^nmnil s>mm 
 
 AND OTHER PAPERS 
 
 By W M. Thackei-a' 
 
 € 
 
 i t > w> »<^<i *' li»«* v » W' VM »<> fit v i M t n m 
 
 SSH*" 
 
 
 
 ATs/'ITH 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHIC
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THACKERAY'S SULTAN STORK 
 
 AXD OTHEE STOEIES
 
 SULTAN STORK 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES AND SKETCHES 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 (1829-1844) 
 NOW FIRST COLLECTED 
 
 TO WHICH IS ADDED 
 
 %\)t JSibliosrapl)^ of Cijacfeeraj 
 
 REVISED AND CONSIDERABLY ENLARGED 
 
 LONDON 
 
 GEORGE RED WAY 
 
 YORK-STREET, COVEXT GARDEN 
 
 1887
 
 S16 
 
 A^ 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 By the Editor. 
 
 HAT so exquisite and finished a product of 
 Thackeray's mature genius and humour as 
 8ultan Stork should have escaped the author's 
 attention when repubhshing his Miscellanies 
 thirty years ago is perhaps more easily intelligible than 
 its omission from the two supplementary volumes, 
 containing pieces hitherto uncollected, issued in the 
 winter of last year by the publishers of his collected 
 Works, and which must be taken to represent and 
 include their final gleanings in that field. In neither 
 case is the omission of the radiant and sunny little 
 jeu d' esprit which gives its leading title to the present 
 volume easily explicable, except on the assumption of 
 forgetfulness of its existence on the one hand on the 
 part of the T\Titer, or of ignorance of its existence 
 on the other on the part of his posthumous publishers 
 — a supposition rendered all the more likely in the 
 latter case by the fact that "Sultan Stork" does not 
 happen to be recorded in the original edition of the 
 "Bibliography of Thackeray." 
 
 At any rate it seemed to us, with every desire to 
 leave the territory, if possible, in possession of its 
 
 645978
 
 vi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 aboriginal occupants, that the two volumes heralded 
 with such a flourish of trumpets were very far from 
 being either satisfactory or exhaustive, that they 
 included much that might have been wisely left to 
 oblivion, or to the industrious curiosity of research, 
 and excluded much that was in every way worthy to 
 rank with the best of Thackeray's opera minora. The 
 time therefore appeared to have arrived for carrying 
 out and fulfilling, in a somewhat modified form, a 
 project announced and a promise made in the summer 
 of 1882. 
 
 For the three boyish contributions to the Cambridge 
 "Snob," written by Thackeray as an undergraduate 
 in his later teens, no special significance is claimed; 
 but they are at least as characteristic and amusing as 
 the mock prize-poem of Timbuctoo, given by Messrs. 
 Smith and Elder in the first of their supplementary 
 volumes; and the personality and style of Mrs. Rams- 
 bottom, originated by Theodore Hook and then still 
 fresh in the memories of the readers of John Bull, are 
 not unsuccessfully imitated. The earliest piece of any 
 importance, and the longest piece included in this 
 volume, is the tale of Elizabeth Brownrigge, published 
 in Fraser^s Magazine in the summer of 1832, when 
 Thackeray was in his twenty- second year. That 
 he was a recognised contributor to Fraser^s Magazine 
 in the early thirties is established by the fact that 
 his figure appears in Maclise's group of the Fraserians 
 published in the magazine in 1835. 
 
 This tale was first attributed to Thackeray by Dr. John 
 Brown, of Edinburgh, in an article published in the 
 North British Review, in February 1864, a month or 
 two after Thackeray's death. It was not recorded,
 
 INTR OD UCTION. vii 
 
 however, in the original issue of the BibliograjjliT/ of 
 Thacheray — an omission to which Mr. Swinburne 
 (whose knowledge of the remotest recesses of modern 
 as well as of ancient literature is almost phenomenal, 
 and whose critical faculty is hardly less remarkable 
 than his poetic genius,) obligingly drew the compiler's 
 attention. Mr. Smnburne has courteously accorded 
 the editor permission to publish this communication, 
 which ran as follows : — 
 
 TJie Fines, Putney Hill, 
 Dec. 24, 1880. 
 Dear Sir 
 
 Pray accept my sincere thanks for your A^ery handsome 
 present, which I have begun to examine — with what interest you will 
 see when I tell you that I suspect — though it is mere suspicion — that 
 you have not exhausted the list of Thackeray's contributions to 
 Fraser. When an undergraduate, I looked up some of these in the 
 Union Library, and detected in a re'sdew (for instance) either of the 
 pictures of the year (about '38) or of its illustrated books, a Avell- 
 known passage in Vanity Fair — where it appeared some ten years 
 later. And just before ' Catherine ' appeared another burlesque or 
 grotesque horror — ' Elizabeth Bro^vin-igge,' a story in two parts, 
 which ought to be Thackeray's, for, if it is not, he stole the idea, and 
 to some extent the style, of his parodies on novels of criminal life, 
 from this first sketch of the kind. 
 
 Yours very truly 
 
 A. C. Swinburne. 
 
 We could not help regarding this indejoendent 
 confirmatory evidence as highly important, if not 
 absolutely decisive ; and the lingering incredulity 
 which, though Dr. John Brown's account of the tale 
 had been familiar to us for many years, forbade us 
 to chronicle it as an item in the original issue of 
 the "Bibliography of Thackeray," was gradually 
 dissipated. Lest, however, Mr. Swinburne should be
 
 viii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 anjustiy saddled with any share of moral responsibility 
 in the matter, or be erroneously regarded as the motor, 
 fautor or sponsor of this section of our enterprise, it 
 is due to him to add that in granting free leave for 
 the publication of his own letter, he expressed himself 
 "half sorry that this burlesque should be revived."* 
 
 In his paper on Thackeray in the North British 
 Review for February 1864, the late Dr. John Brown 
 of Edinburgh writes as follows: — 
 
 "In 1832, when Mr. Thackeray was little more than twenty-one, 
 Elizabeth Brownrigge: a tale, was narrated in the August and 
 September numbers of Fraser. This tale is dedicated to the author 
 of Eugene Aram, and the writer describes himself as a young man 
 who has for a length of time applied himself to literature, but 
 entirely failed in deriving any emoluments from his exertions. 
 Depressed by failure he sends for the popular novel of Eugene Aram 
 to gain instruction therefrom. He soon discovers his mistake : — 
 
 "From the frequent perusal of older works of imagination I had learnt 
 so to weave the incidents of my story as to interest the feelings of the reader 
 in favour of virtue, and to increase his detestation of vice. I have been 
 taught by Eugene Aram to mix vice and virtue up together in such an 
 inextricable confusion as to render it impossible that any preference should 
 be given to either, or that the one, indeed, should be at all distinguishable 
 from the other. ... In taking my subject from that walk of life to which 
 you had directed my attention, many motives conspired to fix my choice on 
 the heroine of the ensuing tale ; she is a classic personage, — her name has 
 
 * Tlie Pines: July 3, 1886. 
 Dear Mr. Shepherd, 
 
 Dr. John Brown's opinion is worth so much more than 
 mine that it seems to me quite superfluous for you to quote my letter ; but 
 certainly, if you think otherwise, I can have no objection to your doing so. 
 Thanks for the proofs. The parody is amusing, as my memory assured me ; 
 but I wish Thackeray (if it be he) had not taken a subject so horribly dis- 
 gusting to crack jokes upon. On the other hand ' Eugene Aram ' is so 
 provocative of ridicule that nothing (from that point of view) can be too 
 strong or violent to be just or reasonable. Still, on reading it again, I am 
 half sorry that this burlesque should be revived — though no doubt it is not 
 wanting in cleverness of a rather coarse kind. 
 
 Yours very truly 
 
 A. 0. Swinburne.
 
 INTR OD UCTION. ix 
 
 been already 'linked to immortal verse' by the mnse of Canning. Besides, 
 it is extraordinary that, as yon had commenced a tragedy nnder the title of 
 Eugene Aram, I had already sketched a burletta with the title of Elizabeth 
 Broumiigge. I had, indeed, in my dramatic piece, been gnilty of an 
 egregrions and nn2)ardonable error : I had attempted to excite the sympathies 
 of the audience in favour of the murdered apprentices, but your novel has 
 disabused me of so Anilgar a prejudice, and, in my present version of her 
 case, all the interest of the reader ami all the pathetic powers of the author 
 will be engaged on the side of the murderess." 
 
 According to this conception the tale proceeds, with incidents and 
 even names taken directly from the Newgate Calendar, but rivalling 
 Eugene Aram itself in magnificence of diction, absurdity of sentiment, 
 and pomp of Greek quotation. The trial scene and the speech for 
 the defence are especially well hit off. If Elizabeth Brownrkjge ivas 
 written by Thackeray, and the internal evidence seems to us strong, the 
 following is surprising criticism from a youth of twenty-one — the 
 very Byron and Bulwer age : — 
 
 "I am inclined to regard you [the author of Eugene Aravfi] as an origina 
 discoverer in the world of literary enterprise, and to reverence you as the 
 father of a new ' hisus naturce school.' There is no other title by which 
 your manner could be so aptly designated. I am told, for instance, that in 
 a former work, having to paint an adulterer, you described him as belonging 
 to the class of country curates, among whom, perhaps, such a criminal is not 
 met with once in a hundred years; while, on the contrary, being in search of a 
 tender-hearted, generous, sentimental, high-minded hero of i^omance, you 
 turned to the pages of the Newgate Calendar, and looked for him in tlie list 
 of men who have cut throats for money, among whom a person in possession 
 of such qualities could never have been met with at all. Wanting a shrewd, 
 selfish, worldly, calculating valet, you describe him as an old soldier, 
 though he bears not a single trait of the character which might have been 
 moulded by a long course of military service, but, on the contrary, is 
 marked by all the distinguishing features of a bankrupt attorney, or a lame 
 duck from the Stock Exchange. Having to paint a cat, you endow her 
 with the idiosyncrasies of a dog." 
 
 At the end, the author intimates that he is ready to treat with any 
 liberal publisher for a series of works in the same style, to be called 
 Tales of the Old Bailey, or Eom,ances of Tyhtirn Tree. The proposed 
 series is represented only by Catherine, a longer and more elaborate 
 effort in the same direction. It is the narrative of the misdeeds of 
 Mrs. Catherine Hayes, an allusion to whose criminality in after years 
 brought down upon the author of Pendennis an amusing outbui'st of 
 fury from Irish patriotism, forgetting in its excitement, that the 
 name had been borne by a heroine of the Newgate Calendar as well 
 as by the accomplished singer. The purpose of Catherine is the same 
 as that of Elizabeth Broicnrigge — to explode the lusus naturce school ; 
 but the plan adopted is slightly different. Things had got worse than
 
 X INTR OD UCTION. 
 
 they were in 1832. The public had called for coarse stimulants and 
 had got them. J ad: Shi'irpard had been acc^uiring great popularity 
 in Bentley's Miscettamj ; and the true feeling and pathos of many 
 parts of Oliver Twist had been marred by the unnatural sentimentalism 
 of Nancy. 
 
 Neither of these tales, though it is very curious to look back at 
 them now, can be considered quite successful. And the reason of 
 this is not hard to find. It was impossible that they could be 
 attractive as stories ; while on the other hand, the humour was not 
 broad enough to command attention for itself. They were neither 
 sufficiently interesting, nor sufficiently amusing. They are caricatures 
 without the element of caricature. In Elizahetli we have little but the 
 story of a crime committed by a criminal actuated by motives and over- 
 flowing with sentiments of the Eugene Aram type. Catherine is more 
 ambitious. In it an attempt is made to construct a story — to delineate 
 character. But nothing could make a story interesting which 
 consists of little more than the seduction of a girl, the intrigues of a 
 mistress, the discontent of a wife growing into hatred and ending in 
 murder. At the close, indeed, the writer resorts to the true way of 
 making such a jeu cVesprit attractive— burlesque. He concludes, 
 though too late altogether to save the piece, in a blaze of theatrical 
 blue-fire ; and it was this idea of burlesque or extravagant caricature 
 which led to the perfected successes of " George de Barnwell " and 
 " Codlingsby." In a litenmj point of vieiv, it is tuell uvrth while to go 
 back npon those early effoiis ; and we have dwelt upon them the 
 more willingly that their purpose and the literary doctrine they 
 contend for would be well remembered at this very time. We have 
 given up writing about discovered criminals, only to ^\Tite more 
 about criminals not yet found out ; the lusus naturce school has 
 given place to the sensational ; the literature of the Newgate Calendar 
 has been supplanted by the literature of the detective officer — a style 
 rather the worse, and decidedly the more stupid of the two. 
 
 In 1833 Thackeray became connected as editor, and also in some 
 measure, as proprietor, with a weekly literary journal, the fortunes 
 of which were not prosperous. The journal bore the imposing title 
 of " The National Standard and Journal of Literature, Science, 
 " Music, Theatricals, and the Fine Arts." Thackeray's editorial reign 
 began about the nineteenth number, after which he seems to have 
 done a good deal of work — reviews, letters, criticisms and verses. 
 There is a mock sonnet by AY. Wordsworth, illustrative of a drawing
 
 INTR OD UCTION. xi 
 
 of Bi'aham in stage nautical costume, standing by a theatrical sea-shore; 
 in the background an Israelite, with the clothes'-bag and triple hat 
 of his ancient race; and in the sky, constellation-wise, appears a Jew's 
 harp, Avith a chaplet of bays round it. We have here the germ of a 
 style in which Thackeray became famous, though the humour of 
 attributing this nonsense to Wordsworth, and of making Braham 
 coeval with Queen Anne, is not now very plain. There is a yet more 
 characteristic touch in a review of a poem by poor Eobert Mont- 
 gomery, who had the misfortune to become the butt of more than 
 one famous Avriter, winding up vdih a quotation of some dozen lines, 
 the order of which, says the critic, has been reversed by the printer, 
 but as they read quite as well one way as the other, he does not 
 think it worth while to correct the mistake ! A comical tale called 
 " The Devil's Wager," afterwards reprinted in the Paris Sketch-hook, 
 also appeared in the National Standard, with a capital woodcut, 
 representing the devil as sailing through the air, dragging after him 
 the fat Sir Roger de Rollo by means of his tail, which is wound 
 round Sir Roger's neck. The idea of this tale is characteristic. The 
 venerable knight already in the other Avorld, has made a foolish bet 
 with the devil involving very seriously his future prospects there, 
 which he can only win by persuading some of his relatives on earth 
 to say an Ave for him. He fails to obtain this slight Iwon from a 
 kinsman successor for obvious reasons ; and from a beloved niece, 
 owing to a musical lover whose serenading quite puts a stop to her 
 devotional exercises ; and succeeds at last, only when, giving up all 
 hope from compassion or generosity, he appeals by a pious fraud to 
 the selfishness of a brother and a monk. 
 
 Perhaps best of all is a portrait of Louis Philippe, presenting the 
 Citizen King under the Robert Macaire aspect, the adoption and 
 popularity of which Thackeray so carefully explains and illustrates 
 in his Essay on "Caricatures and Lithography in Paris." Below 
 the portrait are some lines, not themselves very remarkable, but in 
 which, especially in the allusion to snobs by the destined enemy 
 of the race, we catch glimpses of the future. 
 
 The journal seems to have been an attempt to substitute vigorous 
 and honest criticism of books and of art for the partiality and slipslop 
 general then, and now not perhaps quite unknown. It failed, partly, 
 from the inexperience of its managers, but still more from want of the 
 capital necessary to establish anything of the sort in the face of 
 similar journals of old standing. People get into a habit of taking
 
 xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 certain periodicals unconsciously, as they take snuff. The Nathmal 
 Standard came into existence on the 5th January 1833, and ceased to 
 be on the 1st February 1834.* 
 
 All Thackeray's ascertainable contributions to the 
 National Standard (with the exception of the tale 
 ah^eady alluded to as reprinted in the Paris Sketch- 
 book) — all at least possessing anything but the merest 
 ephemeral interest — are included in the present volume. 
 And so ends the chapter of Juvenilia. 
 
 Four years later (1837) we find Thackeray engaged 
 as a serious critic, reviewing Thomas Carlyle's newly- 
 published "French Eevolution," in the columns of the 
 Times. This interesting notice has only been iden- 
 tified within the last few years, through a mention 
 of it by Carlyle himself, in a letter to his brother, 
 printed by Mr. Froude, in the volumes entitled 
 "Carlyle's Life in London." "The writer," says 
 Carlyle in his trenchant pungent way, "is one Thackeray, 
 " a half- monstrous Cornish giant, kind of painter, 
 " Cambridge man and Paris newspaper correspondent, 
 " who is now writing for his Hfe in London. His article 
 " is rather like him, and I suppose calculated to do the 
 " book good." It should be added that, in resuscitating 
 this article from its old ouhUette of half- a- century back 
 in the Times, the quotations and excerpts, there very 
 incorrectly given, partly perhaps through haste and 
 want of opportunity or leisure to correct the press, 
 have been carefully collated ^vith the first three-volume 
 edition of the book reviewed, and silently set right 
 wherever wrong. That humble little service was due 
 alike to the memory of Thackeray and of Carlyle in 
 
 * North British Review, February, 1864.
 
 INTR OD UCTION. xiii 
 
 bringing back this interesting and characteristic notice 
 to the Hght of day. 
 
 "Little Spitz: a Lenten Anecdote," was contributed 
 to George Cruikshank's Omnibus in October 1841, 
 accompanied by a very humorous illustration by that 
 artist. Although never hitherto included in any 
 volume or collection of Thackeray's writings (at any 
 rate in this country), it will perhaps be better known 
 to the general reader than any of the other contents 
 of the present volume, — Cruikshank's Omnibus being, 
 especially in the later re-issue, an easily procurable 
 book. 
 
 "Sultan Stork" (also illustrated by George Cruik- 
 shank) appeared in the first volume of Ainsivorth's 
 Magazine, now somewhat of a rarity; as did also an art- 
 paper entitled "An Exhibition Gossip, by Michael 
 Angelo Titmarsh," followed next year (1843) by a 
 series of "Letters on the Fine Arts," contributed to 
 a newly-started illustrated weekly paper called the 
 
 Pictorial Times.* 
 
 • 
 
 * The Pictorial Titnes, a Weekly Journal of News, Literature, Fine Arts and 
 the Drama, — Office 135, Fleet-street, London, — was started on Satvirday, 
 March 18, 1843. 
 
 The first volume, dating from March 18 to August 19, was " illustrated 
 with nine hundred engravings on wood, executed by Henry Vizetelly and 
 others." Each number consisted of sixteen pages folio. In the opening 
 number appeared the first of the series of Thackeray's "Letters on the Fine 
 Arts," written under the pseudonym not even then entirely unknown to 
 fame of " Michael Angelo Titmarsh, " and purporting (like the Fraseiian 
 article on the French School of Painting), to be addressed to Sanders 
 McGilp, Esq. Mr. Henry Vizetelly, who was part proprietor of this journal 
 and connected with its artistic department, informs me that Thackeray, 
 besides the "Letters on the Fine Aits," contributed several literary 
 criticisms, among which he asserts the notice of Macaulay's Essays (p. 43, 
 AprU 1, 1843) to be certainly Thackeray's, — an assertion well borne out by 
 internal evidence of style. Tlie Pictorial Times was stiU extant at the end
 
 xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " Dickens in France " appeared in Fraser^s Magazine, 
 March 1842; and "The Partie Fine" and "Arabella" 
 (or its moral) in Golbiiiii's Netv Monthly Magazine, May 
 and June 1844. These three papers will speak for 
 themselves and appeared to us to be well worthy of 
 preservation. 
 
 There remains only one short piece of verse that 
 requires further explanation — the lines which close the 
 original text of the present volume, entitled " Daddy, 
 I'm hungry. A Scene in an Irish Coachmaker's 
 Family." To render these intelligible at this distance 
 of time to the ordinary reader we have to recur to the 
 narrative of Sir Charles Glavan Duffy, who, in his 
 book entitled Young Ireland, has related in detail the 
 circumstances which led to their publication in the 
 Dublin newspaper. The Nation: — 
 
 "In 1842 there were no railways in Ireland except local lines a 
 few miles in length, and the mails were still carried by coaches .... 
 Coach-building was still a prosperous pursuit in Dublin, and five 
 hundred artisans were constantly engaged, making, painting and 
 repairing the vehicles employed by the Post-Office. For thirty 
 years the contract for carrying the Irish mails had been in the hands 
 of Mr. Peter Purcell, either singly or in conjunction with other 
 capitalists. Lord Lowther, Postmaster-General at this time, invited 
 tenders in England and Scotland for the Irish service of 1843, and 
 the tender of Mr. Croal, a Scotch contractor, being the lowest, was 
 accepted. To fulfil his contract in good time Mr. Croal must bring 
 coaches ready made to Ireland. As this result would throw a crowd 
 of workmen out of em])loyment, it created an angry feeling among 
 the artisans of Dublin. But although it was contended that 
 
 of 1844, and reached at any rate a fourth volume ; but Thackeray appa- 
 rently ceased to contribute after the first volume. He seems to have been 
 content, however, during his connexion witli the journal, to write anything 
 to (jrder, either on artistic oi' literary subjects, for the modest remuneration 
 of three guineas a week, surely an extremely low rate of pay when we 
 consider the pinnacle of literary fame he was to reach only five years later.
 
 INTR OD UCTION. x v 
 
 Mr. Purcell's tender was practical!}^ the lowest, and the subject was 
 mentioned in Parliament and a memorial presented, it came to 
 nothing, and Mr. Croal was left in possession of his contract. 
 
 " While the result was still in doubt an unexpected ally presented 
 himself in the person of a young English artist who had recently 
 written a bantering l)ook upon Ireland under the nom cle guerre of 
 Michael Angelo Titmarsh. What he was to become in the fulness of 
 time was scarcely anticipated in England at that period, and not at 
 all anticipated in Ireland. He had dedicated his " Irish Sketch- 
 Book" to "Harry Lorrequer," but had not apparently established him- 
 self in the good graces of the literary Tories ; for he was understood 
 to be the original of an English tourist in Ireland bitterly burlesqued 
 in one of Dr. Lever's novels; and the nationalists only remembered 
 that he had been contemptuous of Repeal, and had caricatured 
 O'Connell with a face of the type Avhich Cockney artists associate 
 with a blunderbuss. Mr. Purcell (the Mr. P. whose agricultural 
 improvements are described in the second chapter of the Irish Sketch- 
 Book, and the Catholic gentleman whom the neighbouring parson did 
 not visit,) had treated the young artist with consideration and 
 hospitality during his visit to Ireland; and out of gratitude, perhaps, 
 he took sides promptly in the Croal and Purcell contest. A friend 
 brought me for anonymous publication in the Nation, two illustrations 
 with accompanying verses, enclosed in a note from Mr. Thackeray. 
 One drawing presented a stage-coach driven by a Highlander plaided 
 and plumed, and with another Highlander for guard, but without a 
 single passenger ; while the country children jeered at the empty 
 vehicle and its outlandish officials. The second illustration and the 
 accompanying squib, by the same hand, which was published in 
 The Nation, I have thought worth reproducing as a curiosity of 
 literature. It will make a pleasant offset for the Battle of Limerick."* 
 
 The Bibliography of Thackeray, which concludes the 
 present volume, will, we trust, in its amended and 
 enlarged form, prove useful for reference to students 
 and collectors, as well as to ordinarv readers. When 
 originally published in a separate form six years ago, 
 
 * Young Ireland. A Fragment of Irish History, 1840-1850. By Sir Charles 
 Gavan Dutt'y. London: Cassell, Petter, Galpin and Co., 1880, pp. 231-235.
 
 XVI 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in the winter of 1880, it could be little more than 
 tentative and experimental: much new information 
 has since come to light ; and in the labour of revision 
 and addition no pains have been spared in pursuing 
 research and inquiry in every available or accessible 
 quarter. The Greneral Index, which includes references 
 to the Bibliography as well as to the text, will, it is 
 hoped, be found if not entirely exhaustive, at least 
 sufficiently copious and serviceable.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Sultan Stork: — 
 
 Part I. The Magic Powder 
 
 Part II. The Enchanted Princess 
 
 Little Spitz : a Lenten Anecdote 
 
 Dickens in France 
 
 An Exhibition Gossip 
 
 Letters on the Fine Arts : — 
 No. 1. The Art Unions 
 No. 2. The Objections against Art Unions 
 No. 3. The Royal Academy 
 No. 4. The Royal Academy (second notice) 
 
 The Partie Fine .... 
 
 Arabella ; or the Moral of the Partie Fine 
 
 Carlyle's French Revolution 
 
 Elizabeth Brownrigge : a Tale : — 
 
 Dedication. To the Author of Eugene Aram 
 
 Book I. Chapter I. Islington : the Red Cabbage — Specimen 
 
 of Lusus Natures — Philosophers of the Porch — Who is she 
 Chapter II. Portraits : a Pair of Lovers — A Dinner at Noon 
 
 — Table-Talk ..... 
 
 Chapter III. Old Acquaintance — Thoughts on Education 
 
 Benefits of the Sovereignty of the People 
 Book II. Chapter I. A Departure — Female Pedestrianism 
 
 Masquerading — Elizabeth Canning 
 Chapter II. The Cottage — the Apprentices— Mrs. Deacon- 
 
 a Lover— a Billet-doux — Despair — a Discovery 
 Chapter III. The Apprehension — Elizabeth's Defence — Death 
 
 — Conclusion 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1 
 
 10 
 19 
 
 27 
 48 
 
 58 
 (54 
 72 
 76 
 81 
 92 
 99 
 
 114 
 119 
 129 
 141 
 158 
 167 
 181
 
 XVlll 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CONTRIBUTIONS TO "THE SNOB :"— 
 
 Our " Snob's " Birtli, Parentage and Education . . . 193 
 
 Mrs. Ramsbottom in Cambridge . . . .194 
 
 A Statement of Fax relative to the late Murder . . . 195 
 
 CONTRIBUTIONS TO "THE NATIONAL STANDARD:"— 
 
 Foreign Correspondence . . . . .197 
 
 Louis Philippe . . . . . . .211 
 
 Mr. Braham . . . . . . .212 
 
 N. M. Rothschild, Esq. . . . . . .212 
 
 A. Bunn ........ 213 
 
 Petrus Laureus . . . . . . .214 
 
 Love in Fetters : a Tottenliam-court-road Ditty . . 215 
 
 "Daddy I'm hungry" — a Scene in an Irish Coachmaker's Family . 218 
 THE BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY . . .219 
 
 Index ........ 261
 
 SULTAN STOEK 
 
 BEING THE ONE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT
 
 SULTAN STOEK. 
 
 BEIXG 
 
 THE ONE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE PERSIAN, 
 
 BY MAJOE G. O'G. GAHAGAN, H.E.I.C.S. 
 
 PAET THE riEST. 
 
 The Magic Powder. 
 
 FTEE those long wars," began Scheherazade, as soon 
 as her husband had given the accustomed signal, 
 " after those long wars in Persia, which ended in the 
 destruction of the ancient and monstrous Ghebir, 
 or fire-worship, in that country, and the triumph of our holy- 
 religion : for though, my lord, the Persians are Soonies by 
 creed, and not followers of Omar, as every true believer in 
 
 the prophet ought to be, nevertheless " 
 
 " A truce to your nevertheless, madam," interrupted the 
 Sultan, " I want to hear a story, and not a controversy." 
 
 "Well, sir, after the expulsion of the Ahrimanians, King 
 Abdulraman governed Persia worthily until he died after a 
 surfeit of peaches, and left his throne to his son Mushook, or 
 the Beautiful, — a title by the way," remarked Scheherazade, 
 blushing, and casting down her lovely eyes, "which ought at 
 present to belong to your majesty." 
 
 Although the Sultan only muttered, " Stuff and nonsense, get 
 along with you," it was evident, by the blush in the royal 
 countenance, and the smile which lightened up the black waves 
 of the imperial beard, as a sunbeam does the sea, that his 
 
 B
 
 2 SULTAN STORK. 
 
 majesty was pleased, and that the storm M^as about to disappear. 
 Scheherazade continued : — 
 
 " Mushook, ascending the throne, passed honourably the first 
 year of his reign in perfecting the work so happily begun by his 
 royal father. He caused a general slaughter of all the Ghebirs 
 in his land to take place, not only of the royal family, but of 
 the common sort ; nor of the latter did there remain any un- 
 killed (if I may coin such a word) or unconverted ; and, as to 
 the former, they were extirpated root and branch, with the 
 exception of one most dogged enchanter and Ahrimanian, 
 Ghuzroo by name, who, with his son Ameen-Adhawb, managed 
 to escape out of Persia, and fled to India, where still existed 
 some remnants of their miserably superstitious race. But 
 Bombay is a long way from Persia, and at the former place it 
 was that Ghuzroo and his son took refuge, giving themselves up 
 to their diabolical enchantments and worship, and calling them- 
 selves king and prince of Persia. For them, however, their 
 plans and their pretensions, King Mushook little cared, often 
 singing, in allusion to them, those well-known verses of 
 Hafiz : — 
 
 " ' Bulcloo says that lie is tlie rightful owner of the rice-field, 
 And declares that the lamb is his undisputed property. 
 Brag, Buldoo, about your rights and your possessions ; 
 But the lamb and rice are his who dines on the pilau.' " 
 
 The Sultan could hardly contain himself for laughing at this 
 admirable epigram, and, without farther interruption, Schehera- 
 zade continued her story. 
 
 " King Mushook was then firmly established on his throne, 
 and had for his vizier that famous and worthy statesman 
 Munsoor ; one of the ugliest and oldest, but also one of the 
 wisest of men, and attached beyond everything to the Mushook 
 dynasty, though his teeth had been knocked out by the royal 
 slipper." 
 
 "And, no doubt, Mushook served him right," observed the 
 Sultan. 
 
 " Though his teeth had been knocked out, yet wisdom and 
 persuasion ever hung on his lips ; though one of his eyes, in a 
 fit of royal indignation, had been closed for ever, yet no two
 
 THE MAGIC POWDER. 3 
 
 eyes in all the empire were as keen as his remaining ball ; he 
 was, in a word, the very best and honestest of viziers, as fat and 
 merry, too, as he was wise and faithful. 
 
 " One day as Shah Mushook was seated after diniier in his 
 beautiful garden-pavilion at Tehran, sick of political affaiis, 
 which is no wonder, — sick even of the beautiful houris who had 
 been dancing before him to the sound of lutes and mandolins — 
 tired of the jokes and antics of his buffoons and story-tellers, — 
 let me say at once dyspeptic, and in a shocking ill-humour ; old 
 Munsoor (who had already had the royal pipe and slippers flung 
 half-a-dozen times at his head), willing by any means to dissipate 
 his master's ill-will, lighted in the outer courts of the palace, 
 as he was hieing disconsolately home, upon an old pedlar-woman, 
 who was displaying her wares to a crowd of wondering persons 
 and palace servants, and makino; them die with lauirhing at her 
 jokes. 
 
 "The vizier drew near, heard her jokes,^' and examined her 
 wares, which were extraordinarily beautiful, and determined to 
 conduct her into the august presence of the king. 
 
 " Mushook was so pleased with her stock in trade, that, like 
 a royal and generous prince, he determined to purchase her 
 whole pack, box, trinkets, and all ; giving her own price for 
 tliem. So she yielded up her box, only taking out of one of the 
 drawers a little bottle, surrounded by a paper, not much bigger 
 than an ordinary bottle of Macassar oiL" 
 
 " Macassar oil 1 Here's an anachronism 1 " tliouijht the Sultan, 
 But he suffered his wife to proceed with her tale. 
 
 " The old woman was putting this bottle away into her pocket, 
 wdien the sultan's e3"e lighted upon it, and he asked her in a fury, 
 why she was maldng off with his property ? 
 
 " She said she had sold him the whole pack, with the exception 
 of that bottle ; and that it could be of no good to him, as it was 
 only a common old crystal bottle, a family piece, of no sort of 
 use to any but the owner. 
 
 " ' What is there in the bottle ? ' exclaimed the keen and 
 astute vizier. 
 
 * These, as they have no sort of point except for the Persian scholar, are 
 here entii-ely omitted. — G. O'G. G. 
 
 b2
 
 4 SULTAN STORK. 
 
 " At this the old woman bhished as far as her weazened old 
 face could blush, hemmed, ha'd, stuttered, and shewed evident 
 signs of confusion. She said it was only a common bottle — 
 that there was nothing in it — that is, only a powder — a little 
 rhubarb, 
 
 " ' It's poison ! ' roared Mushook ; ' I'm sure it's poison ! ' And 
 he forthwith seized the old hag by the throat, and would have 
 strangled her, if the vizier had not wisely interposed, remarking, 
 that if the woman were strangled there could be no means of 
 knowing what the bottle contained. 
 
 " ' To shew you, sire, that it is not poison,' cried the old 
 creature to the king, who by this time had wrenched the bottle 
 out of her pocket, and held it in his hand ; ' I will take a little of 
 the powder it contains.' Whereupon his m.ajesty called for a 
 teaspoon, determined to administer the powder to her himself. 
 The chief of the eunuchs brought the teaspoon, the king- 
 emptied a little of the powder into it, and bidding the old 
 wretch open her great, black, gaping, ruinous mouth, put a little 
 of the powder on her tongue ; when, to his astonishment, and as 
 true as I sit here, her old hooked beak of a nose (which, by way 
 of precaution, he was holding in his fingers) slipped from between 
 them ; the old, black tongue, on which he placed the teaspoon, 
 disappeared from under it ; and not only the nose and the tongue, 
 but the wdiole old woman vanished away entirely, and his 
 majesty stood there with his two hands extended — the one 
 looking as if it pulled an imaginary nose, the other holding an 
 empty teaspoon ; and he himself staring wildly at vacancy ! " 
 
 " Scheherazade," said the Sultan, gravely, " you are drawing 
 the long bow a little too strongly. In the thousand and one 
 nights that we have passed together, I have given credit to every 
 syllable you uttered. But this tale about the old woman, my 
 love, is, upon my honour, too monstrous." 
 
 " Not a whit, sir ; and I assure your majesty that it is as true 
 as the Koran itself. It is a fact perfectly well authenticated, 
 and written afterwards, by King Mushook's orders, in the Persian 
 annals. The old woman vanished altogether ; the king was left 
 standing there with the bottle and spoon ; the vizier was dumb 
 with wonder ; and the only thing seen to quit the room was a
 
 THE MAGIC POWDER. 5 
 
 little canary-bird, that suddenly started up before the king's 
 face, and cliirping out ' kikiriki,' flew out of the open window, 
 skimmed over the ponds and plane-trees in the garden, and was 
 last seen wheeling round and round the minaret of the great 
 mosque of Tehran." 
 
 " Mashallah ! " exclaimed the Sultan. " Heaven is sreat : but 
 I never should have credited the tale, had not you, my love, 
 vouched for it. Go on, madam, and tell us what became of the 
 bottle and Sultan Mushook." 
 
 " Sir, when the king had recovered from his astonisliment, he 
 fell, as his custom was, into a fury, and could only be calmed by 
 the arguments and persuasions of the grand vizier. 
 
 " ' It is e\ddent, sire,' observed that dignitary, ' that the 
 powder which you have just administered possesses some magic 
 property, either to make the persons taking it invisible, or else 
 to cause them to change into the form of some bird or other 
 animal ; and very possibly the canary-bird which so suddenly 
 appeared and disappeared just now, was the very old woman with 
 whom your majesty was talking. We can easily see whether 
 the powder creates invisibility, by trying its effects upon some 
 one — the chief of the eunuchs for example.' And accordingly 
 Hudge Gudge, the chief of the eunuchs, against whom the 
 \azier had an old grudge, was compelled, with many wry faces, 
 to taste the mixture. 
 
 " ' Thou art so ugly, Hudge Gudge,' exclaimed the vizier with 
 a grin, ' that to render thee invisible, will only be conferring a 
 benefit upon thee.' But, strange to say, though the eunuch was 
 made to swallow a large dose, the powder had no sort of effect 
 upon him, and he stood before his majesty and the prime 
 minister as ugly and as visible as ever. 
 
 " They now thought of looking at the paper in which the 
 bottle was wrapped, and the king, not knowing how to read 
 himself, bade the grand vizier explain to him the meaning of 
 the writing which appeared upon the paper. 
 
 " But the vizier confessed, after examining the document, 
 that he could not understand it ; and though it was presented 
 at the divan that day, to all the councillors, moUahs, and men 
 learned in the law, not one of them could understand a syllable
 
 6 SULTAN STORK. 
 
 of the strange characters written on the paper. The council 
 broke up in consternation ; for his majesty swore, that if the 
 paper was not translated before the next day at noon, he would 
 bastinado every one of the privy council, beginning with his 
 excellency the grand vizier. 
 
 " ' Who has such a sharp wit as necessity ? ' touchingiy 
 exclaims the poet Sadee, and so, in corroboration of the words 
 of that divine songster, the next day at noon, sure enough, a 
 man was found — a most ancient, learned, and holy dervish, who 
 knew all the languages under the sun, and, by consequence, 
 that in which the paper was written. 
 
 " It was in the most secret Sanscrit touQ-ue ; and when the 
 dervish read it, he requested that he might communicate its 
 contents privately to his majesty, or at least only in the presence 
 of his first minister. 
 
 " Eetiring then to the private apartments with the vizier, his 
 majesty bade the dervish interpret the meaning of the writing 
 round the bottle. 
 
 " ' The meaning, sire, is this,' said the learned dervish. ' Who- 
 ever, after bowing his head three times to the east ' 
 
 " ' The old woman waggled hers,' cried the king : ' I remarked 
 it, but thought it was only palsy.' 
 
 " ' Whoever, after bowing his head three times to the east, 
 swallows a gTain of this powder, may change himself into what- 
 ever animal he please : be it beast, or insect, or bird. Likewise, 
 when he is so changed, he will know the language of beasts, 
 insects, and birds, and be able to answer each after his kind. 
 And when the person so transformed desires to be restored to 
 his own shape, he lias only to utter the name of the god 
 "■ Ludgaroo," who himself appeared upon earth in the shape of 
 beasts, birds, ay, and fishes,* and he will instantly resume his 
 proper figure. But let the person using this precious powder 
 especially beware, that during the course of his metamorphosis 
 he do not give way to laughter ; for should he indulge in any 
 such unholy mirth, his memory will infallibly forsake him, and 
 
 * In Professor Scliwam's Sankritisclie Altertluuuskuiule, is a learned 
 account of the transmutations of this Indian divinity. — G. O'G. G.
 
 THE MA GIC PO WDER. 7 
 
 not beinsf able to recall the talismanic word, he will remain in 
 the shape into which he has changed himself.' 
 
 " When this strange document had been communicated to his 
 majesty, he caused the dervish's mouth to be filled with sugar- 
 candy, gave him a purse of gold, and bade him depart with 
 every honour. 
 
 " ' You had better at least have waited,' said the shrewd 
 vizier, ' to see if the interpretation be correct, for who can tell 
 whether this dervish is deceiving us or no ! ' 
 
 " King Mushook rejoined that that point should be put at 
 rest at once, and, grimly smiling, ordered the vizier to take a 
 pinch of powder, and change himself into whatever animal he 
 pleased. 
 
 " Munsoor had nothing for it, but to wish himself a dog ; he 
 turned to the east, nodded his head thrice, swallowed the powder, 
 and lo ! there he was — a poodle — an old fat, lame, one-eyed 
 poodle; whose appearance made his master laugh inordinately, 
 though Munsoor himself, remembering the prohibition and 
 penalty, was far too wise to indulge in any such cachinnation. 
 
