then he fixed his eyes on 
 me with a long and melancholy stare. I gazed at him, 
 in my turn, with a brisk and vivacious expression — 
 he beckoned to me — I was fearful to approach, re- 
 membering the orders he had given to his servants, 
 and the penalties I should incur, if I broke an intri- 
 cate chain of thought ; so I waited for a more decisive 
 signal. He whistled, and clapped his hands : I sprang 
 to him — I frisked about him : his face gradually turned 
 towards the window : the sun laughed in the sky at 
 the beauteous green of the earth. Poor Lord Squander ! 
 He looked, and looked, and looked again ! He sighed ; 
 it was too much for him. u Confound the musty, fus- 
 ty old books !" said he, as he shut them all angrily, and 
 threw them in a corner. "I've had enough study (! ! !) 
 for one morning, at any rate. I'll order my horse — 
 I'll scour the country, and then come home to a rare 
 dinner. To-morrow, of course, I shall be revived." 
 The door was opened ; half an hour saw him bound- 
 ing swiftly, on the back of a noble horse, across a 
 beauteous country, and me frisking and leaping with 
 
 wild delight by his side. 
 
 * * * # • * 
 
 At seven o'clock he returned to Squander Hall 
 glowing with health and spirits — gave his horse to his 
 attending groom — ate a rich and luxurious dinner; then 
 dessert, and drank two bottles of Champagne, and 
 about twelve o'clock he found his way to his bed- 
 chamber. So ended the lirst day's study of Lord 
 Squander : he had actually achieved the conquest of 
 ten lines of Virgil ! " Esto perpetua mecum, Lari* 
 done /" 
 
BLUCHER. 
 
 349 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Being a very masterly Essay on Early Rising 
 
 The next morning was bright and beautiful The 
 ^BHmatedpnmdlyto his throne up the deenenin. 
 ring with their music ; and their notes were echoed 
 back by the mellow throats of thousands of unseen 
 choristers — the thrush, the blackbird, and the nightin- 
 ga-i. T} ie f ii a g e f the trees was rich and deeply 
 green— a*, swa rd which carpeted the earth was soft 
 and delicious. T ae ze phyrs swept refreshingly along 
 fluttering leaves, bud*, and flowers — collecting their 
 fragrance, and then mounting aloft— they perfumed the 
 whole atmosphere. The maidens wing merrily as they 
 sat milking their cows. St. Winifred's Well gushed 
 with sparkling freshness — scattering its crystal through 
 innumerable rivulets, which flowed, fertilizing the coun- 
 try. 
 
 " How the hounds and horn 
 Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, 
 From the side of some hoar hill 
 Through the high wood echoing shrill : 
 Sometimes walking not unseen 
 By hedge- row elms, on hillocks green, 
 Right against the eastern gate 
 Where the great sun begins his state, 
 
 Robed in dames and amber light, 
 The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
 While the ploughman near at hand. 
 Whistles o'er the furrowed land ; 
 And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
 And the mower whets his sythe, 
 And every shepherd tells his tale 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
 
 Lo ! mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
 While the landscape round it measures — 
 Russet lawns and fallows gray. 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
 Mountains, on whose barren breast 
 The labouring clouds do often rest ; 
 
 30 
 
<j50 BLUCHEB. 
 
 Meadows trim, with daisies pied, 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; 
 Towers and battlements it sees, 
 Bosom'd high in tufted trees! * 
 
 Such is the enchanting picture drawn by the mighty 
 nencilof John Milton, which I heard Lord Squander 
 S about a week ago-and that is how I came to 
 SeUhere-of «he>leas„re of a^early^mormng 
 louna me young, the gay Lord Squander lying on a 
 bed of yielding down, half smothered in the bed- 
 clothes, inhaling the impure atmosphere of a clqs<- 
 bedchamber ! Much as I loved him, I cried " Fj - JV ' 
 upon him," from the very bottom of my s?~ 2 ' as * st0 °d 
 scratching on the outside of his doo*- • Six o'clock ! — 
 seven o'clock ! !— eight o'clock ■' ! !— half past eight ! ! ! ! 
 — nine o'clock ! ! ! ! ! — a«^ Lord Squander fast asleep ! 
 Monstrous sluggard ! I am latterly fallen into such 
 a moralizing strain, that I am resolved to indulge in it, 
 on the present occasion, with a sincere view to the 
 benefit of my juvenile readers — if I should happen to 
 have any — and of most of my mature readers too. 
 