 " Having satisfied his royal master by his antics, the old 
 vizier uttered the requisite word, and was speedily restored 
 to his former shape. 
 
 " And now I might tell how the King of Persia and his faithful 
 attendant indulged themselves in all sorts of transformations by 
 the use of the powder ; how they frequented the society of all 
 manner of beasts, and gathered a deal of wisdom from their con- 
 versation ; how perching on this housetop in the likeness of 
 sparrows, they peered into all the family secrets of the pro- 
 prietors ; how buzzing into that harem window in the likeness 
 of blue-bottle flies, they surveyed at their leisure the beauties 
 within, and enjoyed the confusion of the emirs and noblemen, 
 when they described to them at divan every particular regarding 
 the shape, and features, and dress, of the ladies they kept 
 so secretly in the anderoon. One of these freaks had like to 
 have cost the king dear ; for sitting on Hassan Ebu Suneebee's 
 wall, looking at Bulkous, his wife, and lost in admiration of 
 that moon of beauty, a spider issued out from a crevice, and 
 had as nearly as possible gobbled up the King of Persia.
 
 8 SULTAN STORK. 
 
 This event was a lesson to liini, therefore ; and he was so 
 frightened by it, that he did not care for the future to be too 
 curious about other people's affairs, or at least to take upon 
 himself the form of such a fragile thing as a blue-bottle fly. 
 
 " One morning — indeed I believe on my conscience that 
 his majesty and the vizier had been gadding all night, or they 
 never could have been abroad so early — they were passing 
 those large swampy grounds, which everybody knows are in 
 the neighbourhood of Tehran, and where the Persian lords 
 are in the habit of hunting herons with the hawk. The two 
 gentlemen were disguised, I don't know how ; but seeing a 
 stork by the side of the pool, stretching its long neck, and 
 tossing about its legs very queerly, King Mushook felt 
 suddenly a longing to know what these motions of the animal 
 meant, and taking upon themselves likewise the likeness of 
 storks (the vizier's dumpy nose stretched out into a very 
 strange bill, I promise you), they both advanced to the bird at 
 the pool, and greeted it in the true storkish language. 
 
 " ' Good morning, Mr. Long Bill,' said the stork (a female), 
 curtseying politely, ' you are abroad early to day ; and the 
 sharp air, no doubt, makes you hungry : here is half an eel 
 whicn I beg you to try, or a frog, which you will find very fat 
 and tender.' But the royal stork was not inclined to eat frogs, 
 being no Frank.' " 
 
 " Have a care, Scheherazade," here interposed the Sultan. 
 "Do you mean to tell me that there are any people, even 
 amono- the unbelievers, who are such filthv wretches as to eat 
 frogs ? — Bah ! I can't believe it ! " 
 
 Scheherazade did not vouch for the fact, but continued. " The 
 king declined the proffered breakfast, and presently falling into 
 conversation with the young female stork, bantered her gaily 
 about her presence in such a place of a morning, and without 
 her mamma, praised her figure and the slimness of her legs 
 (which made the young stork blush till she was almost as red 
 as a flamingo), and paid her a thousand compliments that made 
 her tliink the stranger one of the most delightful creatures she 
 had ever met. 
 
 " ' Sir,' said she, ' we live in some reeds hard by ; and as my
 
 THE MAGIC POWDER. 9 
 
 mamma, one of the best mothers in the world, who fed us 
 children with her own blood when we had nothing else for 
 dinner, is no more, my papa, who is always lazy, has bidden us 
 to look out for ourselves. You were pleased just now to com- 
 pliment ray 1 my limhs' says the stork, turnmg her eyes to 
 
 the ground ; ' and the fact is, that I wish to profit, sir, by those 
 graces with which nature endowed me, and am learning to 
 dance. I came out here to practise a little step that I am to 
 perform before some friends this morning, and here, sir, you 
 have my history.' 
 
 "'I do pray and beseech you to let us see the rehearsal of 
 the step,' said the king, quite amused ; on which the young 
 stork, stretching out her scraggy neck, and giving him an ogle 
 with her fish-like eyes, fell to dancing and capering in such a 
 ridiculous way, that the king and vizier could restrain their 
 gravity no longer, but burst out into an immoderate fit of 
 laughter. I do not know that Munsoor would have laughed 
 of his own accord, for he was a man of no sort of humour ; but 
 he made it a point whenever his master laughed always to roar 
 too ; and in this instance his servility cost him dear. 
 
 " The young female stork, as they were laughing, flew away 
 in a huff, and thought them no doubt the most ill-mannered 
 brutes in the world. When they were restored to decent gravity, 
 the king voted that they should resume their shapes again, and 
 hie home to breakfast. So he turned himself round to the east, 
 bobbed his head three times according to the receipt, and — 
 
 " ' Vizier,' said he, ' what the deuce is the word ? — Hudge, 
 kudge, fudge — what is it ? ' 
 
 " The vizier had forootteu too ; and then the condition 
 annexed to the charm came over these wretched men, and 
 they felt they were storks for ever. In vain they racked their 
 poor brains to discover the word — they were no wiser at the 
 close of the day than at the beginning, and at nightfall were 
 fain to take wing from the lonely morass where they had passed 
 so many miserable hours, and seek for shelter somewhere."
 
 lo SULTAN STORK, 
 
 PAET THE SECOND. 
 
 The Enchanted Princess. 
 
 " After flying about, for some time, the poor storks perched 
 upon the palace, where it was evident that, all was in consterna- 
 tion. ' Ah ! ' said the king, with a sigh, ' why, cursed vizier, 
 didst thou ever bring that beggar-woman into my presence ? 
 here it is, an hour after sunset, and at this hour I should have 
 been seated at a comfortable supper, but for thy odious officious- 
 ness, and my own fatal curiosity.' 
 
 " What his majesty said was true ; and, having eaten nothing 
 all day (for they could not make up their stomachs to subsist 
 upon raw frogs and fish), he saw, to his inexpressible mortifica- 
 tion, his own supper brought into the royal closet at the usual 
 hour, taken away from thence, and the greater part of it eaten 
 up by the servants as they carried it back to the kitchen. 
 
 " For three days longer, as they lingered about Tehran, that 
 city was in evident dismay and sorrow. On the first day a 
 council was held, and a great deal of discussion took place 
 between the niollahs and emirs ; on the second day another 
 council was held, and all the mollahs and emirs swore eternal 
 fidelity to King Mushook ; on the third day a third council was 
 held, and they voted to a man that all faithful Persians had long 
 desired the return of their rightful sovereign and worship, and 
 proclaimed Ghuzroo Sultan of Persia. Ghuzroo and his son, 
 Ameen Adawb, entered the divan. What a thrill passed through 
 the bosom of Mushook (who was perched on a window of the 
 hall) when he saw Ghuzroo walk up and take possession of his 
 august throne, and beheld in the countenance of that unbeliever 
 the traits of the very old woman who had sold him the box ! 
 
 " It would be tedious to describe to your majesty the number- 
 less voyages and the long dreary flights which the unhappy 
 sultan and vizier now took. There is hardly a mosque in all 
 Persia or Arabia on which they did not light ; and as for frogs 
 and fishes, they speedily learned to be so little particular as to 
 swallow them raw with considerable satisfaction, and, I do 
 believe, tried every pond and river in Asia.
 
 THE ENCHANTED PRINCESS. ii 
 
 " At last they came to India ; and being then somewhere in 
 the neighbourhood of Agra, they went to take their evening 
 meal at a lake in a wood : the moon w^as shining on it, and there 
 was upon one of the trees an owl hooting and screaming in the 
 most melancholy manner. 
 
 " The two wanderers were discussing their victuals, and it 
 did not at first come into their heads to listen to the owl's 
 bewaiHngs ; but as they were satisfied, they began presently to 
 hearken to the complaints of the bird of nigiit that sate on a 
 mango-tree, its great round, white face shining in tlie moon. 
 The owl sung a little elegy, winch may be rendered in the 
 following manner : — 
 
 * Too — too — too — 00 long have I been in imprisonment ; 
 
 IVlio — — — is coming to deliver me ? 
 
 In the darkness of the night I look out, and see not my deliverer ; 
 
 I make the grove resound with my strains, but no one hears nie. 
 
 I look out at the moon ; — my face was once as fair as hers : 
 She is the queen of night, and I was a princess as celebrated. 
 I sit under the cypress-trees, and was once as thin as they are : 
 Could their dark leaves compare to my ra^■en tresses ? 
 
 ' I was a princess once, and my talents were everywhere sung of ; 
 I was indebted for my popuhxrity not only to beauty but to whit ; 
 Ah, where is the destined prince that is to come to liberate, and to tvlio — o ? 
 
 " Cut the verses short, Scheherazade," said the Sultan. And 
 that obedient princess instantly resumed her story in prose. 
 
 " ' What,' said King Mushook, stepping up to the owl, ' are 
 you the victim of enchantment ? ' 
 
 " Alas ! kind stranger, of whatever feather you be — for the 
 moon is so bright that I cannot see you in the least, — I was 
 a princess, as I have just announced in my poem ; and famous, 
 I may say, for my beauty all over India. liotu Muckun is my 
 name, and my father is King of Hindostan. A monster from 
 Bombay, an idolater and practiser of enchantments, came to my 
 court and asked my hand for his son ; but because I spurned 
 the wretch, he, under the disguise of an old woman ' 
 
 " * With a box of trinkets,' broke out the vizier. 
 
 "'Of no such thing,' said the owl, or rather the disguised 
 Princess Rotu Muckun ; ' with a basket of peaches, of which I was
 
 12 SULTAN STORK. 
 
 known to be fond, entered the palace garden one evening as I was 
 seated there with my maidens, and offered me a peach, of which 
 I partook, and was that instant turned into an owl. My 
 attendants fled, screaming at the metamorphosis ; and as the 
 old woman went away, she clenched her fist at me and laughed, 
 and said " Now, princess, you will remember the vengeance of 
 Ghuzroo." ' 
 
 " ' This is indeed marvellous ! ' exclaimed the King of Persia. 
 ' Know, madam, that the humble individual who now addresses 
 you was a year since no other than Persia's king/ 
 
 " ' Heavens ! ' said the princess, trembling, and rustling all 
 her feathers ; ' can you be the famous and beautiful Mushook, 
 who disappeared from Tehran with his grand vizier ? ' 
 
 " ' No other, madam/ said the king, laying his claw on his 
 breast ; ' and the most devoted of your servants.' 
 
 " ' Heigho ! ' said she ; ' I would that you had resumed your 
 former shape, and that what you said were true ; but you men, 
 I have always heard, are sad, sad deceivers ! ' 
 
 " Being pressed farther to explain the meaning of her wish, 
 the princess said that she never could resume her former 
 appearance until she could find some one who would marry 
 her under her present form ; and what was more, she said, an 
 old Brahmin had made a prophecy concerning her, that she 
 should be saved from destruction by a stork. 
 
 " ' This speech,' said the vizier, drawing his majesty aside, ' is 
 
 the sheerest and most immodest piece of fiction on the part of 
 
 Madam Owl that ever I heard. What is the upshot of it? 
 
 The hideous old wretch, pining for a husband, and not being 
 
 able on account of her age and ugliness, doubtless, to procure 
 
 one among birds of her own degree, sees us two slim, elegant, 
 
 fashionable fellows pass, and trumps up instantly a story about 
 
 her being a princess, and the deuce knows what. Even suppose 
 
 she be a princess, let your majesty remember what the poet 
 
 Ferooz observes — 
 
 " Women are not all beautiful — for one moon-eyed, 
 Nine liiiudred and nmety-nine are as ugly as Sliaitan." 
 
 Let us have a care, then, how we listen to her stories.' 
 
 " ' Vizier,' answered his majesty, ' I have remarked that you
 
 THE ENCHANTED PRINCESS. 13 
 
 are always talking about ugliness ; and, by my beard ! you are 
 the ugliest man in my dominions. Be she handsome or hideous, 
 I am sure that there is something in the story of the princess 
 mysteriously connected with our fate. Do you not remember 
 that extraordinary dream which I had in my youth, and which 
 declared that I too should be saved from danger by an owl ? 
 Had you not also such a dream on the self-same night ? Let 
 us not, therefore, disregard the warnings of Fate : — the risk shall 
 be run, the princess shall be married, or my name's not 
 Mushook.' 
 
 " ' Well, sir,' said the vizier, witli a shrug, ' if you insist 
 upon marrying her, I cannot, of course, give any objection to 
 the royal will : and your majesty must remember that I wash 
 my hands of the business altogether.' 
 
 "'I marry her!' screamed the king, in a rage; 'Vizier, are 
 you a fool ? Do you suppose me such a fool as to buy a pig 
 in a poke, as they say at Bagdad ? ' 
 
 " ' I was sure your majesty would not be so imprudent,' said 
 the vizier, in a soothing tone. 
 
 " ' Of course, I wouldn't ; no, vizier, my old and tried servant, 
 yoii shall marry the Princess Eotu Muckun, and incur the risk 
 of this adventure.' 
 
 " The poor vizier knew he had only to obey, were his master 
 to bid him to bite off his own nose ; so he promised compliance 
 in this instance with as good a grace as he could muster. But 
 the gentlemen, in the course of this little dispute, had not 
 taken into consideration that the owl had wings as well as they, 
 and had followed them into the dark brake where the colloquy 
 took place, and could see them perfectly, and hear every word 
 that passed. 
 
 " ' Tut-tut-tut-too ! ' shrieked out the owl, in a shrill voice, 
 ' my lord of Persia, and you, grand vizier, do you suppose that I, 
 the Princess of Hindostan, am to be cast about from one person 
 to another like a shuttlecock ? Do you suppose that I, the 
 loveliest woman in the universe, am tamely to listen to doubts 
 regarding my beauty, and finally to yield up my charms to an 
 ugly, old, decrepit monster, like your grand vizier ? ' 
 
 " ' Madam — ' interposed the King of Persia.
 
 14 SULTAN STORK. 
 
 " ' Tut-tiit-too ! don't madam me, sir,' said the princess, in a 
 fluster, — ' mademoiselle, if you please ; and mademoiselle to 
 remain, rather than be insulted so. Talk about buying a pig in 
 a poke, indeed ! here is a pretty gentlemanlike phrase for a 
 monarch who has been used to good society ! — pig in a poke, 
 indeed ! I'll tell you what, my lord, I have a great mind to 
 make you carry your pigs to another market. And as for my poor 
 person, I will see,' cried the owl, sobbing, ' if some noble-hearted 
 person be not more favourable to-to-to to-i^-to-oo-oo-oo-oo!' 
 Here she set up such an hysterical howling, that his majesty 
 the King of Persia thought she would have dropped off her 
 perch. 
 
 " He was a good-natured sovereign, and could not bear to see 
 the tears of a w^oman." 
 
 " What a fool ! " said the Sultan. But Scheherazade took no 
 notice. 
 
 " And having his heart melted by. her sorrow^s, said to her, 
 ' Cheer up, madam, it shall never be said that j\Iushook deserted 
 a lady in distress. I swear to you by the ninth book of the 
 Koran, that you shall have my hand as soon as I get it back 
 myself ; in the meanwhile accept my claw, and with it the 
 heart of the King of Persia.' 
 
 "'Oh, sir!' said the owl, 'this is too great joy — too much 
 honour — I cannot,' said she, in a faint voice, ' bear it I — 
 Heavens ! — Maidens, unlace me ! — Some water — some water — a 
 jug-jug-jug ' 
 
 "Here what the king had formerly feared actually took 
 place, and the owl, in an excess of emotion, actually tumbled 
 off the branch in a fainting fit, and fell into the thicket below. 
 
 " The vizier and his majesty ran like mad to the lake for 
 water ; but ah ! what a scene met their view on coming back ! 
 
 " Forth there came to meet them the loveliest damsel that 
 ever greeted the eyes of monarch or vizier. Fancy, sir, a pair 
 of eyes " 
 
 " Cut the description short, Scheherazade," interru]3ted the 
 Sultan ; " your eyes, my dear, are quite pretty enough for me." 
 
 " In short, sir, she was the most lovely woman in the world 
 of her time ; and the poor old vizier, as he beheld her, was
 
 THE ENCHANTED PRINCESS. 15 
 
 mad to think what a prize he had lost. The King of Persia 
 flung himself at her feet, and vowed himself to be the happiest 
 of men." 
 
 " Happiest of men ! " roared out the Sultan. " AVhy, woman, he 
 is a stork : how did he get back to his shape, I want to know ? " 
 
 " Why, sir, it must be confessed that when the Princess of 
 Hindostau, now restored to her pristine beauty, saw that no 
 sort of change had taken place in her affianced husband, slie 
 felt a little ashamed of the connexion, and more than once in 
 their journey from Agra to the court of her father at Delhi, she 
 thought of giving her companion the slip ; ' Por how,' said she, 
 ' am I to marry a stork ? ' However, the king w^ould never 
 leave her for a moment out of his sight, or, when his majesty 
 slept, the vizier kept his eye upon her ; and so at last they 
 walked and walked until they came near to Delhi on the banks 
 of the Jumna. 
 
 " A magnificent barge was floating down the river, pulled by 
 a hundred men with gilded oars, and dressed in liveries of cloth 
 of gold. The prow of the barge was shaped like a peacock, 
 and formed of precious stones and enamel ; and at the stern of 
 the vessel was an awning of crimson silk, supported by pillars 
 of silver, under which, in a yellow satin robe, covered with 
 diamonds of intolerable brightness, there sat an old gentleman 
 smoking, and dissolved seemingly in grief 
 
 " ' Heavens ! ' cried the princess, ' 'cis my father ! ' and 
 straightway she began flapping her pocket-handkerchief, and 
 crying at the top of her voice, ' Father, father, 'tis your Piotu 
 Muckun calls 1 ' 
 
 "When the old gentleman, who was smoking in yellow 
 satin, heard that voice, he started up wildly, let drop his 
 hookah, shouted hoarsely to the rowers to pull to the shore, and 
 the next minute tumbled backwards in a fainting fit. — The next 
 minute but one he was in the arms of his beloved girl, the 
 proudest and happiest of fathers. 
 
 " The princess at the moment of meeting, and in the hurry 
 of running into the boat, had, it must be confessed, quite for- 
 gotten her two storks ; and as these made an effort to follow 
 her, one of the rowers with his gilded oar gave the grand vizier
 
 1 6 SULTAN STORK. 
 
 a crack over the leg, which caused that poor functionary to limp 
 for many years after. But our wanderers were not to be put 
 off so. Taking wing, they flew right under the awning of the 
 boat, and perched down on the sofa close by the King of 
 Hindostan and his daughter. 
 
 " ' What, in Heaven's name,' said Hindostan, ' are these filthy 
 birds, that smell so horribly of fish ? Faugh ! turn them out." 
 
 " ' Filthy yourself, sir, my brother,' answered the King of 
 Persia, ' the smell of fish is not much worse than that of 
 tobacco, I warrant. Heigho ! I have not had a pipe for many a 
 long day ! ' 
 
 " Here Rotu Muckun, seeing her father's wonder that a stork 
 should talk his language, and his anger at the bird's impudence, 
 interposed, and related to his majesty all the circumstances 
 attending the happy change that had taken place. 
 
 " While she was speaking (and her story was a pretty long 
 one), the King of Persia flung himself back in an easy attitude 
 on one of the sofas, crossing his long legs, and folding his wings 
 over his chest. He was, to tell the truth, rather piqued at the 
 reception which his brother of Hindostan had given him. Old 
 Munsoor stood moodily at a little distance, holding up his 
 game leg. 
 
 " His master, however, was determined to shew that he was 
 perfectly at his ease. ' Hindostan, my old buck,' said he, ' what 
 a deuced comfortable sofa this is ; and, egad, what a neat turn- 
 out of a barge.' 
 
 " The old gentleman, who was a stickler for ceremony, said 
 drily, ' I am glad your majesty finds the sofa comfortable, and 
 the barge to your liking. Here we don't call it a barge, but a 
 
 BUDGEEOW.' 
 
 " As he spoke this word, the King of Persia bounced off his 
 seat as if he had been shot, and upset the hookah over the 
 King of Hindostan's legs ; the moody old grand vizier clapped 
 his wings and screamed for joy ; the princess shrieked for 
 astonishment ; and the whole boat's crew were in wonder, as 
 they saw the two birds turn towards the east, bob their long 
 bills three times, and call out ' Budgerow ! ' 
 
 " At that word the birds disappeared, and in their place,
 
 THE ENCHANTED PRINCESS. 17 
 
 before the astonished sovereign of Hindostan there stood two 
 o-entlemen in the Persian hahit. One of them was fat, old, and 
 one-eyed, of a yellow complexion, and limping on a leg — 'twas 
 Munsoor, the vizier. The other — ali, what a thrill passed 
 throuQ-h Eotu Muckun's heart as she beheld him ! — had a dark 
 countenance, a dark flashing eye, a royal black beard, a high 
 forehead, on which a little Persian cap was jauntily placed. A 
 pelisse of cashmere and sables covered his broad chest, and 
 showed off his excessively slim waist to advantage ; his little 
 feet were encased in yellow slippers ; when he spoke, his 
 cornelian lips displayed thirty-two pearly teeth ; in his girdle 
 was his sword, and on the hilt of it that famous diamond, worth 
 one hundred and forty-three millions of tomauns. 
 
 '■' When the King of Hindostan saw that diamond, he at once 
 knew that ]\Iushook could be no impostor, and taking him 
 heartily by the hand, the good-natured monarch ordered 
 servants to pick up the pieces of the chillum, and to bring fresh 
 ones for the King of Persia and himself. 
 
 " ' You say it is a long time since you smoked a pipe,' said 
 Hindostan, waggishly ; ' there is a lady here that I dare swear 
 will fill one for you.' With this and other sallies the royal 
 party passed on to Delhi, where Munsoor was accommodated 
 with diaculum and surgical aid, and where the marriage was 
 celebrated between the King of Persia and the Princess of 
 Hindostan." 
 
 " And did the King of Persia ever get his kingdom back 
 again ? " asked the Sultan. 
 
 " Of course he did, sir," replied Scheherazade, " for where did 
 you ever hear of a king who had been kept out of his just 
 rights by a wicked enchanter, that did not regain his possessions 
 at the end of a story ? No, sir, at the last page of a tale, 
 wicked enchanters are always punished, and suffering virtue 
 always rewarded ; and though I have my doubts whether in 
 real life " 
 
 " Be hanged to your prate, madam, and let me know at once 
 liovj King Mushook got back his kingdom, and what he did to 
 Ghuzroo and his son Ameen Adawb ? " 
 
 " AMiy, sir, marching with five hundred thousand men, whom 
 
 c
 
 1 8 SULTAN STORK. 
 
 his father-in-law placed under his command, King Mushook 
 went, via Caubul and Affghanistan, into Persia ; he defeated the 
 usurping Ghuzroo upon the plains of Tehran, and caused that 
 idolatrous monarch to be bastinadoed to death. As for his son, 
 Ameen Adawb, as that young prince had not taken any part in 
 his father's rebellion, Mushook, who was a merciful sovereign, 
 only ordered him to take a certain quantity of the powder, and 
 to wish himself to be a stork. Then he put him into a cage, 
 and hung him outside the palace wall. This done, Mushook 
 and his princess swayed magnificently the sceptre of Persia, 
 lived happily, were blest by their subjects, had an infinite 
 number of children, and ate pilau and rice every day. 
 
 " Now, sir, it happened, after several years' captivity in the 
 cage, that the Prince Ameen Adawb " * * * 
 
 Here Scheherazade paused ; for, looking at her royal husband, 
 she saw that his majesty was fast asleep, and deferred the 
 historv of Prince Ameen Adawb until another occasion.
 
 LITTLE SPITZ. 
 
 A LEXTEX AXECDOTE, FROM THE GERMAX OF PROFESSOR 
 
 SPASS. 
 
 By MICHAEL AXGELO TITMAESH. 
 
 THIXK," said Eebecca, flinCTinc; down her beautiful 
 eyes to the ground, and heaving a great sigh — " I think, 
 Signor Lorenzo, I coukl eat a bit of — sausage." 
 
 " Of what ? " said Lorenzo, bouncing up and forget- 
 ting all sense of politeness in the strange demand. " My dearest 
 madam, you eat a sausage ? " 
 
 "Ha, ha, I'm blesht," shouted Abednego, the banker, Eebecca's 
 papa, " I'm blesht, if Signor Lorenz does not think you. want to 
 eat the unclean animal, Eebecca, my soul's darling. These 
 shtudents are dull fellows, look you, and only know what's in 
 their books. Why, there are in dis vicked vorld no less than 
 four hundred kindsh of shausages, Signor Lorenz, of which 
 Herr Blircke, the court-butcher, will show you the resheipts. — ■ 
 Confess now, you thought my darling wanted to eat pig^ 
 faugh ! " 
 
 Eebecca's countenance, at the very idea, assumed an expression 
 of the most intolerable disgust, and she gazed reproachfully at 
 Lorenzo. That young man blushed, and looked particularly 
 foolish, as he said : " Pardon me, dearest madam, for enter- 
 taining a thought so unworthy. I did, 1 confess, think of pork- 
 sausages, when you spoke, and although pretty learned on most 
 subjects, am indeed quite ignorant upon the matter of which 
 Herr Abednego has just been speaking." 
 
 c 2
 
 20 LITTLE SPITZ: 
 
 " I told you so," says Abednego. " Why, my goot sir, dere 
 is mutton-sausages, and veal-sausages, and beef-sausages, and — " 
 
 " Silence, papa," said Rebecca, sharply : " for what has Signer 
 Lor en z to do with such things ? I'm very sorry that I — that I 
 offended him by asking for any dish of the kind, and pray let 
 him serve us with what he has." 
 
 Eebecca sunk down in a chair, looking very faint; but 
 Lorenzo started up, and swore that he would have himself cut 
 up into little pieces, stuffed into a bladder, and made sausage- 
 meat of, rather than that the lovely Israelite should go without 
 the meat that she loved. And, indeed, such was the infatuated 
 passion which this young man entertained for the Jewess, that 
 I have not the least doubt but that he would have been ready 
 to do as he said. " I will send down immediately into the town," 
 continued he, " and in ten minutes, my messenger ;v\'ill be back 
 again." 
 
 "He must run very fast," said the lady, appeased, "but I 
 thought you said, Signor Lorenz, that you kept but one servant, 
 and that your old housekeeper was too ill to move ? " 
 
 " Madam, make your mind quite easy. — I have the best little 
 messenger in the world." 
 
 " Is it a fairy," said the Jewess, " or a household demon ? 
 They say that you great students have many such at your 
 orders, and I should like to see one of all things." 
 
 " You shall see him, dearest lady," replied the student, who 
 took from a shelf a basket and a napkin, put a piece of money 
 into the basket (I believe the poor devil had not many of them), 
 and wrote a few words on a paper which he set by the side of 
 the coin. " Mr. Biircke," wrote he, " Herr Hofmetzler (that is, 
 Mr. Court-butcher), have the goodness to send, per bearer, a 
 rixdollar's worth of the best sausages — not pork." And then 
 Lorenz opened his window, looked into his little garden, 
 wliistled, and shouted out, " Hallo ! Spitz ! " 
 
 "Now," said he, " j^ou shall see my familiar;" and a great 
 scratching and winning was presently heard at the door, which 
 made Eebecca wonder, and poor old fat Abednego turn as yellow 
 as a parsnip. I warrant the old wretch thought that a demon 
 with horns and a tail was coming into the room.
 
 A LENTEN ANECDOTE. 21 
 
 The familiar spirit which now made its appearance had a tail 
 certainly, and a very long one for such a little animal ; but there 
 was nothing terrible about him. The fact is, it was Lorenz's 
 little turnspit-dog, that used to do many such commissions for 
 the student, who lived half a mile out of the city of Knihwinkel, 
 where the little dog was perfectly well known. He was a very 
 sagacious, faithful, ugly little dog as ever was seen. He had a 
 long black back and tail, and very little yellow legs ; but he ran 
 excessively fast on those little legs, and regularly fetched his 
 master's meat and rolls from the city, and brought them to that 
 lovely cottage which the student, for quiet's sake, occupied at a 
 short distance from town. 
 
 " When I give him white money/' said Lorenz, caressing tlie 
 little faithful beast, that waooed his tail between the calves 
 of his master's legs, and looked up fondly in his face, " when I 
 give him white money, he goes to the butcher's ; when I give 
 him copper, he runs to the baker's, — and was never yet known 
 to fail. Go, my little Spitz, as fast as legs will carry thee. Go, 
 my dog, and bring with thee the best of sausages for the break- 
 fast of the peerless Eebecca Abednego." With this gallant 
 speech, which pleased the lady greatl}^ and caused her to try to 
 blush as much as possible, the little dog took the basket in his 
 mouth, and trotted down stairs, and went off on his errand. 
 While he is on the way to Krahwinkel and back, I may as well 
 mention briefly who his master was, how he came to be possessed 
 of this little animal, and how the fair Jewess had found her 
 way to a Christian student's house. 
 
 Lorenz's parents lived at Polkwitz, which everybody knows 
 is a hundred leagues from Krahwinkel. They were the most 
 pious, orderly, excellent people ever known, and their son bade 
 fair to equal them in all respects. He had come to Krahwinkel 
 to study at the famous university there ; but he never frequented 
 the place except for the lectures ; never made one at the noisy 
 students' drinking bouts ; and was called, for his piety and 
 solitary life, the hermit. 
 
 The first year of his residence he was to be seen not only at 
 lectures, but at church regularly. He never ate meat on a 
 Priday ■ he fasted* all through Lent ; he confessed twice in a
 
 22 LITTLE SPITZ: 
 
 month ; and was a model for all yoimg students, not merely at 
 Krahwinkel, Bonn, Jena, Halle, and other German universities ; 
 but those of Salamanca and the rest in Spain, of Bologna and 
 other places of learning in Italy, nay, of Oxford and Cam- 
 bridge in the island of England, would do well to take example 
 by him, and lead the godly life which he led. 
 
 But I am sorry to say that learning oftentimes begets pride, 
 and Lorenzo Tisch, seeing how superior he was to all his com- 
 panions, ay, and to most of the professors of the university, 
 and plunging deeper and deeper daily into books, began to 
 neglect his religious duties at first a little, then a great deal, 
 then to take no note of them at all ; for though, when the cir- 
 cumstances of this true history occurred, it was the season of 
 Lent, Lorenzo Tisch had not the slightest recollection of the 
 fact, not having been at church, or looked into an almanack or a 
 prayer-book, for many months before. 
 
 Lorenzo was allowed a handsome income of a hundred rix- 
 dollars per year by his parents, and used to draw this at the 
 house of Mr. Abednego, the banker. One day, when he went to 
 cash a draft for five dollars, the lovely Miss Rebecca Abednego 
 chanced to be in the room. Ah, Lorenzo, Lorenzo ! better for 
 you to have remained at home studying the Pons Asinorum; 
 better still for you to have been at church, listening to the soul- 
 stirring discourses of Father Windbeutel; better for you to 
 have been less learned and more pious : then you would not 
 have been so likely to go astray, or allow your fancy to be 
 inflamed by the charms of wicked Jewesses, that all Christian 
 men should shun like poison. 
 
 Here it was Lent season — a holiday in Lent, and Lorenzo Von 
 Tisch knew nothing about the matter, and Rebecca Abednego, 
 and her father, were absolutely come to breakfast with him ! 
 
 But though Lorenzo had forgotten Lent, the citizens of Krah- 
 winkel had not, and especially one Herr Biircke, the court 
 butcher, to whom Tisch had just despatched Spitz for a dollar's 
 worth of sausage-meat. 
 
 The visits of Tisch to the Jew's house had indeed caused not 
 a little scandal. The student's odd, lonely ways, his neglect of 
 church, his queer little dog that ran of errands for him, had all
 
 A LENTEN ANECDOTE. 2 
 
 J 
 
 beeu talked of by the town's-people, who had come at last to 
 believe that Lorenzo was no less than a magician, and his dog, 
 as he himself said in joke, his familiar spirit. Poor Spitz !— no 
 familiar spirit wert thou ; only a little, faithful, ugly dog — a 
 little dog that Tisch's aunt Konisgunda gave to him, who was 
 equally fond of it and him. 
 
 Those who know Kriihwinkel (and who, I should like to know, 
 is not acquainted with that famous city ?) are aware that Mr. 
 Bilrcke, the court butcher, has his handsome shop in the 
 Schnapps-Gasse, only a very few doors from Abednego's banking- 
 house. Mrs. Bilrcke is, or used to be, a lady that was very fond 
 of knowing the doings of her neighbours, and passed many 
 hours staring out of her windows, of which the front row gave 
 her a command of the whole of that beautiful street, the 
 Schnapps-Gasse, while from the back the eye ranged over the 
 gardens and summer-houses without the gates of the town, and 
 the great road that goes to Bolkum. Herr Lorenzo's cottage 
 was on this road ; and it was by the Bolkum-gate that little 
 Spitz the dog entered with his basket, when he went on his 
 master's errands. 
 
 Now, on this day in Lent, it happened that Frau Blircke was 
 lookino- out of her windows instead of listenino- at church to 
 Father Windbeutel, and she saw at eleven o'clock Mr. Israel 
 Lowe, Herr Abednego's valet, porter, coachman, gardener, and 
 cashier, bring round a certain chaise that the banker had taken 
 for a bad debt, into which he stepped in liis best snuff-coloured 
 coat, and silk stockings, handing in Miss Eachael^* in a neat dress 
 of yellow silk, a blue hat and pink feathers, and a pair of red 
 morocco slippers that set off her beautiful ankle to advantage. 
 
 " Odious people ! " said Mrs. Bilrcke, looking at the pair whom 
 Mr. Lowe was driving, " odious, vulgar horse ! " (Herr Blircke 
 kept only that one on which his lad rode ;) " Eoman-nosed beast ! 
 I shouldn't wonder but that the horse is a Jew too ! " — and she 
 saw the party turn down to the left into Bolkum -Strasse, towards 
 the gate which I have spoken of before. 
 
 * Presiunably a slip (if the pen for " Eebecca," as the name appears 
 thronghoiit elsewhere ; but we have not ventured to alter it. It may 
 have been " Rachael Rebecca," or " Rebecca Rachael." — Ed.
 
 24 LITTLE SPITZ: 
 
 When Madame Biircke saw this, she instantly flew from her 
 front window to her back window, and there had a full view of 
 the Bolkum road, and the Abednego chaise jingling np the same. 
 Mr. Lowe, when they came to the hill, got off the box and 
 walked, Mr. Abednego sat inside and smoked his pipe. 
 
 " Ey du licher Himmel ! " screamed out Mrs. Biircke, " they 
 have stopped at the necromancer's door ! " 
 
 It was so that she called the worthy Tisch : and she was per- 
 fectly right in saying that the Israelitish cavalcade had stopped 
 at the gate of his cottage ; where also appeared Lorenzo, bowing, 
 in his best coat, and offering his arm to lead Miss Eebecca in. 
 Mrs. Biircke could not see how he trembled as he performed 
 this work of politeness, or what glances Miss Eebecca shot forth 
 from her great wicked black eyes. Having set down his 
 load, Mr. Israel again mounted his box, and incontinently drove 
 away. 
 
 " Here comes that horrid little dog with the basket," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Biircke, after a few minutes' more looking out of the 
 window : — and now is not everything explained relative to Herr 
 Lorenzo Tisch, Miss Eebecca Abednego, and the little dog ? 
 
 Mrs. Biircke hated Spitz : the fact is, he once bit a hole in 
 one of her great, round, mottled arms, which had thrust itself 
 into the basket that Spitz carried for his master's provisions ; 
 for Mrs. B. was very anxious to know what there was under the 
 napkin. In consequence, therefore, of this misunderstanding 
 between her and the dog, whenever she saw the animal, it was 
 Mrs. B.'s wicked custom to salute him with many foul words 
 and curses, and to compass how to do him harm ; for the Frau 
 Hofmetzlerinn, as she was called in Kriihwinkel, was a lady of 
 great energy and perseverance, and nobody could ever accuse 
 her of forgetting an injury. 
 
 The little dog, as she sat meditating evil against him, came 
 trotting down the road, entered as usual by the Bolkum-gate, 
 turned to the right, and by the time Madame Biircke had de- 
 scended to the shop, there he was at the door, sure enough, and 
 entered it wagging his tail. It was lioliday Lent, and the 
 butcher-boys were absent ; Mr. l^iircke himself was abroad ; 
 there was not a single joint of meat in the shop, nor ought there
 
 A LENTEN ANECDOTE. 25 
 
 to be at such a season, when all good men eat fish. But how 
 was poor Spitz to know what the season was, or tell what his 
 master himself had forgotten ? 
 
 He looked a little shy when he saw only Madame Biircke in 
 the shop, doubtless remembering his former disagreement with 
 her; but a sense of duty at last prevailed with him, and he 
 jumped up on his usual place on the counter, laid his basket 
 down, whined, and began flapping the place on which he sat 
 with his tail. 
 
 Mrs. Biircke advanced, and held out her great mottled arm 
 rather fearfully ; he growled, and made her start a little, but did 
 her no harm. She took the paper out of the basket, and read 
 what we have before imparted to the public, viz. : — " Mr. Court 
 Butcher, have the goodness to send per hearer a rixdollars worth of 
 hest sausage meat, NOT j90?'^\ — Lorcnz Tisch." As she read, the 
 dog wagged his tail more violently than ever. 
 
 A horrible thought entered the bosom of Mrs. Biircke, as she 
 looked at the dog, and from the dog glanced at her husband's 
 cleaver, that hung idling on the wall. 
 
 " Sausages in Lent !" said Mrs. Biircke : sausages to be fetched 
 
 by a dog for that heathen necromancer and that accursed Jew ! 
 
 He shall have sausages with a vengeance. Mrs. Biircke took 
 
 down the cleaver, and 
 ******** 
 
 About twenty minutes afterwards Herr Lorenzo Tisch opened 
 his garden gate, whither he had been summoned by the whining 
 and scratching of his little faithful messenger. Spitz staggered 
 in, laid the basket at his master's feet, licked his hand, and fell 
 down. 
 
 " Blesh us, dere'sh somethinn' red all alono- the road!" cried 
 Mr. Abednego. 
 
 " Pshaw 1 papa, never mind that, let's look at the sausages," 
 said his daughter Eebecca — a sad gormandizer for so young a 
 woman. 
 
 Tisch opened the basket, staggered back, and turned quite 
 sick. — In the basket which Spitz had carried so faithfully lay 
 the poor little dog's own tail !
 
 26 LITTLE SPITZ. 
 
 What took place during the rest of the entertainment, I have 
 never been able or anxious to learn ; but this I know, that there 
 is a single gentleman now living with Madame Konisgunda Von 
 Speck, in the beautiful town of Polkwitz, a gentleman, who, if 
 he has one prejudice in the world, has that of hating the Jewish 
 nation — a gentleman who goes to church regularly," and, above 
 all, never eats meat in Lent. 
 
 He is followed about by a little dog — a little ugly dog — 
 of which he and Madame Von Speck are outrageously fond ; 
 although, between ourselves, the animal's back is provided with 
 no more tail than a cannon-ball.
 
 DICKENS IN FEANCE. 
 
 ^^^^ EEIXG placarded on the walls a huge aimoimcement 
 ^^ ^^ *■ that " Nicholas Xickleby, on les A^oleurs de Londres," 
 was to be performed at the Ambigii-Comiqiie Theatre 
 on the Boulevard, and having read in the Journal des 
 D4bats a most stern and ferocious criticism upon the piece in 
 question, and upon poor IMonsieur Dickens, its supposed author, 
 it seemed to me by no means unprofitable to lay out fifty sous 
 in the purchase of a stall at the theatre, and to judge with my 
 own eyes of the merits and demerits of the play. 
 