 I hope they will not deny that they lie late in bed 
 every morning ; very good — this is the foundation of 
 my discourse ; and now for the superstructure. I will 
 inquire — 
 
 I. Why do they do it ? 
 
 II. What do they gain by it ? 
 
 III. What do they lose ? 
 
 IV. Advise them to amend this evil habit, and ex- 
 plain the theory and practice of early rising. And in 
 these I will be very — very brief — and then proceed 
 with my history. 
 
 I. Why do they do it 1 All in good time. A friend 
 calls another to rise at six o'clock — receives a yawning 
 answer u Y — e — s !" — and leaves him, expecting his 
 arrival down stairs every moment. But what does the 
 
 * Milton's L'Atkgro. 
 
BLUCHER. 351 
 
 sleeper? When he was aroused, he was in a pleasant 
 dream — which the voice of his friend interrupted. He 
 answered peevishly, in order to get rid of him — and 
 then buried his face in his hands, striving in vain to 
 recall the illusion. So on for half an hour. Up comes 
 his friend again — expostulates with him, and receives 
 for answer, that he will be down in half a quarter of a 
 second. Waits for him, and sits at the street door. 
 What does the sleeper? — yawns — stretches his legs — 
 pulls off half the clothes — finds it is cold — very cold ; 
 grumbles, that " it is unkind to call him so early, 
 and so cold a morning," &c. — yields to the influence 
 of sleep — and in a few minutes is as fast as ever. 
 Seven o'clock — up comes his persevering friend — calls 
 him again — and is answered, " I am half dressed ! !" 
 down goes this Job of a friend to await his coming, a 
 third time. But what does the sleeper? — complains 
 of langour, feebleness, headache — cuddles in the nice 
 warm clothes — mutters the soporific word " drowsi- 
 ness " — and in a moment is fast asleep. In half an 
 hour up comes this example of patience, his friend, for 
 the fourth time — calls him — receives for answer (a 
 great falsehood, that " he has only his boots to put 
 on '."—while the only thing he has on is his shirt ! 
 He begins to reason about his sluggishness — cannot 
 help condemning it — resolves to get up, and strengthens 
 his determination by a loud snore — and then is in deep 
 slumber. In the mean while it is eight — his friend is 
 anoT y — leaves the house, and resolves to call him no 
 more. Our sleeper perhaps finds his way down stairs 
 
 by half past nine o'clock. Ladies and gentlemen ! — is 
 
 not this a true representation of your habits ? I do not 
 
 doubt it. 
 
 II. What is gained by this practice ? Two things : 
 
 1. Bodily ill health; 2. Languor and feebleness of 
 
 mind. 
 
 1. As respects the body. Late rising disorders the 
 
 stomach, the nerves, and stagnates the blood. The 
 
 former it fills with bile ; the second it weakens and 
 
352 BLUCHER. 
 
 irritates ; the third it drives up to the head, and there 
 it remains. Hence arises a bellyache, (I must use 
 plain language, my dears,) and loss of appetite ; sec- 
 ondly, induces melancholy, vapours, &c, and pro- 
 motes great fretfulness of temper. Thirdly, it pro- 
 duces headache — determination to apoplexy, &c. 
 
 2. As it respects the mind. It destroys it, in time, 
 altogether. The body always influences the mind — 
 there is an inexplicable sympathy between them ; bn 
 yet it is undeniable, although almost unintelligible ; it 
 does everything deleterious to the mind, in fact — for 
 if the morning is the best time for its exercise, and 
 that part of the day is spent in its stagnation — what is 
 the result ? 
 
 III. What do they lose ? Why, of course, accord- 
 ing to my previous reasoning, they lose their health of 
 body, and strength of mind. Due and proper exercise 
 in the morning invigorates the whole frame : it spreads 
 a bright and glowing crimson hue upon the counte- 
 nance — gives strength and buoyancy to the limbs ; and 
 creates a most ravenous appetite. All this they lose ! 
 They stalk about at noon, weak, palid, shivering, ca- 
 daverous wretches ; and it is their own fault. Dost 
 thou, reader, remember my description of the beauties 
 of the morning, and that of Milton, which I gave thee 
 a page or so back ? — didst thou relish them — and de- 
 siderate the reality, not the shadowy description? 
 Then, by lying late in bed in the morning, thou has lost 
 it all — all — the fairest, most beautiful portion of the 
 day ! In the morning, nature cometh forth arrayed in 
 all the pride and freshness of her verdant beauty — she 
 concealeth nothing from thee, in all her blooming do- 
 mains ; but thou, for the paltry gratification of a slug- 
 gish disposition, choosest to let her pass on unregarded ! 
 Fy on thee ! 
 