 Who does not remember (except those who never saw the 
 drama, and therefore of course cannot be expected to have any 
 notion of it) — who does not, I say, remember the pathetic acting 
 of Mrs. Keeley in the part of Smike, as performed at the 
 Adelphi ; the obstinate good-humour of Mr. Wilkinson, who, 
 having to represent the brutal Squeers, was, according to his 
 nature, so chuckling, oily, and kind-hearted, that little boys 
 must have thought it a good joke to be flogged by him ; finally, 
 the acting of the admirable Yates in the kindred part of 
 Mantalini ? Can France, I thought, produce a fop equal to 
 Yates ? Is there any vulgarity and assurance on the Boulevard 
 that can be compared to that of which, in the character of 
 Mantalini, he gives a copy so wonderfully close to nature ? 
 Never then were fifty sous more cheerfully — nay, eagerly paid, 
 than by your obedient servant. 
 
 After China, this is the most ignorant country, thought I, in 
 the whole civilised world (the company was dropping into the 
 theatre, and the musicians were one by one taking their seats) ; 
 these people are so immensely conceited, that they think the 
 rest of Europe beneath them ; and though they have invaded
 
 28 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 
 
 Spain, Italy, Paissia, Germany, not one in ten thousand can ask 
 for a piece of bread in the national language of the countries so 
 conquered. But see the force of genius ; after a time it conquers 
 every thing, even the ignorance and conceit of Frenchmen ' The 
 name of Nicholas Mckleby crosses the Channel in spite of them. 
 I shall see honest John Browdie and wicked Kalph once more, 
 honest and wicked in French. Shall we have the Kenw^igses, 
 and their uncle, the delightful collector ; and will he, in Ports- 
 mouth church, make that famous marriage with Juliana 
 Petowker ? Above all, what will Mrs. Nickleby say ? — the 
 famous Mrs. Nickleby, w^ho has lain undescribed until Boz 
 seized upon her, and brought that great truth to Kght, and whom 
 yet every man possesses in the bosom of his own family. Are there 
 Mrs. Nicklebies — or to speak more correctly, are there Mistresses 
 Nickleby in France ? We shall see all this at the rising of the 
 curtain ; and hark ! the fiddlers are striking up. 
 
 Presently the prompter gives his three heart-thrilling slaps, 
 and the great painted cloth moves upwards : it is ahvays a 
 moment of awe and pleasure. What is coming ? First you 
 get a glimpse of legs and feet ; then suddenly the owners of the 
 limbs in question in steady attitudes, looking as if they had 
 been there one thousand years before ; now behold the landscape, 
 the clouds ; the great curtain vanishes altogether, the charm is 
 dissolved, and the. disenchanted performers begin. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 You see a court of a school, with great iron bars in front, and 
 a beauteous sylvan landscape beyond. Could you read the 
 writing on the large board over the gate, you would know that 
 the school was the " Paradis des Enfans," kept by Mr. Squeers. 
 Somewhere bv that bright river, which meanders through the 
 background, is the castle of the stately Earl of Clarendon — no 
 relation to a late ambassador at Madrid. 
 
 His lordship is from home ; but his young and lovely daughter, 
 Miss Annabella, is in Yorkshire, and at this very moment is 
 taking a lesson of French from Mr. Squeers's sous-maitre, 
 Neekolass Neeklbee. Nicholas is, however, no vulgar usher ; 
 he is but lately an orphan; and his uncle, the ricli London
 
 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 29 
 
 banker, Monsieur Ealpli, taking charge of the lad's portionless 
 sister, has procured for Nicholas this place of usher at a school 
 in le Yorksheer. 
 
 A rich London banker procuring his nephew a place in a 
 school at eight guineas per annum ! Sure there must be some 
 roguery in this ; and the more so when you know that Monsieur 
 Squeers, the keeper of the academy, was a few years since a 
 vulgar rope-dancer and tumbler at a fair. But, peace ! let these 
 mysteries clear up, as, please Heaven, before five acts are over 
 they will. Meanwhile Nicholas is happy in giving his lessons to 
 the lovely Meess Annabel. Lessons, indeed ! Lessons of what ? 
 Alack, alack ! when two young, handsome, ardent, tender-hearted 
 people pore over the same book, we know what happens, be the 
 book what it may. French or Hebrew, there is always one 
 kind of lanGfuaQ-e in the leaves, as those can tell who have 
 conned them. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the absence of his usher. Monsieur Squeers 
 keeps school. But one of liis scholars is in the court-yard ; a 
 lad beautifully dressed, fat, clean, and rosy. A gentleman by 
 the name of Browdie, by profession a drover, is with the boy, 
 employed at the moment (for he is at leisure and fond of music) 
 in givino- him a lesson on the clarionet 
 
 The boy thus receiving lessons is called facetiously by liis 
 master Prospectus, and why ? Because he is so excessively fat 
 and healthy, and well clothed, that his mere appearance in the 
 court-yard is supposed to entice parents and guardians to place 
 their children in a seminary where the scholars were in such 
 admirable condition. 
 
 And here I cannot help observing in the first place, that 
 Squeers exhibiting in this manner a sample-boy, and pretending 
 that the whole stock were like him (whereas they are a miserable, 
 half-starved set), must have been an abominable old scoundrel ; 
 and, secondly (though the observation applies to the French 
 nation merely, and may be considered more as political than 
 general), that by way of a fat specimen, never was one more 
 unsatisfactory than this. Such a poor shrivelled creature I never 
 saw ; it is like a French fat pig, as lanky as a greyhound ! 
 Both animals give one a thorough contempt for the nation.
 
 30 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 
 
 John Browclie gives his lesson to Prospectus, who informs 
 him of some of the circumstances narrated above ; and having 
 concluded the lesson, honest John produces a piece of pudding 
 for his pupil. Ah, how Prospectus devours it ! for though the 
 only well-fed boy in the school, he is, we regret to say, a 
 gormandiser by disposition. 
 
 While Prospectus eats, another of Mr. Squeers's scholars is 
 looking unnoticed on ; another boy, a thousand times more 
 miserable. See yon poor shivering child, trembling over his 
 book in a miserable hutch at the corner of the court ! He is in 
 rags, he is not allowed to live with the other boys ; at play they 
 constantly buffet him, at lesson-time their blunders are visited 
 upon his poor shoulders. 
 
 Who is this unhappy boy ? Ten years since a man by the 
 name of Becher brought him to the Paradis des Enfans ; and 
 paying in advance five years of his pension, left him under the 
 charge of Monsieur Squeers. No family ever visited the child ; 
 and when at the five years' end the instituteur applied at the 
 address given him by Becher for the further payment of his 
 pupil's expenses, Monsieur Squeers found that Becher had 
 grossly deceived him, that no such persons existed, and that no 
 money was consequently forthcoming, hence the misfortunes 
 which afterwards befell the hapless orphan. None cared for 
 him — none knew him, 'tis possible that even the name he went 
 by was fictitious. That name was Smike, pronounced Smeek. 
 
 Poor Smeek ! he had, however, found one friend, — the kind- 
 hearted sous-maitre Neeklbee — who gave him half of liis own 
 daily pittance of bread and pudding, encouraged liim to apply 
 to his books, and defended him as much as possible from the 
 assaults of the schoolboys and Monsieur Squeers. 
 
 John Browdie had just done giving his lesson of clarionet to 
 Prospectus, when Neeklbee arrived at the school. There was a 
 difference between John and Nicholas ; for the former, seeing 
 the young usher's frequent visits at Clarendon Castle, foolishly 
 thought he was enamoured of Meess Jenny, the fermier's 
 daughter, on wliom John too had fixed an eye of affection. 
 Silly John ! Nicholas's heart was fixed (hopelessly as the young 
 man thought) upon higher objects. However, the very instant
 
 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 31 
 
 that Mckleby entered the court-yard of the school, Johu took 
 up his stick and set off for London, "whitlier he was bound 
 with a drove of oxen. 
 
 Mckleby had not arrived a whit too soon to protect his poor 
 friend, Smeek ; all the boys were called into the court-yard by 
 Monsieur Squarrs, and made to say their lessons ; when it came 
 to poor Smeek's turn, the timid lad trembled, hesitated, and 
 could not do his spelling. 
 
 Inflamed with fury, old Squarrs rushed forward, and Avould 
 have assommed his pupil, Init human nature could bear this 
 tyranny no longer. Nickleby, stepping forward, defended the 
 poor prostrate child ; and when Squeers raised his stick to 
 strike — pouf ! pif ! un, deux, trois, et la ! — Monsieur Nicholas 
 flanqued him several coups de poing, and sent him bientot 
 grovelling a terre. 
 
 You may be sure that there was now a pretty hallooing 
 among the boys ; all jumped, kicked, thumped, bumped, and 
 scratched their unhappy master (and serve him right, too !), and 
 when they had finished tlieir fun, vlan ! flung open the gates of 
 the Infants' Paradise and run away home. 
 
 Neeklbee seeing what he had done, had nothing left but to 
 run away too : he penned a hasty line to his lovely pupil, Miss 
 Annabel, to explain that though his departure was sudden his 
 honour was safe, and seizing his stick quitted the school. 
 
 There was but one pupil left in it, and he, poor soul, knew 
 not whither to go. But when he saw Nicholas, his sole friend, 
 departing, he mustered courage, and then made a step forward — 
 and then wondered if he dared — and then, when Nicholas was 
 at a little distance from him, ran, ran, as if his life (as indeed it 
 did) depended upon it. 
 
 This is the picture of Neeklbee and poor Smeek.* They are 
 both dressed in the English fashion, and you must fancy tlie 
 curtain falling amidst thunders of applause. [End of Act I. 
 
 "Ah, ah, ah ! ouf, pouf." — " Dieu, qu'il fait chaud !" — " Orgeat, 
 limonade. Mere !" — " L'Entracte, journal de tons les spectacles !" 
 
 * Alluding to a sketch, the first of two sketches by the author, which 
 accompaniefl this paper on its original appearance in Fraser^s Magazine. — Ed.
 
 32 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 
 
 — "La Makseillai-ai-aise !" — with such cries from pit and boxes 
 the public wiles away the weary ten minutes between tlie acts. 
 The three bonnes in the front boxes, who had been escorted by a 
 gentleman in a red cap, and jacket, and earrings, begin sucking 
 oranges with great comfort, while their friend amuses himself 
 with a piece of barley-sugar. Tlie iJctite-maUresse in" the private 
 box smoothes her handcaux of hair and her little trim, white 
 cuffs, and looks at her chiffons. The friend of the tight black 
 velvet spencer, meanwhile, pulls his yellow kid gloves tighter on 
 his hands, and looks superciliously round the house with his 
 double-glass. Fourteen people, all smelling of smoke, all 
 bearded, and all four feet high, pass over your body to their 
 separate stalls. The prompter gives his thumps, whack — whack 
 — whack ! the music begins again, the curtain draws, and, lo ! 
 we have 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 The tavern of Les Armes du Eoi appears to be one of the 
 most frequented in the city of London. It must be in the 
 Yorkshire road, that is clear ; for the first person whom we see 
 there is John Browdie ; to whom presently comes Prospectus, 
 then Neeklbee, then poor Smeek, each running away individually 
 from the Paradis des Enfans. 
 
 It is likewise at this tavern that the great banker Ealph does 
 his business, and lets you into a number of his secrets. Hither, 
 too, comes Milor Clarendon, — a handsome peer, forsooth, but a 
 sad reprobate I fear. Sorrow lias driven him to these wretched 
 courses : ten years since he lost a son, a lovely child of six 
 years of age ; and, hardened by the loss, he has taken to gamb- 
 ling, to the use of the vins de France which take the reason 
 prisoner, and to other excitements still more criminal. He has 
 cast his eyes upon the lovely Kate Nickleby (he, the father of 
 Miss Annabel !), and asks the banker to sup with him, to lend 
 him ten thousand pounds, and to bring his niece with him. 
 With every one of these requests the capitalist promises to 
 comply : the money he produces forthwith ; the lady he goes to 
 fetch. Ah, milor ! beware — beware, your health is bad, your 
 property is ruined, — death and insolvency stare you in the face.
 
 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 33 
 
 — but what caves Lor Clarendon ? He is desperate : lie orders 
 a splendid repast in a private apartment, and while they are 
 getting it ready, he and the young lords of his acquaintance sit 
 down and crack a bottle in the coffee-room. A gallant set of 
 gentlemen truly, all in short coats with capes to them, in tights and 
 Hessian boots, such as our nobilitv are in the custom of wearing. 
 
 " I bet you cinq cent guinees, Lor Beef," says Milor Clarendon 
 (wliom the wine has begun to excite), " that I will have the 
 lovely Kate Nicklbee at supper with us to-night." 
 
 " Done !" says Lor Beef. But why starts yon stranger wlio 
 has just come into the hotel ? Why, forsooth ? because he is 
 Nicholas Nickleby, Kate's brother; and a pretty noise he makes 
 when lie hears of his lordship's project ' 
 
 " You have Meess Neeklbee at your table, sir ? You are a liar ! " 
 
 All the lords start up. 
 
 " Who is this very strange person ? " says Milor Clarendon, as 
 cool as a cucumber. 
 
 " Dog ! give me your name ! " shouts iSTicholas. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " says my lord, scornfully. 
 
 " John," says Nickleby, seizing hold of a waiter, " tell me that 
 man's name." 
 
 John the waiter looks frightened, and hums and has, when, 
 at the moment, who should walk in but Mr. Ealpli the banker, 
 and his niece. 
 
 Balpli. " Nicholas ! — confusion!" 
 
 Kate. "My brother!" 
 
 Nicholas. " Avaunt, woman ! Tell me, sirrah, by what right 
 you bring my sister into such company, and who is the villain 
 to whom you have presented her ?" 
 
 Balph. " Lord Clarendon!' 
 
 Nicholas. " The father of Meess Annabel ? Gracious heaven !" 
 
 What followed now need not be explained. The young lords 
 and the banker retire abashed to their supper, while Meess Kate, 
 and Smike, who has just arrived, fall into the arms of Nicholas. 
 
 Such, ladies and gentlemen, is the second act, rather feeble in 
 interest, and not altogether probable in action. That five 
 people running away from Yorkshire should all come to the 
 same inn in London, arriving within five minutes of each other, 
 
 D
 
 34 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 
 
 — that Mr. Ealph, the great banker, should make the hotel his 
 place of business, and openly confess in the coffee-room to his 
 ex-agent Becher that he had caused Becher to make away with 
 or murder the son of Lord Clarendon, — finally, that Lord 
 Clarendon himself, with an elegant town mansion, should receive 
 his distinguished guests in a tavern, of not the first respectability, 
 — all these points may, perhaps, strike the critic from their 
 extreme improbability. But, bless your soul ! if ikcsc are im- 
 probabilities, what will you say to the revelations of the 
 
 THIRD ACT. 
 
 That scoundrel Squarrs before he kept the school was, as we 
 have seen, a tumbler and saltimbanque, and, as such, member 
 of the great fraternity of cadgers, beggars, gueux, thieves, that 
 have their club in London. It is held in immense Gothic vaults 
 under ground : here the beggars concert their plans, divide their 
 spoil, and hold their orgies. 
 
 In returning to London Monsieur Squarrs instantly resumes 
 his acquaintance with his old comrades, who appoint him, by 
 the all-powerful interest of a ijeculiar i^&rson, head of the com- 
 munity of cadgers. 
 
 That person is no other than the banker Ealph, who, in 
 secret, directs this godless crew, visits their haunts, and receives 
 from them a boundless obedience. A villain himself, he has need 
 of the aid of villany. He pants for vengeance against his 
 nephew, he has determined that his niece shall fall a prey to 
 Milor Clarendon, — nay more, he has a dark suspicion that Smike 
 — the orphan boy — the homeless fugitive from Yorkshire — is no 
 other than the child who ten years ago — but, hush ! 
 
 Where is his rebellious nephew and those whom he protects ? 
 The quick vigilance of Ealph soon discovered them ; Nicholas, 
 having taken the name of Edward Browne, was acting at a 
 theatre in the neighbourhood of the Thames. Haste, Squarrs, 
 take a couple of trusty beggars with you, and hie thee to 
 Wapping ; seize young Smike and carry him to Cadger's Cavern, — 
 haste, then ! The mind shudders to consider what is to happen. 
 
 In Nicholas's room at the theatre we find his little family 
 assembled, and with them honest John Browdie, who has for-
 
 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 35 
 
 gotten his part on learning that Nicholas was attached, not to 
 the fermUrc, but to the mistress; to them comes — gracious 
 heavens ! — Meess Annabel. " Fly," says she, " fly ! I have 
 overheard a plot concocted between my father and your uncle ; 
 the sheriff is to seize you for the abduction of Smeek and the 
 assault upon Squarrs," &c. &c. &c. 
 
 In short, it is quite impossible to describe this act, so much 
 is there done in it. Lord Clarendon learns that he has pledged 
 his life interest in his estates to Ealph. 
 
 His lordship dies, and Ealph seizes a paper, which proves 
 beyond a doubt that young Smike is no other than Clarendon's 
 long-lost son. 
 
 L'infame Squarrs with his satellites carry off the boy ; 
 Browdie pitches Squarrs into the river ; the sheriff carries 
 Nickleby to prison ; and vice tkiumphs in the person of the 
 odious Ealph. But vice does not always triumph ; wait awhile 
 and you will see. For in the 
 
 FOUETH ACT 
 
 John Browdie, determined to rescue his two young friends, 
 follows Ealph like his shadow ; he dogs him to a rendezvous of 
 the beggars, and overhears all his conversation with Squarrs. 
 The boy is in the Cadger's Cavern, hidden a thousand feet below 
 the Thames ; there is to be a grand jollification among the 
 rogues that night — a dance and a feast. " /," says John Browdie, 
 " loill he there." And, wonderful to say, who should pass but his 
 old friend Prospectus, to whom he gave lessons on the clarionet. 
 
 Prospectus is a cadger now, and is to play his clarionet that 
 night at Cadger's Hall. Browdie will join him, — he is dressed 
 up like a blind beggar, and strange sights, heaven knows, meet 
 his eyes in Cadger's Hall. 
 
 Here they come trooping in by scores, — the halt and the lame, 
 black sweepers, one-legged fiddlers, the climber mots, the fly- 
 sakers, the kedgoree coves, — in a word, the rogues of London, 
 to their Gothic liall, a thousand miles below the level of the 
 sea. Squarrs is their nominal head ; but their real leader is the 
 tall man yonder in the black mask, he whom nobody knows but 
 Browdie, who has found him out at once, — 'tis Ealph ! 
 
 D 2
 
 36 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 
 
 " Bring out the prisoner," says the black mask ; " he has tried 
 to escape — he has broken his oaths to the cadgers, let him meet 
 his punishment/' 
 
 And without a word more, what do these cadgers do ? They 
 take poor Smike and hury him alive; down he goes into the 
 vault, a stone is rolled over him, the cadgers go away, — so much 
 for Smike. 
 
 But in the meantime Master Browdie has not been idle. He 
 has picked the pocket of one of the cadgers of a portfolio 
 containing papers that prove Smike to be Lord Clarendon 
 beyond a doubt ; he lags beliind until all the cadgers are gone, 
 and with the help of Nicholas (who, by the by, has found his 
 way somehow into the place), he pushes away the stone, and 
 brings the fainting boy to the world. 
 
 These things are improbable you certainly may say, but are 
 they impossiljle ? If they are possible, then they may come to 
 pass ; if they may come to pass, then they may be supposed to 
 come to pass : and why should they not come to pass ? That is 
 my argument : let us pass on to the 
 
 FIFTH ACT. 
 
 Aha ! Master Ealph, you think you will have it all your 
 own way, do you ? The lands of Clarendon are yours, pro- 
 vided there is no male heir, and you have done for liim. The 
 peerage, to be sure (by the laws of England), is to pass to the 
 husband of Meess Annabella. Will she marry Ralph, or not ? 
 Yes : then well and good ; he is an earl for the future and the 
 father of a new race of Clarendon. No: then, in order to spell 
 her still more, he has provided amongst the beggars a lad who 
 is to personate the young mislaid Lord Clarendon, who is to 
 come armed with certain papers that make his right unquestion- 
 able, and who will be a creature of Ealph's, to be used or cast 
 away at will. 
 
 Ealph pops the question ; the lady repels liim with scorn. 
 " Quit the house, Meess," says he ; " it is not yours, but mine. 
 Give up that vain title which you have adopted since your papa's 
 death ; you are no countess, — your brother lives. Ho ! John, 
 Thomas, Samuel ! introduce his lordship, the Comte de Clarendon."
 
 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 37 
 
 And who slips in ? Why, in a handsome new dress, in the 
 English fashion, Smike, to be sure — the boy whom Ealph 1ms 
 murdered — the boy who had risen from the tomb — the boy who 
 had miraculously discovered the papers in Cadger's Hall and 
 (by some underhand work that went on behind the scenes, 
 which I don't pretend to understand) had substituted himself 
 for the substitute which that wicked banker had proposed to 
 bring forward ! A rush of early recollections floods the panting 
 heart of the young boy. Can it be ? Yes — no ; sure these halls 
 are familiar to him ? That conservatory, has he not played with 
 the flowers there — played with his blessed mother at his side ? 
 That portrait ! Stop ! a — a — a — a — ah ! it is — it is my sister 
 Anna — Anna — bella ! 
 
 Fancy the scene as the two young creatures rush with a 
 scream into each other's arms. Fancy John Browdie's hilarity : 
 he jumps for joy, and throws off his beggar's cloak and beard. 
 Nicholas clasps his hands, and casts his fine eyes heavenward. 
 But, above all, fancy the despair of that cursed banker Ealph 
 as he sees his victim risen from the grave, and all his hopes 
 dashed down into it. Oh ! Heaven, Thy hand is here ! How 
 must the banker then have repented of his bargain with the late 
 Lord Clarendon, and that he had not had his lordship's life 
 insured ! Perdition ! to have been out-tricked by a boy and a 
 country boor ' Is there no hope ? * * * 
 
 Hope ? Psha ! man, thy reign of vice is over, — it is the fifth 
 act. Already the people are beginning to leave the house, and 
 never more again canst thou expect to lift thy head. 
 
 " Monsieur Ealph," Browdie whispers, " after your pretty 
 doings in Cadger's Hall, had you not best be thinking of leaving 
 the country, as Nicholas Nickleby's uncle, I would fain not 
 see you, crick ! You understand ?" (pointing to his jugular). 
 
 " I do," says Ealph, gloomily, " and will be off in two hours." 
 And Lord Smike takes honest Browdie by one hand, gently 
 pressing Kate's little fingers with the other, and the sheriff, and 
 the footmen, and attendants form a tableau, and the curtain 
 begins to fall, and the blushing Annabel whispers to happy 
 Nicholas, — " Ah ! my friend, I can give up with joy to my brother 
 ma couronne de comtesse. What care I for rank or name with
 
 38 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 
 
 you ? the name that I love above all others is that of Lady 
 Annabel Nickleby." [Exeuiit omnes. 
 
 The musiciaus have hurried off long before this. In one 
 instant the stage lamps go out, and you see fellows starting 
 forward to cover the boxes with canvass. Up goes the chandelier 
 amongst the gods and goddesses painted on the ceiling. Those 
 in the galleries, meanwhile, bellow out " Saint Eknest !" he it 
 is who acted John Browdie. Then there is a yell of " Smeek ! 
 Smeek!" Blushing and bowing, Madame Prosper comes for- 
 ward ; by Heavens ! a pretty woman, with tender eyes and a 
 fresh, clear voice. Next the gods call for " Chilly !" who acted 
 the villain : but by this time you are bustling and struggling 
 among the crowd in the lobbies, where there is the usual odour 
 of garlic and tobacco. Men in sabots come tumbling down 
 from the galleries ; cries of " Auguste, solo ! Eugenie ! prends ton 
 Ijarapluie." " Monsieur, vous me marchez sur les pieds," are heard 
 in the crowd, over which the brazen helmets of the Pompier's 
 tower are shining. A cabman in the Boulevard, who opens his 
 vehicle eagerly as you pass by, growls dreadful oaths when, 
 seated inside, you politely request him to drive to the Barriere 
 de I'Etoile. " Ah, ces Anglais," says he, " ga deriieure dans les 
 deserts — dans les deserts, grand Dieu ! avec les loups ; Us j)Tennent 
 leur beautyline tM avec leurs tartines le soir, et puis Us se couclient 
 dans les deserts, ma parole d'honneur ; commes des Arahes." 
 
 If the above explanation of the plot of the new piece of 
 Nicholas Nicklehy has appeared intolerably long to those few 
 persons who have perused it, I can only say for their comfort 
 that I have not told one half of the real plot of the piece in 
 question; nay, very likely have passed over all the most 
 interesting part of it. There, for instance, was the assassina- 
 tion of the virtuous villain Becher, the dying scene with my 
 lord, the manner in which Nicholas got into the Cadger's Cave, 
 and got out again. Have I breathed a syllable upon any of 
 these points ? No ; and never will to my dying day. The 
 imperfect account of Nicholas Nicklehy given above is all that the 
 most impatient reader (let him have fair warning) can expect 
 to hear from his humble servant. Let it be sufficient to know
 
 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 39 
 
 that the piece in itself contains a vast number of beauties 
 entirely passed over by the unworthy critic, and only to be 
 appreciated by any gentleman who will take the trouble to step 
 across the Channel, and thence from his hotel to the am- 
 biguously-comic theatre. And let him make haste, too ; for 
 who knows what may happen ? Human life is proverbially 
 short. Theatrical pieces bloom and fade like the flowers of 
 the field, and very likely long before this notice shall appear 
 in print (as let us heartily, from mercenary considerations, pray 
 that it will), the drama of Nicholas Niddeby may have dis- 
 appeared altogether from the wOrld's ken, like Carthage, Troy, 
 Swallow Street, the Marylebone bank, Babylon, and other fond 
 magnificences elevated by men, and now forgotten and prostrate. 
 
 As for the worthy Boz, it will be seen that Ms share in the 
 piece is perfectly insignificant, and that he has no more con- 
 nexion with the noble geniuses who invented the drama than a 
 peg has with a gold-laced hat that a nobleman may have hung 
 on it, or a starting-post on the race-course with some magnificent 
 thousand-guinea fiery horses who may choose to run from it. 
 How poor do his wiitings appear after those of the I'renchman I 
 How feeble, mean, and destitute of imagination ! He never 
 would have thought of introducing six lords, an ex-kidnapper, 
 a great banker, an idiot, a schoolmaster, his usher, a cattle- 
 driver, coming for the most part a couple of hundred miles, in 
 order to lay open all their secrets in the coffee-room of the 
 Xing's Arms hotel ! He never could have invented the great 
 subterraneous cavern, cimetidre et salle cU hal, as Jules Janin 
 calls it ! The credit of all this falls upon the French adaptors 
 of Monsieur Dickens's romance ; and so it will be advisable to 
 . let the public know. 
 
 But as the French play-writers are better than Dickens, being 
 incomparably more imaginative and poetic, so, in progression, 
 is the French critic, Jules Janin, above named, a million times 
 superior to the French playwrights, and, after Janin, Dickens 
 disappears altogether. He is cut up, disposed of, done for. 
 J. J. has hacked him into small pieces, and while that wretched 
 romancer is amusing himself across the Atlantic, and fancying, 
 perhaps, that he is a popular character, his business has been
 
 40 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 
 
 done for ever and ever in Europe. What matters that he is 
 read by millions in England and billions in America ? that 
 everybody who understands English has a corner in his heart 
 for him ? The great point is, wliat does Jules Janin think ? 
 and that we shall hear presently ; for though I profess the 
 greatest admiration for Mr. Dickens, yet there can be no reason 
 why one should deny oneself the little pleasure of acquainting 
 him that some ill-disposed persons in the world are inclined to 
 abuse him. Without this privilege what is friendship good for ? 
 
 Who is Janin ? He is the critic of France. J. J., in fact, — 
 the man who writes a weekly feuilleton in the Journal des D6hats 
 with such indisputable brilliancy and wit, and such a happy 
 mixture of effrontery, and honesty, and poetry, and impudence, 
 and falsehood, and impertinence, and good feeling, that one can't 
 fail to be charmed with the compound, and to look rather eagerly 
 for the Monday's paper; — Jules Janin is the man, who, not 
 knowing a single word of the English language, as he actually 
 professes in the preface, has helped to translate the Sentimental 
 Journey. He is the man who, when he was married (in a week 
 when news were slack no douljt), actually eriticised his oion 
 marriage ceremony, letting all the public see the proof-sheets of 
 his bridal, as was the custom among certain ancient kings, I 
 believe. In fact, a more modest, honest, unassuming, blushing, 
 truth-telling, gentlemanlike, J. J. it is impossible to conceive. 
 
 Well, he has fallen foul of Monsieur Dickens, this fat French 
 moralist ; he says Dickens is immodest, and Jules cannot abide 
 immodesty ; and a great and conclusive proof this is upon a 
 question which the two nations have been in the habit of 
 arguing, namely, which of the two is the purer in morals ? and 
 may be argued clear thus : — 
 
 1. We in England are accustomed to think Dickens modest, 
 and allow our children to peruse his works. 
 
 2. In France the man who wrote the history of Tlte Dead 
 Donkey and the Guillotined Woman,* and afterwards his own 
 epithalamium in the newspaper, is revolted by Dickens. 
 
 * Some day the writer meditates a great and splendid review of J. J.'s 
 work.
 
 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 41 
 
 3. Therefore Dickens must be immodest, and grossly immodest, 
 otherwise a person so confessedly excellent as J. J. would never 
 have discovered the crime. 
 
 4. And therefore it is pretty clear that the French morals are 
 of a much higher order than our own, which remark will apply to 
 persons and books, and all the relations of private and public 
 life. 
 
 Let us now see how our fat Jules attacks Dickens. His 
 remarks on him begin in the following jocular way : — 
 
 " Theatke de l'Ambigu-Comique. 
 
 " Nicolas NicMehy, M^lodrame, en Six Actes. 
 
 " A genoux devant celui-la qui s'appelle Charles Dickens ! a 
 genoux ! II a accompK a lui seul ce que u'ont pu faire a eux 
 deux lord Byron et Walter Scott ! Joignez-y, si vous voulez, 
 Pope et Milton et tout ce (|ue la litterature Anglaise a produit 
 de plus solennel et de plus charmant. Charles Dickens ! mais il 
 n'est question que de lui en Angleterre. II en est la gioire, et la 
 joie, et I'orgueil ! Savez-vous combien d'acheteurs possede ce 
 Dickens ; j'ai dit d'acheteurs, de gens qui tirent leur argent de 
 leur bourse pour que cet argent passe de leur main dans la main 
 du libraire ? — Dix mille acheteurs. Dix mille ? que disons- 
 nous, dix mille ! vingt mille ' — Vingt mille ? Quoi ! vingt mille 
 acheteurs ? — Fi done, vingt mille ! quarante mille acheteurs. — Et 
 quoi ! il a trouve quarante mille acheteurs, vous vous moquez de 
 nous sans doute ? — Qui, mon brave homme, on se moque de vous, 
 car ce n'est pas vingt mille et quarante mille et soixante mille 
 acheteurs qu'a rencontres ce Charles Dickens, c'est cent mille 
 acheteurs. Cent mille, pas un de moins. Cent mille esclaves, 
 cent mille tributaires, cent mille ' Et nos grands ecrivains 
 modernes s'estiment bien heureux et bien fiers (|uand leur livre 
 le plus vante parvient, au bout de six mois de celebrite, a son 
 huitieme cent I" 
 
 There is raillery for you ! there is a knowledge of English 
 literature, — of " Pope et Milton, si solennel et si charmant ! " 
 Milton, above all ; his little comedie Samson VAgoniste is one of 
 the gayest and most graceful trifles that ever was acted on the 
 stage. And to think that Dickens has sold more copies of his
 
 42 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 
 
 work than the above two eminent hommes-de-lettres, and Scott 
 and Byron into the bargain ! It is a fact, and J. J, vouches for 
 it. To be sure, J. J. knows no more of English literature than 
 I do of hieroglyphics, — to be sure, he has not one word of 
 English. N'importe : he has had the advantage of examining 
 the books of Mr. Dickens's publishers, and has discovered that 
 they sell of Boz's works " ccnt-Diillc pas un de moins." Janin 
 will not allow of one less. Can you answer numbers ? And 
 there are our grands ecrivains modernes, who are happy if they 
 sell eight hundred in six months. Byron and Scott doubtless, 
 " le solennel Pope, et le charmant Milton," as well as other 
 geniuses not belonging to the three kingdoms. If a man is an 
 arithmetician as well as a critic, and we join together figures of 
 speech and Arabic numerals, there is no knowing what he may 
 not prove. 
 
 " Or" continues J. J. : — 
 
 " Or, parmi les chefs-d'oeuvre de sa fagon que devore I'Angle- 
 terre, ce Charles Dickens a produit un gros melodrame en deux 
 gros volumes, intitule Nicolas Nicldcby. Ce livre a ete traduit 
 chez nous par un homme de beaucoup d'esprit, qui n'est pas fait 
 pour ce triste metier-la. Si vous saviez ce que pent etre un 
 pareil chef-d'oeuvre, certes vous prendriez en pitie les susdits 
 cent mille souscripteurs de Charles Dickens. Figurez-vous done 
 un amas d'inventions pueriles, on I'horrible et le niais se donnent 
 la main, dans une ronde infernale ; ici passent en riant de bonnes 
 gens si bons qu'ils en sont tout -a-fait betes ; plus loin bondissent 
 et blasphement toutes sortes de bandits, de fripuns, de voleurs 
 et de misurables si affreux qu'on ne salt pas comment pourrait 
 vivre, seulement vingt-(|uatre heures, une societe ainsi composee. 
 C'est le plus nauseabond melange qu'on puisse imaginer de lait 
 chaud et de biere tournee, d'ceufs frais et de boeuf sale, de 
 haillons et d'habits brodes, d'ecus d^or et de gros sous, de roses 
 et de pissenlits. On se bat, on s'embrasse, on s'injurie, on 
 s'enivre, on meurt de faim. Les lilies de la rue et les lords de 
 la Chambre haute, les porte-faix et les poetes, les ecoliers et les 
 voleurs, se promenent, bras dessus bras dessous, au milieu de ce 
 tohubohu insupportable. Aimez-vous la fumee de tabac, I'odeur 
 de Tail, le gout du pore frais, I'harmonie que fait un plat d'etain
 
 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 43 
 
 frappe coutre une casserole de cuivre non etanie ? Lisez-moi 
 consciencieusement ce livre de Charles Dickens. Quelles plaies ! 
 quelles pustules ! et que de saintes vertus ! Ce Dickens a reuni 
 en bloc routes les descriptions de Guzman d'Alfaraclie et tons 
 les reves de Grandisson. Oh ! qu'etes-vous devenus, vous les 
 lectrices tant soit pen prudes des romans de Walter Scott ? 
 Oh ! qu'a-t-on fait de vous, les lectrices animees de Don Juan 
 et de Lara ? vous, les chastes enthousiastes de la Clarisse 
 Karlovje, voilez-vous la face de honte ! A cent mille exemplaires 
 le Charles Dickens !" 
 
 To what a pitch of dSvergondagc must the English ladies have 
 arrived, when a fellow who can chronicle his own marriage, and 
 write The Dead Donley ajid the Gruillotined Woman, — when 
 even a man like that, whom nobody can accuse of being 
 squeamish, is obliged to turn away with disgust at their mon- 
 strous immodesty ! 
 
 J. J. is not diflticult ; a little harmless gallantry and trifling 
 with the seventh commandment does not offend Jiim, — far 
 from it. Because there are no love-intrioues in Walter Scott, 
 Jules says that Scott's readers are tant soit peu jprudes ! There 
 ought to be, in fact, in life and in novels, a little, pleasant, 
 gentlemanlike, anti-seventh-commandment excitement. Read 
 The Dead Donkey and the Guillotined Woman, and you will 
 see how the thing may be agreeably and genteelly done. 
 See what he says of Clarissa, — it is chaste ; of Don Juan, — it is 
 not indecent, it is not immoral, it is only animee ! Animee ! O 
 ciel ! what a word ! Could any but a Frenchman have had the 
 grace to hit on it ? " Animation " our Jules can pardon ; prudery 
 he can excuse, in his good-humoured, contemptuous way ; but 
 Dickens — this Dickens, — fie ! And, perhaps, there never was 
 a more succinct, complete, elegant, just, and satisfactory account 
 given of a book than that by our friend Jules of Nicholas 
 NicMehy. " It is the most disgusting mixture imaginable of warm 
 milk and sour beer, of fresh eggs and salt beef, of rags and laced 
 clothes, of gold crowns and coppers, of rose and dandelions." 
 
 There is a receipt for you ! or take another, which is quite as 
 pleasant : —
 
 44 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 
 
 II. 
 
 " The fumes of tobacco, the odour of garlic, the taste of fresh 
 pork, tlie harmony made by striking a pewter plate against an 
 untinned copper saucepan. Eead me conscientiously this book 
 of Charles Dickens ; what sores ! what pustules !" &c. 
 
 Try either mixture (and both are curious), — for fresh pork is 
 an ingredient in one, salt beef in another ; tobacco and garlic in 
 receipt No. 2 agreeably take the places of warm milk and sour 
 beer in formula No. 1 ; and whereas, in the second prescription, 
 a pewter plate and untinned copper saucepan (what a devilish 
 satire in that epithet untinned !), a gold crown and a few half- 
 pence, answer in the first. Take either mixture, and the result 
 is a Dickens. Hang thyself, thou unhappy writer of PickuncJc ; 
 or, blushing at this exposition of thy faults, turn red man alto- 
 gether, and build a wigwam in a wilderness, and live with 
 'possums up gum-trees. Fresh pork and warm milk ; sour beer 
 and salt b . Faugh ! how could you serve us so atrociously ? 
 
 And this is one of the " chefs-d'oeuvre de sa fagon que devore 
 I'Angleterre." The beastly country ! How Jules lashes the 
 islanders with the sting of that epigram — chcfs-d'muvre de leur 
 fagon ! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Look you, J. J., it is time that such impertinence should cease. 
 Will somebody — out of three thousand literary men in France, 
 there are about three who have a smattering of the English — 
 will some one of the three explain to J. J. the enormous folly 
 and falsehood of all that the fellow has been saying about 
 Dickens and English literature generally ? "We have in England 
 literary chefs-d'oeuvre de notre fagon, and are by no means 
 ashamed to devour the same. " Le charmant Milton " was not, 
 perhaps, very skilled for making epigrams and chansons-a-boire, 
 but, after all, was a person of merit, and of his works have been 
 sold considerably more than eight hundred copies. " Le solennel 
 Pope " was a writer not undeserving of praise. There must have 
 been something worthy in Shakespeare, — for his name has 
 penetrated even to France, where he is not unfrequently called 
 " le Sublime Williams." Walter Scott, though a prude, as you
 
 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 45 
 
 say, and not having the agreeable laisser-aller of the author of 
 the Dead Donkey, &c., could still turn off a romance pretty 
 creditably. He and '• le Sublime Williams " between them have 
 turned your French literature topsy-turvy ; and many a live 
 donkey of your crew is trying to imitate their paces and their 
 roars, and to lord it like those dead lions. These men made 
 chefs-d'ceuvre de notre fagon, and we are by no means ashamed 
 to acknowledge them. 
 
 But what right have you, blundering ignoramus I to pretend 
 to judge them and their works, — you, who might as well attempt 
 to give a series of lectures upon the literature of the Hottentots, 
 and are as ignorant of EngKsh as the author of the Random 
 Recollections?^ Learn modesty, Jules ; Listen to good advice; 
 and when you say to other persons, lisez moi ce livre conscien- 
 cieusem,e7it, at least do tlie same thing, critic ! before you 
 attempt to judge and arbitrate. 
 
 And I am ready to take an affidavit in the matter of this 
 criticism of Nicholas Nicklehy, that the translator of Sterne, who 
 does not know English, has not read Boz in the original — has 
 not even read him in the translation, and slanders him out of 
 pure invention. Take these concluding opinions of J. J. as a 
 proof of the fact : — 
 
 " De ce roman de Nicolas NicMchy a ete tire le melodrame qui 
 va suivre. Commencez d'abord par entasser les souterrains sur 
 les tenebres, le vice sur le sang, le mensonge sur I'injure, 
 VadulUre sur Vinceste, battez-moi tout ce melange, et vous 
 verrez ce que vous allez voir. 
 
 " Dans un comte Anglais, dans une ecole, ou plutot dans une 
 horrible prison habitee par le froid et la faim, uu nomme 
 Squeers entraine, sous pretexte de les elever dans la belle 
 discipline, tous les enfans qu'on lui contie. Ce miserable 
 Squeers specule tout simplement sur la faim, sur la soif, sur les 
 habits de ces pauvres petits. On n'entend que le bruit des 
 verges, les soupirs des battus, les cris des battans, les blasphemes 
 
 * James Grant, whose book entitled " Paris and its People," was very 
 caustically reAaewed by Thackeray in Fraser's Magazine, December 1843, 
 under the title of " Grant in Paris " (reprinted in Thackeray's Works, ed. 
 1885, vol. XXV.).— Ed.
 
 46 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 
 
 dii niaitre. C'est affreux a lire et a voir. Surtout ce qui fait 
 peur (je parle du livre en question), c'est la misere d'un pauvre 
 petit nomme Smike, dont cet affreux Squeers est le bourreau. 
 Quand parut le livre de Charles Dickens, on raconte que plus 
 d'un maitre de pension de I'Angieterre se recria centre la 
 calomnie. Mais, juste ciel ! si la cent inillieme partie d'une 
 pareille honte etait possible ; s'il etait vrai qu'un seul marcliand 
 de chair humaine ainsi bati put exister de I'autre cote du detroit 
 ce serait le d^shonneur d'une nation tout entiere. Et si en 
 efiet la chose est impossible, que venez-vous done nous center, 
 que le roman, tout comme la comedie, est la peinture des 
 mceurs ? 
 
 " Or ce petit malheureux convert de haillous et de plaies, le 
 jouet de M. Squeers, c'est tout simplement le fils unique de 
 Lord Clarendon, un des plus grands seigneurs de I'Angieterre. 
 Voila justement ce que je disais tout a I'heure. Dans ces 
 ronians qui sent le rebut d'une imagination en delire, il n'y a 
 pas de milieu. Ou bien vous etes le dernier des mendians 
 charges d'une besace vide, ou bien, salut a vous ! vous etes 
 due et pair du royaume et chevalier de la Jarretiere ! Ou 
 le manteau royal ou le haillon. Quelquefois, pour varier la 
 these, on vous met par dessus vos haillons le manteau de 
 pourpre. — Votre tete est pleine de vermine, a la bonne heure ! 
 mais laissez faire le romancier, il posera tout a I'heure sur vos 
 immondes cheveux, la couronne ducale. Ainsi precedent M. 
 Dickens et le Capitaine Marryat et tons les autres." 
 
 Here we have a third receipt for the confection of Nicliolas 
 Nicklcby, — darkness and caverns, vice and blood, incest and 
 adultery, " lattcz-moi tout pa," and the thing is done. Con- 
 sidering that Mr. Dickens has not said a word about darkness, 
 about caverns, about blood (fartlier than a little harmless claret 
 drawn from Squeers's nose), about the two other crimes men- 
 tioned by J. J., — is it not de luxe, to put them into the Nickleby- 
 receipt ? Having read the romances of his own country, and 
 no otliers, J. J. thought he was safe, no doubt, in introducing 
 the last-named ingredients ; but in England the people is still 
 tant soit peu prudes, and will have none such fare. In what a 
 luxury of filth, too, does this delicate critic indulge ! voire tete
 
 DICKENS IN FRANCE. 47 
 
 est 2)leinc de vermine (a flattering supposition for the French 
 reader, by the way, and remarkable for its polite propriety). 
 Your head is in this condition ; but never mind ; let the romancer 
 do his work, and he will presently place upon yo2ir filthy hair 
 (kind again) the ducal coronet. This is the way with Monsieur 
 Dickens, Captain Marryat, and the others. 
 
 With whom, in Heaven's name ? What has poor Dickens ever 
 had to do with ducal crowns, or with the other ornaments of the 
 kind which Monsieur Jules distributes to his friends ? Tell 
 lies about men, friend Jules, if you will, but not such lies. See, 
 for the future, that they have a greater likelihood about them ; 
 and try, at least when you are talking of propriety and decency 
 of behaviour, to have your words somewhat more cleanly, 
 and your own manners as little offensive as possible. 
 
 And with regard to the character of Squeers, the impossibility 
 of it, and the consequent folly of placing such a portrait in a 
 work that pretends to be a painting of manners, that, too, is a 
 falsehood like the rest. Such a disgrace to human nature not 
 only existed, but existed in J. J.'s country of France. Wlio 
 does not remember the history of the Boulogne schoolmaster, 
 a year since, whom the newspapers called the "French 
 Squeers ; " and about the same time, in the neighbourhood of 
 Paris, there was a case still more atrocious, of a man and his 
 wife who farmed some score of children, subjected them to 
 ill-treatment so horrible that only J. J. himself, in his nastiest 
 fit of indignation, could describe it ; and ended by murdering 
 one or two, and starving all. The wliole story was in the 
 D6hats, J. J.'s own newspaper, where the accomplished critic 
 may read it.
 
 AN EXHIBITION GOSSIP. 
 
 BY 
 
 MICHAEL ANGELO TITMAESH. 
 
 In a Letter to Monsieur Guillaume, Peintre, 
 A .son Atelier, Rue de Monsieur, Faubourg St. Germain, Paris. 
 
 EAE GUILLAUME,— Some of the dullest chapters 
 that ever were written in this world — viz., those on 
 the History of Modern Europe, by Eussell, begin with 
 an address to some imaginary young friend, to whom 
 the Doctor is supposed to communicate his knowledge. " Dear 
 John," begins he, quite affectionately, " I take up my pen to 
 state that the last of tlie Carlovingians " — or, " Dear John, I am 
 happy to inform you that the aspect of Europe on the accession 
 of Henry VIII, was so and so." In the same manner, and in 
 your famous " Lcttres a Sophie" the history of the heathen gods 
 and goddesses is communicated to some possible young lady ; 
 and this simple plan has, no doubt, been adopted because tlie 
 authors wished to convey their information with the utmost 
 simplicity possible, and in a free, easy, honest, confidential sort 
 of a way. 
 
 This (as usual), dear Guillaume, has nothing to do with tlie 
 subject in hand ; but I have ventured to place a little gossip 
 concerning the Exhibition, under an envelope inscribed with 
 your respectable name, because I have no right to adopt the 
 editorial we, and so implicate a liost of illustrious authors, who 
 give their names and aid to Mr. Ainsworth's Magazine,* in 
 opinions that are very likely not worth sixpence ; and because 
 
 * Tliis paper originally appeared in Ainsworth's Magazine, June 1842. — 
 Ed.
 
 AN EXHIBITION GOSSIP. 49 
 
 that simple upright I, which often seems egotistical and pre- 
 suming, is, I fancy, less affected and pert than " we " often is. 
 " I," is merely an indi\'idual ; whereas, " we," is clearly somebody 
 else. " I," merely expresses an opinion ; whereas, " we," at 
 once lays down the law. 
 
 Pardon, then, the continued use of the personal pronoun, as I am 
 sure, my dear friend, you will ; because as you do not understand a 
 word of English, how possibly can you quarrel with my style ? 
 
 "We have often had great battles together on the subject of 
 our respective schools of art ; and having seen the two Exhibi- 
 tions, I am glad to be able to say that ours is the best this year, 
 at least, though, perhaps, for many years past you have had the 
 superiority. We have more good pictures in our 1400, than 
 you in your 3000 ; among the good, we have more very good, than 
 you have this year, (none nobler and better than the drawings of 
 M. Decamps) ; and though there are no such large canvases and 
 ambitious subjects as cover the walls of your salon, I think our 
 painters have more first-class pictures in their humble way. 
 
 They wisely, I think, avoid those great historical " parades " 
 which cover so much space in the Louvre. A young man has 
 sometimes a fit of what is called "historical painting"; comes 
 out with a great canvas, disposed in the regular six-feet heroical 
 order ; and having probably half ruined himself in the painting 
 of his piece, which nobody (let us be thankful for it !) buys, 
 curses the decayed state of taste in the country, and falls to 
 portrait-painting, or takes small natural subjects, in which the 
 world can sympathise, and with which he is best able to grapple. 
 We have no government museums like yours to furnish ; — no 
 galleries in chief towns of departments to adorn ; — no painted 
 chapels, requiring fresh supplies of saints and martyrs, which 
 your artists do to order. Art is a matter of private enterprise 
 here, like everything else : and our painters must suit the small 
 rooms of their customers, and supply them with such subjects as 
 are likely to please them. If you were to make me a present 
 of haK a cartoon, or a prophet by Michael Angelo, or a Spanish 
 martyrdom, I would turn the picture against the wall. Such 
 great things are only good for great edifices, and to be seen 
 occasionally ; — we want pleasant pictures, that we can live with 
 
 E
 
 50 AN EXHIBITION GOSSIP. 
 
 — something that shall be lively, pleasing or tender, or sublime, 
 if you will, but only of a moderate-sized sublimity. Confess, if 
 you had to live in a huge room v^^ith the Last Judgment at one 
 end of it, and the Death of Ananias at the other, would not you 
 be afraid to remain alone — or, at any rate, long for a comfortable 
 bare wall ? The world produces, now and then, one of the 
 great daring geniuses who make those tremendous works of art ; 
 but they come only seldom — and Heaven be thanked for it ! 
 We have had one in ovir country — John Milton by name. 
 Honestly confess now, was there not a fervour in your youth 
 when you had a plan of an epic, or, at least, of an heroic 
 Michael- Angelesque picture ? The sublime rage fades as one 
 grows older and cooler ; and so the good, sensible, honest English 
 painters, for the most part, content themselves with doing no 
 more than they can. 
 
 Biit though we have no heroical canvases, it is not to be 
 inferred that we do not cultivate a humbler sort of high art ; 
 and you painters of religious subjects know, from the very 
 subjects which you are called upon to draw, that humility may be 
 even more sublime than greatness. For instance, there is in 
 almost everything Mr. Eastlake does (in spite of a little feeble- 
 ness of hand and primness of mannerism), a purity which is to 
 us quite angelical, so that we can't look at one of his pictures 
 without being touched and purified by it. Mr. Mulready has an 
 art, too, which is not inferior, and though he commonly takes, 
 like the before-mentioned gentleman, some very simple, homely 
 subject to illustrate, manages to affect and delight one, as much 
 as painter can. Mr. Mulready calls his picture, " The Ford " ; 
 Mr. Eastlake styles his, " Sisters." The " Sisters " are two 
 young ladies looking over a balcony ; " The Ford " is a stream 
 through which some boys are carrying a girl : and how is a 
 critic to describe the beauty in such subjects as these ? It 
 would be easy to say these pictures are exquisitely drawn, 
 beautifully coloured, and so forth ; but that is not the reason of 
 their beauty : on the contrary, any man who has a mind may 
 find fault with the drawing and colouring of both. Well, there 
 is a charm about them seemingly independent of drawing and 
 colouring ; and what is it ? There's no foot rule that I know of
 
 AN EXHIBITION GOSSIP. 51 
 
 to measure it ; and the very wisest lecturer on art miglit define 
 and define, and be not a whit nearer the truth. I can't tell you 
 why I like to hear a blackbird sing ; it is certainly not so clever 
 as a piping bullfinch. 
 
 I always begin with the works of these gentlemen, and look 
 at them oftenest and longest ; but that is only a simple expres- 
 sion of individual taste, and by no means an attempt at laying 
 down the law, upon a subject which is quite out of the limits of 
 all legislation. A better critic might possibly, (I say " possibly," 
 not as regards the correctness of my own opinion, but the 
 unquestionable merit of the two admirable artists above named;) 
 another critic will possibly have other objects for admiration, 
 and if such a person were to say. Pause — before you award pre- 
 eminence to this artist or that, pause — for instance, look at 
 those two Leslies, can anything in point of e,i'prit and feeling 
 surpass them ? — indeed the other critic would give very sound 
 advice. Nothing can be finer than the comedy of the Scene 
 from Twelfth Night, more joyous, frank, manly, laughter- 
 moving ; — or more tender, and grave, and naif, than the picture 
 of Queen Catherine and her attendant. The great beauty of 
 these pieces is the total absence of affectation. The figures are 
 in perfectly quiet, simple positions, looking as if they were not 
 the least aware of the spectator's presence, (a rare quality in 
 pictures, as I think, of which little dramas, the actors, like 
 those upon the living stage, have a great love of " striking an 
 attitude," and are always on the look-out for the applause of 
 the lookers-on,) whereas Mr. Leslie's excellent little troop of 
 comedians know their art so perfectly, that it becomes the very 
 image of nature, and the best nature, too. Some painters (skilled 
 in the depicting of such knicknacks) overpower their pieces 
 with " properties " — guitars, old armours, flower-jugs, curtains, 
 and what not. The very chairs and tables in the picture of 
 Queen Catherine have a noble, simple arrangement about them ; 
 they look sad and stately, and cast great dreary shadows — they 
 will lighten up a little, doubtless, when the girl begins to sing. 
 
 You and I have been in the habit of accusing one of the 
 cleverest painters of the country of want of poetry : no other 
 than Mr. Edwin Landseer, who, with his marvellous power of 
 
 E 2
 
 52 AN EXHIBITION GOSSIP. 
 
 hand, a sort of aristocrat among painters, has seemed to say — I 
 care for my dog and my gun ; I'm an English country gentle- 
 man, and poetry is beneath me. He has made us laugh some- 
 times, when he is in the mood, with his admirable humour, but 
 has held off as it were from poetic subjects, as a man would do 
 who was addressing himself in a fine ball-room to a party of 
 fine people, who would stare if any such subjects were broached. 
 I don't care to own that in former years those dogs, those birds, 
 deer, wild-ducks, and so forth, were painted to such a pitch 
 of desperate perfection, as to make me quite angry — elegant, 
 beautiful, well-appointed, perfect models for grace and manner ; 
 they were like some of our English dandies that one sees, and 
 who never can be brought to pass the limits of a certain polite 
 smile, and decorous, sensible insipidity. The more one sees 
 them, the more vexed one grows, for, be hanged to them, there 
 is no earthly fault to find with them. This, to be sure, is begging 
 the question, and you may not be disposed to allow either the 
 correctness of the simile, or that dandies are insipid, or that 
 field-sports, or pictures thereof, can possibly be tedious ; but, at 
 any rate, it is a comfort to see that a man of genius who is a 
 poet vjill be one sometimes, and here are a couple of noble 
 poetical pieces from Mr. Laridseer's pencil. The " Otter and 
 Trout " has something awful about it ; the hunted stag, panting 
 through the water and startling up the wild-fowl, is a beautiful 
 and touching poem. Oh, that these two pictures, and a few 
 more of different English artists, could be carried across the 
 Channel — say when Mr. Partridge's portrait of the Queen goes, 
 to act as a counterpoise to that work ! 
 
 A few Etties might likewise be put into the same box, and a 
 few delightful golden landscapes of Callcott. To these I would 
 add Mr. Maclise's " Hamlet," about whose faults and merits 
 there have been some loud controversies ; but in every Exhi- 
 bition for the last five years, if you saw a crowd before a 
 picture, it was sure to be before his ; and with all the faults 
 people found, no one could go away without a sort of wonder at 
 the prodigious talent of this gentleman. Sometimes it was 
 mere wonder ; in the present Exhibition it is wonder and 
 ])leasure too ; and his picture of Hamlet is by far the best, to
 
 AN EXHIBITION GOSSIP. 53 
 
 my thinking, that the artist has ever produced. If, for the 
 credit of Old England, (and I hereby humbly beg Mr. Maclise 
 to listen to the suggestion,) it could be transported to the wails 
 of your salon, it would shew French artists, who are accustomed 
 to sneer at the drawing of the English school, that we have a 
 man whose power of drawing is greater than that of any artist 
 among you, — of any artist that ever lived, I should like to 
 venture to say. An artist, possessing this vast power of hand, 
 often w^astes it — as Paganini did, for instance — in capriccios, and 
 extravagances, and brilliant feats of skill, as if defying the 
 world to come and cope with him. The picture of the play in 
 " Hamlet " is a great deal more, and is a noble poetic delineation 
 of the awful story. Here I am obliged to repeat, for the tenth 
 time in this letter, how vain it is to attempt to describe such 
 works by means of pen and ink. Fancy Hamlet, ungartered, 
 lying on the ground, looking into the very soul of King 
 Claudius, who writhes under the play of Gonzago. Fancy the 
 Queen, perplexed and sad, (she does not know of the murder,) 
 and poor Ophelia, and Polonius, with his staff, pottering over the 
 tragedy; and Horatio, and all sorts of knights and ladies, looking 
 Avondering on. Fancy, in* the little theatre, the king asleep ; 
 a lamp in front casts a huge forked fantastic shadow over the 
 scene — a shadow^ that looks like a horrible devil in the background 
 that is grinning and aping the murder. Fancy ghastly flickering- 
 tapestries of Cain and Abel on the walls, and all this j^ainted 
 with the utmost force, truth, and dexterity — fancy all this, and 
 then you will have not the least idea of one of the most startling, 
 wonderful pictures that the English school has ever produced. 
 
 Mr. Maclise may be said to be at the head of the young men ; 
 and though you and I, my dear Guillaume, are both old, and 
 while others are perpetually deploring the past, I think it is a 
 consolation to see that the present is better, and to argue that 
 the future will be better still. You did not give up David 
 without a pang, and still think Baron Gerard a very wonderful 
 fellow. I can remember once, when Westall seemed really 
 worth looking at, when a huge black exaggeration of Northcote 
 or Opie struck me as mighty fine, and Mr. West seemed a most 
 worthy President of our Academy. Confess now that the race
 
 54 AN EXHIBITION GOSSIP. 
 
 who succeeded them did better than they ; and indeed the 
 young men, if I may be permitted to hint such a thing, do 
 better still — not better than individuals — for Eastlake, Mulready, 
 Etty, Leslie, are exhibitors of twenty years' standing, and the 
 young men may live a thousand years and never surpass them ; 
 but a finer taste is more general among them than- existed some 
 thirty years back, and a purer, humbler, truer love of nature. 
 Have you seen the " Deserted Village " of the " Etching Club " ? 
 What charming feeling and purity is there among most of the 
 designs of these young painters, and what a credit are they to 
 the English school ! 
 
 The designers of the " Etching Club " seem to form a little 
 knot or circle among themselves ; and though the names of 
 Cope, Eedgrave, Herbert, Stone, have hardly reached you as yet 
 in Erance, they will be heard of some day even there, where your 
 clever people, who can appreciate all sorts of art, will not fail 
 to admire the quiet, thoughtful, pious, delicate feeling which 
 characterizes the works of this charming little school. All Mr. 
 Cope's pictures, though somewhat feeble in hand, are beautifully 
 tender and graceful. " The Hawthorn-bush, with seats beneath 
 the shade, for talking age and whispering lovers made," is a 
 beautiful picture for colour, sentiment, and composition. The 
 old people, properly garrulous, talking of old times, or the crops, 
 or the Doctor's sermon; the lovers — a charming pair — loving 
 with all their souls, kind, hearty, and tender. The Schoolmaster 
 of one of his other pictures is an excellent awful portrait of 
 Goldsmith's pedagogue. Mr. Eedgrave's " Cinderella " is very 
 pleasant, his landscape beautiful. Mr. Stone's " Advice " is full 
 of tender sentiment, and contains some frank, excellent painting ; 
 but how vapid all such comments appear, and how can you, on 
 the banks of the Seine, understand from these sort of vague, 
 unsatisfactory praises, what are the merits or demerits of the 
 pieces spoken about 1 
 
 We have here a delightful, naif artist, Mr. Webster by name, 
 who has taken little boys under his protection, and paints them 
 in the most charming comic way — in that best sort of comedy, 
 which makes one doubt whether to laugh or to cry. His largest 
 picture this year represents two boys bound for school. Break-
 
 AN EXHIBIT/ON GOSSIP. 55 
 
 fast is hurried over, (a horrid early breakfast ;) the trunk is 
 packed ; papa is pulling on his boots ; there is the coach coming 
 down the hill, and the guard blowing his pitiless horn. All 
 the little girls are gathered round their brothers : the elder is 
 munching a biscuit, and determined to be a man ; but the 
 younger, whom the little sister of all has got hold of by the 
 hand, can't bear the parting, and is crying his eyes out. 
 
 I quarrel with Mr. Webster for making one laugh at the boy, 
 and giving him a comic face. I say no man who has experi- 
 enced it, has a right to laugh at such a sorrow\ Did you ever, 
 in France, look out for the diligence that was to take you to 
 school, and hear a fatal conducteur blowing his horn as you 
 waited by the hill side — as you waited with the poor mother, 
 turning her eyes away — and slowly got off the old pony, which 
 you were not to see for six months — for a century — for a 
 thousand miserable years again ? Oh, that first night at school ! 
 those bitter, bitter tears at night, as you lay awake in the 
 silence, poor little lonely boy, yearning after love and home. 
 Life has sorrows enough, God knows, but, I swear, none like 
 that ! I was thinking about all this as I looked at Mr. 
 Webster's picture, and behold it turned itself into an avenue of 
 lime-trees, and a certain old stile that led to a stubble-field ; 
 and it was evening, about the 14th of September, and after 
 dinner, (how that last glass of wine used to choke and burn in 
 the throat !) and presently, a mile off, you heard, horribly 
 distinct, the whirring of the well-known Defiance coach wheels. 
 It was up in a moment — the trunk on the roof ; and — bah 1 
 from that day I can't bear to see mothers and children parting. 
 
 This, to be sure, is beside the subject ; but pray let Mr. 
 Webster change the face of his boy. 
 
 Letters (except from young ladies to one another) are not 
 allowed to go beyond a certain decent length ; hence, though I 
 may have a fancy to speak to you of many score of other good 
 pictures, out of the fourteen hundred here exhibited, there are 
 numbers which we must pass over without any notice whatever. 
 It is hard to pass by Mr. Eichmond's beautiful water-colour 
 figures, without a word concerning them ; or Mr. Charles 
 Landseer's capital picture of " Ladies and Cavaliers "; or not to
 
 56 AN EXHIBITION GOSSIP. 
 
 have at least half a page to spare, in order to make an onslaught 
 upon Mr. Chalon and his ogling beauties : he has a portrait of 
 Mdlle. Eachel, quite curious for its cleverness and unlikeness, 
 and one of the most chaste and refined of our actresses, Mrs. 
 Charles Kean, who is represented as a killing coquette ; and so 
 Mr. Kean ma}^ be thankful that the portrait does- not in the 
 least resemble his lady. 
 
 There is scarce any need to say that the oil portrait-painters 
 maintain their usual reputation and excellence : Mr. Briggs, 
 Mr. Pickersgill, Mr. Grant, shew some excellent canvases : the 
 latter's ladies are beautiful, and his " Lord Cardigan " a fine 
 painting and portrait ; Mr. Briggs' " Archbishop " is a noble 
 head and picture; Mr. Pickersgill has, among others, a full- 
 length of a Na^7' Captain, very fine ; Mr. Liunell's portraits are 
 very fine ; and Mr. S. Lawrence has one (the Attorney-General), 
 excellently drawn, and fine in character. This year's picture of 
 her Majesty is intended for your Majesty, Louis Philippe — 
 perhaps the French court might have had a more favourable 
 representation of the Queen. There is only one "Duke of 
 Wellington " that I have remarked — (indeed it must be a weary 
 task to the good-natured and simple old nobleman to give up 
 to artists the use of his brave face, as he is so often called upon 
 to do) — at present he appears in a group of red-coated brethren 
 in arms, called the " Heroes of Waterloo." The picture, from 
 the quantity of requisite vermilion, was most difficult to treat, 
 but is cleverly managed, and the likeness very good. All the 
 warriors assembled are smiling, to a man ; and in the back- 
 ground is a picture of Napoleon, who is smiling too — and this 
 is surely too great a stretch of good nature. 
 
 Wliat can I say of the Napoleon of Mr. Turner ? called (with 
 frightful satire) the " Exile and the Rock-limpet." He stands in 
 the midst of a scarlet tornado, looking at least forty feet high. 
 
 Ah ! says the mysterious poet, from whom Mr. Turner loves 
 
 to quote, — 
 
 " Ah ! thy tent-formed shell i^ like 
 The soldier's nightly bivonac, alone 
 
 Amidst a sea of blood 
 
 hut you can join your comrades." 
 
 Fallacies of Hope.
 
 AN EXHIBITION GOSSIP. 57 
 
 These remarkable lines entirely explain the meaning of the 
 picture ; another piece is described by lines from the same 
 poem, in a metre more regular : — 
 
 " The midniglit-torch gleam'd o'er tlie steamer's side 
 And merit's corse was yielded to the tide." 
 
 Wlien the pictures are re-hung, as sometimes I believe is the 
 case, it might perhaps be as well to turn these upside down, 
 and see how they would look then ; the Campo Santo of Venice, 
 when examined closely, is scarcely less mysterious ; at a little 
 distance, however, it is a most brilliant, airy, and beautiful 
 picture. for the old days, before Mr. Turner had lighted on 
 " The Fallacies," and could see like other people ! 
 
 Other landscape-painters, not so romantic, are, as usual, 
 excellent. You know Mr. Stanfield and Mr. Eoberts, in France, 
 as well as we do : I wish one day you could see the hearty, 
 fresh English landscapes of Lee and Creswick, where you can 
 almost see the dew on the fresh grass, and trace the ripple of 
 the water, and the whispering in the foliage of the cool, whole- 
 some wind. 
 
 ***** 
 
 There is not an inch more room in the paper ; and a great 
 deal that was to be said about the Water-colour Societies and 
 Suffolk-street must remain unsaid for ever and ever. But I 
 wish you could see a drawing by Miss Setchel, in the Junior 
 Water-colour Society, and a dozen by Mr. Absolon, which are 
 delightful in grace and expression, and in tender, pathetic 
 humour. 
 
 M. A. T.
 
 LETTERS ON THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 No. 1.— THE AET UNIONS. 
 
 From M. A. Titmarsh, Esq., to Sanders M^Gilp, Esq. 
 
 Y DEAE SANDEES, — I have always had the 
 highest confidence in your judgment, and am there- 
 fore pretty certain that your picture is one of vast 
 merit. The value, you say, is two hundred guineas, 
 and you have, I hope, with laudable prudence, induced your 
 relatives, your grandmother, your confiding aunts, the tradesmen 
 with whom you have little accounts, and the friends with whom 
 you are occasionally kind enough to go and dine, to subscribe to 
 the Art Union, in hopes that one or other of them may gain the 
 principal prize, when their taste, as well as their friendship (and 
 where can friendship be better bestowed ?) will induce them to 
 purchase your work. To your relatives affection alone would 
 dictate the acquisition of your picture ; to your tradesmen you 
 offer, if possible, a still stronger inducement. " I owe you 40/," 
 you can say to Mr. Snip, your respected tailor: '^I cannot pay 
 those 40/. ; but gain the first prize, and you have my picture for 
 200 guineas, which in reality is worth 500. plus the payment of 
 your bill, the amount of which you can deduct from the sum due 
 to myself." Thus Mr. Snooks gets £ g_ ^_ 
 
 A picture (valued at 500 guineas)... ... 525 
 
 The payment of his bill 40 
 
 And costs of writ ... ... ... ... 22 
 
 £567 2 
 
 in return for a single sovereign subscribed to the Union. 
 
 The advantage of Art Unions has never before, I believe, been 
 considered in this liglit ; and if every artist would but go round
 
 j^To, I.— THE ART UNIONS. 59 
 
 to his tradesmen and represent the truth to them as here laid 
 down, no doubt great numbers of additional patrons would be 
 found for the noble art you practise. How many a man, for 
 instance, has not one but half-a-dozen tailors in the category in 
 which I have placed Mr. Snip. Well ; let them all subscribe ; — 
 the more the merrier. " If one win, gentlemen," you say, 
 " remember I am in a condition to pay all the rest their 
 accounts." And thus is an interest for Art brought home to 
 the bosoms and boards of six deserving families. 
 
 Is, or is not, the principle a good one ? Are, or are not, 
 tradesmen to be paid ? Are, or are not, artists to be well- 
 clothed ? And would, or would not, the diffusion of their 
 divine science enlarge the heart and soften the rude manners of 
 the million ? What, on this head, does Hesiod observe ? The 
 Teian bard nobly remarks,* 
 
 \vyf.wa<i 8i8iKtcrcre <^i5r;XtTcp aprrjs, 
 H/AoAAtT fjiwpr]<; veK atvLT (acre c/)€p(DS. 
 
 And if the principle be a good one, I say it should be uni- 
 versal. Say (as an encouragement) to the collector who comes 
 for your rate, " I'll pay you if you take a ticket in the Art 
 Union ! " Remark to your butcher, in a pleasant way, " Mr. 
 Brisket, I desire from you, for your own advantage, one stake 
 more." " From the loin, or where ? " says he. " No," say you, 
 laughingly interrupting him, " a stake in the Art Union." And 
 point out to your washerwoman what an ennobling and glorious 
 thing it would be — a holy effluence, a bright and beaming 
 radiance woven into the dark chain of her existence — (or 
 other words of might and poesy suited to her capacity), point 
 out, I say, what a pleasure it would be to her to be able to 
 exclaim, " I wash Mr. M'Gilp's shirts — and look ! one of his five 
 hundred guinea master-pieces hangs yonder, over my mangle." 
 
 It is in his power, it is in any body's power. The very 
 
 * We suspect that Mr. Titmarsli is here attempting to mystify the 
 
 unlearned reader. Anacreon, not Hesiod, was " the Teian bard," and it is 
 
 neither Hesiod nor Anacreon, but Ovid, who (in Latin not in Greek verse) 
 
 "remarks": — 
 
 ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes, 
 
 Emollit mores, nee sinit esse feros. Ed.
 
 6o LETTERS ON THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 Malay sweeper who shivers at the corner of your street and 
 acts as your model, may easily save money enough to take a 
 ticket, and have his portrait, as Othello, to decorate his humble 
 place of abode. 
 
 You may fancy, my friend, that there is some caricature in 
 this, and possibly you are right. You will never stoop to Mr. Snip 
 in the manner pointed out by me : you are above entreating 
 your washerwoman, cutting jokes with your butcher, or cajoling 
 the respectable gentleman who calls for your contributions once 
 a quarter. Art, say you, is above paltry speculation and mean 
 ideas of gain. An artist never stoops to intrigue, or chaffers for 
 money. He is the priest of nature, called to worship at her 
 glorious altar, by special vocation ; one chosen out of the million, 
 and called up to the high places ; in short, you will make a 
 speech, crammed with fine words, proving your disinterestedness 
 and the awful poetical nature of your calling. 
 
 Psha ! my good friend, let us have no more of this stale talk. 
 You are a tradesman as well as my lord on the woolsack, or 
 Mr. Smith selling figs, or General Sones breathing freely and at 
 his ease in an atmosphere of cannon-balls. You each do your 
 duty in your calling, and according to your genius, but you 
 want to be paid for what you do. You want the best pay and 
 the greatest share of reputation you can get. You will do 
 nothing dishonest in the pursuit of your trade ; but will you 
 not yield a little " to the exigencies of the public service ? " 
 General Sones, though he may have his own opinion of the 
 Cliinese war, will attack mandarins without mercy ; my Lord 
 Chancellor has pleaded many a queer cause before he reposed 
 on yonder woolsack ; Smith has had recourse to many little 
 harmless tricks to get a sale for his figs and treacle ; and you (as 
 I take it) are not a whit better than they. Did you ever paint 
 a lady in her portrait handsomer than nature made her ? Did 
 you ever, when your immense genius panted to be at work on 
 some vast historical piece, crush your aspirations so far as to sit 
 down and depict a plain gentleman in a liuff waistcoat and a 
 watch-chain, for the sake of the twenty guineas which were to 
 be elicited from his ample pepper-and-salt pantaloons ? You 
 have done all this ; and were quite right in doing it too. How
 
 No. I.— THE ART UNIONS. 6i 
 
 else are the little M'Gilps to get their dinners, or your lady the 
 means of discharging her weekly bills ? 
 
 And now you will begin, I trust, to perceive that the ridicule 
 east upon the Art Union system in the first sentences of this 
 letter, is not in reality so very severe : it is the sort of sneering 
 language which the enemies of those establishments are in the 
 habit of indulging in, though expressed as high, no doubt you 
 will think in a far more satiric and witty manner than most of 
 the Anti-Unionists have at command. Hear for instance, the 
 " Athen?eum." " So early," says that journal, " as 1837, we put 
 on record our opinion that the Art Union would and must of 
 necessity tend to the still further degradation of Art. Any 
 man," we observed, " who purchases pictures may be presumed 
 to have a love for, and this will in the end generate a know- 
 ledge of, Art. But there will be many subscribers who desire 
 only a little gambling — to risk a pound for the chance of win- 
 ning a hundred — and who would quite as soon join in a raffle 
 for a horse or a snuff-box, or a pipe of port wine, as for a 
 picture. The motive of the subscriber is of no consequence, so 
 long as others have to dispose of the money ; but the Art 
 Union proposes that each subscriber ' shall select for himself.' 
 Now, is it not certain that such patronage must tend to degrade 
 Art ? The scheme may be beneficial to the lowest class of 
 artists, but utterly ruinous to Art itself. When every indi- 
 vidual, be he ivliom he may, is allowed to follow his own judg- 
 ment in the disposal of his prize-money, the best results can be 
 but an irresponsible indulgence of individual whim and caprice 
 — the worst and certain is the degradation of Art. Men who 
 paint to live, instead of working with all their power, be it 
 more or less, up to the best and highest judgments, must solicit 
 the sweet voices of the uninformed, the chance prize-holders, 
 and therefore purchasers of the Art Unions." 
 
 So writes the " Athenfeum," and you will at once perceive the 
 truth of my previous assertions : — 1. That the " Athengeum's " 
 arguments resemble those employed at the commencement of 
 this letter. 2. That the arguments at the beginning of this 
 letter are far more cleverly and wickedly put. 
 
 Let us now proceed to demolish the one and the other ; and
 
 62 LETTERS ON THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 we will, if you please, take the dicta of the " Athenaeum " in 
 the first place into consideration. 
 
 " Every man " (says the ' Athenaeum ') " who purchases pic- 
 tures, may be presumed to have a love for, and this will in the 
 end generate a knowledge of, Art." 
 
 " But this Art Union is joined by many for the sake of gam- 
 bling, and who would quite as soon join in a raffle for a horse, or 
 a snuff-box, or a pipe of port wine, as for a picture." 
 
 Why quite as soon ? A man who wants a pipe of port wine 
 does not, we presume, raffle for a horse ; or being exceedingly 
 desirous of a snuff-mull, he does not raffle for a pipe of port 
 wine. There are certainly in the world many " uninformed " 
 persons, as the insinuating " Athenaeum " remarks ; let us say 
 at once there are fools, but not such tremendous fools as our 
 misanthropic contemporary would discover. 
 
 No, no. A man raffles for a horse because the dealers or the 
 knackers will give him a price for it, or because his wife wishes 
 to be driven out in the gig, or because he has a mind to cut a 
 dash in the ring. A man raffles for a gold snuff-box because he 
 is fond of Macabau, or because he likes to sport such a box 
 after dinner, or because he wishes to make it a present to Mr. 
 Boys when he brings out any more of his relative's lithographs, 
 or for some other simple and equally apparent reason. And so 
 for a pipe of port wine, a man risks his money in order to gain it, 
 because he likes port wine, or because he can sell it, or because 
 he wishes to present a few dozens to a friend. 
 
 I wish, for my part, I had a friend who desired to dispose of 
 either of the three articles ; but that is a mere personal ejacu- 
 lation, and nothing to the point. The point is, that a man bids 
 money for a horse because he wants it, and for a picture be- 
 cause he would like to have a picture. Common charity must 
 admit so much good sense in the world. 
 
 Well, then, it is granted that a man joins in a raffle for a 
 set of pictures because he is interested in pictures; that is, he 
 may he presumed to have a love for Art. And a love for Art in 
 the end, says the " Athenaeum," with much sagacity, loill generate 
 a knowledge of Art. Amen. In that case the excellence of 
 Art Unions is established at once.
 
 No. I.— THE ART UNIONS. 63 
 
 But no, says the philosopher who argues every week from 
 under the cohimns of the temple of Minerva : this love which 
 generates knowledge is only conceded to men who purchase 
 pictures, not to those who raffle for them. Is not this a little 
 hard ? How much income tax must a man pay in order to 
 have a decent love of Art ; a love that shall be potent enough 
 to become the father of a future knowledge ? I may say, 
 without exaggeration, that Sir Eobert Peel is richer than I am ; 
 but does it follow that he loves Art better ? It may be, or not ; 
 but, at least, the right honourable baronet's income does not 
 establish the superiority of his taste. Let any gentleman go 
 into a pastry-cook's and eat raspberry tarts ; ten to one, pressed 
 against the window of the shop you will see the blue nose of a 
 penniless urchin, who is looking at the good things with all his 
 might. Would one say that Dives, because he eats the tarts, 
 loved them better than little Lazarus who yearned after them ? 
 No, even the " Athenaeum " would not say that ; the cruel, cruel 
 " Athenaeum." 
 
 Now, suppose that round that shop-window, and allured by 
 the same charming prospect which has brought their comrade 
 thither, other little Lazaruses should assemble : they love tarts ; 
 they are penniless ; but still not altogetlier without coin. Say 
 they have a farthing apiece ; and clubbing together their wealth, 
 or poverty rather, these rascally young gamblers make a lottery 
 in the cap of one of them, and what is the consequence ? the 
 winner of the prize steps in and takes a raspberry tart from the 
 very same tray at which great Dives himself has been gormandis- 
 ing. It is gambling, certainly ; but I suspect the pastrycook 
 (considering its result) will look upon the crime rather justly 
 — she might never have sold her wares but for that Takt Union. 
 
 I shall resume this subject next week with philosophical 
 considerations upon Polytechnic societies, upon the lunar 
 prospectus (or that of Mr. Moon), and upon the puerile dis- 
 tribution (or that of Mr. Boys). 
 
 Meanwhile, dear M'Gilp, I remain, 
 
 Your very humble servant, 
 
 Michael Angelo Titmarsh.
 
 64 LETTERS ON THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 No. 2.— THE OBJECTIONS AGAINST AET UNIONS. 
 
 M. A. Titmarsh, Esq., to Sandeis M'Gilp, Esq. 
 
 My dear Sanders, — The Tart Union alluded to last week 
 has been appreciated ; and I am given to understand that 
 several young gentlemen about Covent Garden and the foun- 
 dation colleges in the city (where the youthful students wear 
 leather breeches, and green coats, and caps famous for their 
 similarity in shape to the muffin) have put the scheme 
 into practice, and are very eager in borrowing or begging 
 farthings for the pastrycook's interest and their own. 
 