 IV. / shall now advise them how to amend this evil 
 habits and explain the tlicory and practice of early 
 rising. I earnestly implore ye, my fair and benignant 
 readers — whether ladies or gentlemen, I care not — yo 
 
BLUCHER. 353 
 
 are both equally in fault — to break off from these ig<- 
 noble trammels. He that binds them on you — sloth — 
 is your greatest, your mortal enemy ! He is exerting 
 all his influence to destroy you ! Will you tamely 
 submit to it ? Will you lie down calmly in your bed, 
 and look upon him, stripping you of all your comforts 
 — -one by one — without starting up into vigorous action, 
 and rending him ? Ladies, if you have no higher 
 motive — look out for your credit. How should you 
 
 like your lover to call some morning, and inquire " 
 
 Miss ? — " " Oh, sir, missis doesn't rise till half 
 
 past nine o'clock ! ! !" He will forthwith go away 
 grunting, " A pretty slatternly vixen, this, for a wife !" 
 Have ye no regard for your personal beauty? Lovers 
 like a fresh, rosy, blooming cheek — a cherry, grape- 
 like lip — a bright, lucid, cheerful eye — but you refuse 
 them all ; and the simple consequence is, that they 
 will, by-and-by, refuse you altogether ! How will 
 they like to look constantly upon a shrunken, hollow- 
 eyed, thin-lipped, haggard young woman, with abom- 
 inably fetid breath, and take her for better or for 
 worse? Nay, I'm sure they cannot take her for ivorse. 
 I do verily believe that more young ladies die of con- 
 sumption, on account of lying late in bed, than people 
 suppose : my last and grand argument with the female 
 sex, is this— that the habit of indulging in late lying 
 in bed generates bad thoughts — and these thoughts 
 lead to worse actions ! 
 
 And now for ye, men. Lazy scoundrels that ye are, 
 (do not shake your sticks at me for using this epithet 
 — I am but a dog, but if I am attacked, I believe I have 
 got an indifferent good set of teeth,) what do you ? the 
 lords of the creation, (lords of laziness, ye ought rather 
 to be called,) what mean ye by indulging in this shame- 
 ful — this debasing habit? where is your manhood? 
 Beneath the blankets till near ten o'clock every morn- 
 ing ! Where is your reputation ? — ditto ! When is 
 your time for study and meditation ? — ditto — ditto ! 
 How do you think people will like to encourage you, 
 
 30* 
 
354 BLUCHER. 
 
 (especially you who are beginning the world,) when 
 they know that instead of balancing your books — ar- 
 ranging your stock, &c, you are snoring in your beds 
 till every clerk in the city of London has been at his 
 desk half an hour ? How can they repose any confi- 
 dence in your punctuality and assiduity ? Besides — 
 will you not allow that business requires the whole en- 
 ergies of your mind 1 and yet — fools that ye are ! ye 
 spend three hours every morning in the express em- 
 ployment of their exhaustion ! Shame, shame on you ! 
 Up, up ! If you have a spark of manhood in you, do 
 not linger away in unprofitable drowsiness the most 
 precious hour of the day. 
 
 I find I have yet to explain the theory and practice 
 of early rising. This sounds very grand indeed. 
 " Theory and practice" But I shall discuss the sub- 
 ject in few and simple words. The theory of early 
 rising, is to make up your mind — to resolve on ihg sub- 
 ject ; the practice is, to second your mind in its reso- 
 lutions with your body. Up! up! drowsy citizens! 
 the lark, the blackbird, the thrush, the cuckoo, are all 
 singing for you, and waiting your approach — some in 
 the air, and some on the trees ; go forth to hear them 
 : — or you must trudge down to the city, and be stunned 
 all day with the monotonous buzzing of your customers 
 and tradesfolk ! I have not time to say more than that 
 —if you love Blucher, and respect his sayings, acqui- 
 esce in the justness of his remarks, and do you your- 
 selves reduce them to practice. I can only add, that 
 in spurring you to it, I am perfectly disinterested. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 At exactly three quarters of an hour past eleven, 
 the next morning, Lord Squander came down to break- 
 fast. Chocolate, rolls, ham, coffee, wine, Cheshire 
 cheese, with many other articles, formed a heteroge- 
 neous meal. He of course took a retrospect of yes- 
 
BLUOHER. 355 
 
 terday ; and this divided itself into two parts : that 
 portion of the day which was devoted to study; and 
 that which was spent in amusement. He had the day 
 before him ; and the object of his comparison between 
 the two was to determine in what mode he would spend 
 it. He strove hard to cling to the study part of the ar- 
 gument — yet found himself irresistibly drawn to the 
 latter. If he yielded to it — what became of the gor- 
 geously framed and glazed " plan V With a desperate 
 effort he swallowed his last cup of chocolate — rang the 
 bell — commanded me, by a whistle, to follow him — and 
 shut himself and me up in his study. (I will here be 
 candid, and &ay, that after I had tasted the delights of 
 yesterday's excursion, I felt a loathing disrelish for the 
 study ; of what service was I there 1 I could do no- 
 thing but sleep.) Down he sat himself, most reso- 
 lutely, to the study of Virgil. But now I observed a 
 constant air of restraint on his countenance. At length 
 he took his eyes from his book — leaned himself back 
 in his chair — and drummed on the table with his fin- 
 gers : then he fell a whistling. " Alas !" sighed I within 
 my mind — " alas for his plan of study and man's 
 amelioration .'" Suddenly he leaped off his chair. A 
 bright thought had struck him. He rang the bell vio- 
 lently ; his obsequious valet entered. 
 
 " Guillaume .'" 
 
 " Vhat is your lordship's pleasure — s'il vous plait, 
 my lor?" 
 
 " Do you know if there is an architect — a designer, 
 that is, in the village ? M 
 
 " Un architected mon bon seigneur ? dans le village ? n 
 
 " Q u i — Q U i — ui, Guillaume — you know what I 
 mean." 
 
 "Oui, monseigneur: oui, oui. I known him ver 
 well ; fery good man indeed, my lor. He live not ver 
 far distante from de well o' Sant Vinafrede, monseig- 
 neur." 
 
 " Then depart instantly, and bring him hither." 
 
 In two hours' time Mr. Dludderydd, the Welsh build- 
 
356 BLUCHER. 
 
 er, and Lord Squander, had settled the plan of a small 
 study, which was to be erected at about a quarter of a 
 mile's distance from the hall, in the centre of a solemn 
 clump of oak and elm trees. The next morning the 
 workmen commenced. Delicious was the bustle of 
 planning, altering, and remodelling the new building, 
 to Lord Squander ! all his enthusiasm revived. Not two 
 hours of the day was he absent from the building — ■ 
 now teasing the workmen with innumerable questions, 
 as to when the house was to be completed. And then 
 goading them on to haste, with the offers of drink and 
 money. As Lord Squander once remarked, in my hear- 
 ing — « he'd soon have it up either with the help of Bac- 
 chus or Plutus, or both." At last he began to grow 
 weary of the sight of brick, stone, mortar, trowels, 
 puddles, and all the other paraphernalia of builders, 
 just as the place was completed. As soon as the work- 
 men had cleared away the litter of their implements, 
 and the place looked tidy, he conveyed his books 
 thither. It was a very neat edifice, something on the 
 plan of a summer house ; only, Lord Squander, being 
 resolved not to submit to the temptation of looking 
 through a window, had a skylight placed round the con- 
 ical roof, and no other windows in the building. Here 
 he sat one morning. The room was rather damp, to 
 be sure ; but then it was a study, and his books lined 
 the walls. He sate in the centre of the chamber. He 
 studied "Locke on the Understanding" — at least the 
 book was before him. He doted on the sepulchral 
 stillness of the scene ; nothing to divert his attention 
 — nothing : here he might be absorbed in silence. He 
 looked at me ; and was so penetrated with his happi- 
 ness, that he hugged me in rapture. However, this 
 subsided ; and he began to find Locke a very dry study 
 indeed ! How could he bear in mind his noble meta- 
 physical definitions, and follow his inexplicable rami- 
 fications ! 
 
 Now, be it known unto thee, reader, in the town of 
 Holly well there is a circulating library. Lord Squan- 
 
BLT7CHEE. 357 
 
 der had seen it. So he resolved to send his man for 
 a few volumes, occasionally to dip into, and relieve 
 the tedium of stud)*. His servant soon returned. He 
 brought the " Romance of the Pyrennees," in four vol- 
 umes. Lord Squander threw them carelessly aside — 
 thinking occasionally to look at them. But in a quar- 
 ter of an hour's time he laid his hand on the first 
 volume — entered into the spirit of that fascinatingly 
 mysterious production — and — and — and — 
 
 Alas, poor Locke ! By teatime Lord Squander had 
 lost all recollection of thy erudite disquisitions, and 
 was engaged with all his mind and spirit, in following 
 the scenes of the bandit's subterranean cave ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Lord Squander turns rather Romantic ; a Taste of his Strange and 
 Marvellous Adventures. 
 