 That the scheme will benefit the former is clear : and should 
 any of them be inclined, by way of gratitude, to forward to the 
 office of the paper a iproof 'plaU of their tarts, there are several 
 juvenile persons about the premises who will gladly give an 
 opinion of their merits. One of the union or distribution 
 schemes mentioned in our last has forwarded proofs of its 
 claims to public favour, proofs of its puffs we would say, but 
 that is a pun, and the truth must be told, let what will come 
 of it, and we are now solemnly met, my brave M'Gilp, to 
 discuss it. 
 
 The fact is, that the goodness or badness of the prints in 
 question does not, at least for the sake of the argument, matter 
 a fig. Suppose a man (by means of the electrotype of course) 
 were enabled to reproduce a series of copies from the vignettes 
 to Mr. Catnach's ballads, and charge a guinea, two guineas — 
 a thousand pounds ; three farthings, for whitey-brown proofs of 
 the same. He is quite free to do so. Nobody need buy 
 unless they like. Or suppose he could (always by means 
 of the electrotype) produce India paper proof plates of all the 
 Cartoons, and sell them for a halfpenny. He is quite as much 
 at liberty to do the one as the other ; and I do believe that the 
 reason of fair dealing and moderate prices in the world has been 
 not so much the honesty as the selfishness of our nature. We 
 sell cheap because no one will buy else. We are honest because 
 no one will trust us unless they can trust us. In a doubtful 
 commerce with few concurrents and uncertain gains, men do not
 
 No. II.— OBJECTIONS TO ART UNIONS. 65 
 
 xmfrequently cheat. But competition hustles roguery pretty 
 quickly out of the market; the swaggering, swindling, lying 
 impostor has no chance against the burly good sense of the 
 pubhc. 
 
 And I must confess, for my part, that if a man has a thirty 
 guinea watch to raffle for, and thirty persons are willing to 
 subscribe so much amongst them, and try the chance of winning 
 it, I see no much greater harm in this " union " than in many 
 other speculations where (of course) chances exist of losing or 
 winning. But to moralise on the Art Union case because of this 
 little harmless peddling with guineas, and to say that it provokes 
 a spirit of gambling, is too hard. Is it altogether sinful to play a 
 rubber of whist at shilling points ? Does it imply an abominable 
 desire of gain and a frightful perversion in the individual who 
 bete half-a-crown on the rubber ? Are we basely cast down 
 because we lose, or brutally exultant because we win, half a 
 score shillings ? If it be a deadly sin, heaven help our grand- 
 fathers and grandmothers, who played cards every night of 
 their lives, and must be anything but comfortable now. But 
 let us hope that with regard to the criminalty of the proceeding 
 the " Athenaeum " is wrong. Many of us have tried a raftie at 
 Margate, and slept no worse for it. Once, at school, I drew 
 lots with two other boys, and the prize was a flogging ; and it 
 does not much matter which of us won ; but the others were 
 not very sorry about it, depend on that. Xo ; let this harmless 
 little sin pass. As long as it provokes no very evil passions, as 
 long as the pleasure of winning is great, and the pain of losing 
 small, let gentlemen and ladies have their sport, and bet their 
 bet, and our moralists not altogether despair. You cannot say 
 that the Art Union supporters are actuated by a violent or 
 unwliolesome love of gambHng ; they don't injure their properties 
 by the subscription of their guinea ; they don't absent them- 
 selves from home, contract dissipated habits, bring their wives 
 and famiUes to ruin. They give a guinea, and are not much 
 the better or the worse for the outlay. This is an encourage- 
 ment of lotteries, the Athengeum may say, presently; but 
 indeed the objection is not worth a fig. The old lotteries were 
 undisguised robberies. The Art Unions are none. The old 
 
 F
 
 66 LETTERS ON THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 lotteries lived upon atrocious lies and pufis, encouraged silly 
 people with exaggerated notions of gain. The Art Union offers 
 but to purchase pictures with the aggregate of your money, and 
 to distribute the pictures so bought. There are no falsehoods 
 told, and no absurd lying baits held out. 
 
 A country book-club is a lottery, a wicked gambling transac- 
 tion, in which squires and parsons take a part. A house or life 
 assurance is a lottery. You take the odds there to win in a 
 certain event; and may by very strait-laced moralists be 
 accused of " gambling," for so pro^dding• against fortune ; but 
 the Parliament has sanctioned this gambling, and the State 
 draws a considerable profit from it. An underwriter gambles 
 when he insures a ship ; calculating that he has a profit on the 
 chances. A man gambles when he buys stock to sell after- 
 wards, or a newspaper, or a house, or any other commodity upon 
 which profit or loss may accrue. In the latter cases, perhaps, 
 he gambles as he does at whist, knowing himself to be a good 
 player, and trusting to skill and chance for his success. But in 
 the former cases the underwriter of the ship or house has no 
 security ; it is sheer luck ; dependent on a fire or a gale of wind, 
 with the pull of the chances in his favour. 
 
 In a commercial country, then, where there is so much autho- 
 rised gambUng for profit, a little gambling for mere amusement's 
 and kindness's sake may be tolerated. Let it be allowed at any 
 rate that there is no great criminality in the Art Union species 
 of gambling, and so quietly pass over the moral objection to the 
 scheme. Then there has been lately mooted in the papers a 
 legal objection ; but that is not a very frightful one. Both of 
 the learned gentlemen who have been consulted and have pro- 
 nounced for and against Art Unions, have allowed that there is 
 no danger of prosecution, and that poor bugbear will frighten 
 honest folks no more. 
 
 But the strong objection is that on the part of some artists 
 of the old school, who say that the Art Union system deteriorates 
 art ; that it sets painters speculating upon fancy pieces to suit 
 the tastes of the prize-holders ; that they think this will be a 
 taking two hundred guinea subject, or that a neat gaudy piece 
 that will be sure to hook something ; and they paint accordingly.
 
 ,Y^. IL— OBJECTIONS TO ART UNIONS. 67 
 
 Now, let any man who has looked at English picture-galleries 
 for the last ten or twenty years be called upon to say from his 
 heart, whether there has not been a great, a noble improve- 
 ment? — whether there is not infinitely more fancy, feeling, 
 poetry, education among artists as a body now than then ? 
 Good Heavens ! if they do paint what are called subjects, what 
 is the harm ? If people do like fancy pieces, where is the great 
 evil ? If I have no fancy to have my own portrait staring me 
 in the face in the dining-room, and would rather have Mr. 
 Stone's " one particular star," for instance, (and it is a charming 
 picture,) am I such a degraded wretch ? This is but cant on 
 the part of humbugs on one side, and on the other ultra-ticklish- 
 ness of too susceptible minds. 
 
 What does the charge amount to ? That the artist tries by 
 one means or other to consult the taste of the public. The 
 public is ignorant ; therefore its choice is bad : therefore the 
 artists paint bad pictures : therefore the taste grows worse and 
 worse : therefore the public and artist are degraded by a des- 
 perate helpless arithmetical progression, out of which as one 
 fancies there is no escape. 
 
 But look what tlie real state of the case is, as it has been 
 recited by a weekly paper (the " Age ") — that too moans over 
 the degeneracy of its namesake, and prophesies a most pathetic 
 future for Englishmen, because they have been lately seized 
 with a love for illustrated books. First, says the " Age," came 
 the " Observer," with its picture of ThurteU's cottage, then the 
 "Hive," then the "Mirror," then this and that, then the "Illus- 
 trated London News," then the " Pictorial Times." Well, a2oHs ? 
 as the French say. The "Hive" was better than ThurteU's 
 cottage, the " Mirror " was better than the " Hive," the " News " 
 better than the " Mirror," and the " Times " better than the 
 "News," and (though the ''Times" readers may fancy the thing 
 impossible) the day will come when something shall surpass 
 even the " Times," and so on to the infinity of optimism. And 
 so with pictures as with prints. The public is not used to 
 having the former yet, but wait a while and it will take them ; 
 and take them better and better every day. The commercial 
 energy of our hearty country is such, that where there is a 
 
 f2
 
 68 LETTERS ON THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 small demand dealers well know how to raise it to be a great 
 one ; and raise fresh wants by fresh supplies ingeniously in- 
 sinuated, and by happy inventions in advance. As for GENIUS, 
 that is not to be spoken of in this way ; but Genius is rare ; it 
 comes to us but once in many many years ; and do you think the 
 genius of painting less likely to flourish in our co-untry because 
 people are buying (by means of these Art Unions) five hundred 
 little fancy pictures per annum, in addition to the ten thousand 
 portraits they bought before ? 
 
 As for aristocratic patronage of Art only let us ask in 
 what state was Art here before Art Unions began ? Did 
 artists complain or not ? Did they say that there was no 
 opportunity to cultivate their poetical feelings, and that they 
 must paint portraits to live ? I am sure the people of England 
 are likely to be better patrons of art than the Englisli aris- 
 tocracy ever were, and that the aristocracy have been tried 
 and didn't ^Datronise it ; that they neither knew how to value 
 a picture nor an artist : what artist ever got so good a 
 place as a tenth-rate lawyer, or as a hundredth-rate soldier, or 
 as a lucky physician, or as an alderman who had made a good 
 speculation, or a country squire who had a borough ? The 
 aristocracy never acknowledged the existence of art in this 
 country, for they never acknowledged the artist. They were 
 the handsomest men and women in the world, and they had 
 their simpering faces painted : but what have they done for art 
 to honour it ? No, no. They are not the friends of Genius : 
 that day is over : its friends lie elsewhere ; rude and unculti- 
 vated as yet, but hearty, generous and eager. It may put up 
 with rough fare ; but it can't live in ante-chambers with lackeys, 
 eating my lord's broken meat : equality is its breath, and 
 sympathy the condition of its existence. What sympathy did 
 my lords ever give it ? No : the law, the sword, the alderman's 
 consols, ■ and the doctor's pill, they can stomach ; they can 
 reconcile these to their lordly nature, and infuse them into their 
 august body. 
 
 But the Poet had best come lower. What have their lord- 
 ships to do with him ? He has never been one of their intimates. 
 In the old song of Schiller, Love bids the poet, now that the
 
 No. II.— OBJECTIONS TO ART UNIONS. 69 
 
 earth is partitioned among the strong and wealthy, to come to 
 Heaven in his distress, in which there will always be a place 
 for him : but he has to try the people yet — the weak and poor ; 
 and they, whose union makes their strength, depend on it, have 
 a shelter and a welcome for him. 
 
 And so, though the taste of the public might be better than it 
 is now (of which there is no question), I think we have every 
 right to hope that it vjill be better. There are a thousand 
 men read and think to-day, for one who read on this same day 
 of April, 174o. The poet and artist is called upon to appeal to 
 the few no longer. His profit and fame are with the many ; 
 and do not let it be thought irreverence to put the profit and 
 fame together. Nobody ever denies the Duke of Wellington's 
 genius, because his Grace receives twenty thousand a year from 
 his country in gratitude for the services rend^ed by him ; and 
 if the nation should take a fancy to reward poets in the same 
 way, we have similarly no right to quarrel with the verdict. 
 
 The dukedoms, tvventy-thousands-a-year, Piccadilly-palaces, 
 and the like are not, however, pleaded for here. Miss Coutts 
 or Mr. Eothschild have the like (or may, no doubt, for the 
 asking), and nobody grudges the wealth, though neither ever 
 were in the battle of Waterloo that I know of. But let us ask, as 
 the condition of improvement in art, if not fame and honour, at 
 least sympathy, from the public for the artist. The refinement 
 of taste will come afterwards ; and as every man a little con- 
 versant with the art of painting, or any other art, must know 
 how his judgment improves, and how by degrees he learns to 
 admire justly, so the public will learn to admire more and more 
 wisely every day. The sixpenny prints they buy twenty years 
 hence will be better than the sixpenny prints now : the Art Union 
 pictures they select better than those which frighten the despond- 
 ing susceptibilities of our philosophers now-a-days. Away with 
 these prophets of ill, these timid old maids of Cassandras, who 
 lift up their crutches and croak, and cry, " Woe ! " It is the 
 nature of the old bodies to despond, but let " us youth " be not 
 frightened by their prate. If any publisher could find it worth 
 his while to bring out a hundred beautiful engravings for a 
 penny, depend on it art would not retrograde in the country.
 
 70 LETTERS ON THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 If a hundred thousand people chose to subscribe to the Art 
 Union, the interest for art woukl be so much the greater, the 
 encouragement to artists so much the greater ; and if you interest 
 the people and encourage the artists, it is absurd to suppose that 
 one or the other would go back. 
 
 But this, as you will doubtless observe, has nothing to do 
 with the lunatic prospectus (or that of Mr. Moon), or with the 
 puerile distribution (or that of Mr. Boys). Let us consider the 
 sham Art Unions on another day. What I wish to urge in the 
 above sentences is, that the people are the artist's best friends ; 
 that for his reputation and profit henceforth he had best look to 
 them ; and rather than work for a class oi patrons, he had better 
 rely for support on his friends. If you have something that is 
 worth the telling, — something for the good of mankind, — it is 
 better to be able to take it to a hundred tailors or tinkers than 
 to one duke or two dandies (speaking with perfect respect of 
 both) ; and as an actor would rather have a hundred people in 
 the pit for an audience than but one hearer who had paid ten 
 pounds for a private box, an artist need have no squeamish 
 objections to the same popularity, and will find a more sure and 
 lasting profit in it. Many men of genius will say, " No ; we do 
 not want the applause of the vulgar ; give us the opinion of the 
 few." Who prevents them ? They have these few as before ; 
 but because the artist of a lower walk changes his patron, and, 
 instead of catering for the private boxes, appeals to the pit, there 
 is no harm done. The pit, it is my firm belief, knows just as 
 much about the matter in question as the boxes know ; and now 
 you have made art one of the wants of the public, you will find 
 the providers of the commodity and its purchasers grow more 
 refined in their tastes alike ; and the popular critic of a few 
 years hence calling for good pictures, when now bad ones please 
 him. 
 
 How should he know better as yet ? His betters have taught 
 him to admire Books of Beauty, trashy, flashy, coronation pict- 
 tures, and the like tawdry gimcracks, which please a feeble 
 intellect and a debauched taste. Give him time, and he will 
 learn to like better things. And for the artist himself, will he 
 not gain by bringing to the public market the article which he
 
 No. II.— OBJECTIONS TO ART UNIONS. 71 
 
 was obliged before to prepare for iudividual patronage ? He has 
 made many more sacrifices to the latter, than ever he will be 
 called upon to do for the former. His independence does not 
 suffer by honest barter in the public place, any more than an 
 author's does who takes his wares to the bookseller or news- 
 paper, and asks and gets his price. The writer looks to my 
 lord no longer, but has found a better and surer friend : and 
 so for art ; I would like to see Art Unions all over England, 
 from London to Little Peddlington : every one of the sub- 
 scribers become interested in a subject about which he has not 
 thought hitherto, and which was kept as the exclusive privilege 
 of his betters. 
 
 The " Spectator " has an excellent suggestion with regard to 
 Art Unions, I think ; which is, that a committee should pur- 
 chase pictures with the funds of the Union, and that the 
 prize-holder should then choose. Bad pictures would not, 
 probably, be bought in this way, and the threatened degradation 
 of art would then be averted. Perhaps the majority of the 
 present Unionists, however, would not accede to this plan, and 
 prefer to choose their pictures for themselves. Well : let them 
 keep to the old plan, and let us have another Art Union as the 
 new. The more the better — the more real U^nions : as for the 
 sham ones, we will discourse of these anon. 
 
 Yours, my dear M'Gilp, 
 
 M. A. TiTMAESH. 
 
 P.S. I hope your Cartoon is in a state of forwardness : we 
 shall see in a month or two what the giants of art can do. 
 But meanwhile do not neglect your little picture out of Gil 
 Bias or the Vicar of Wakefield (of course it is from one or 
 the other). Let those humble intellects which can only under- 
 stand common feeling and every- day life have too tlieir little 
 gentle gratifications. Wliy should not the poor in spirit be 
 provided for as well as the tremendous geniuses ? If a child 
 take a fancy to a penny theatrical print, let him have it ; if 
 a workman want a green parrot with a bobbing head to de- 
 corate his humble mantel-piece, let us not grudge it to him ; 
 and if an immense supereminent intelligence cannot satisfy 
 his poetical craving with anything less sublime than Milton,
 
 72 LETTERS ON THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 or less vast than Michael Angelo, — all I can say for my part 
 is, that I wish he may get it. The kind and beneficent Genius 
 of Art has pleasures for all according to their degree ; and 
 spreads its harmless happy feast for big and little — for the 
 Titanic appetite that can't be satisfied with less than a roasted 
 elephant, as well as for the small humble cock-robin of an 
 intellect that can sing its little grace and make its meal on a 
 bread-crumb. 
 
 No. III.— THE EOYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 My dear M'Gilp, 
 
 I think every succeeding year shows a progress in the 
 English school of painters. They paint from the heart more 
 than of old, and less from the old heroic, absurd, incompre- 
 hensible, unattainable rules. They look at Nature very hard,, 
 and match her with the best of their eyes and ability. They 
 do not aim at such great subjects as heretofore, or at subjects 
 which the world is pleased to call great, viz. tales from Hume 
 or Gibbon of royal personages under various circumstances 
 of battle, murder and sudden death. Lempriere, too, is justly 
 neglected ; and Milton has quite given place to Gil Bias and 
 the Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 The heroic, and peace be with it ! has been deposed ; and our 
 artists, in place, cultivate the pathetic and the famil iar. But a f ew^ 
 very few, worshippers of the old gods remain. There are only 
 two or three specimens in the present exhibition of the grand 
 historic style. There is a huge dun-coloured picture in the 
 large room, by an Academician probably ; but I have neither 
 the name nor the subject : there is Mr. Haydon's history-piece 
 of the Maid of Saragossa — a great, coarse, vulgar, ill-drawn, ill- 
 painted caricature ; and an allegory or two by other artists, in 
 the oldfashioned style. 
 
 The younger painters are content to exercise their art on 
 subjects far less exalted: a gentle sentiment, an agreeable, quiet 
 incident, a tea-table tragedy, or a bread-and-butter idyl suffices 
 for the most part their gentle powers. Nor surely ought one to
 
 No. III.— THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 73 
 
 quarrel at all with this prevalent mode. It is at least natural, 
 which the heroic was not. Bread and butter can be digested 
 by every man ; whereas Prometheus on his rock, or Orestes in 
 his strait-waistcoat, or Hector dragged behind Achilles' car, or 
 " Britannia, guarded by Eeligion and Neptune, welcoming- 
 General Tomkins in the Temple of Glory " — the ancient heroic, 
 allegorical subjects — can be supposed deeply to interest very 
 few of the inhabitants of this city or kingdom. We have wisely 
 given up pretending that we were interested in such, and con- 
 fess a partiality for more simple and homely themes. 
 
 The Exhibition rooms are adorned with numberless very 
 pleasing pictures in this quiet taste. Mr. Leslie offers up to 
 our simple household gods a Vicar of Wakefield ; Mr. Maclise 
 presents a Gil Bias ; Mr. Redgrave gently depicts the woes of a 
 governess who is reading a black-edged note, and the soft sor- 
 rows of a country-lass going to service ; Mr. Stone has the last 
 appeal of a rustic lover ; Mr. Charles Landseer has a party 
 drinking comfortably under tlie trees ; Mr. Macnee shows us a 
 young person musing in a quiet nook, and thinking over her love. 
 
 All these subjects, it will be observed, are small subjects ; but 
 they are treated, for the most part, with extraordinary skill. 
 As for Lady Blarney, in Mr. Leslie's picture, with that wonder- 
 ful leer of her wicked_, squinting, vacant eyes, she is as good as 
 the very best Hogarth ; her face is the perfection of comedy ; 
 and the honest Primrose countenances round about, charming 
 for their simplicity and rich, kindly humour. The Malade 
 Imaginaire is no less excellent ; more farcical and exaggerated in 
 the arrangement ; but the play is farcical and exaggerated ; and 
 the picture, as the play, is full of jovial, hearty laughter. No 
 artist possesses this precious quality of making us laugh kindly, 
 so much as Mr. Leslie. There is not the least gall or satire in 
 it, only sheer, irresistible, good humour. 
 
 Now in the tableau by Mr. Maclise, many of the prin- 
 cipal personages are scowling, or ogling, or grinning, and 
 showing their teeth, with all their might ; and yet the spec- 
 tator, as I fancy, is by no means so amused as by those more 
 quiet actors in Mr. Leslie's little comedies. There is, especially 
 in Mr. Maclise's company, one young fellow who ought to be
 
 74 LETTERS ON THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 liissed, or who should have humble parts to act, and not be 
 thrust forward in the chief characters as he has been of late years, 
 with his immense grinning mouthful of white teeth and know- 
 ing, leering eyes. The ladies we have seen, too, repeatedly, 
 and it must be confessed they are not of the high comedy sort. 
 The characters appear to be, as it were, performing a tableau 
 from Gil Bias, not the actual heroes or heroines of that easy 
 jovial drama. 
 
 As for the " properties " of the piece, to use the dramatic 
 phrase, they are admirably rich and correct. The painter's skill 
 in representing them is prodigious. The plate, the carvings, 
 the wine-flasks, the poor old melancholy monkey on his perch, 
 the little parrots, the carpet, are painted with a truth and dex- 
 terity quite marvellous, and equal the most finished productions 
 of the Dutch schools. Terburg never painted such a carpet ; 
 every bit of plate is a curiosity of truthful representation. 
 This extraordinary power of minute representation is show^n in 
 another picture by Mr. Maclise, the Cornish Waterfall, round 
 which every leaf in every tree is depicted, and in which the 
 figure of the girl is a delightful specimen of the artist's graphic 
 power. 
 
 Mr. Eedgrave's " Going to Service," is not so well drawn as 
 his pictures of former years. An old lady in an arm chair, two 
 young sisters embracing each other, a brother very stiff and 
 solemn in a smock-frock^ and a waggon waiting outside, tell the 
 story of this little domestic comedy. It has a milk-and-watery 
 pathos. The governess has her bread-and-butter by her side 
 too ; but the picture is much better, the girl's figure extremely 
 beautiful and graceful, and the adjuncts of the picture are 
 painted with extreme care and skill. 
 
 Mr. Stone's " Last Appeal " is Ijeautiful. It is evidently the 
 finish of the history of the two young people who are to be seen 
 in the Water-Colour Exhibition. There the girl is smiling and 
 pleased, and there is some hope still for the pale, earnest young 
 man who loves her with all his might. But between the two 
 pictures, between Pall Mall and the Trafalgar Column, sad 
 changes have occurred. The young woman has met a great big 
 life-guardsman probably, who has quite changed her views of
 
 No. III.— THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 7S 
 
 tilings : and you see that the last appeal is made without any 
 hope for the appellant. The girl hides away her pretty face, 
 and we see that all is over. She likes the poor fellow well 
 enough, but it is only as a brother ; her heart is with the life- 
 guardsman, who is strutting down the lane at this moment with 
 his laced cap on one ear, cutting the buttercups' heads oft' with 
 his rattan cane. The whole story is told, without, alas ! the 
 possibility of a mistake, and the young fellow in the grey 
 stockings has nothing to do but to jump down the well, at the 
 side of which he has been making his appeal. 
 
 The painting of this picture is excellent : the amateur will 
 not fail to appreciate the beauty of the drawing, the care, and 
 at the same time freedom, of the execution, and a number of 
 excellencies of method which are difticult to be described in 
 print, except in certain technical terms that are quite unsatis- 
 factory to the general reader. 
 
 Mr. Charles Landseer's Monks of Eubrosi is the best, 
 perhaps, of his pictures. The scene is extremely cheerful, 
 fresh, and brilliant ; the landscape almost as good as the figures, 
 and these are all good. Two grave-looking, aristocratic fathers 
 of the abbey have been fly-fishing ; a couple of humbler breth- 
 ren in brown are busy at a hamper of good things ; a gallant 
 young sportsman in green velvet lies on the grass and toasts 
 a pretty lass that is somehow waiting upon their reverences. 
 The picture is not only good, but has the further good quality 
 of being 2)leascmt ; and some clever artist will do no harm in 
 condescending so far to suit the general taste. There is no 
 reason after all why a man should not humble himself to this 
 extent, and make friends with the public patron. 
 
 For instance, take Mr. Poole's picture of Solomon Eagle and 
 the Plague of London. It is exceedingly clever ; but who would 
 buy such a piece ? Figures writhe over the picture blue and 
 livid with the plague — some are dying in agony — some stupid 
 with pain. You see the dead-cart in the distance ; and in the 
 midst stands naked Solomon, with bloodshot eves and wild 
 maniacal looks, preaching death, woe, and judgment. Where 
 should such a piece hang ? It is too gloomy for a hospital, 
 and surely not cheerful enough for a dining-room. It is not a
 
 76 LETTERS ON THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 religious picture that would serve to decorate the walls of a 
 church. A very dismal gloomy conventicle might perhaps be a 
 suitable abode for it ; but would it not be better to tempt the 
 public with something more good-humoured ? 
 
 Of the religious pieces Mr. Herbert's " Woman of Samaria " 
 will please many a visitor to the Exhibition, on account of the 
 beauty and dignity of the head and figure of the Saviour. The 
 woman, as I thought, was neither beautiful nor graceful. Mr. 
 Eastlake's " Hagar " is beautiful as everything else by this 
 accomplished artist ; but here, perhaps, the beauty is too great, 
 and the pain not enough. The scene is not represented with its 
 actual agony and despair ; but this is, as it were, a sort of lim- 
 ning to remind you of the scene ; a piece of mystical poetry with 
 Ishmael and Hagar for the theme. I must confess that Mr. 
 Linnell's " Supper at Emmaus " did not strike me as the least 
 mystical or poetical, and that Mr. Etty's " Entombment " was 
 anything but holy and severe. Perhaps the most pious and 
 charming head in the whole Exhibition is that of the Queen, by 
 Mr. Leslie, in his Coronation picture, it has a delightful modesty 
 and a purity quite angelical. 
 
 Mr. Etty's pictures of the heathen sort are delightful ; won- 
 derful for a gorgeous flush of colour, such as has belonged, 
 perhaps, to no painter since Eubens. But of these we Avill 
 discourse next week. 
 
 M. A, TiTMAESH. 
 
 No. IV.— THE EOYAL ACADEMY (SECOND NOTICE). 
 
 My dear M'Gilj), — If Her Majesty is the purchaser of aU 
 the royal pictures by Parris, by Hayter, by Leslie, by Landseer, 
 — of aU the royal portraits, by these and a score more, in and 
 out of the Academy, — there must be a pretty large gallery at 
 Buckingham Palace by this time, and, let it be said with respect, 
 a considerable sameness in the collection. The royal face is a 
 very handsome one, and especially in the medallion-shape, in 
 gold. I would like to look at thousands of them every week 
 for my part, and would never tire in extending my cabinet.
 
 jSfo. IV.— THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 77 
 
 But confess, my dear Sir, are we not beginning to have 
 enough of royal-parade pictures ? And are not the humbler 
 classes somewhat tired of them ? Only the publishers and the 
 orandees, their enlightened patrons, still continue to admire. 
 Dark rooms are still prepared for such ; gas-jets and large 
 subscription books artfully laid on and out. The Court Guide 
 still goes to see Winterhalter's portrait of the Queen (" I wish 
 
 they may get it," as the D — ch — ss of observes ; the 
 
 picture is not painted by Winterhalter : but what do they know, 
 whether it be good or bad ?). The Court Guide still buys huge 
 proofs of her Majesty's marriage, or the Princess's christening, 
 or the real authorised Coronation picture (every one of the half 
 dozen are real authorised Coronation pictures), and is content 
 therewith. Ah ! Heaven bless that elegant aristocracy of 
 England ; that wise, that enlightened, that noble class of our 
 betters ! The subject of these pictures is worthy of their 
 noble souls — fit for their vast comprehensions ; and as the poor 
 workman buys his prints of the Prodigal Son's progress, the 
 young cockney-buck his portrait of Mrs. Honey, or some other 
 beauty with long ringlets and short petticoats, the sporting 
 man his varnished liuating-piece, so the great have their 
 likings, and we judge them by what they admire. 
 
 And what an admiration theirs is ! There's her Majesty in 
 state ! what a lovely white satin ! and the velvet, my dear, 
 painted to the very life. Every single jewel's a portrait, I give 
 you my honour ; and Prince Albert's own star and garter sat 
 to the artist ; the archbishop's wig is done to a hair ; and was 
 there ever a more wonderful piece of art than that picture of 
 the duke in his orders and his epaulets, and his white kersey- 
 mere pantaloons ? Eound the Sovereign are all the maids of 
 honour ; round the maids of honour all the oiScers of state ; 
 round the officers of state all the beef-eaters and gentlemen-at- 
 arms : and on these magnificent subjects our best painters are 
 continually employed. Noble themes for the exercise of 
 genius ! brilliant proofs of enlightened public taste ! The 
 court-milliners must be proud to think that their works are 
 thus immortalised, and the descendants of our tailors will look 
 at these pieces with a justifiable family pride.
 
 78 LETTERS ON THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 Mr. Leslie has had to chronicle coats and satin-slips in this 
 way, and has represented his sense in the drama of the corona- 
 tion (how many more episodes of the same piece have been 
 represented, and by how many more painters I don't know), 
 and his picture is so finely done, so full of beauty and grandeur, 
 that for once a court picture has been made interesting. I have 
 remarked on the principal feature before— the exquisite grace and 
 piety represented in the countenance and attitude of the Queen ; 
 but the judgment of the quality, as far as I have been able to 
 gather it (and it is good to this end to play the spy's part, and 
 overhear the opinions of tlie genteel personages who come to 
 see the Exhibition), — the genteel judgment is decidedly against 
 the painter, and his portraits are pronounced to be failures, and 
 his picture (juite inferior to many others by other hands. Let 
 us hope the opinion will be so general, that this charming 
 painter shall never be called upon to paint a court ceremony 
 again. I would rather see honest Mrs. Primrose's portrait by 
 him, than that of the loveliest lady of honour ; and the depict- 
 ing of uniforms, and lappets, and feathers left to those politer 
 artists whose genius is suited to subjects so genteel. 
 
 There is no Prince Albert this year, I regret to say ; but we 
 have two portraits of her Majesty, in trains, velvets, arm-chairs, 
 &c. — one by the President and one by Mr. Grant, and neither 
 worth a crown-piece. One of the most exquisite and refined 
 little sketches ever seen is the portrait of Lady Lyttelton by the 
 latter artist ; it is a delightful picture of a beautiful and high- 
 bred maiden. Mr. Chalon's aristocracy does not ogle and simper 
 quite so much as in former years ; and their ladyships are 
 painted with all the artist's accustomed skill. Mr. Kichmond's 
 heads are excellent as usual ; and there is a rival to these 
 gentlemen, who has given us a water-colour portrait of the 
 Bishop of Exeter, in which the amiable and candid features of 
 that learned prelate are depicted with great fidelity and talent. 
 Mr. Carrick's men-miniatures are perhaps the best among those 
 pleasing performances : the likeness of a former secretary for 
 Ireland will especially please those who know his lordship's 
 countenance, and those who do not, by its resemblance to an 
 eminent comedian whose absence from the stage all regret.
 
 r^o. IV.— THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 79 
 
 Mr. Thorburn cultivates more, perhaps, than any other miniature 
 painter, the poetry of his art. The gallant knights Sir Eoss 
 and Sir Newton are as victorious as usual ; and Mr. Lover's 
 head of Mr. Lever deserves praiseworthy mention : it will be 
 looked at with interest by Harry Lorrequer's English readers, 
 and by those who had the opportunity of seeing him in the 
 body, and hearing his manly and kind-hearted speech at the 
 Literary Fund the other day. 
 
 Of Mr. Etty's colour pieces what words can give an idea ? 
 Many lovers of Titian and Rubens will admit that here is an 
 English painter who almost rivals them in his original way, and 
 all will admire their magnificent beauty. Mr. Turner, our other 
 colourist, is harder to be understood. The last time the gentle 
 reader received a black eye at school, and for a moment after 
 the delivery of the blow, when flashes of blue, yellow and 
 crimson lightning blazed before the ball so preternaturally 
 excited, he saw something not unlike the Moses of Mr. Turner. 
 His picture of Cleopatra meeting Alexander the Great at Mos- 
 cow the Morning before the Deluge (perhaps this may not be 
 the exact title, but it will do as well as another), is of the most 
 transcendental sort. The quotations from the " Fallacies of 
 Hope " continue still in great force : as thus — 
 
 " The ark stood fii^m on Ararat : the returning Sun 
 Exhaled Earth's hiimid huhbles, and, emulous of light, 
 Reflected her lost forms, each in prismatic guise, 
 Hope's harbinger, ephemeral as the summer fly, 
 Which rises, flits, expands, and dies." 
 
 Fallacies of Hope. 
 
 The artist has done full justice to these sweet lines. 
 
 We are given to understand by cognoscenti that the Italian 
 skies are always of the bluest cobalt : hence many persons are dis- 
 satisfied with Mr. Stanfield's ItaKan landscapes as unfaithful, 
 because deficient in the proper depth of ultramarine. On this 
 subject let proper judges speak ; but others less qualified will find 
 the pictures beautiful, and more beautiful for their quiet and calm. 
 Who can praise Mr. Creswick sufficiently ? The Welsh girl 
 will, one of these days, fetch a sum of money as great as ever 
 was given for Hobbima or Euysdael ; and Evening is an English
 
 8o 
 
 LETTERS ON THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 Claude. Mr. Lee's fresh country landscapes will find hundreds 
 of admirers ; and perhaps there are no two prettier little pic- 
 tures in the gallery than Mr. Linton's Sorrento and Mr. Jutsum's 
 Tintern. 
 
 In walking round the vault in which the sculpture is en- 
 tombed, I did not see anything especially worthy of mark, 
 except a bust of Count d'Orsay, who has himself broken ground 
 as an artist, and whose genius will one day no doubt make its 
 way. Why have we not our common share of the admirable 
 pictures of Mr. Edwin Landseer ? It can't be that a man of his 
 facility has painted but three pictures in a year, and picture- 
 lovers wonder where the rest are. 
 
 M. A. TiTMARSH.
 
 THE PARTIE FINE. 
 
 By LANCELOT WAGSTAFF, ESQ. 
 
 OLONEL GOLLOP'S dinner in Haiiey-street (the 
 colonel is an East-India director, and his Mulligatawney 
 the best out of Bengal) was just put off, much to my 
 disappointment, for I had no other engagement ; Mrs. 
 Wagstaff was out of town with her mother at Bognor ; and my 
 clothes had been brought down to the club to dress — all to no 
 purpose. 
 
 I was disconsolately looking over the bill of fare, and 
 debating between Irish stew and the thirteentli cut at a lecf of 
 lamb (of which seven barristers had partaken, each with his 
 half pint of Marsala), when Jiggins, the waiter, brought me in 
 a card, saying that the gentleman was in the hall, and wished 
 to see me. 
 
 The card was Fitzsimons's ; — a worthy fellow, as I dare say 
 my reader knows. I went out to speak to him. " Perhaps," 
 thought I, " he is going to ask me to dine." 
 
 There was something particularly splendid in Fitz's appear- 
 ance, as I saw at a glance. He had on a new blue-and-white 
 silk neckcloth, so new that it had never been hemmed ; his 
 great gold jack-chain, as I call it, was displayed across his 
 breast, showing off itself and a lace-ruffle a great deal too 
 ostentatiously, as I thought. He had lemon-coloured gloves ; 
 French polished boots, with deuced high heels ; his hair curled 
 (it is red, but oils to a mahogany colour) ; his hat extremely on 
 one side ; and his moustache lacquered up with, I do believe, 
 the very same varnish which he puts to his boots. I hate those 
 
 G
 
 82 THE P ARTIE FINE. 
 
 varnished boots, except for moderns, and Fitz is tliree-and-forty 
 if he is a day. 
 
 However, there he stood, whipping; his lacquered boots with 
 a gold-headed stick, whistling, twirling his moustache, pulling 
 up his shirt-collar, and giving himself confoundedly dandified 
 airs in a word, before the hall-porter and the club message-boy 
 in brass buttons. 
 
 " Wagstaff, my boy," says he, holding out a kid glove, in a 
 most condescending manner, " I have something to propose 
 to you." 
 
 " What is it, and what's your hour ? " said I, quite playfully, 
 
 " You've guessed it at once," answered he. " A dinner is 
 
 what I mean — Mrs. Wagstaff is out of town, and " 
 
 Here he whispered me. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Well ? why not ? — After all there may be some very good 
 fun. If my mother-in-law heard of it she would be sure to 
 make a row. But she is safe at Bognor (may she stay there for 
 ever !). It is much better that I should have some agreeable 
 society than dine alone at the club, after the seven barristers, 
 on the leg of lamb. Of course it was not to be an expensive 
 dinner — of course not, Fitzsimons said, — no more it was to him 
 — hang him — as you shall hear. 
 
 It was ao-reed that the dinner-hour should be seven : the 
 place, Durognon's in the Haymarket ; and as I rather pique 
 myself on ordering a French dinner, that matter was to be 
 consigned to me. I walked down to Durognon's, looked at the 
 room, and ordered the dinner for four persons — the man asked 
 how much champagne should be put in ice ? which I con- 
 sidered rather a leading question, and giving a vague sort of 
 reply to this (for I determined that Fitzsimons should treat 
 us to as much as he liked), I walked away to while away the 
 hour before dinner. 
 
 After all, I thought, I may as well dress : the things are ready 
 at the club, and a man is right to give himself every personal 
 advantage, especially when he is going to dine with — with 
 LADIES. There — the secret is out. Fitz has invited me to 
 make a fourth in a 'pdit diner given to Madame ISTelval of the
 
 THE P ARTIE FINE. 83 
 
 Preucli theatre, and her friend Mademoiselle Delval. I had 
 seen Madame Nelval from a side-box a few eveninos before — 
 and, parileu, homo sum ; I meant no harm ; Gollop's dinner was 
 off ; Mrs. Wagstaff was out of town ; and I confess I was very 
 glad to have an opportunity of meeting this fascinating actress, 
 and keeping up my French. So I dressed, and at seven o'clock 
 walked back to Durognon's, whither it was agreed that Fitz 
 was to bring the ladies in his Brougham ; — the deuce knows 
 how he gets the money to pay for it by the way, or to indulge 
 in a hundred other expenses far beyond any moderate man's 
 means. 
 
 As the St. James's clock struck seven, a gentleman — past the 
 period of extreme youth it is true, but exhibiting a remarkably 
 elegant person still in a very becoming costume, might have 
 been seen walking by London House, and turning down 
 Charles-street to the Haymarket. This individual, I need 
 not say, was myself. I had done my white tie to a nicety, and 
 could not help saying, as I gazed for a moment in the great 
 glass in the club drawing-room—" CorUeu, Wagstaff, jon are 
 still as distingu4 a looking fellow as any in London." How 
 women can admire that odious Fitzsimons on account of his 
 dyed moustaches, I for one never could understand. 
 
 The dinner-table at Durognon's made a neat and hospitable 
 appearance; the plated candlesticks were not more coppery 
 than such goods usually are at taverns ; the works of art on 
 the wall were of tolerable merit ; the window-curtains, partially 
 drawn, yet allowed the occupant of the room to have a glimpse 
 of the cab-stand opposite, and I seated myself close to the 
 casement, as they say in the novels, awaiting Captain Fitz- 
 simons's arrival with the two ladies. 
 