 Dear Reader — Thou mayst as well strive to min- 
 gle fire with water as logic and metaphysics with 
 novels and romances. He who has imbibed a taste 
 for the latter (especially if his imagination be vivacious 
 and inflammable) may give up all thoughts of the ab- 
 struser studies, the discipline of the understanding, of 
 which Watts and Locke were such illustrious masters. 
 Why need I tell thee, then, how Lord Squander cast 
 aside his " Essay on the Understanding" with scorn, 
 and betook himself, night and day, to the romances of 
 Walter Scott, Maturin, Jane Porter, Rcgina Maria 
 Roche, Francis Lathom, fyc, Sfc, and the thousand 
 others who have immortalized themselves by their fol- 
 ly ? He imbibed their spirit, and became one of the 
 most consummate sentimental apes to be found in the 
 kingdom. 
 
 Now, forsooth, he must turn hero of romances ; 
 and nothing would suit him but subterranean caverns, 
 midnight tribunals, disinterested love, and all the 
 
3f>8 BLUCHER. 
 
 other despicable fiddle-faddle whereby men allow them- 
 selves to be made such fools. He speedily acquired a 
 snivelling sentimentality ; a false sensibility, which 
 would whimper three hours over the chance-crushed 
 corse of a garden snail, and dole out an elegy on the 
 mangled remains of an earth worm. In fact, he was 
 once so enamoured of the keen, dark, bold, fiery eye 
 (as he expressed it) of one of his tenants' bulls, that he 
 sought a little nearer inspection of it. While he contem- 
 plated it, a stream of wild fancies glowed upon him, in 
 the recollection of some of the marvellous tales he had 
 lately read : he wished himself a magician, for the 
 bull's sake : then he would mount on his back, scour 
 earth, sea, and air, and play pretty pranks everywhere. 
 This was all very fine, in truth. So thought Lord 
 Squander ; and in the excitement of the moment, what 
 should he do, but leap on the bull's back. But Great 
 Bob had not yet learned how to be romantic ; and 
 consequently was unable to sympathize with the ec- 
 stasies of his noble rider. He could not stomach 
 these " fine phrensies :" and in token of his disapproba- 
 tion thereof, took the liberty of tossing poor Lord Squan- 
 der over his head directly into an adjoining horsepond. 
 There his ardour was a little cooled, for the moment : 
 for believe me, a plunge unexpectedly into a horse- 
 pond, and getting a fragrant soaking therein, is no very 
 desirable thing. " A bull is a creature not formed for 
 romance," thought Lord Squander, as he crept home 
 shivering. 
 
 But then there was another species of romance, as 
 yet untried. He could enjoy romantic scenery ; so 
 he designed a rare treat for the next evening. He 
 found means to procure a Spanish cap, with sable 
 plumes, a dark velvet cloak, and a long Toledo sword. 
 At the still and solemn hour of midnight he stepped 
 into a boat with muffled oars, and glided along the 
 golden surface of a lake, surrounded with dark trees. 
 After paddling to and fro till he felt rather cold, he 
 proposed to debark — and so he did, and stepped into 
 
ELUCHER. 
 
 359 
 
 the arms of four keen-eyed fellows, who suspected 
 him for a thief in disguise, gagged him, and bore him 
 off in triumph to the lock-up hoase at Hollywell. In 
 the morning, of course. ^ matter was hushed up as 
 well as possible ; wa somehow or other it took wind, 
 and ray lor^ became the laugh of the whole town. 
 This ^^ tne secon d damper of the fire of romantic 
 c cling. Alas, that it should be at the mercy of such 
 paltry contingencies ! 
 
 But presently the flame burst out afresh ; and in a 
 paroxysm of similar raptures, he accoutred himself in a 
 suit of rusty armour and stalked by moonlight up the lofty 
 and lonely mountain of Glangyrhhrguistshatterheadd. 
 He was bWinninff to flourish his creaking lance, in a 
 very chivalrous fashion, and was proceeding to thunder 
 forth a martial defiance — when — what do you think, 
 dear reader? the stout oaken bludgeon of a bold foot- 
 pad dealt him rather an uncomfortable thwack upon 
 the top of his steel helmet, which brought him with 
 startling clanoour to the earth. And a most romantic 
 thing it was, for a nobleman to lie still, and be des- 
 poiled of his ridiculous garb — and have his pockets 
 picked — and his hands and his feet tied together ! 
 Here we see, that impudent knavery for once got the 
 better of magnificent romance ! This was a third 
 damper ; and it taught Lord Squander a very useful 
 lesson : that the age of chivalry and deeds of high 
 emprise is for ever passed away — at least in England. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 He falls romantically in Love. 
 
 Let me shift the scene altogether to London. My 
 lord lived in a superb mansion belonging to his family, 
 in Grosvenor Square. He resumed his intercourse 
 with high life ; and his romantic foible got known to 
 every one with whom he associated. This hint is 
 
360 
 
 BLUCHER. 
 
 necessary to be borne in mind, to account for some 
 parts of the following transactions. 
 
 It was a dark, cold, rainy November night, when 
 Lord Squander was riding lmrne in his carriage, from 
 a ball at Almack's. I do not kno-»r by what concate- 
 nation of unfortunate circumstances it , vas tnat ^jg 
 carriage wheels rolled off, and my lord roli^j ra ther 
 unceremoniously into the gutter — to the infinite oa.. 
 paragement of his gay ball dress. A crowd is easily 
 gathered in London; and to avoid that which now 
 congregated round his fallen vehicle, he resolved to 
 walk home. As he passed the dark corner of Russel 
 Square, he fancied he distinguished the sound of low 
 melancholy sobbing. He halted — he listened : " Yes ! 
 it must be !" and he groped his way to the place from 
 whence he conjectured the sound issued. Then, by 
 all Walter Scott's romances ! he actually discovered 
 a lady sitting on the steps of a large house. Lord 
 Squander, as we have before said, was a tender-hearted 
 man ; a sheer sentimentalist : so he sat down by her 
 side ; and, in honeyed accents, requested to be in- 
 formed of the cause of her distress. For a long while 
 lie received no answer. 
 
 " Dear lady ! let me implore you to communicate to 
 me the cause of your deep sorrow ?" 
 
 " Ah ! alas ! ah !" ejaculated the weeping incognito. 
 
 " Let me be honoured with hearing a part of your 
 grief?" whispered Lord Squander, in the gentlest tones 
 he could assume. " Dear lady, are you unfortunate ?" 
 
 "Deeply — deeply so, sir!" replied the lady, "but I 
 wish to be left alone to die here, I wish to bo alone in 
 my sorrows : leave me to perish, unknown, unaided, 
 unlamented." 
 
 " That I will not, by the ghost of Ivanhoe !" said his 
 lordship, summoning a hackney coach from a neigh- 
 bouring stand, into which he perforce bundled his 
 lovely (of course) burden. Away they drove to his 
 house in Grosvenor Square : she leaned her head on 
 his shoulder, sobbing piteously. " You are too good, 
 
BLUCHER. 381 
 
 generous stranger !" " Not a whit, ma'am — not a whit, 
 ma'am ! — I am not, indeed, ma'am !" said Lord Squan- 
 der, and a lucid tear gemmed his eye. "Let me 
 alight, kind sir ! consider my feelings of delicacy, ha 
 —a— a !" 
 
 " A fiddlestick, ma'am — I beg pardon, ma'am — what 
 is fastidious delicacy to the unfortunate ? — but here is 
 my house." 
 
 The coach door was opened, Lord Squander alighted 
 and received the lady into his arms. He bore her to 
 his house, and conveyed her to the dining room. He 
 summoned light. The lady was dressed in a suit of 
 elegant mourning. She was young, handsome, and 
 had a full, rich, melancholy eye ; that was enough : 
 Lord Squander caught a glimpse of it, and was instantly 
 plunged over head and ears in love. Do not say that 
 I outrage nature, kind reader ; you little know how in- 
 flammable was his lordship. 
 
 The housekeeper was summoned ; the lady was 
 taken to bed; Dr. Baillie was sent for; he declared 
 that the fair patient was dying of a broken heart. 
 
 Lord Squander was near going beside himself ; he 
 played ten thousand mad pranks ; he raved like a 
 bedlamite : five hundred times a day he solemnly 
 called Heaven to witness, that he would not survive 
 her death an instant — nay, he bought a rapier, (for a 
 romantic nobleman likes to commit suicide genteelly, 
 not like the beggarly canaille, with laudanum and oxalic 
 acid,) and concealed it in his clothes, near his heart. 
 The same evening he ordered every attendant out of 
 the room. Then he kneeled at her bedside ; he wept 
 like an infant ; she feebly inquired the reason ; he 
 told her all that was in his heart, and of his firm reso- 
 lution not to survive her ; he conjured her to live for 
 his sake. 
 
 Amazing to tell, she recovered her strength from 
 
 that hour. In a month's time the infatuated man led 
 
 her to the altar. He entertained a splendid wedding 
 
 party. A gambling baronet, of the name of Sir Slim- 
 
 ' q 31 
 
862 BLUCHER. 
 
 purse Shufflecard, was one : and the moment he beheld 
 Lady Squander led into the chamber where the guests 
 sat awaiting dinner, he burst into a horse laugh, ran 
 up to her staggering ladyship, and boisterously in- 
 quired, " Why, Betty ! how art ? how art — thou Lady 
 Squander 1 — ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 " Villain, scoundrel !" gasped Lord Squander, white 
 with anger : he listened to what blasted him — the 
 woman to whom he had madly united his fate was the 
 discarded favourite of the baronet ! 
 