 I waited for some time — the cabs on the stand disappeared 
 from the rank, plunged rattling into the mighty vortex of 
 London, and were replaced by other cabs. The sun, which had 
 set somewhere behind Piccadilly, was now replaced by the 
 lustrous moon, the gas lamps, and the red and blue orbs that 
 flared in the windows of the chemist opposite. Time passed on, 
 but no Fitzsimons's Brougham made its appearance. I read the 
 evening paper, half an hour was gone and no company come. 
 
 G 2
 
 84 THE PART IE FINE. 
 
 At last, as the opera carriages actually began to thunder down 
 the street, " a hand was on my shoulder," as the member for 
 Pontefract * sings. I turned round suddenly from my reverie — 
 that hand, that yellow kid-glove-covered hand was Fitz- 
 simons's. 
 
 " Come along, my boy," says he, '' we will go "fetch the ladies 
 — they live in Bury-street, only three minutes walk." 
 
 / go to Bury-street ? I be seen walking through St. James's- 
 square, giving an arm to any other lady in Europe but my 
 Arabella, my wife, Mrs. Wagstaff? Suppose her uncle, the 
 dean, is going to dine at the bishop's, and should see me ? — me, 
 walking with a French lady, in three quarters of a bonnet ! I 
 should like to know what an opinion he would have of me, and 
 where his money in the funds would go to ? 
 
 " No," says I, " my dear Fitzsimons, a joke is a joke, and I 
 am not more strait-laced than another ; but the idea that Mr. 
 Lancelot Wagstaff* should be seen walking in St. James's- 
 square with a young French actress, is a little too absurd. It 
 would be all over the city tomorrow, and Arabella would tear 
 my eyes out." 
 
 " You sha'n't walk with a French actress," said Fitz. " You 
 shall give your arm to as respectable a woman as any in Baker- 
 street — I pledge you my honour of this — Madame la Baronne 
 de Saint Menehould, the widow of a General of the Empire — 
 connected with the first people in France. Do you mean to 
 say that she is not equal to any of your sugar-baking family ? " 
 I passed over Fitz's sneer regarding my family ; and as it was a 
 baroness, of course agreed to walk with Fitzsimons in search 
 of the ladies. 
 
 " I thought 5'"0u said Madame Delval this morning," 
 said I. 
 
 "Oh, the l)aroness is coming too," answered Fitzsimons, and 
 ordered a fifth cover to be laid. We walked to Bury-street, and 
 presently after a great deal of chattering and clapping of doors 
 and drawers, three ladies made their appearance in the drawing- 
 room, and having gone through the ceremony of an introduction 
 
 * Richard Monckton Milnes. — Ei>.
 
 THE P ARTIE FINE. 85 
 
 in au entire state of darkness, the order of march was oiven. 
 I offered my arm to the Baroness de Saint Menehould, Fitz 
 leading the way with the other two ladies. 
 
 We walked down Jermyn-street ; my heart thumped with 
 some uneasiness as we crossed by the gambling-house in 
 Waterloo-place, lest any one should see me. There is a strong 
 gas-lamp there, and I looked for the first time at my portly 
 companion. She was fifty -five if a day — five years older than 
 that Fitzsimons. This eased me, but somehow it didn't please 
 me. I can walk with a woman of five-and-fifty any day — 
 there's my mother-in-law, my aunts, and the deuce knows 
 how many more I could mention. But I was consoled by 
 the baroness presently saying, that she should, from my accent, 
 have mistaken me for a Frenchman — a great compliment to 
 a man who has lieen in Paris but once, and learned the 
 language from a Scotch usher, never mind how many years 
 ago, at Mr. Lord's Academy, Tooting, Surrey. 
 
 But I adore Paul »de Kock's novels, and have studied them 
 so rapturously that no wonder I should have made a pro- 
 ficiency in the language. Indeed Arabella has often expressed 
 herself quite jealous as I lay on the sofa of an evening, laughing 
 my waistcoat-strings off, over his delightful pages. (The dear 
 creature is not herself very familiar with the language, and 
 sings Fluve dev) Tage, Partong pour Syrie, &c., with the most 
 confirmed Clapham accent.) I say slie has often confessed 
 herself to be jealous of the effect produced on my mind by 
 this dear, delightful, wicked, odious, fascinating writer, whose 
 pictures of French society are so admirably ludicrous. It 
 was through Paul de Kock that I longed to know something 
 about Parisian life, and those charming s^millantes, frdtillantes, 
 p^tillantes grisettes, whose manners he describes. " It's Paul 
 de Kock in London by Jove," said I to myself, when Fitz 
 proposed the little dinner to me ; " I shall see all their ways 
 and their fun." — And that was the reason why, as Mrs. 
 Wagstaff was out of town, I accepted the invitation so 
 cordially. 
 
 Well ; we arrived at Durognon's at a quarter-past-eight, 
 we five, and were ushered at length into the dining-room,
 
 86 THE PAR TIE FINE. 
 
 where the ladies llung off their cloaks and bonnets, and I 
 had an opportunity of seeing their faces completely. 
 
 Madame Nelval's was as charming a face as I ever looked 
 upon ; her hair parted meekly over the forehead, which was 
 rather low ; the eyes and eyebrows beautiful ; the nose such as 
 Grecian sculptor scarce ever chipped out of Parian stone ; the 
 mouth small, and, when innocently smiling, displaying the 
 loveliest pearly teeth, and calling out two charming attendant 
 dimples on each fresh cheek ; the ear a perfect little gem of an 
 ear. (I adore ears — unadorned ears without any hideous orna- 
 ments dangling from them — pagodas, chandeliers, bunches of 
 grapes, and similar monstrosities, such as ladies will hang from 
 them — entr' autres my own wife, Mrs. W., who has got a pair 
 of earrings her uncle, the dean, gave her, that really are as big 
 as boot-jacks almost.) She was habited in a neat, closely-fitting 
 silk dress of Parisian tartan silk, which showed off to advan- 
 tage a figure that was perfect, and a waist that was ridiculously 
 small. A more charming, candid, distinguished head it was 
 impossible to see. 
 
 Mademoiselle Delval was a modest, clever, pleasing person, 
 neatly attired in a striped something, I don't know the proper 
 phrase ; and Madame la Baronne was in a dress which I should 
 decidedly call gingham. 
 
 When we sat down to the Potage Printaniere, and I helped 
 the baroness naturally first, addressing her respectfully by her 
 title, the other two ladies began to laugh, and that brute, Pitz- 
 simons, roared as if he was insane. " La Baronne de Saint 
 M^nehould !" cried out little Madame Nelval; " o par exemple! 
 c'est maman, nion cher monsieur ! " On which (though I was 
 deucedly nettled, I must confess,) I said, that to be the mother 
 of Madame Nelval, was the proudest title any lady could have, 
 and so sneaked out of my mortification with this, I flatter 
 myself, not inelegant compliment. The ladies, one and all, 
 declared that I spoke French like a Parisian, and so I ordered 
 in the champagne ; and very good Durognon's Sillery is too. 
 
 Both the young ladies declared they detested it, but Madame 
 Nelval, the elder, honestly owned that she liked it ; and indeed 
 I could not but remark that, in our favour doubtless, the two
 
 THE PART IE FINE. 87 
 
 younger dames forgot their prejudices, and that their glasses 
 were no sooner filled than they were empty. 
 
 Ah, how charming it was to see the shuddering, timid, 
 nervous way in which the lovely Nelval, junior (let me call 
 her at once by her Christian name of Virginie), turned away 
 her little shrinking head as the waiter opened the bottles, and 
 they went off with their natural exhilarating pop and fizz. At 
 the opening of the first bottle, she fiew into a corner ; at the 
 opening of the second, she ran to her mother's arms (liinnuleo 
 similis quccrenti pavidam montibus aviis imitrem,* as we used 
 to say at Tooting), sweet sensibility ! charming, timorous grace ! 
 but she took the liquor very kindly when it loas opened, saying, 
 as she turned up her fine eyes to Heaven, " II n'y a rien qui 
 m'agace les nerfs comme cela ! " Agager les nerfs ! What a 
 delicate expression ! The good old lady told her to be calm, 
 and made light of her terror. 
 
 But though I had piqued myself on ordering the dinner, the 
 little coquette soon set me down. She asked for the most 
 wonderful things — for instance, she would have a salad of 
 dandelion — the waiter was packed off to Co vent Garden to seek 
 for it. When the fish came, she turned to the waiter and said, 
 " Comment ? vous n'avez point de monies ? " with the most 
 natural air in the world, and as if mussels were always served 
 at Parisian dinners, which, I suppose is the case. And then at 
 dessert, what must she remark but the absence of asparagus, 
 which, I must confess, I had not ordered. 
 
 " What," she said, turning round to my companion, " are there 
 no asparagus, monsieur ? — No asparagus ! ah, monsieur ! c'est 
 ma vie, mon bonheur, que les asperges ! J 'en suis folle — des 
 asperges. Je les adore — les asperges ! Je ne mange que cela, — 
 11 me les faut. Monsieur Fitzsimons. Vite, garcon ! des asperges 
 — des asperges a I'huile, entendez vous ? " 
 
 [ * " Vitas liinnuleo me similis, Chide, 
 Qiuerenti pavidam montibus aviis 
 Matrem." — HoR. Carm. lib. I. od. 23. 
 Thackeray knew his Horace by lieart, and was fond occasionally of 
 showing a familiarity which few college men even retain on into middle 
 life.— Ed.]
 
 88 THE PART IE FINE. 
 
 We were both very much alarmed by this manifest excite- 
 ment of Virginie's nerves ; and the asparagus was sent for. 
 woman ! you are some of you like the animals of the field in 
 so far as this, that you do not know your power. Those who 
 do can work wonders over us. No man can resist them. We 
 two were as timid, wretched, and trembling, until the asparagus 
 came, as any mortal could be. It seemed as if we had com- 
 mitted a crime in not ordering the asparagus that Virginie 
 adored. If she had proposed a pint of melted pearls, I think 
 Fitz was the man to send off to Storr and Mortimer's, and have 
 the materials bought. They (I don't mean the pearls, but the 
 vegetables) came in about half an hour, and she ate them cold, 
 as she said, with oil and vinegar ; but the half hour's pause was 
 a very painful one, and we vainly endeavoured to fill the odious 
 vacuum with champagne. All the while, Fitzsiraons, though he 
 drank and kept nervously helping his neighbours right and left, 
 was quite silent and frightened. I know which will be the 
 better horse (as the phrase is) if he 8 ever married. I was of 
 course collected, and kept putting in my jokes as usual, but I 
 cannot help saying that I wished myself out of the premises, 
 dreading to think what else Madame Virginie might ask for, 
 and saying inwardly, " What would my poor Arabella say if she 
 knew her scoundrel of a Lancelot was in such company ? " 
 
 Well — it may have been the champagne, or it niay have been 
 the asparagus, — though I never, I confess, remarked such a 
 quality in the vegetable, — it may, I say, have been the asparagus 
 which created — what do you think ? — a reconciliation between 
 Virginie and Heloise — the Madame Delval before mentioned. 
 This is a delicate matter, but it appeared the ladies had had a 
 difference in the morning about a ribbon, a fichu, or some such 
 matter doubtless, and they had not spoken all dinner time. 
 
 But after a bottle of sherry, four of Sillerj^ (which we all took 
 fairly, no flinching, no heel-taps, glass and glass about), after 
 coffee and curacoa, and after the asparagus, a reconciliation 
 took place, Heloise looked at Virginie, Virginie looked at 
 Heloise, the latter rose from her chair, tottered towards her 
 friend, and they were in each other's arms in a minute. Old 
 Madame Nelval looked quite pleased at the scene, and said.
 
 THE PART IE FINE. 89 
 
 smiling, to us, " ElU a si hon cceur, ma Jille ! " Oh those 
 mothers ! they are all the same. Not that she was wrong in 
 this instance. The two young ladies embraced with the warmest 
 cordiality, the quarrel about the ribbon was forgotten, the t\vo 
 young hearts were united once more ; and though that selfish 
 brute, Fitzsimons, who has no more heart than a bed-post, 
 twiddled his eternal moustache, and yawned over the scene, I 
 confess I was touched by this little outbreak of feeling, and this 
 glimpse into the history of the hearts of the young persons, and 
 drank a glass of curacoa to old ]\Iadame Nelval with a great 
 deal of pleasure. 
 
 But, oh ! fancy our terror, when all of a sudden Heloise, 
 weeping on her friend's neck, began to laugh and to cry, and 
 burst out shrieking into a fit of hysterics ' Wlien women begin 
 hysterics a tremor seizes me — I Ijecome mad myself — I have 
 had my wife and mother-in-law both in hysterics on the same 
 rug, and I know what it is — the very sound of the whoo — 00 — 00 
 drives me wild. I have heard it imitated in theatres, and have 
 rushed out in a frenzy. " Water ! water ! " gasped Virginie (we 
 had somehow not had any all dinner-time), I tumbled out 
 of the room, upsetting three waiters who were huddled at tlie 
 door (and be hanged to them) ; " water," roared I, rushing down 
 stairs, upsetting boots, and alarmed chamber-maids came pant- 
 ing in with a jug. 
 
 " What will they think of us ? " thought I, trembling with 
 emotion — " they will think we have murdered the poor young 
 lady, and yet on my honour and conscience I — Oh why did I 
 come — what would Arabella say if she knew ? " I thought of 
 the police coming in, of paragraphs in the paper beginning, 
 " Two ruffians of gentlemanly exterior were brought before Mr. 
 Jardine," &c., it was too horrible — if I had had my hat I would 
 have taken a cab off the stand, and driven down to my wife 
 at Bognor that minute; but I hadn't — so I went up to 
 fetch it. 
 
 Heloise was lying on the sofa now, a little calmer ; Madame 
 Delval and the chamber-maid were being kind to her : as for 
 that brute, Fitzsimons, he was standing in one of the windows, 
 his legs asunder, his two fists thrust into the tail pockets of his
 
 90 
 
 THE PART IE FINE. 
 
 brass buttoned coat, whistling, " Suoni la Tromba," the picture of 
 heartless, shameless, indifference. 
 
 As soon as the maid was gone, and I was come in, Madame 
 Virginie must of course begin hysterics too — they always do, 
 these women. She turned towards me with an appealing look 
 (she had been particularly attentive to me at dinner, much more 
 than to Fitzsimons, whom she louMd the whole time) — she gave 
 me an appealing look — and struck up too. 
 
 I couldn't bear it. I flung myself down on a chair, and be- 
 ginning to bang my forehead, gasped out " Oh Heavens ! a cab, 
 a cab ! " 
 
 " We'll have a coach. Go back with them," said Fitz, coming 
 
 swaggering up. 
 
 " Go hack with them ? " said I, " I'll never see them again as 
 lon» as I live." No more I would go back with them. The 
 carriage was called (the hysterics ceased the very moment Fitz 
 flung open the window and the cab-stand opposite could hear)— 
 the ladies went out. In vain good old Madame Nelval looked 
 as if she expected my arm. In vain Virginie cast her 
 appealing look. I returned it them with the most stony in- 
 difference, and falling back upon my chair, thought of my 
 poor Arabella. 
 
 The coach drove off. I felt easier as the rattle of the depart- 
 ing wheels died away in the night, and I got up to go. " How 
 glad I am it's over," thought I, on the stair ; " if ever I go to a 
 partiejine again may I * * 
 
 " I beg your parding, sir," said the waiter, touching my elbow 
 just as I was at the hotel door. 
 
 " Wliat is it ? " says I. 
 
 " The biU, sir," says he, with a grin. 
 
 " The bill, sir ? " I exclaimed ; why it's Captain Fitzsimons's 
 dinner ! " 
 
 " I beg your parding, sir, you ordered it," answered the 
 man. 
 
 " But, good Heavens ! you know Captain Fitzsimons ? " 
 
 " We do, sir, precious well too. The capting owes master two 
 underd pound," answered the wretched oflicial, and thrust the 
 document into my hand.
 
 THE PART IE FINE. 
 
 91 
 
 No. 24. 
 
 To Anatole Durognon. 
 
 
 £ 
 
 s. 
 
 d. 
 
 5 Dinners 
 
 1 
 
 15 
 
 
 
 Sherry 
 
 Sillery champagne (4 bottles) 
 
 Asparagus ... 
 
 Coffee and liqueurs 
 
 Wax-lights and apartment 
 
 
 2 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 
 5 
 7 
 5 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 
 
 £4 
 
 18 
 
 6 
 
 And I must say that the bill, considered as a bill, was 
 moderate, but I had better have dined off that Irish stew at 
 the club.
 
 ARABELLA ; 
 
 Or, the Moral of the "Partie Fine." 
 
 HEN the news came to Wagstaff that he had made 
 a public appearance in the New Monthly Magazine, 
 he affected to be in great wrath that his peccadilloes 
 should have been laid bare to the whole nation ; 
 and was for sacrificing the individual who had held him up to 
 ridicule. Luckily, that person was out of town for some days, 
 so his anger had time to cool if it were real ; but the truth must 
 be told, that Lancelot Wagstaff was in heart quite delighted at 
 being shown up for a sMucteur, and has ordered some new 
 waistcoats, and affects to talk very big about the French play, 
 and has been growing a tuft to his chin ever since. Mrs. Wag- 
 staff still continues at Bognor. Poor soul ! She will never 
 know whose was the portrait which figured last month in this 
 Miscellany under the pseudonym of Wagstaff : it is only the 
 coincidence of the new waistcoats and the sudden growth of 
 that tuft that can by any possibility betray him. 
 
 Some critics have hinted that the scene described was im- 
 moral. So it was, there's not a doubt of it ; but so is a great 
 deal of life immoral : so are many of Hogarth's pictures im- 
 moral, if you don't choose to see their moral tendency ; — nor 
 indeed are critics to be very much blamed for not perceiving 
 the moral of the brief tract called the Partie Fine, seeing, as it 
 were, that it was not yet in sight. No : it was purposely kept 
 back, as a surprise for the June number of the Magazine. This 
 is going to be the moral paper : and T hope to goodness that Mr. 
 Colburn's editor will not refuse it, or I shall be set down, in 
 spite of myself, as a writer of a questionable tendency. I
 
 MORAL OF THE P ARTIE FINE. 93 
 
 solemnly demand the insertion of this paper, in order to set a 
 well-meaning man right with a public he respects. Yes, ladies, 
 you yourselves, if you peruse these few, these very few pages, 
 will say, " Well, although he shocked us, the man is a moral 
 man after all." He is, indeed he is. Don't believe the critics 
 who say the contrary. 
 
 The former history described to you the conduct of Wagstaff 
 abroad. Ah, ladies ! you little knew that it was preparatory to 
 showing the monster up when at lioine. You would not have 
 understood the wretch had you not received this previous 
 insight into his character. If this be not morality, I know not 
 what is. 
 
 Those people who at the club and elsewhere are acquainted 
 with Mr. W. declare he is the most generous and agreeable 
 creature that ever turned out of the city. He arrives, his jolly 
 face beaming with good nature. He has a good word for every 
 body, and every man a good word for him. Some Bachelor says, 
 " "VVag, my boy, there is a white-bait party at Greenwich ; will 
 you be one ? " He hesitates. " I promised Mrs. "Wagstaff to be 
 home to dinner," says he ; and when he says that, you may be 
 sure he will go. If you propose to him a game of billiards in 
 the afternoon, he will play till dinner, and make the most ludi- 
 crous jokes about his poor wife waiting till his return. If you 
 ask him to smoke cigars, he will do so till morning, and goes 
 home with a story to Mrs. W., which the poor soul receives with 
 a desperate credulity. Once she used to sit up for him ; but to 
 continue that practice would have killed her. She goes to bed 
 now, and Wagstaff reels in when he likes. 
 
 He is not ill-humoured. Far from it. He never says an un- 
 kind word to the children, or to the cook, or to the boy who 
 blacks his boots, or to his wife. She wishes he would. He 
 comes down stairs exactly three minutes before office time. He 
 has his tea and his newspaper in bed. His eldest daughter 
 brings the paper in, and his poor wife appears with the tea. He 
 has a kind word for both, and scrubs the little girl's fresh cheek 
 with his bristly beard, and laughs at the joke, and professes a 
 prodigious interest in her lessons, and in knowing whether Miss 
 Wicgles, the governess, is satisfied with her ; and before she
 
 94 ARABELLA ; OR THE 
 
 finishes her answer, he is deep in the folios of the Times, and 
 does not care one farthing piece what the little girl says. He 
 has promised to take the child to Astley's any time these four 
 years. She could hardly speak when he promised it. She is a 
 fine tall lass, and can read and write now : and though it was so 
 long ago, has never forgotten the promise about Astley's. 
 
 When he is away from home, Wagstaff talks about his family 
 with great affection. In the long, long days when he is away, 
 their mother, God help her ! is telling them what a good man 
 their papa is — how kind and generous — and how busy he is — 
 what a pity ! he is obliged to work so hard and stay away from 
 home ! Poor creature, poor creature ! Sure Heaven will par- 
 don her these lies if any lies are pardonable. Whenever he says 
 he will walk with her, Arabella dresses herself in the gown he 
 likes, and puts on her pink bonnet, and is ready to the very 
 minute, you may be sure. How often is it that he is ready at 
 the minute ? How many scores and scores of times has he left 
 the heart-sick girl ? — not forgetting her in the least — but engaged 
 elsewhere with a game of billiards, or a jolly friend and a cigar — 
 and perhaps wishing rather to be at home all the time — but he 
 is so goodnatured, such a capital fellow ! Wlienever he keeps 
 his appointment — Heaven help us ! she brightens up as if it 
 were Paradise coming to her. She looks with a triumphant air 
 at the servant who opens the door, and round about at the 
 neighbours' windows, as if she would have all the world know 
 that she is walking with her husband. Every now and then as 
 she walks (if it is but twice or thrice in a year, for Wagstaff has 
 his business on week-days, and never gets up till one of a Sun- 
 day) ; every now and then as she walks with him, the delighted 
 creature gives a skip, and squeezes his arm, and looks up in his 
 face, she is so happy. And so is he too, for he is as goodnatured 
 a fellow as ever breathed— and he resolves to take her out the 
 very next Sunday — only he doesn't. Every one of these walk- 
 days are noted down in the poor soul's little Calendar of Home 
 as saint's days. She talks of them quite fondly ; and there is 
 not one of her female friends whom she won't visit for weeks 
 after, and to whom she will not be sure to find some pretext for 
 recounting the wonderful walk.
 
 MORAL OF THE P ARTIE FINE. 95 
 
 Moa dieu, ladies — all the time I was describing that affair at 
 Durognon's, those odious French women, and their chatter, and 
 their ogling, and their champagne, I was thinking of Arabella 
 far away in the distance and alone — I declare, upon my honour, 
 she was never out of my thoughts for a single minute, She, was 
 the moral of the Partie Fine — the simple, white-robed, spotless, 
 meek-eyed angel of a wife — thinking about her husband — and 
 he among the tawdry good-for-nothings, yonder ! Fizz ! there 
 goes the first champagne cork, Mr. Wagstaff is making a tender 
 speech to Madame Virginie. 
 
 At that moment Arabella is upstairs in the nursery, where 
 the same moon is shining in, and putting her youngest boy to 
 bed. 
 
 Bang ! there goes the second cork. Virginie screams — -Fitz- 
 simons roars with laughter — Wagstaff hob-nobs with the old 
 lady, who gives a wink and a nod. They are taking away the 
 fish and putting down the entries. 
 
 At that moment Arabella has her. second child between her 
 knees (the little one is asleep with its thumb in its mouth, and 
 the elder even is beginning to rub her eyes over her favourite 
 fairy tale, though she has read it many scores of times). Ara- 
 bella has the child between her knees, and just as "Wag is 
 clinking his glass with the old lady in London, his wife at 
 Boguor says something to the child, who says after her, 
 
 " Dod hless my dear papa : " and presently he is in bed too, 
 and sleeps as soundly as his little sister. 
 
 And so it is that these pure blessings are sent — yearning after 
 that fellow over his cups. Suppose they reach him ? Why, the 
 spotless things must blush and go out again from the company 
 in which they find him. The drinking goes on, the jokes and 
 fun get faster and faster. Arabella by this time has seen the 
 eldest child asleep in her crib, and is looking out at the moon in 
 silence as the children breathe round about her a soft chorus of 
 slumber. Her mother is down stairs alone, reading " Blair's 
 Sermons," — a high-shouldered, hook-nosed, lean, moral woman. 
 She wonders her daughter don't come down to tea — there is her 
 cup quite cold, with the cream stagnant on the surface, and her 
 work-basket by its side, with a pair of man's slippers nearly
 
 96 ARABELLA; OR THE 
 
 done, and one lazy scrawl from her husband, four lines only, 
 and ten days old. But Arabella keeps away thmking, thinking, 
 and preferring to be alone. The girl has a sweet soft heart, and 
 little sympathy with the mother's coarse, rigid, strong-minded 
 nature. The only time they quarrel is, when the old lady calls 
 her son-in-law a brute : then the young one fires up and defends 
 her own like a little Amazon. 
 
 What is this secret of love ? How does it spring ? How is 
 it that no neglect can kill it ? In truth, its origin and endu- 
 rance are alike, utterly absurd and unreasonable. What secret 
 power was it that made this delicate-minded young creature ; 
 who had been bred up upon the purest doctrines of the sainted 
 Mrs. Chapone ; who had never thought about love ; who, simple 
 soul, had been utterly absorbed in her little daily duties, her 
 pianoforte practice, her French lesson, her use-of -the -globes, her 
 canary bird, and her Manguall's questions — what, I say is it, 
 that makes this delicate girl all of a sudden expand into a 
 passion of love for a young sugar-baker, simply because she 
 meets him three times riding a gray mare on Clapham Common, 
 and afterwards (the sly rogue !) on half-a-dozen occasions at her 
 aunt's at tea ? What is it that makes her feel that that young 
 sugar-baker is the fatal man with whom her existence is bound 
 up : go through lire and water to marry him : love him in spite 
 of neglect and indifference : adore him so absurdly, that a half- 
 hour's kindness from him more than balances a month's 
 brutality ! 0, mystery of woman's heart ! I declare all this 
 lies in the moral of the Partie Fine. 
 
 Wagstaff, so splendid with his dinners and so generous on 
 himself, is not so generous at home. He pays the bills with 
 only a few oaths ; but somehow he leaves his wife without 
 money. He will give it to anybody rather than to her : a fact 
 of whicli he himself is, very likely, unaware at this minute, or 
 of the timidity of his wife in asking for it. In order to avoid 
 this asking, the poor girl goes through unheard of economies, 
 and performs the most curious tricks of avarice. She dresses 
 herself for nothing, and she dresses her children out of her own 
 frocks. Certain dimities, caps, pinafores, and other fallals have 
 gone througli the family ; and Arabella, though she sees ever
 
 MORAL OF THE P ARTIE FINE. 97 
 
 such a pretty thing iu a shop-window, will pass on with a sigh ; 
 whereas her Lancelot is a perfect devourer of waistcoats, and 
 never sets his eyes on a flaring velvet that strikes his fancy, but 
 you will be sure to behold him the next week swaggering about 
 in the garment in Pall Mall. Women are ever practising these 
 petty denials, about which the Lords of the Creation never 
 think. 
 
 I will tell you what I once saw Arabella doing. She is a woman 
 of very liigh breeding, and no inconsiderable share of family 
 pride : well, one day on going to Wagstaff' s house, who had in- 
 vited a party of us to Blackwall, about a bet he had lost, I was, 
 iu the master's absence, ushered into the drawing-room, which is 
 furnished very fine, and there sat the lady of the house at her 
 work-table, with her child prattling at her knee. 
 
 I could not understand what made Mrs. Waostaff blush so — 
 look so entirely guilty of something or other — fidget, answer 
 a tmvers, and receive an old friend in this strange and inhos- 
 pitable way. 
 
 She, the descendant of the Smiths of Smithfield, of the 
 Browns of Brown Hall, the proud daughter of the aristocracy, 
 luas making a pair of trousers for her eldest son. She huddled 
 them away hastily under a pillow — but bah ! we have keen eyes 
 —and from under that pillow the buttons peeped out, and with 
 those buttons the secret— they were white ducks — Wagstaff 's 
 white ducks — his wife was making them into white ducklings 
 for little Fred. 
 
 The sight affected me. I should like to have cried, only it is 
 unmanly ; and to cvj about a pair of little breeches !— I should 
 like to have seized hold of Mrs. Wagstaff and hugged her to my 
 heart : but she would have screamed, and rung for John to show 
 me down stairs ; so I disguised my feelings by treading on the 
 tail of her spaniel dog, whose squealing caused a diversion. 
 
 But I shall never forget those breeches. What ! Wagstaff is 
 flaunting in a coat of Nugee's, and his son has that sweet, 
 humble tailor. Wagstaff is preparing for Blackwall, and here is 
 his wife plying her gentle needle. Wagstaff feasts off plate and 
 frothing wine ; and Arabella sits down to cold mutton in the 
 nursery, with her little ones ranged about her. Wagstaft' enjoys, 
 
 H
 
 98 
 
 MORAL OF THE P ARTIE FINE. 
 
 Arabella suffers. He flings about his gold; and she tries to 
 stave off evil days by little savings of meek pence. Wagstaff 
 sins and she forgives — and trusts, and loves, and hopes on in 
 spite of carelessness, and coldness, and neglect, and extravagance, 
 and — and Parties Fines. 
 
 This is the moral of the last story. 0, ye Wagstaffs of this 
 world, profit by it, 0, ye gentle, meek angels of Arabellas, be 
 meek and gentle still. If an angel can't reclaim a man, who 
 can ? And I live in hopes of hearing that by the means of that 
 charmino- mediation, the odious Lancelot has become a reformed 
 character. 
 
 TiTMAJiSH.
 
 CAELYLE'S FEENCH EE VOLUTION.* 
 
 [1837.] 
 
 IXCE the appearance of this work, within the last two 
 months, it has raised among the critics and the 
 reading public a strange storm of applause and dis- 
 content. To hear one party you would fancy the 
 author was but a dull madman, indulging in wild vagaries of 
 language and dispensing with common sense and reason^ while, 
 according to another, his opinions are little short of inspiration, 
 and his eloquence unbounded as his genius. We confess, that 
 in reading the first few pages, we were not a little inclined to 
 adopt the former opinion, and yet, after perusing the whole of 
 this extraordinary work, we can allow, almost to their fullest 
 extent, the high qualities with which Mr. Carlyle's idolators 
 endow him. 
 
 But never did a book sin so grievously from outward appear- 
 ance, or a man's style so mar his subject and dim his genius. 
 It is stiff, short, and rugged, it abounds with Germanisms and 
 Latinisms, strange epithets, and choking double words, astonish- 
 ing to the admirers of simple Addisonian English, to those who 
 love history as it gracefully runs in Hume, or struts pompously 
 in Gibbon — no such style is Mr. Carlyle's. A man, at the first 
 onset, must take breath at the end of a sentence, or, worse still, 
 go to sleep in the midst of it. But these hardships become 
 lighter as the traveller grows accustomed to the road, and he 
 speedily learns to admire and sympathise ; just as he would 
 
 * The French Revolution : A History. In three volunie.s 
 Carlyle. London : James Fiaser, 18.37. 
 
 H 2 
 
 Bv Tliomii.s
 
 100 CARL YLES FRENCH RE VOL UTLON. 
 
 admire a Gothic catliedral in spite of the quaint carvings and 
 hideous images on door and buttress. 
 
 There are, however, a happy few of Mr. Carlyle's critics and 
 readers to whom these very obscurities and mysticisms of style 
 are welcome and almost intellioible ; the initiated in meta- 
 physics, the sages who have passed the veil of Kantian pliilosophy, 
 and discovered that the " critique of pure reason " is really that 
 which it purports to be, and not the critique of pure nonsense, 
 as it seems to worldly men : to these the present book has 
 charms unknown to us, who can merely receive it as a history 
 of a stirring time, and a skilful record of men's worldly thoughts 
 and doings. Even through these dim spectacles a man may 
 read and profit much from Mr. Carlyle's volumes. 
 
 He is not a party historian like Scott, who could not, in his 
 benevolent respect for rank and royalty, see duly the faults of 
 either : he is as impartial as Thiers, but wdth a far loftier and 
 nobler impartiality. 
 
 Xo man can have read the admirable history of the French 
 ex-Minister who has not been struck with this equal justice 
 which he bestows on all the parties or heroes of his book. He 
 has completely mastered the active part of the history : he has 
 no more partiality for court than for regicide — scarcely a move- 
 ment of intriguing king or republican which is unknown to 
 him or undescribed. He sees with equal eyes Madame Eoland 
 or Marie Antoinette — bullying Brunswick on the frontier, or 
 Marat at his butcher's w^ork or in his cellar — he metes to each 
 of them justice, and no more, finding good even in butcher 
 Marat or bullying Brunswick, and recording what he finds. 
 What a pity that one gains such a complete contempt for the 
 author of all this cleverness ! Only a rogue could be so impartial, 
 for Thiers but views this awful series of circumstances in their 
 very meanest and basest light, like a petty, clever statesman as 
 he is, watching with wonderful accuracy all the moves of the 
 great game, but looking for no more, never drawing a single 
 moral from it, or seeking to tell aught beyond it. 
 
 j\Ir. Carlyle, as we have said, is as impartial as the illustrious 
 Academician and ]\Iinister ; l)ut with what different eyes he 
 looks upon the men and the doings of this strange time ! To
 
 CARLYLES FRENCH REVOLUTION. loi 
 
 tlie one the whole story is but a hustling for places — a list of 
 battles and intrigues — of kings and governments rising and 
 fiillino- ; to the other, the little actors of this great drama are 
 striving but towards a great end and moral. It is better to 
 view it loftily from afar, like our mystic poetic Mr. Carlyle, tlian 
 too nearly with sharp-sighted and prosaic Thiers. Thiers is the 
 vaUt de chamhre of this liistory, he is too familiar with its dis- 
 habille and off-scouriugs : it can never be a hero to him. 
 
 It is difficult to convey to the reader a fair notion of i\Ir. 
 Carlyle's powers or his philosophy, for the reader has not grown 
 familiar with the strange style of this book, and may laugh 
 perhaps at the grotesqueness of his teacher : in this some honest 
 critics of the present day have preceded him, who have formed 
 their awful judgments after scanning half a dozen lines, and 
 damned poor Mr. Carlyle's because they chanced to be lazy. 
 Here, at hazard, however, we fall upon the story of the Bastille 
 capture ; the people are thundering at the gates, but Delaunay 
 will receive no' terms, raises his drawbridge and gives fire. 
 Now, cries Mr. Carlyle with an uncouth Orson-like shout : — 
 
 " Bursts forth Insurrection, at sight of its own blood, into 
 endless explosion of musketry, distraction, execration ; — and 
 over head, from the Fortress, let one great gun go booming, to 
 shew what we coiild do. The Bastille is besieged ! 
 
 " On, then, all Frenchmen that have hearts in their bodies • 
 Eoar with all your throats, of cartilage and metal, ye Sons of 
 Liberty ; stir spasmodically whatsoever of utmost faculty is in 
 you, soul, body, or spirit ; for it is the hour ! Smite, thou Louis 
 Tournay, cartwright of the Marais, old-soldier of the Regiment 
 Dauphine ; smite at that Outer Drawbridge-chain, though the 
 fiery hail whistles round thee ! Never, over nave or f eUoe, did thy 
 axe strike such a stroke. Down with it, man ; down with it to 
 Orcus : let the whole accursed Edifice sink thither, and Tyranny 
 be swallowed up for ever ! Mounted, some say, on the roof of 
 the guard-room, Louis Tournay smites, brave Aubin Bonnemere 
 (also an old soldier) seconding him : the chain yields, breaks ; 
 the huge Drawbridge slams down, thundering. Glorious: and yet, 
 alas, it is still but the outworks. The Eight gxim Towers, with 
 their Invalid es, musketry, their paving stones and cannon-mouths,
 
 102 CARLYLES FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 still soar aloft intact ; — Ditch yawning impassable, stone-faced ; 
 the inner Drawbridge with its hack towards us : the Bastille is 
 still to take !" 
 
 Did " Savage Eosa " ever " dash " a more spirited battle 
 sketch ? The two principal figures of the pieces, placed in 
 skilful relief, the raging multitude and sombre fortress admirably- 
 laid down ! In the midst of this writhing and wrestling, " the 
 line too labours (Mr. Carlyle's line labours perhaps too often), 
 and the words move slow." The whole story of the fall of the 
 fortress and its defenders is told in a style similarly picturesque 
 and real. 
 
 " The poor Invalides have sunk under their battlements, or 
 rise only witli reversed muskets : they have made a white flag of 
 napkins ; go beating the cKamade, or seeming to beat, for one can 
 hear nothing. The very Swiss at the Portcullis look weary of 
 firing ; disheartened in the fire-deluge ; a porthole at the draw- 
 bridge is opened, as by one that would speak. See Huissier 
 Maillard, the shifty man ! On his plank, swinging over the abyss 
 of that stone-Ditch ; plank resting on parapet, balanced by 
 weight of Patriots, — he hovers perilous : such a Dove towards 
 such an Ark ! Deftly, thou shifty Usher : one man already fell ;. 
 and lies smashed, far down there against the masonry ! Usher 
 Maillard falls not : deftly, unerring he walks, with out-spread 
 palm. The Swiss holds a paper through his porthole ; the shifty 
 Usher snatches it, and returns. Terms of surrender : Pardon, 
 immunity to all ! Are they accepted ? ' Foi d'officier, on the 
 word of an officer,' answers half-pay Hulin, — or half-pay Elie, for 
 men do not agree on it, " they are." Sinks the drawbridge, — 
 Usher Maillard bolting it when down; rushes-in the living 
 deluge : the Bastille is fallen ! Victoire ! La Bastille est 
 yrise !" 
 
 This is prose run mad — no doubt of it— according to our 
 notions of the sober gait and avocations of homely prose ; but is 
 there not method in it, and could sober prose have described the 
 incident in briefer words, more emphatically, or more sensibly ? 
 And this passage, which succeeds the picture of storm and 
 slaughter, opens (grotesque though it be), not in prose, but in 
 noble poetry, the author describes the rest of France during the
 
 CARLYLE'S FRENCH REVOLUTION. 103 
 
 acting of this Paris tragedy — and by this peaceful image admir-^ 
 ably heightens the gloom and storm of his first description : — 
 
 " evening sun of July, how, at this hour, thy beams fall 
 slant on reapers amid peaceful woody fields ; on old women 
 spinning in cottages ; on ships far out in the silent main ; on 
 Balls at the Orangerie of Versailles, where high-rouged Dames 
 are even now dancing with double-jacketted Hussar-Ofiicers, and 
 also on this roaring Hell-porch of a Hotel-de-Ville ! One forest 
 of distracted steel bristles, in front of an Electoral Committee ; 
 points itself, in horrid radii, against this and the other accused 
 breast. It was the Titans warring with Olympus ; and they, 
 scarcely crediting it, have conquered." The reader will smile 
 at the double-jackets and rouge, which never would be allowed 
 entrance into a polite modern epic, but, familiar though they 
 be, they complete the picture, and give it reality, that gloomy 
 rough Eembrandt-kind of reality which is Mr. Carlyle's style of 
 historic painting. 
 