 Lord Squander reeled from the apartment to his 
 bedchamber, convulsively grasped a pistol which he 
 always kept loaded on his drawers, he pointed the 
 murderous weapon to his forehead — discharged its 
 deadly contents — and there was an end of romances 
 and Lord Squander ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Containing my remarkable Essay on the Principles and Practice of 
 
 Pugilism. 
 
 I was almost heartbroken on hearing of this dread- 
 ful catastrophe. *The vile strumpet who had so shame- 
 fully deceived his lordship, after submitting to [the 
 scorn and derision of the guests, was kicked into the 
 streets. I fell among other live lumber, such as foot- 
 men, coachmen, butlers, stewards, housemaids, &c, 
 &c, &c, into the hands of his lordship's heir at law, 
 the Honourable Hotbrain Cockspur. 
 
 He was a wild fool, whose brains, if he had any, 
 lay in his belly ; whose heart lay at the bottom of his 
 purse ; and whose every hope, wish, and ambition, 
 centred in the prize ring and Fives Court. Then let 
 me thunder a philippic against boxing. 
 
 Butcher's Essay on Boxing. 
 
 j What is boxing ? — The cherished and patronised dis- 
 grace of England ! By whom is it cherished and pat- 
 
BLTJCHER. 363 
 
 ronized ?— By many of the nobility and gentry. And 
 for what purpose ! — From an anxious and laudible de- 
 sire to brutalize the lower orders of the people. Let 
 me go a little at large into this important subject, and 
 inquire, 
 
 I. What are the principles of boxing ? 
 
 II. By whom are they upheld ? 
 
 III. How do they influence the moral and national 
 character of the people of England ? 
 
 IV. The remedy. 
 
 1. What are the principles of this detestable prac- 
 tice ! Go and ask P ***** E * * * or J * * * 
 B * * ; two as finished scoundrels as ever adorned the 
 public annals of the prize ring. And what do they tell 
 us of it ? After much palaver and rigmarollery — and 
 phiz-magiggery, (according to their polite phraseology : 
 let the reader consult John Bee's dictionary of slang 
 language, published a year or two ago,) they come to 
 the point, and say, that its principles are, the encour- 
 aging of boldness, intrepidity, and honour, among the 
 lower orders of the people. Ay, ay ! — only let the vil- 
 lains have their own way, and presently their boldness, 
 intrepidity, and honour shall mould the people into as 
 pretty a set of tigers and bulldogs as they could desire : 
 let them go on, but let me remind them, that it is not 
 impossible for bulldogs and tigers sometimes to turn 
 upon those who have educated them, and to make them 
 their first prey. I cordially wish it may be so in the 
 present case. I do flatly deny that pugilism is produc- 
 tive of real boldness, intrepidity, and honour. It is the 
 boldness of a bully, the intrepidity of a blackguard, and 
 the honour of a scoundrel ! It is a system of cold- 
 blooded murder, and a system of cold-blooded villany ! 
 the one cannot exist without the other, (in the prin- 
 ciples of pugilism.) The villany of betting is the sole 
 support of the mania of boxing — the avowed one. So 
 much for the principles of boxing. 
 
 2. By whom are the principles upheld? The fel- 
 lows may bluster about the late Mr. Wyndham ; and 
 
 Q2 
 
364 ELUCHER. 
 
 tell me what he was silly enough to publish as his 
 opinion of pugilism, (which he had impudence enough 
 to term a science,) but I will answer, who does not 
 know, that that celebrated political character was as 
 eccentric as he was great? and that he frequently per- 
 formed as many absurd as wise actions, both in his 
 public and private life ? and I fearlessly class his 
 sanction of pugilism as one of the most absurd of his ab- 
 surd deeds ! the wild aberration of a clever statesman 
 when jaded and irritated by unsuccessful legislation ! 
 His name has gone far to support pugilism : and there 
 are thousands of rich fools who never go beyond a 
 name, and are unable to reason on any subject : they 
 take it for granted, that what Mr. Wyndham has sanc- 
 tioned, must surely be worth their sanction. But look 
 at the character of the sprigs of nobility and the young 
 gentry who are most forward in advocating and sup- 
 porting this abominable system. Are they not invari- 
 ably the wildest and most dissipated to be found in the 
 higher ranks of life 1 are they not shunned by the 
 wise and good of their own sphere? and consequently, 
 on Satan's well-known principle, " better to reign in 
 hell than serve in heaven," they prefer figuring away 
 in scenes of villany and dissipation among their inferi- 
 ors by rank, but equals by nature and pursuits ! What 
 pugilistic noble ever shone as a statesman, as a scholar, 
 or a warrior? and what pugilistic gentleman ever dis- 
 tinguished himself in these capacities ? So much for 
 those who uphold the principles of pugilism ! 
 