 In this same style Mr. Carlyle dashes off the portraits of his 
 various characters as they rise in the course of the history. 
 Take, for instance, this grotesque portrait of vapouring Tonneau 
 Mirabeau, his life and death ; it follows a solemn, almost awful 
 picture of the demise of his great brother : — 
 
 " Here, then, the wild Gabriel Honore drops from the tissue 
 of our History ; not without a tragic farewell. He is gone : the 
 flower of the wild Eiquetti kindred ; which seems as if in him it 
 had done its best, and then expired, or sunk down to the undis- 
 tinguished level. Crabbed old Marquis Mirabeau, the Friend of 
 Men, sleeps sound. Barrel Mirabeau gone across the Ehine ; 
 his Eegiment of Emigrants will drive nigh desperate. ' Barrel 
 Mirabeau,' says a biographer of his, ' went indignantly across the 
 Ehine, and drilled Emigrant Eegiments. But as he sat one 
 morning in his tent, sour of stomach doubtless and of heart, 
 meditating in Tartarean humour on the turn things took, a 
 certain Captain or Subaltern demanded admittance on business. 
 Such Captain is refused ; he again demands, with refusal ; 
 and then again, till Colonel Viscount Barrel-Mirabeau, blazing 
 up into a mere brandy barrel, clutches his sword and tumbles 
 out on this canaille of an intruder, — alas, on the canaille of an
 
 104 CARLYLES FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 intruder's sword's point, who had drawn with swift dexterity; and 
 dies, and the Newspapers name it apoplexy and alarming 
 accident. So die the Mirabeaus." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle gives this passage to " a biographer," but he 
 himself must be the author of this History of a Tub ; the grim 
 humour and style belong only to him. In a graver strain he 
 speaks of Gabriel : — 
 
 " New Mirabeaus one hears not of : the wild kindred, as we 
 said, is gone out with this its greatest. As families and kindreds 
 sometimes do ; producing, after long ages of unnoted notability, 
 some living quintessence of all they liad^ to flame forth as a 
 man world-noted ; after whom they rest, as if exhausted ; the 
 sceptre passing to others. The chosen Last of the Mirabeaus is 
 gone ; the chosen man of France is gone. It was he who shook 
 old France from its basis ; and, as if with his single hand, has 
 held it toppling there, still unfallen. "Wliat things depended 
 on that one man ! He is as a ship suddenly shivered on sunk 
 rocks : much swims on the waste waters, far from help." 
 
 Here is a picture of the heroine of the Ee volution : — "Eadiant 
 with enthusiasm are those dark eyes, is that strong Minerva- 
 face, looking dignity and earnest joy ; joyfullest she where 
 all are joyful. Eeader, mark that queen -like burgher- woman : 
 beautiful, Amazonian-graceful to the eye ; more so to the mind. 
 Unconscious of her worth (as all worth is), of her greatness, of 
 her crystal clearness ; genuine, the creature of Sincerity and 
 Nature in an age of Artificiality, Pollution, and Cant ; there, in 
 her still completeness, in her still invincibility, she, if thou knew 
 it, is the noblest of all living Frenchwomen, — and will be seen, 
 one day." 
 
 The reader, we think, will not fail to observe the real beauty 
 which lurks among all these odd words and twisted sentences, 
 living, as it were, in spite of the weeds ; but we repeat, that no 
 mere extracts can do justice to the book ; it requires time and 
 study. A first acquaintance with it is very unprepossessing ; 
 only familiarity knows its great merits, and values it accordingly. 
 
 We would gladly extract a complete chapter or episode from 
 the work — the flight to Varennes, for instance, the huge coach 
 bearing away the sleepy, dawdling, milk-sop royalty of France ;
 
 CARLYLES FRENCH REVOLUTION. 105 
 
 fiery Bouille spreading abroad his scouts and Hussars, " his 
 electric thunder-chain of military out-posts," as Mr. Carlyle 
 calls them with one of his great similes. Paris in tremendous 
 commotion, the country up and armed, to prevent the King's 
 egress, the chance of escape glimmering bright until the last 
 moment, and only extinguished by Ijewildered Louis himself, 
 too pious and too out-of-breath, too hungry and sleepy, to make 
 one charge at the head of those gallant dragoons — one single 
 blow to win crown and kingdom and liberty again ! We never 
 read this hundred-times told tale with such a lireathless interest 
 as Mr. Carlyle has managed to instil into it. The whole of the 
 sad story is equally touching and vivid, from the mean igno- 
 minious return down to the fatal 10th of August, when the 
 sections beleaguered the King's palace, and King Louis, with arms, 
 artillery, and 2,000 true and gallant men, flung open the Tuileries 
 ijates and said " Marchons ! marchons ! " whither ? Not with 
 vive le Boi, and roaring guns, and bright bayonets, sheer through 
 the rabble who barred the gate, swift through the broad Champs 
 Elysees, and the near barrier, — not to conquer or fall like a 
 King and gentleman, but to the reporters' box in the National 
 Assembly, to be cooped and fattened until killing time ; to die 
 trussed and tranquil like a fat capon. What a son for St. Louis ! 
 Wliat a husband for brave Antoinette ! 
 
 Let us, however, follow Mr. Carlyle to the last volume, and 
 passing over the time, when, in Danton's awful image, " coalized 
 Kings made war upon France, and France, as a gage of battle, 
 tiung the head of a King at their feet," quote two of the last 
 scenes of that awful tragedy, the deaths of bold Danton and 
 " sea-green " Eobespierre, as Carlyle delights to call him. 
 
 " On the night of the 30th of March, Juryman Paris came 
 rushing in ; haste looking through his eyes : a clerk of the Salut 
 Committee had told him Danton's warrant was made out, he is to 
 be arrested this very night ! Entreaties there are and trepida- 
 tion, of poor Wife, of Paris and Friends : Danton sat silent for a 
 while; then answered, 'lis n'oscraient, They dare not'; and 
 would take no measures. Murmuring 'They dare not,' he 
 goes to sleep as usual. 
 
 " And yet, on the morrow morning, strange rumour spreads
 
 io6 CARLYLES FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 over Paris city : Danton, Camille, Phelippeaux, Lacroix, have 
 been arrested over night ! It is verily so : the corridors of the 
 Luxembourg were all crowded, Prisoners crowding forth to 
 see this giant of the Eevolution enter among them, ' Messieurs,' 
 said Danton politely, ' I hoped soon to have got you all out of 
 this : but here I am myself ; and one sees not where it will end.' — 
 Eumour may spread over Paris : the Convention clusters itself 
 into groups ; wide-eyed, whispering, ' Danton arrested ! ' Who 
 then is safe ? Legendre, mounting the Tribune, utters, at his 
 own peril, a feeble word for him ; moving that he be heard at 
 that Bar before indictment ; but Eobespierre frowns him down : 
 ' Did you hear Chabot, or Bazire ? Would you have two weights 
 and measures ? ' Legendre cowers low ; Danton, like the others, 
 must take his doom. 
 
 " Danton's Prison-thoughts were curious to have ; but are not 
 given in any quantity : indeed few such remarkable men have 
 been left so obscure to us as this Titan of the Eevolution. He 
 was heard to ejaculate : ' This time twelvemonth, I was moving 
 the creation of that same Eevolutionary Tribunal. I crave pardon 
 for it of God and man. They are all Brothers Cain : Briscot 
 would have had me guillotined as Eobespierre now will. I leave 
 the whole business in a frightful welter {gdchis 4pouvantahU) : 
 not one of them understands anything of government. Eobes- 
 pierre will follow me ; I drag down Eobespierre. 0, it were 
 better to be a poor fisherman than to meddle with governing of 
 men.' — Camille's young beautiful Wife, who had made him rich 
 not in money alone, hovers round the Luxembourg, like a dis- 
 embodied spirit, day and night. Camille's stolen letters to her 
 still exist ; stained with the mark of his tears. ' I carry my 
 head like a Saint-Sacrament ? ' So Saint Just was heard to 
 mutter : ' Perhaps he will carry his like a Saint-Dennis.' 
 
 "Unhappy Danton, thou still unhappier light Camille, once 
 light Procureur de la Lanterne, ye also have arrived, then, at the 
 Bourne of Creation, where, like Ulysses Polytlas at the limit and 
 utmost Gades of his voyage, gazing into that dim Waste beyond 
 Creation, a man does see the Shade of his Mother, pale, ineffectual; 
 — and days when his Mother nursed and wrapped him are ail- 
 too sternly contrasted with this day ! Danton, Camille, Herault,
 
 CARLYLES FRENCH REVOLUTION. 107 
 
 Westermann, and the others, veiy strangely massed up with 
 Bazires, Swindler Chabots, Fabre d'Eglantines, Banker Freys, a 
 most motley Batch, ' Fournie ' as such things will be called, 
 stand ranked at the bar of Tinville. It is the 2d of April 
 1794. Danton has had but three days to lie in Prison ; for the 
 time presses. 
 
 " ' What is your name ? place of abode ? ' and the like, 
 Fouquier asks ; according to formality. ' ]\Iy name is Danton,' 
 answers he ; 'a name tolerably known in the Eevolution : my 
 abode will soon be Annihilation {dans le N4ant) ; but I shall 
 live in the Pantheon of History.' A man will endeavour to say 
 something forcible, be it by nature or not ! Herault mentions 
 epigrammatically that he ' sat in this Hall, and was detested of 
 Parlementeers.' Camille makes answer, ' My age is that of the 
 ton Sansculotte J^sus ; an age fatal to Kevolutionists.' Camille, 
 Camille ! And yet in that Divine Transaction, let us say, there 
 did lie, among other things, the fatallest Reproof ever uttered 
 here below to Worldly Eight-honourableness ; ' the highest Fact,' 
 so devout Novalis calls it, ' in the Rights of Man.' Camille's 
 real age, it would seem, is thirty-four. Danton is one year older. 
 
 " Some five months ago, the Trial of the Twenty-two Girondins 
 was the greatest that Fouquier had then done. But here is a still 
 greater to do ; a thing which tasks the whole faculty of Fouquier ; 
 which makes the very heart of him waver. For it is the voice of 
 Danton that reverberates now from these domes ; in passionate 
 words, piercing with their wild sincerity, winged with wrath. 
 Your best Witnesses he shivers into ruin at one stroke. He 
 demands that the Committee-men themselves come as Witnesses, 
 as Accusers; he ' will cover them with ignominy.' He raises 
 his huge stature, he shakes his huge black head, fire flashes from 
 the eyes of him, — piercing to all Republican hearts : so that the 
 very Galleries, though we filled them by ticket, murmur sym- 
 pathy ; and are like to burst down, and raise the People, and 
 deliver him ! He complains lovidly that he is classed with 
 Chabots, with swindling Stockjobbers ; that his Indictment is a 
 list of platitudes and horrors. ' Danton hidden on the Tenth of 
 August ? ' reverberates he, with the roar of a lion in the toils : 
 ' Where are the men that had to press Danton to shew himself.
 
 io8 CARLYLES FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 that day? Where are these high-gifted souls of whom he 
 borrowed energy ? Let them appear, these Accusers of mine : I 
 have all the clearness of my self-possession when I demand 
 them. I will unmask the three shallow scoundrels/ Us trois plats 
 coquins, Saint-Just, Couthon, Lebas, ' who fawn on Eobespierre, 
 and lead him towards his destruction. Let them produce them- 
 selves here ; I will j^lunge them into Nothingness, out of which 
 they ought never to have risen.' The agitated President agitates 
 his bell ; enjoins calmness, in a vehement manner : ' What is it 
 to thee how I defend myself ? ' cries the other ; ' the right of 
 dooming me is thine always. The voice of a man speaking for 
 his honour and his life may well drown the jingling of thy bell ! ' 
 Thus Danton, higher and higlier ; till the lion voice of him ' dies 
 away in his throat : ' speech will not utter what is in that man. 
 The Galleries murmur ominously ; the first day's Session is over." 
 
 H: H< ^ H: H: 
 
 " Danton carried a high look in the Death-cart. Not so 
 Camille : it is but one week, and all is so topsy-turvied ; angel 
 Wife left w^eeping ; love, riches, Kevolutionary fame, left all at 
 the Prison-gate ; carnivorous Rabble now howling round. Palp- 
 able, and yet incredible ; like a madman's dream ! Camille 
 struggles and writhes ; his shoulders shuffle the loose coat off 
 them, which hangs knotted, the hands tied : ' Calm, my friend,' 
 said Danton, 'heed not that vile canaille {laisscz la ccttc vile 
 canailky At the foot of the Scaffold, Danton was heard to 
 ejaculate, ' my Wife, my well-beloved, I shall never see thee 
 more then !' — but, interrupting himself : 'Danton, no weakness !' 
 He said to Herault-Sechelles stepping forward to embrace him : 
 ' Our heads will meet there,' in the Headsman's sack. His last 
 words were to Samson the Headsman himself, ' Thou wilt shew 
 my head to the people ; it is worth shewing.' 
 
 " So passes, like a gigantic mass, of valour, ostentation, fury, 
 affection, and wild revolutionary manhood, this Danton, to his 
 unknown home. He was of Arcis-sur-Aube ; born of ' good 
 farmer-people ' there. He had many sins ; but one worst sin 
 he had not, that of Cant. No hollow Pormalist, deceptive and 
 self-deceptive, [jhastly to the natural sense, was this ; but a very 
 Man : with all his dross he was a Man ; fiery-real, from the great
 
 CARLYLE'S FRENCH REVOLUTION. 109 
 
 fire-bosom of Nature herself. He saved France from Brunswick ; 
 he walked straight his own wild road, whither it led him. He 
 may live for some generations in the memory of men." 
 
 This noble passage requires no comment, nor does that in 
 which the poor wretched Eobespierre shrieks his last shriek, and 
 dies his pitiful and cowardly death. Tallien has drawn his 
 theatrical dagger, and made his speech, trembling Eobespierre 
 has lied to the Hotel de Ville, and Henriot, of the National 
 Guard, clatters through the city, summoning the sections to the 
 aid of the people's friend. 
 
 "About three in the morning, the dissident Armed-forces have 
 met. Henriot's Armed Force stood ranked in the Place de 
 Greve ; and now Barras's, which he has recruited, arrives 
 there ; and they front each other, cannon bristling against 
 cannon. Citoyens ! cries the voice of Discretion loudly enough, 
 Before coming to bloodshed, to endless civil-war, hear the Con- 
 vention Decree read : — ' Iiobespierre and all rebels Out of Law ! ' 
 Out of Law ? There is terror in the sound : unarmed Citoyens 
 disperse rapidly home ; Municipal Cannoneers range themselves 
 on the Convention side, with shouting. At which shout, 
 Henriot descends from his upper room, far gone in drink as 
 some say ; finds his Place de Greve empty ; the cannons' 
 mouth turned towards him ; and, on the whole, — that it is now 
 the catastrophe ! 
 
 " Stumbling in again, the wretched drunk-sobered Henriot 
 announces: 'AH is lost !' 'Miserable ! it is thou that hast lost it,' 
 cry they; and fling him, or else he flings himself, out of window: 
 far enough down ; into masonwork and horror of cesspool ; not 
 into death but worse. Augustin Eobespierre follows him ; 
 with the like fate. Saint-Just called on Lebas to kill him ; 
 who would not. Couthon crept under a table ; attempting to 
 kill himself ; not doing it. — On entering that Sanhedrim of 
 Insurrection, we find all as good as extinct ; undone, ready for 
 seizure. Eobespierre was sitting on a chair, with pistol-shot 
 blown through, not his head, but his under jaw ; the suicidal 
 hand had failed. With prompt zeal, not without trouble, we 
 gather these wrecked Conspirators ; fish up even Henriot and 
 Augustin, bleeding and foul ; pack them all, rudely enough,
 
 no CARLYLES FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 into carts ; and shall, before sunrise, have them safe under 
 lock and key. Amid shoutings and embracings. 
 
 " Eobespierre lay in an anteroom of the Convention Hall, 
 while his Prison-escort was getting ready ; the mangled jaw 
 bound up rudely with bloody linen : a spectacle to men. He 
 lies stretched on a table, a deal-box his pillow ; the sheath of 
 the pistol is still clenched convulsively in his hand. Men 
 bully him, insult him : his eyes still indicate intelligence ; he 
 speaks no word. ' He had on the sky-blue coat he had got 
 made for the Feast of the ^trc, Biuprcnfie, ' — reader, can thy 
 hard heart hold out against that ? His trousers were nankeen ; 
 the stockings had fallen down over the ancles. He spake no 
 word more in this world." 
 
 *^ 4^ 4^ ^ 
 
 't- *I» *S' ^F 
 
 " The Death-tumbrils, with their motley Batch of Outlaws, 
 some Twenty-three or so, from Maximilien to Mayor Fleuriot and 
 Simon the Cord wainer, roll on. All eyes are on Eobespierre's Tum- 
 bril, where he, his jaw bound in dirty linen, with his half-dead 
 Brother, and half-dead Henriot, lie shattered, their ' seventeen 
 hours ' of agony about to end. The Gendarmes point their swords 
 at him, to shew the people which is he. A woman springs on 
 the Tumbril ; clutching the side of it with one hand ; waving 
 the other Sibyl-like ; and exclaims, ' The death of thee 
 gladdens my very heart, ni'enivre de joie ;' Eobespierre opened 
 his eyes ; ' Sc6Urat, go down to Hell, with the curses of all 
 wives and mothers ! ' — At the foot of the scaffold, they stretched 
 liim on the ground till his turn came. Lifted aloft, his eyes 
 again opened ; caught the bloody axe. Samson wrenched the 
 coat off him ; wrenched the dirty linen from his jaw : the jaw 
 fell powerless, there burst from him a cry ; — hideous to hear 
 and see. Samson, thou canst not be too quick ! 
 
 " Samson's work done, there bursts forth shout on shout of ap- 
 plause. Shout, which prolongs itself not only over Paris, but 
 over France, but over Europe, and down to this Generation. 
 Deservedly, and also undeservedly. 0, unhappiest Advocate of 
 Arras, wert thou worse than other Advocates ? Stricter man, ac- 
 cording to his Formula, to his Credo, and his Cant, of probities, 
 benevolences, pleasures-of- virtue, and such like, lived not in that
 
 CARLYLES FRENCH REVOLUTION. iii 
 
 n<]je. A man fitted, in some luckier settled age, to have become one 
 of those incorruptible barren Pattern-Figures, and have had 
 marble-tablets and funeral-sermons : His poor landlord, the 
 Cabinet-maker in the Paie Saint-Honore, loved him ; his Brother 
 died for him. May God be merciful to him, and to us !" 
 
 The reader will see in the above extracts most of the faults, 
 and a few of the merits, of this book. He need not be told 
 that it is written in an eccentric prose, here and there disfigured 
 by grotesque conceits and images ; but, for all this, it betrays 
 most extraordinary powers — learning, observation, and humour. 
 Above all, it has no cant. It teems with sound, hearty, philo- 
 sophy (besides certain transcendentalisms which we do not pre- 
 tend to understand), it possesses genius, if any book ever did. 
 It wanted no more for keen critics to cry fie upon it 1 Clever 
 critics who have such an eye for genius, that when Mr. Bulwer 
 published his forgotten book concerning Athens, they dis- 
 covered that no historian was like to him ; that he, on his 
 Athenian hobby, had quite out-trotted stately Mr. Gibbon ; and 
 with the same creditable unanimity they cried down Mr. Car- 
 lyle's history, opening upon it a hundred little piddling sluices 
 of small wit, destined to wash the book sheer away ; and lo ! 
 the book remains, it is only the poor wit which has run dry. 
 
 We need scarcely recommend this book and its timely ap- 
 pearance, now that some of the questions solved in it seem 
 almost likely to be battled over again. The hottest Eadical in 
 England may learn by it that there is something more necessary 
 for him even than his mad liberty — the authority, namely, by 
 which he retains his head on his shoulders and his money in his 
 pocket, which privileges that by-word " liberty " is often unable 
 to secure for him. It teaches (by as strong examples as ever 
 taught any thing) to rulers and to ruled alike moderation, and 
 yet there are many who would react the same dire tragedy, 
 and repeat the experiment tried in France so fatally. " No 
 Peers — no Bishops — no property qualification — no restriction of 
 suffrage." Mr. Leader bellows it out at Westminster and Mr. 
 Eoebuck croaks it at Bath. Pert quacks at public meetings 
 joke about hereditary legislators, journalists gibe at them, and 
 moody starving labourers, who do not know how to jest, but
 
 112 CARLYLE'S FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 can hate lustily, are told to curse crowns and coronets as the 
 origin of their woes and their poverty, and so did the clever 
 French spouters and journalists gibe at royalty, until royalty 
 fell poisoned under their satire ; and so did the screaming hun- 
 gry French mob curse royalty until they overthrew it : and 
 to what end ? To bring tyranny and leave starvation, battering- 
 down Bastilles to erect guillotines, and murdering kings to set 
 up emperors in their stead. 
 
 We do not say that in our own country similar excesses are 
 to be expected or feared ; the cause of complaint has never 
 been so great, the wrong has never been so crying on the part 
 of the rulers, as to bring down such fearful retaliation from the 
 governed. Mr. Eoebuck is not Ptobespierre, and Mr. Attwood, 
 with his threatened legion of fiery Marseillois, is at best but a 
 Brummagem Barbaroux. But men alter with circumstances ; 
 six months before the kingly dccMance, the bitter and bilious 
 advocate of Arras spake with tears in his eyes about good King- 
 Louis, and the sweets and merits of constitutional monarchy 
 and hereditary representation : and so he spoke, until his own 
 turn came, and his own delectable guillotining system had its 
 hour. God forbid that we should pursue the simile with Mr. 
 Roebuck so far as this ; God forbid, too, that he ever should 
 have the trial. 
 
 True ; but we have no right, it is said, to compare the Re- 
 publicanism of England with that of France, no right to sup- 
 pose that such crimes would be perpetrated in a country so 
 enlightened as ours. Why is there peace and liberty and a 
 republic in America ? No guillotining, no ruthless Yankee 
 tribunes retaliating for bygone tyranny by double oppression ? 
 Surely the reason is obvious — because there was no hunger in 
 America ; because there were easier ways of livelihood than 
 those offered by ambition. Banish Queen, and Bishops, and 
 Lords, seize the lands, open the ports, or shut them, (according 
 to the fancy of your trades' unions and democratic chibs, who 
 have each their freaks and hobbies,) and are you a whit richer 
 in a month, are your poor Spitalfields men vending their silks, 
 or your poor Irishmen reaping their harvests at home ? Strong 
 interest keeps Americans quiet, not Government ; here there is
 
 CARLYLES FRENCH REVOLUTION. 113 
 
 always a party which is interested in rebellion. People America 
 like England and the poor weak rickety republic is jostled to 
 death in the crowd. Give us this republic to-morrow and it 
 would share no better fate ; liave not all of us the power, and 
 many of us the interest, to destroy it ? 
 
 ^'^j'
 
 ELIZABETH BEOWNRIGGE: A TALE. 
 
 Dedicated to the Authoii of " Eugene Aram, a Novel." 
 
 Tt TTpocyeXare tov TrawcTTaTov yeSwv 
 Al, at, Tt Spaao) ; * * * 
 Ea(rov auras, w xaAav, cfieLcraL reKvuiv. 
 
 EuRiPiDis Medea. 
 
 DEDICATIOK 
 
 To the Autlior of " Eugene Aram." 
 
 IE, — I am a young man who have for a length of time 
 applied myself to the cultivation of literature, and 
 have hitherto entirely failed in deriving any emolu- 
 ments from my exertions. I liave in vain supplicated 
 the magnates of every theatre in the metropolis with the 
 offerings of my tragedies and comedies, my operas and farces ; 
 and I have suffered reiterated rejections of my novels, poems, 
 and romances, from every pul^lisher who flourishes between the 
 two opposite points of Paternoster Eow and Albemarle Street. 
 In despair of ever finding a vent for my lucubrations, and 
 alarmed at the heaps of unprofitable MSS. which have been 
 daily growing larger and larger upon my shelves, I sat myself 
 down one evening about a fortnight ago, and spread out before 
 me all the many cold and civil letters of refusal which I had 
 received from different managers and booksellers, with a view of 
 comparing their contents, and endeavouring to elicit the cause 
 to which the universally unfavourable reception of my works
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 115 
 
 was to be ascribed. As my eyes glanced along the ranks of the 
 letters which I had disposed in parade order on my writing- 
 table, I was surprised to find that the very identical phrase 
 occurred in every one of -them : managers of major or of minor 
 theatres, publishers of every grade of fashion, and of every 
 quarter of the metropolis, were all unanimous in expressing 
 their approbation of the talent exhibited in my productions. 
 My dramatic efforts, whether in five acts or in two, would 
 doubtless have succeeded some ten years ago ; but, imhappily, 
 they were not of a " popular description ; " — my poems were 
 classical, pure in taste, perfect in diction ; but most unhappily, 
 were not, at present, of a "popular description ;" — my novels 
 were " just in character, interesting in plot, pathetic, unexcep- 
 tionable in sentiment; but, unhappily, they were not of a 
 popidar description." The letters, in fact, informed me that my 
 literary exertions possessed every merit, except the one essential 
 and only merit which is really valued by the dealer in such 
 commodities — the merit of suiting the reigning taste of the 
 public. Having arrived at this discovery, my hopes revived. 
 " Those who write to live," I exclaimed, " must write to please ! " 
 I resolved to apply myself, on the instant, to the reformation of 
 my mode of composition. I tied up my former works in separate 
 parcels, and deposited them in my trunks and closets, to await a 
 change of fashion in the reading world ; and sending my laundress 
 to the circulating library for the last most popular novel, I deter- 
 mined to study its style and manner, to investigate the principles 
 on which it was written, to imbibe its spirit, and to compose my 
 next new work as nearly as possible upon its model. Sir, the 
 volumes which were brought to me were those of Eugene Aram. 
 Before I had read a hundred pages of that most extraordinary 
 production, the errors and defects of my own efforts were made 
 apparent to me. From the frequent perusal of older works of 
 imagination, I had learnt so to weave the incidents of my story 
 as to interest the feelings of the reader in favour of virtue, and 
 to increase his detestation of vice. I have been taught by 
 Eiigene Aram to mix vice and virtue up together in such an 
 inextricable confusion as to render it impossible that any 
 preference should be given to either, or that the one, indeed, 
 
 I 2
 
 ii6 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 should be at all distinguishable from the other. I had hitherto 
 sought to give an agreeable view of life, to inspire contented 
 dispositions towards the existing institutions of society, and to 
 leave a calm and pleasing impression upon the mind. But I 
 have been wrong : this was evidently an unpopular proceeding ; 
 for nothing can be more painful than the recollections that 
 remain after the perusal of your volumes, in which " whatever 
 is " is sneered at as being wrong, and nothing is eulogised but 
 " what is not." I had, in all my former works, endeavoured to 
 draw my characters in correspondence with the general principles 
 of nature, and the ordinary effects of education and circum- 
 stances upon them ; but you, sir, I perceive, have taken a course 
 diametrically opposite to this, and delight in imagining and 
 representing the exceptions. A learned friend of mine has 
 considered you as an eminent disciple of the " intensity school " 
 of novel-writers ; but in this I cannot agree with him. Eugene 
 Aram has certainly many qualities in common with the Anglo- 
 German style of Mr. Godwin's followers ; but I cannot help 
 thinking that your rank in literature is of a higher grade than 
 that which any mere disciple can ever hope to reach. I am 
 inclined to regard you as an original discoverer in the world of 
 literary enterprise, and to reverence you as the father of a new 
 " lusus natitrm school." There is no other title by which your 
 manner could be so aptly designated. I am told, for instance, 
 that in a former work, having to paint an adulterer, you described 
 him as belonging to the class of country curates, among whom, 
 perhaps, such a criminal is not met with once in a hundred 
 years; while, on the contrary, being in search of a tender- 
 hearted, generous, sentimental, high-minded hero of romance, 
 you turned to the pages of The Newgate Calendar, and looked 
 for him in the list of men who have cut throats for money, 
 among whom a person in possession of such qualities could 
 never have been met with at all. Wanting a shrewd, selfish, 
 worldly, calculating valet, you describe him as an old soldier, 
 though he bears not a single trait of the character which might 
 have been moulded by a long course of military service, but, on 
 the contrary, is marked by all the distinguishing features of a 
 bankrupt attorney or a lame duck from the Stock Exchange.
 
 ELIZABETH BROWXRIGGE. 117 
 
 Having to paint a cat, you endow her with the idiosyncrasies of 
 a dog. 
 
 In the following tale I have attempted to pursue the same 
 path — longo intervallo, certainly — and to class myself as a 
 diligent and admiring disciple of " the lusus naturce school." It 
 will be my sole ambition to impart to my future efforts some 
 portion of the intense interest that distinguishes your works, 
 and to acquire the fame which the skilful imitation of so great 
 a master as yourself may hope to receive from the generosity of 
 an enlightened and delighted public. In taking my subject from 
 that walk of life to which you had directed my attention, many 
 motives conspired to fix my choice on the heroine of the ensuing- 
 tale : she is a classic personage — her name has been already 
 " linked to immortal verse " by the muse of Canning.* Besides 
 it is extraonlinary that, as you had commenced a tragedy under 
 the title of Eugene Aram, I had already sketched a burletta 
 with the . title of Ulizahdh Brownrigge. I had, indeed, in my 
 dramatic piece, been guilty of an egregious and unpardonable 
 
 * In the " Inscription for the door of the cell in Newgate, whex'e 
 Mrs. Brownrigg, the Prentice-cide, was confined previous to her execution," 
 published in the Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin : — 
 
 " For one long term, or ere her trial came, 
 Here Brownrigg linger'd. Often have these cells 
 Echo'd her blasphemies, as with shrill voice 
 She scream'd for fresh geneva. Not to her 
 Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street, 
 St. Giles, its fair varieties expand, 
 Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart, she went, 
 To execution. Dost thou ask her crime ? 
 She whipp'd two female prentices to death, 
 
 AXD HID them in the COAL-HOLE." 
 
 Then follow the lines (pioted as one of the headings to Chapter III. 
 (infra, p. 141), and the " Inscrijition " thus concludes : — 
 
 " For this act 
 Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws ! But time shall come, 
 When France shall reign, and laws be all repeal'd ! " 
 
 The lines, which were the joint production of Canning and Frere, 
 originally appeared in the first number of the Anti-Jacobin, Nov. 20, 1797. 
 
 Ed.
 
 ii8 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 error : I had attem^jted to excite the sympathies of the audience 
 in favour of the murdered apprentices, but your novel has dis- 
 abused me of so vulgar a prejudice, and, in my present version 
 of her case, all the, interest of the reader and all the pathetic 
 powers of the author will be engaged on the side of the mur- 
 deress. I have taken a few slight liberties with the story, but 
 such alterations have the sanction of your example and the 
 recommendation of your authority. As you have omitted any 
 mention of the wife of your Eugene, I have not thought it 
 necessary to recall the reader's attention to the husband and 
 children of my Elizabeth. As you have given your hero more 
 learning and virtue than he possessed, and converted the usher 
 of a grammar-school at Hayes, whom the boys used to irritate 
 for their amusement by ^v^histling behind his back, into the 
 solitary student of a lone and romantic tower in a distant 
 county ; I have presumed to raise the situation of my heroine, 
 and, instead of portraying her as the wife of a saddler in Fleur- 
 de-lis Court, and mid-wdfe of the poor-house, I have represented 
 her in my tale as a young gentlewoman of independent fortune, 
 a paragon of beauty, a severe and learned moral philosopher, 
 and the Lady Bountiful of the village of Islington. As your 
 Jacobina, the cat, is endowed with all the properties of a dog, I 
 have not scrupled, where the urgency of the case required it, to 
 transfer to my Muggietonian, the dog, the instincts that are 
 peculiar to a cat. With a single exception, I have endeavoured 
 to follow your steps, sir, as an humble votary of the lusus nahtrm 
 school ; but in one case, I have found myself compelled to dis- 
 regard the example of my great prototype : it was necessary, in 
 the progress of my plot, to introduce the character of a kind 
 and affectionate parent. You will excuse the lingering pre- 
 judices of early education ; — I have not made him, in imitation 
 of your Houseman, a person of low life and ferocious manners, a 
 hovschrcaker and a cut-throat, but a gentleman, a magistrate, and 
 a- Christian. 
 
 But enough of this. It is not the design, but the execution 
 of my work that you and the world will judge me by. Should 
 it be thought to bear any even the slightest resemblance to your 
 celebrated production, I shall be content ; and, with every due
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 119 
 
 sentiment of respect for your talents, and admiration of your 
 ingenious application of them, I beg leave to lay the tale of 
 Elizabeth Brownrigge as an humble ofJ'ering on the shrine of that 
 genius to which we are indebted for the novel of Eugene Aram. 
 
 The Author. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 Islington : the Bed Cabbage — Sjjecimen of Lvsus Naturm — 
 Philosophers of the Porch — Who is she ? 
 
 " Yet about her 
 There hangs a mystery ever. She iloth M-alk, 
 Wrapt in incomprehensibility ; 
 Lovely but half-reveal'd, as is the moon 
 Shrouded in mists of evening, or the rose 
 VeU'd by its mossy coverture, and l)athed 
 In heavy drops of the past thunder-shower." 
 
 From Elizabeth Brownrigge, a MS. Burletta. 
 
 Some twenty years ago the now populous suburb of Islington 
 stood, in the midst of its meadows and its corn-fields, a romantic 
 but inconsideraljle hamlet. The cottages of its simple and 
 innocent peasantry, each standing in its little enclosure of 
 neatly-cultivated garden-ground, overgrown with honeysuckle 
 and jasmine, and sheltered by the protection of a grove of statel}' 
 oaks, were scattered thickly but irregularly around the parish 
 church, while here and there appeared among them a few houses 
 of more extended dimensions, the villas of certain wealthier 
 citizens, who delighted to find in this secluded spot that repose 
 from the distractions of business, and quiet from the din of men, 
 which was denied them in the neighbourhood of Fleet Street or 
 Cheapside. In those days, the only inn of Islington was the 
 Eed Cabbage — a name wdiich it had gradually acquired from the 
 imperfect skill of the village artist who had undertaken to 
 delineate the red rose upon its sign. The house had, two 
 centuries before, been a royal residence ; at which time it was 
 honoured as a favourite hunting-seat of the virgin daughter of 
 the eighth Henry. But it had now " fallen, sadly fallen, from
 
 I20 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 its liigli estate." Desolation had marked it for its own : its 
 corniced gables were dilapidated, its massive window-frames 
 were despoiled of the richlj'-pictured light that had once 
 emblazoned them, and the numerons windows were either alto- 
 gether fortified with brick and mortar against the demands of 
 the tax-gatherer, to the vast abridgement of his majesty's 
 revenue, or were disfigured by the adoption of various expedients 
 to supply the loss of their deficient or shattered panes of glass 
 without having recourse to the glazier. The whole of the centre 
 and left wing of the building were overgrown with ivy, of wliicli 
 tlie branches had insinuated themselves into the fissures of the 
 masonry, and were rapidly accelerating the work of time by 
 increasing the ruin which their foliage concealed. The right 
 wing was no longer habitable ; the roof had been crushed by 
 the fall of a stack of chimneys in the high wind of January 
 1670, and had never afterwards been repaired. Indeed, but few 
 traces of the ancient magnificence of the building now remained, 
 except the ample and grotesquely-ornamented porch ; and even 
 of this the beauty was eclipsed, for the high north road had, at 
 that spot, been raised so many feet as to form a complete breast- 
 work in its front, and the entrance was now reached by descend- 
 ing as many steps as in prouder days it had stood elevated at 
 the summit of. But still, faded as are the glories — waned as is 
 the light of that once royal palace — I never approach the place, 
 and see the sign of the red cabbage hanging aloft from the 
 projecting branch of the aged elm by which that venerable and 
 mouldering porch is overshadowed, but a world of historic and 
 poetic associations are awaked in my mind ; my memory reverts 
 to the personages and the incidents of other times — to Queen 
 Elizabeth and Queen Mary, to Lord Bacon and Lord Burleigh — 
 to the success of the Protestant Eeformatiou, and the defeat of 
 the Spanish Armada. 
 
 It was somewhere about twelve o'clock on a fine, bright, sunny 
 day, 25th of June, 1765, that Timothy Hitch and Giles Fillup 
 were conversing together, and taking the air and the dust, their 
 beer and their pipes, within the shady area of the porch in 
 question. Timothy Hitch was a young man of some six-and- 
 twenty years of age ; but his ever-laugliing eye, his ruddy com-
 
 ELIZABETH BROIVNRIGGE. 121 
 
 plexion, his loosely flowing, flaxen-coloured curls, and his 
 thoughtless expression of countenance, miglit have led the 
 superficial spectator into a belief that he had as yet scarcely 
 passed his teens. He was dressed in the first style of elegance, 
 according to the fashion of the time. His coat and inexpres- 
 sibles were of fawn-coloured camlet, trimmed at the edge, and 
 worked at the button-holes with silver galloon ; his waistcoat 
 was of pink satin, flowered over with a large spreading pattern 
 of silver ranunculuses, and surrounded with a broad silver lace ; 
 on his head, placed carelessly on one side, was a small three- 
 cornered hat, which was graced by a cockade, and in correspon- 
 dence with the rest of his apparel, edged with silver. Thus 
 attired, conscious of the attractions of his dress and person, he 
 stood in an easy, lounging attitude, with his back resting against 
 the pillar of the porch of the Red Cabbage, and looked laugh- 
 ingly down upon the long, spare figure, and the grim and sallow 
 face, of Giles Fillup tlxe host, who was seated on the opposite 
 bench, as they exchanged the following brief sentences of talk, 
 intermixed with copious draughts of ale and puffs of tobacco- 
 smoke. 
 
 " It's all a fallacy — it's all a fallacy," sighed forth the melan- 
 choly Giles ; " life's a vale of tears." 
 
 " Pshaw ! nonsense ! " replied Timothy ; " a vale of beer, you 
 mean, man ! " 
 
 " All labour and sorrow — eating and growing hungry again, 
 drinking and becoming dry ! " 
 
 " Dry ! what, already ? Why, man, you were loet enough last 
 night when I pulled you dead drunk out of the gutter." 
 
 "Timothy Hitch, don't be so profane ! Dead drunk ! — dead ! 
 I wonder that a man of your trade " — 
 
 " Profession, Giles, my boy ! Zooks, profession ! " 
 
 " Well, of your profession, then — I'm astonished, I say, tliat 
 you, who pick all the bread you eat out of dead men's mouths, 
 and haven't a shirt belonging to you but was pilfered from a 
 dead man's back, 'can bear even to give utterance to the word 
 without a shudder." 
 
 " No reflection upon my profession, Master Fillup. What ! 
 isn't it the last and most honourable branch of the law ? "
 
 122 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 " Most honourable ! " 
 
 " Ay, to be sure it is. I say it again, — most honourable." 
 
 " Prove it, Timothy — prove it." 
 
 " Why, with us gentlemen of the law, isn't the order of pre- 
 cedency reversed, as it were, by general consent ?" 
 
 " How do ye mean ? I don't know. Is it ?" 
 
 "As certainly as I stand here. Why, is not the constable 
 more honourable than the thief ?" 
 
 " Why yes." 
 
 " And the attorney that compounds the brief against him 
 more honourable than the constable ?" 
 
 " Perliaps he is." 
 
 " And the counsellor that pleads out of the brief more honour- 
 able than the attorney ?" 
 
 " There's no denying it." 
 
 "And is not the judge, again, more honourable than the 
 counsellor ? Zooks ! Giles Fillup, I say, are not all these 
 things true ?" 
 
 " I think they are." 
 