 3. How do they influence the moral and rational 
 character of the people of England I This is not a 
 difficult question. Thurtell, that great man, Thurtrtl 
 was & pugilist ! see what pugilism did for him ! It taught 
 him how to murder his friend in the most approved 
 method, both as it regards mercy and despatch. Oh ! 
 he was a star, a blazing star, on the rich coronet of 
 pugilism ! Why need I instance others of this illus- 
 trious fraternity ? why need I drag forth C * * * *, 
 g * • • * * s * * * * # * • w * * * 3 H * * * » • cum muh 
 
BLUCHER. 365 
 
 tis aliis, from their lurking holes. The creatures love 
 darkness ; therefore I will not disgust the public by a 
 further and unnecessary exposure of these miserable 
 wretches. But this is not answering the third ques- 
 tion. Pugilism essentially degrades and brutalizes the 
 national taste ; it teaches the people to value most that 
 man who is the greatest proficient in the cold-blooded 
 butchery of his fellow-creatures ; and that their highest 
 ambition ought to be, how to shine in the characters 
 of a giver or receiver of punishment ; it absorbs all 
 their hopes, all their time, all their money, and conse- 
 quently reduces their families to beggary and starv- 
 ation. How can pugilism, and the practice of the 
 milder duties of humanity, not to mention Christianity, 
 (which is the standard to which every scheme for 
 popular adoption ought to be brought,) be for an in- 
 stant co-existent 1 How can gambling, the blackest 
 gambling, and morality, exist together ? But I have not 
 time to enlarge : common sense can tell every think- 
 ing man how pugilism operates on the public taste. 
 
 4. The remedy. 1. Only let the real principles of 
 pugilism be exposed to public scrutiny, stripped of all 
 tinsel and disguise, and men will flee from them as 
 from a serpent. They will behold them as utterly 
 subversive of all true honour, morality, and respecta- 
 bility of character, and wonder that they could have 
 so long submitted to their influence. 2. Let the noble 
 and the rich withdraw from them their ill-bestowed pat- 
 ronage. Heaven forbid, that for the future the name of a 
 nobleman of England, and the vermin of the prize ring, 
 should ever be associated together by the public voice ; 
 let them respect their own characters ; and regard 
 their influence upon society at large. But I need not 
 add more. The people of England are already open- 
 ing their eyes to this system of deception ; their wishes 
 and pursuits are growing more elevated ; they seek 
 for intellectual improvement ; and when that taste is 
 cultivated, we shall see the downfall of pugilism. In- 
 deed, I rejoice to see that it is losing ground every 
 
 31* 
 
366 BLTJCHER. 
 
 day ; may it soon be annihilated altogether ! I have 
 done. 
 
 Thus far poor Blucher had recorded his memoirs. 
 But it falls to the lot of the editor' of these pages to 
 say, that soon after he had penned the previous essay 
 on pugilism, Mr. Cockspur shot him through the head, 
 for attempting to separate two prize fighters, at Moulsey 
 Hurst, who seemed bent on doing deadly injury to each 
 other. Poor fellow ! if ever there breathed a dog of gen- 
 erous heart, and a clever head, it was Blucher. He has 
 drawn several rather interesting pictures of the vari- 
 ous scenes of life through which he passed ; and let 
 us be charitable enough to grant, that his object was 
 not merely to contribute to the amusement of his read- 
 ers, but to instruct them, in an easy, rhapsodical, and 
 popular style. With this concession, his ghost (if in- 
 deed he has a ghost) will be satisfied; and to his body 
 we may all say, " Kequicscat in pace" 
 
 From the Author to the Reader. 
 
 Kind reader, it is now time for me to drop the 
 mask, and, assuming my own character, thank thee 
 for the patient and persevering attention which thou 
 hast bestowed on this protracted canine biography ; it 
 will be evident to thee, that, from beginning to end, it 
 is alight satire on various scenes of human life, where- 
 in I may have held up the foibles of mankind to ridi- 
 cule, but never their virtues. I maybe accused of oc- 
 casional coarseness, and trifling ; and I may perhaps 
 be justly accused. But let my readers remember the 
 nature of the piece for which I have written; and that 
 it is chiefly calculated for the juvenile branches of 
 the community, to whom I now bid a long — long adieu, 
 and inform them, that they will ever find a well wisher 
 in — 
 
 * # # 
 
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