 "Well, then, by parity of reasoning, must not I, Timothy 
 Hitch, his majesty's hangman, and last executor of the laws of 
 this great kingdom, be as much more honourable than the judge, 
 who only utters the sentence of the law, as he is than the 
 counsellor, or the counsellor than the attorney, or the attorney 
 than the constable, or the constable than the thief ? Why, the 
 point's as clear as day. — My pipe's out, though. — But doesn't it 
 stand to common sense ? — Isn't it reason. Master Fillup T 
 
 " Say what you wiU, it's a dark and melancholy office, 
 Timothy." 
 
 " Melancholy ! — why ? Haven't I plenty of leisure, plenty of 
 money, plenty of victuals, and plenty of the best apparel ? 
 Then for variety ! Don't I travel, whenever a job's required 
 to be neatly done, from one end of England to the other, half a 
 dozen times in the course of the circuit ? And for sisfhts ! 
 Zounds ! who ever gets so many, or finer ? Shew me a finer 
 sight anywhere tlian a fine execution ! And where's the man 
 that ever sees so many of them as I do ?" 
 
 " Your heart's as hard as a stone, Timothy ! Timothy,
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 123 
 
 you've no fellow- feeling for the poor, guilty creatures you help 
 to put out of the world." 
 
 "No, no, Fillup! — don't say that," replied the young, the 
 fair-faced, and the light-spirited companion of mine host, while 
 his fine jocund countenance assumed a cast of unwonted sad- 
 ness, and the tear of sensibility, which rose involuntarily in his 
 usually laughing eye, for a moment dinnued its brightness — 
 « No ! — don't say so ! — I do pity the poor creatures, Giles, with 
 my whole soul I pity them ; and always tie them up as tenderly 
 as if they were my dearest relations. But, pshaw 1 this is folly." 
 
 He here made a strong effort to suppress the rising emotions 
 of his heart ; and having dashed away the falling drops from 
 his eyelid with the back of his hand, whilst the sunny light of 
 his soul burst forth again, and dispersed the clouds which had 
 gathered about his brow, he exclaimed, in his usual tone of 
 vivacity, " But come, my boy ! Zooks ! fill me another pipe ; and 
 I'm not the fellow that would make any objection to a second 
 pot of porter. — What !" he continued to the host, who had now 
 returned, bearing a pewter vessel full of the generous and 
 frothy beverage in his hand — " What 1 does Miss Elizal»eth 
 Brownrigge live here still !" 
 
 " Yes ; at tlie new house in the village, with the green railing 
 before it." 
 
 " And as beautiful as ever ?" 
 
 " Beauty is but a fading flower," sighed Giles ; " 'tis but as 
 the grass of the field — here to-day and gone to-morrow ! But, 
 to be sure, she is wonderfully fair — a lily of Sharon, my friend 
 Timothy — fair as a lily and as upright as a lily !" 
 
 " Well, who could haA'e thought it ? Not married yet ! Such 
 a beautiful girl ! "' 
 
 " Ay, and so virtuous withal 1 Why, she has founded in 
 the village a lying-in hospital for married women only. She 
 attends the poor creatures herself, and feeds, washes, and lodges 
 them all at her own expense." 
 
 " So Good and so beautiful, and not married !" exclaimed the 
 enthusiastic hangman. "Why, the bachelors of these parts 
 have no taste, no soul, no sense of what is really lovely and 
 exquisite in human nature !"
 
 124 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 " I don't know ; I should not like to have it said that it came 
 from me, but" — and Giles Fillup lowered liis voice to an 
 audible whisper as he added, " according to my notions, that 
 young Master Alphonso Belvidere, the son of the rich banker 
 that has just purchased the manor house and park at the end 
 of the village, is casting a sheep's eye at Miss Elizabeth Brown- 
 rigge." 
 
 "Well done, Master Alphonso Belvidere!" cried Timothy 
 Hitch ; " I would not wish any man a better fortune. Here's 
 a health to him and to Miss Elizabeth Brownrigge. Here, 
 Fillup, my old fellow !— " 
 
 " Not so old either, Master Hitch ; only sixty last Mar- 
 tinmas." 
 
 "My young fellow, then ?" 
 
 " Not so young either." 
 
 " Well, my middle-aged fellow, then — we'll not quarrel about 
 an epithet — here, take a draught to the health of Miss Eliza- 
 beth Brownrigge." 
 
 " Long life and happiness," uttered (liles, with the deep- 
 drawn breath, the demure air, and the earnest tone of one 
 making a most important effort of volition, while, by a dexter- 
 ous turn of his hand, he imparted a slow circuitous motion to 
 the contents of the porter pot—" Long life and every earthly 
 happiness to the good and beautiful Elizabeth Brownrigge !" 
 
 " Elizabeth Brown riooe ; Ah I ah!" shrieked a voice at the 
 top of the steps which descended from the high road to the 
 porch of the Eed Cabbage — " who speaks of Elizabeth Brown- 
 
 rigge?' 
 
 Timothy Hitch started at the frightful vehemence of the 
 sound — the porter pot was suddenly arrested on its way to 
 the mouth of Giles Fillup — both motionless as statues, stood 
 rivetted to the spot on which the unexpected and soul-appalling 
 words had fixed them, witli their eyes turned in astonishment 
 towards the wild and strangely attired female figure from whom 
 they had proceeded. 
 
 The person who met tlieir view appeared somewhat less than 
 sixteen years of age. In her sunken and harassed eyes, which 
 were red and bloodshot from fatigue and want of sleep, the
 
 ELIZABETH BROWXRIGGE. 125 
 
 traces of many cares were deeply printed. Her young features, 
 though of the most delicate contour, and such as a sculptor 
 might have studied to refine his views of ideal beauty, were 
 emaciated from want and illness ; yet the cheeks and lips were 
 thickly coated with red paint, which the course of her tears 
 and the dews of perspiration had fretted into stripes, and 
 showered in ruddy drops upon the dusty and disarranged 
 buffon, which, extended upon a wire framework, formed a 
 swelling semicircle on either side her neck. Her bright chest- 
 nut hair appeared to have been most elaborately dressed and 
 powdered, but had escaped fromthe confinement of its black pins 
 and pomatum, and was straggling at large over her face and 
 shoulders. The gauze cap, that crowned the summit of the 
 lofty cushion over which her locks had been curled, and craped, 
 and plastered, was torn as in a midnight broil ; and the artificial 
 flowers, and tips of variously-coloured ostrich feathers that had 
 adorned it, were hanging about her head in loose and most- 
 admired disorder. Her richly embroidered sack and petticoat 
 were empurpled with several large stains of port wine, soiled 
 with the mud of London and the dust of the country, and dis- 
 figured by many a wide and recent rent. As she stood upon 
 the steps, raising her large hoop out of the way of her high- 
 heeled satin shoes with her left hand, to facilitate her descent, 
 and tossing her right arm aloft above her head, a gust of wind 
 suddenly arising gave a fluttering motion to her streaming hair, 
 to the shattered ornaments of her head-gear, and to her long 
 pendant ruffles of Brussels point, which admirably harmonised 
 with the agitated expression of her countenance and the wild 
 character of her figure. The men were awed — they feared and 
 pitied her — they knew not whether to retire or to advance — 
 they wished, yet dreaded, to address her. 
 
 But while they paused, all further hesitation on their part 
 was efiectually put an end to by the unknown visitor herself, 
 who, looking down upon them with an eye of shrewd severity, 
 and a laugh of piercing bitterness and contemptuous derision, 
 cried, " And so it's Elizabeth Brownrigge you're praising ! 
 AVell, well : that's as it should be :" 
 
 She here tottered into the porch in which the men were
 
 126 ELIZABETH BROIVNRIGGE. 
 
 standing, and fell down upon the nearest seat, exhausted with 
 weakness and fatigue. The young and gentle-hearted Timothy, 
 losino- the feelin" of astonishment in commiseration of her 
 evident state of destitution, immediately hastened to the side 
 of the wanderer, and was most earnest in offering, and most 
 anxious to administer assistance. After the pause of a few 
 moments the faintness seemed to leave her ; and wa\'ing him 
 away with the air of a woman of quality, after many abor- 
 tive efforts to deliver herself with calmness and precision, 
 she said, " You must be surprised, gentlemen, at seeing me 
 here at this hour of the day — alone, too, and without my 
 chariot. Ten thousand pardons for this intrusion ; — but ser- 
 vants are so slow. You were speaking of Miss Brownrigge 
 — Elizabeth, I think, you said. Ah ! ah ! ah !" 
 
 A little affected laugh here interrupted the voluble but be- 
 wildered flow of her rhetoric, which was succeeded by — "I 
 declare I feel quite faint and weak. So ! — Good and beautiful ! 
 — Very extraordinary where this coachman of mine can be 
 loitering — at the- alehouse, ITl warrant. Pray, has she any 
 apprentices now ? " 
 
 " Whom do you speak of, madam ? " demanded Timothy 
 Hitch, with an air of gentleness and respect, which intimated 
 his sympathy in the distress, rather than consideration for the 
 apparent condition, of the person he was addressing. 
 
 " Speak of ! " cried the unknown female, looking wildly in 
 his face — " speak of ! — But, alas ! alas ! you here again ! That 
 voice — that look ! Oh ! it liaunts me by day — every day, and 
 all day long. At night I see it in my dreams — it's a shadow 
 always near me ! Light won't dissipate it — darkness cannot 
 hide it ! Away ! away ! Let me be mocked at by the shadow 
 only, not tortured thus by the terrible reality of your presence. 
 I say, for mercy's sake, away ! " 
 
 " Why, lady, do you shudder at the presence of a friend ? 
 Indeed, you cannot have seen me before." 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! — iSTo more ! no more ! " 
 
 " Be assured I never injured you." 
 
 " Silence ! oh, silence ! Those words are sharp and en- 
 venomed as the pointed tongues of scorpions — they sting the
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 127 
 
 core of my heart, and penetrate the marrow of my brain." Then, 
 dropping her voice to a tone, low, solemn, and scarcely audible, 
 grasping the left wrist of Timothy Hitch with her right hand, 
 and holding him at the distance of her extended arm, she added, 
 " Where were you, think ye, when my mother and my brother 
 died ? " 
 
 " I, madam ! — where was / when they died ! " 
 " Dear me ! where is this chariot of mine ? — In a very dif- 
 ferent carriage from that did they, poor souls, take their last 
 drive in this world ! — But, then, it cost them nothing — that 
 was some advantage ; and 'tis not every cart that goes through 
 Tyburn turnpike without paying toll as it passes. — But, oh ! my 
 aching head, my aching head ! " 
 
 Overpowered by the energy of these strong emotions, acting 
 upon a weakened and debilitated frame, the poor wretch here 
 made a second attempt to conceal her misery by an affected 
 laugh, and then went off into a violent hysteric. Giles Fillup 
 and Timothy Hitch exerted themselves with all the interest of 
 sincere and unsophisticated benevolence in effecting her restora- 
 tion. In the course of their endeavours, some nourishment 
 and cordials were administered, which were of essential ser- 
 vice to the unhappy girl, and supplied the inanition, which was 
 one of the immediate causes of the distress she laboured vmder. 
 On recovering herself, she reverted to the subject of Miss 
 Brownrigge, and studiously avoiding the sight of Timothy, she 
 repeated to Giles Fillup her former question : " Has she any 
 'prentices now ? " 
 
 "She has," answered mine host of the Eed Cabbage, "two 
 young girls, as handmaids, who attend upon her, and who are 
 apprenticed to her for seven years by the parish officers of 
 White Friars." 
 
 " Their names are — " 
 " Mary Mitchel and Mary ChfTord." 
 " Poor things ! poor things ! How I pity them ! " 
 " Pity them ! " exclaimed mine host ; " where could the or- 
 phan and the indigent ever hope to find so kind a guardian, or 
 so happy an asylum as in the house of that good lady ? Pity 
 them ! Why, they are the envy of all the young girls of the
 
 128 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. • 
 
 village, as they walk to the parish church, once every 
 Wednesday and Friday, and twice every Sunday, in their neat 
 blue cloth gowns, their little, tidy, white caps, aprons, bibs and 
 tuckers, and each with her Bible and prayer-book under her 
 arm. Pity them ! Oh ! " said Giles, devoutly casting up his 
 eyes as he uttered the ejaculation, " Oh ! it were a blessed 
 thing if every mother's daughter were trained, as they are, in 
 the paths of virtue from their youth." 
 
 " And," muttered the stranger, abstractedly, " both their names 
 are Mary, too." 
 
 " See there ! " interrupted Giles, pointing to a thin, graceful, 
 and elegant young lady, who now appeared from the opening of 
 a green lane in the distance, accompanied by a tall, finely- 
 formed, patrician-looking youth ; '•' see there is Miss Brown- 
 rigge, and Master Alphonso Belvidere along with her, as sure 
 as I'm alive ! " 
 
 " Where ! where ! " said the stranger ; " I'll see her — I'll 
 speak to her — though pestilence should strike me dead before 
 her, and hell should yawn and swallow me at her feet ! " 
 
 So saying, she rushed wildly forth from the porch of the inn, 
 and fled with the speed of lightning toward the spot where 
 Elizabeth and Alphonso had appeared. But before she had 
 completely reached them, she was seen to slacken her pace — 
 to stop — to pause an instant, and then turn suddenly round, as 
 if her resolution failed her, and fly as rapidly away down a 
 path in the opposite direction. 
 
 At the sight of this unexpected apparition, Elizabeth started, 
 trembled and drew nearer to the side of Alphonso. Her alarm, 
 however, was but momentary. Before Timothy Hitch had time 
 to say, ^' Where the deuce could that strange woman come 
 from ? " the agitation of Miss Brownrigge had completely 
 passed away ; and before Giles Fillup had responded, " A poor 
 mad creature, I take it ; but who can she be ?" the lady, moving 
 on with lier wonted air of firm and delicate composure, had led 
 her lover out of view of the inn.
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 129 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 Portraits: a Pair of Lovers — A Dinner at Noon — Table-Talk. 
 
 " Sure such a pair were never seen, 
 So aptly framed to meet by nature." — 
 
 Sheridan. 
 
 " Gentleman, welcome ; 'tis a word I use — • 
 From me expect no further compliment. 
 Nor do I name it often at our meeting. 
 Once .spoke, to those that understand me best, 
 And know I always purpose as I speak, 
 Hath ever yet sufficed : so let it you. 
 Nor do I love that common phrase of guests, 
 As ' we make bold,' or ' we are troublesome,' 
 ' We take you unprovdded,' and the like. 
 I know you understanding, gentlemen, 
 And knowing me, cannot persuade yourselves 
 With me you shall be troublesome or bold." — Heywood. 
 
 " Hell hath no fury like a woman scorn'd." — Lee, Rival Queens. 
 
 The pair who retired from the admiring gaze of Timothy Hitch 
 and Giles Fillup, at the conclusion of the last chapter, were 
 formed in the very prodigality of nature. Each seemed to have 
 been created, rich in every personal endowment, as the worthy 
 counterpart of the other. Young they were ; but in them youth 
 was blooming with all its freshness, and devoid of all its 
 frivolities. Beautiful they were ; but the beauty which ren- 
 dered them the delight and admiration of the eves of others, 
 was held of no estimation in their own. Alphonso, who stood 
 six feet two without his shoes, united, in the compact and 
 slender structure of his person, the vigour of the Hercules with 
 the elegance of the Apollo. His features, which were cast in 
 the perfect mould of the Antinous, were coloured with a deep, 
 rich sunniness of tone, which no pencil inferior to that of Titian 
 could ever have aspired to imitate ; while the breadth of his 
 forehead bespoke the intellectual powers of a ISTewton or a Locke ; 
 and the bright, lambent, and innocuous fires of his unfathomable 
 eye beamed with the gentle virtues of a martyred saint. As his 
 figure was characterised by strength and grace, so was his 
 
 K
 
 I30 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 countenance by intelligence and humility. He was distinguished 
 among literary men as the editor of a new monthly magazine ; 
 and his attire was of that simple style of elegance which accorded 
 well with the cast of his person, the expression of his counte- 
 nance, and the gravity of his pursuits. He wore a plain black 
 hat, of which the somewhat expansive brim was slightly turned 
 up at the sides ; his coat, waistcoat, and nether garments, were 
 formed en suite of snuff-coloured broad cloth ; his stockings 
 were of white silk, variegated with horizontal stripes of blue; 
 and his only ornaments were the silver buckles that glistened, 
 with a modest and a moon-like lustre, at his knees, on his shoes, 
 and in the front of his hat. 
 
 Of Elizabeth, the virgin philanthropist, the youthful bene- 
 factress of the village, who, when at home in the elegant apart- 
 ment of her romantic cottage, occupied all her solitary hours in 
 making garments for the naked, and who rarely passed beyond 
 the green and trellised boundaries of her garden but to administer 
 to the sick or hungry some liealing or savoury consolation — of 
 Elizabeth, the height was above the middle size, and the slimness 
 of her figure would have conveyed an idea of weakness and 
 fragility to the mind of the spectator, but for the upright bearing 
 of her person, and the firm and decided step with which she 
 moved. Many engravings of her are in circulation ; but, though 
 they all owe their origin to a miniature by a celebrated painter, 
 which Alphonso constantly wore about him, the likeness has 
 sadly suffered from being submitted to the hands of inferior 
 artists ; and there is no print with which I am acquainted that 
 affords the faintest hint of the exquisite beauty with which she 
 was endowed. There are some, perhaps, which convey a slight 
 intimation of the elevated cast of her features, Init they do 
 nothing more. What hand, indeed, however skilful, could give 
 an adequate representation of that high towering forehead, 
 which bespoke a more than female reacli of thought ; of those 
 large blue and finely-opened eyes, with the silken lashes that 
 overshadowed them; of that aquiline but feminine nose, with 
 its delicately-chiselled nostrils ; of that mouth, with its curlin<^ 
 lips, distinctly cut and closely meeting, the sure symbols of 
 moral and intellectual energy ; of that well-proportioned chin,
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. \-\\ 
 
 or of the eloquent tincture of that complexion, which, bearing 
 in its general hue the fair, polished, and transparent whiteness 
 of the purest alabaster, was, from time to time, suffused with a 
 fainter or deeper glow of vermilion, corresponding with the 
 strength of the emotions that were swaying in her breast. Kind 
 and gentle as every feature of her face proclaimed her to be, the 
 prevailing expression of her countenance was that of fixedness 
 and determination. She looked the image of a virtue which 
 could never err ; or, which, if it erred, was lost for ever, and 
 would never ao-ain recover its first state. 
 
 Such was Elizabeth Brownrigge ; such she now stood at the 
 garden gate, which Alphnuso was opening for her, attired 
 according to the costume she is represented as wearing in her 
 pictures. Over a gown of flowered Indian chintz she had on a 
 black mode cloak, richly trimmed with lace, and lined with rose- 
 coloured satin. Her dark glossy hair, which she wore without 
 powder, was turned up behind, and smoothed simply in front 
 over a moderately-sized cushion ; a lace cap, neatly plaited, 
 covered her ears ; above which, somewhat inclined, so as to 
 shade the eyes, and secured by long pins that projected from 
 both sides of her head, was a small black satin gipsy-hat, 
 trimmed round the crown with a pufiing of rose-coloured riband 
 to match the lining of her cloak. xVs the lovers thus stood 
 together, at the entrance of the small garden that fronted the 
 dwelling of Elizabeth, protracting to the utmost, the moment 
 of separation, and fearing to utter the " farewell " that trembled 
 upon their lips, Alphonso, taking the hand of his mistress, and 
 regarding her with a look of tenderness, said, — 
 
 " I depend; then, on seeing you again ! You'll walk with me 
 in the cool of the evening ?" 
 
 " I have promised," replied Elizabeth. " Do you remember 
 any instance of my neglecting an engagement, that you seem 
 thus inclined to doubt me ?" 
 
 " No ! oh, no ! Imagine it not. I am incapable of any feeling 
 towards thee but that of the most implicit confidence. But, my 
 clearest " 
 
 " Tush !" interrupted Elizabeth. " I like not these professions; 
 strong actions please me better than strong words. How fre- 
 
 k2
 
 132 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 quently have I enjoined, Alphonso, that these superlative terms 
 of affection should neither be uttered in my presence, nor find a 
 place in any letter you address to me. Dearest ! Absurd ! The 
 expression is as foolish as it is profane. Let our attachment be 
 restrained within the bounds, and declared according to the 
 rules, of reason. ISTay, look not down, good Alphouso ; I pardon 
 you this error." 
 
 " Kindest, sweetest !" 
 
 "Again!" 
 
 " Impose not my own Elizabeth, this severe restriction upon 
 the suggestions of my heart ! Why interdict my tongue from 
 delivering the sentiments which are prompted by the warm, 
 fresh-springing, and genuine emotions of my soul ? " 
 
 " I would have all men speak the truth, Alphonso, — the 
 exact, simple, and invariable truth ; not onl}^ that which they 
 may imagine to be true for the moment, Imt that which was 
 true in time past, and will be true in all time to come. It 
 is possible, and I do not doubt it, that your present affection 
 towards me is as devoted as your words describe ; but was it so 
 last year ? can you be sure that it will be so in the next ? No ! 
 What connexion, then, have these protestations of attachment 
 with that eternal and immutable truth which should be the 
 paramount object and the ruling principle of all intercourse 
 of conversation between man and man ? " 
 
 " Sweet monitress, your wisdom shall be the pole-star of my 
 mind ! " 
 
 " So be it, then, if you will deal in such idle metaphors and 
 poetic exaggerations ; but now betake you to your home. In five 
 minutes the church clock will strike : it will take you four to 
 reach the manor-house ; and, as your father dines punctually at 
 two, you'll have but one minute to spare. So away, Alphonso ! " 
 
 " Why will you not accompany me ? My father desired, 
 requested, implored your presence ! " 
 
 " It cannot be ! I have an important and a painful duty 
 to despatch within. This is tlie hour ; it cannot be dispensed 
 witli ; it must not be deferred. And so farewell till evening ! " 
 
 " Till seven ! " 
 
 " Till seven precisely," rejoined Elizabeth ; and accompanied
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 133 
 
 by her little dog, Miiggietonian, which had stood beside her, 
 fondly rubbing his head against her gowni during the whole of 
 the previous conversation, she retired up the gravel walk which 
 led to the trellised entrance of her ornamented cottage. 
 
 Alphonso gazed tenderly after her as she withdrew, and then 
 turned his hurried steps towards his father's. He had not, 
 however, proceeded many yards, when, having reached an 
 eminence that afforded a view of the windows of his love, he 
 stopped and cast a " longing, lingering look behind" him, with 
 the hope of catching yet another glimpse of her at the em- 
 bowered lattice, or among the flowers of her garden. 
 
 His eye was disappointed ; but, as he stood silently gazing 
 upon the casket in which was garnered up the joy and treasure 
 of his soul, his ear was startled by the sound of two piercing 
 shrieks in the distance : they were evidently those of a child in 
 torture. He listened, witli the fullest stretch, and most eager 
 exertion of his faculty, to catch a repetition of the cry. For a 
 time, all was silent ; Ijut after the lapse of a few seconds, the 
 same appalling expressions of agony struck upon his sense, in a 
 fainter tone, but of a more protracted continuance than before. 
 Wlience could they proceed ? The cries appeared to issue from 
 that part of the village in which the dwelling of the good and 
 beautiful Elizabeth was situated. But, no — that was impossible ! 
 Mr. Deacon, the apothecary, whose house stood next her cottage, 
 was not a father. There were no cliildren residing in the neigh- 
 bourhood but those two little handmaidens to whom his beloved 
 was so tenderly attached, and whose education she so diligently 
 directed. That they should suffer any severity, or that they 
 ever should have cause to give utterance to such an expression 
 of pain, Avas too incredible a supposition to find an instant's 
 lodgment in his mind. What, those little girls unhappy ? blest 
 as they were, living in the sight, and under the care, and 
 beneath the same roof witli his Elizaljeth :* It could not 1)e ! 
 Alphonso paused yet another moment ; the sounds returned no 
 more ; and, convinced that he had been deceived by some 
 auricular delusion, as the clock of Islington church struck two 
 he hastily started from the spot, and did not relax his speed till 
 he deposited his hat on the marble table of his father's hall.
 
 134 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 On reaching the manor-house, he found Mr. Belvidere already 
 seated at dinner, with Mr. and Mrs. Deacon. The name of 
 Deacon has before been mentioned. He was the next-door 
 neighbour of Miss Brownrigge, and the highly-judicious and 
 very respectable medical friend of the wealthier inhabitants of 
 Islington and its vicinity. He was a corpulent gentleman, be- 
 tween forty and fifty. His wife, with whom he had for several 
 years been united in the bonds of an unfruitful, but most happy 
 wedlock, was of no particular age : she still retained the pro- 
 minent and well-rounded graces of what is generally considered 
 a fine woman, in the unimpaired perfection of their bloom ; and 
 she was content that her time of life should be left problematical, 
 as a matter of speculation among her friends, rather than fixed 
 by any information of her own. Mrs. Deacon, ever since Mr. 
 Belvidere had taken up his residence at the manor-house, had 
 entertained the deepest sense of the exalted merits of his son. 
 She had, indeed, ventured to express her approbation of them in 
 so candid a manner as somewhat to distress the modesty of 
 Alphonso, and induce a slight disinclination for her society. 
 AYith that intuitive view into the recesses of the heart for which 
 the sex is so particularly distinguished, the lady very quickly 
 apprehended the unfavourable disposition of his feelings to- 
 wards herself; while the proximity of their dwellings afforded 
 her the opportunity of observing his frequent visits to Elizabeth, 
 she was not long in becoming equally well-informed with regard 
 to liis sentiments in another quarter. Though Mrs. Deacon was 
 the most irreproachable of wives ; though she would not for the 
 world have been guilty of a thought of connubial infidelity; 
 though, indeed, her principles were so strict on this particular, 
 that she had been the means of compelling her husband's rival 
 apothecary to leave the village, and seek the patronage of a less 
 scrupulous neighbourhood, because his wife had been exposed 
 to the vague rumour of a suspected flirtation ; — still, rigid as 
 Mrs. Deacon was on the score of her matrimonial duties, she 
 could not witness Alphonso's want of interest in her friendship, 
 and his attachment to Elizabeth, without experiencing some 
 degree of exasperation. She was vexed at the slight to which 
 slic was suljjected. " It was not," as she continually repeated to
 
 ELIZABETH BROWXRIGGE. 135 
 
 herself, " that she was in love with the lad ; but it was enough 
 to provoke a saint, when she had condescended to shew him so 
 much favour, to see him prefer a pale, tame, thread-paper slip 
 of a girl, like Elizabeth Brownrigge, to so personable a woman 
 as herself." She conceived that an injustice was committed 
 against her charms ; and she could not help resenting it. Her 
 indignation found its vent in availing herself of every oppor- 
 tunity of depreciating her favoured rival in the presence of 
 Alphonso. On entering the dining-room, our hero, finding that 
 Mr. Deacon had, in his absence, taken possession of the bottom 
 of the table, made a slight inclination to his father and his 
 guests, and slipped quietly into the vacant seat of the partie 
 quarHe, opposite Mrs. Deacon. 
 
 " You are late to-day, my boy," said his father ; " you are not 
 apt to be out of tiie way at pudding- time." 
 
 " I was detained longer than I expected," replied Alphonso ; 
 " but I made the best speed I could." 
 
 " Nothing wrong in the city, I hope ? " 
 
 " No ; a mere accidental miscalculation of the time," rejoined 
 the son ; and applied himself to the venison pasty with the de- 
 termined air of a j^erson who had completed his explanation, and 
 with whom all attempt at any further inquiry would be bootless. 
 
 " Did you meet Miss Brownrigge to-day," demanded Mrs. 
 Deacon, " by chance or liy appointment ? " 
 
 " "Which time to-day do you mean, madam ? " replied our 
 hero. " I have had the happiness of seeing that young lady 
 twice; in the morning when I called to convey my father's 
 invitation to dinner, and lately, since my return from town." 
 
 " Oh ! then it was, I presume, by agreement that you met, 
 about an hour since, opposite her new-fangled lying-in charity 
 establishment ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, that rencontre was merely a most fortunate 
 accident. The appointment we made this morning was for a 
 walk towards Hampstead in the cool of the evening." 
 
 Mrs. Deacon looked utterly disconcerted ; and in her turn, 
 applied herself to the venison pasty. 
 
 " What a beautiful creature Miss BrownriLjoe is ! " exclaimed 
 old Mr. Belvidere, after a pause. " An old fellow like myself
 
 136 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 miglit almost wish to be young again, Deacon, to have the 
 chance of winning the heart of such a girl." 
 
 " She's too pale," said the ruddy Mr. Deacon, casting an ap- 
 proving glance on the damask and full-blown beauties of his 
 spouse. 
 
 " And far too thin," rejoined the lady, looking .round with a 
 complacent, downward glance upon that wide circumference of 
 self to which her head formed the centre. 
 
 " Neither one nor the other, to my mind ; but every man 
 according to his taste : qiiot liomines tot sententice — and so let 
 us have a glass of wine. Come, come : a general breeze ' Eobin," 
 continued the warmhearted and hospitable old gentleman, to 
 the grey -haired butler, who was always close to his elbow,— 
 sometimes standing, sometimes leaning, behind his chair, — 
 " Robin, a bumper of Madeira all round !" 
 
 " However beautiful she may be," persisted Mrs. Deacon, 
 after swallowing the contents of her capacious glass, " one 
 thing is quite certain, — Miss Brownrigge has a most intolerable 
 and tyrannical disposition." 
 
 As she uttered this sentence, the colour of her cheek mounted 
 to the very top of her forehead, indicating, as exactly as the 
 rising mercury of a thermometer does the state of the atmos- 
 phere, the blood-heat condition of her temper ; while bridling 
 up, with a little air of malignant triumph, she fixed her eyes 
 full upon those of her opposite neighbour. 
 
 " Disposition ! oh, she's a perfect virago I " ejaculated the 
 uxorious apothecary. " Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! What a devil of 
 a life she leads those two ]:)oor little parish-apprentices. I 
 wonder " 
 
 " Sir ! " exclaimed Alphonso, whose indignation was now 
 raised to the extreme of endurance ; — " Sir, however I may quell 
 my spirit, and tolerate those base and calumnious insinuations 
 wliich envy of the superior merits of Elizabeth Brownrigge may 
 incite the unworthy of the other sex to propagate, — however 
 silently and contemptuously I may regard the petty malice of a 
 woman, — when I hear a man " 
 
 " My dear Alphonso ! " interrupted his father. 
 
 " Oh, sir ! " interrupted Mrs. Deacon, " pray let the gentleman
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 137 
 
 proceed \ I beg you'll uot think of stopping him. Petty 
 malice ! Unworthy ! Contempt ! I can tell you, Mr. Alphonso 
 Bel " 
 
 " My love ! my love ! " interrupted Mr. Deacon, in his turn, 
 " only allow me to explain. Do not permit yourself, my lanih, 
 to be thus run away with by the sti-ength of your emotions. 
 There is no cause whatever for this disturbance of the harmony 
 of the company, I can assure, my young friend, that I never, 
 for a moment, contemplated the possibility of occasioning him 
 any offence. My respect for the virtues of Miss Brownrigge is 
 fully equal to, and cannot be surpassed by, his own. My ad- 
 miration of her beauty is unbounded. Perhaps she may be, 
 according to my taste, just a thought too pale, or a thought too 
 thin ; but what of that ? Surely, such good friends as we have 
 ever been, are far too wise to fall into dispute upon a mere 
 matter of private fancy ! And as to temper — I most solemnly 
 declare that I have no personal knowledge of the matter what- 
 ever; I speak only from report. I have heard, indeed, from 
 Mrs. Crips, and the Misses Budgdell, and Miss Hicks, and 
 several other respectable and credible ladies of our acquaint- 
 ance, that Miss Brownrigge's temper is not quite so gentle as 
 her friends might wish ; but they have, unquestionably, been 
 deceived. I have not a doubt but that the lady is, in every 
 respect, the angel that she looks. Should my words appear to 
 have implied the least intimation to the contrary, I implore 
 Mr. Alphonso to believe that nothing could be further from my 
 thoughts, and that my intentions have been entirely misunder- 
 stood." 
 
 So spoke the fluent apothecary : our hero received his most 
 veritable and highly parliamentary explanation with a faint 
 smile of contemptuous acknowledgment ; and kind old Mr. 
 Belvidere, taking upon himself the part of chorus to the 
 dialogue, and moralising on the subject matter of the scene, 
 observed, 
 
 " Well, well ! it's a good thing these idle and silly women do 
 not presume to say anything worse. Never, my boy, attempt 
 to justify so fair and excellent a being as Elizabeth against the 
 charge of a defective temper. The mischievous and talking
 
 138 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 world will never be satisfied unless they have some error to 
 allege against every meritorious and highly- gifted individual. 
 If they cannot find, they will always invent, a fault to exercise 
 their tongues upon ; and a judicious friend should be content to 
 leave them the undisturbed discussion of a weakness, lest, in 
 the absence of such a theme, they should venture to impute a 
 crime." 
 
 " But, sir ! Mr. Belvidere ! Gracious me ! why you talk," 
 cried Mrs. Deacon, " as if we only accused Miss Brownrigge of 
 being, every now and then, a little peppery or so, like the rest 
 of our acquaintance ; but that's not it in the least." 
 
 " Then pray, madam," demanded Alphonso, calmly but 
 severely, "may I be allowed to inquire what it is you do accuse 
 that lady of?" 
 
 " Accuse her of ? Tyranny — brutality ! Oh, if you should 
 only chance to be near our house at flogging-time ! " 
 
 " Flogging-time ! " exclaimed Alphonso. 
 
 " Ay, fiogging-time. Almost every day, just a few minutes 
 before two, if either of the poor children have done anything in 
 the least wrong, this sweet, mild, fair, amiable Miss Elizabeth 
 Brownrigge, whom you gentlemen all admire so much, ad- 
 ministers what she calls her dose of salutary chastisement ; and 
 it's quite terrible — it absolutely shatters one's nerves for the 
 rest of the day — to hear the shrieks of the infants." 
 
 " I don't believe it, madam ! " cried old Mr. Belvidere, — his 
 whole soul swelling with indignation at what he deemed an 
 unjust aspersion on the fair fame of his adopted daughter-in- 
 law. " Madam, I beg your pardon a thousand times for contra- 
 dicting you so abruptly ; but, my life on it, you are deceived." 
 
 "It must be impossible," said Alphonso; but the tone of his 
 voice was far lower and humbler than his father's, and his 
 manner was not expressive of so implicit a confidence ; for his 
 heart misgave him ; and he thought of the shrieks which he 
 had so lately heard in the direction of Elizabeth's cottage. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, as you please ! but what I know, I know ; 
 and what I see, 1 see ; and what I Mar, I hear ! " 
 
 " Surely," cried Alphonso, " there must be some strange mis- 
 apprehension here ! "
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 139 
 
 The dinner was now concluded ; and Mr. Belvidere proposed 
 that the wine, punch, and dessert, should be carried to a summer- 
 house at the end of the bowling-green, where he and Mr. 
 Deacon might each enjoy his pipe, in an airy situation, without 
 incommoding the lady, at her chain and satin-stitch^ by the 
 condensation of their tobacco smoke. 
 
 Having seen the trio thus quietly deposited for the afternoon, 
 and drank one small glass of that well-concocted beverage for 
 which the gre3''-headed butler was very widely celebrated, our 
 hero, disgusted with the malice of the lady, loathing the syco- 
 phancy of the husband, and impatient for an explanation with 
 EHzabeth, invented some slight pretext for returning into the 
 house, as the readiest mode of making his escape from the 
 persecution of such unworshipful society, without incurring the 
 formality of a regular leave-taking. Intending that his returning 
 to them again should remain in doubt, he first ran up stairs to his 
 chamber, with the view of making such little adjustments in his 
 dress as even those who are least curious about their personal 
 appearance seldom fail regarding as indispensable preliminaries 
 to visiting the lady of their love, and then descended to the 
 hall for his hat and cane. Close to the marble slab on which 
 they lay stood Mrs. Deacon. A spectre from the grave could 
 not have startled him more, or been more offensive to his sight. 
 She had divined his purpose ; and, acting with the promptitude 
 of strongly-excited jealousy, had resolved to intercept him. As 
 he approached the table, the lady, forgetting her accustomed 
 deference to the rules of propriety, moved with a rapid step 
 towards him, and, making a violent seizure of his hand, 
 exclaimed with impassioned earnestness, — 
 
 " My fears have not deceived me — you are then already weary 
 of our society — I was convinced that you meant to leave us ! 
 Oh, Alphonso ! " and, in an agony of tears, she hid her head 
 upon the arm of the hand she held. " Oh, Alphonso ! you have no 
 thought, no consideration, for the feelings of the best of friends ! " 
 
 " I can consider no person, madam, as a friend of mine, who 
 avows herself the enemy of Miss Brownrigge," answered Belvi- 
 dere, coldly and formally, endeavouring in vain to deliver 
 himself from the grasp by which he was detained.
 
 140 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 " One word, Alphonso ! Hear me ! answer me this one single 
 question." 
 
 " Well, madam ? " 
 
 " Are you going to the cottage of that detested girl ? " 
 
 " The wife of Mr. Deacon ought to have no interest in the 
 movements of any other man than her husband ; and I, on my 
 part, might without discourtesy refuse replying to an inquiry 
 which, on your own part, is not made without disgrace : but I am 
 perfectly willing that the whole world should be acquainted 
 with the course of my proceedings. I have no hesitation in 
 acknowledging, that it is my immediate purpose to seek the 
 cottage of Miss Brownrigge." 
 
 " You are going there ! and you have the barbarity to own it ! 
 Oh, Alphonso ! cruel, cruel man ! Oh ! you will break my 
 heart." 
 
 " For shame, Mrs. Deacon ! — this language to me from a 
 married woman ! Madam ! madam ! think of your affectionate 
 and confiding husband, and allow me to depart." 
 
 " Is it then come to this ? He scorns my tenderness — my 
 devotion ! " 
 
 " For pity's sake, madam, forbear ! If the ties of duty, and a 
 sense of matronly decorum, are too weak to restrain these idle 
 demonstrations of your folly, only consider the disparity of our 
 years. If you have no horror of being vicious, at least forbear 
 to render yourself ridiculous. Remember, madam, I am young 
 enough to be your son — your grandson ! Why, my good lady, 
 I was only twenty last February, and I'll be sworn that you 
 can't be much under fifty-six ! " 
 
 " Sir ! " cried Mrs. Deacon, flinging Alphonso's hand away 
 from her in a paroxysm of wrath, while every inch of her person 
 that was visible assumed a hue of the deepest crimson, and her 
 eyes flashed with the fire of tlie furies as she spoke ; — " Sir, 
 you're not a gentleman ! Sir, I defy and scorn you ! Sir, you've 
 insulted a weak and defenceless woman ! The age of chivalry 
 is gone ! You have none of that gallant consideration which is 
 due to the female sex ! I hate and I despise you. But beware, 
 Mr. Alphonso Belvidere, — I warn you to beware in time. 
 Eemember that you've roused a lioness, whicli, insignificant as
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 141 
 
 you may think her power, will neither sleep nor rest till she 
 have found an opportunity for working the accomplishment of 
 her revenge !" 
 
 With these words the lady sailed away, muttering malice to 
 herself, to resume her chain and satin-stitch, by the side of her 
 husband, in the summer-house ; while our hero, having gained 
 possession of his hat and cane, departed in an opposite direction 
 towards the house of his Elizabeth, saying, in audible soliloquy, 
 as he quitted the hall, " What a towering passion that elderly 
 gentlewoman has put herself into ! " 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 Old Acqitaintance — Thoughts on Education — Benefits of the 
 
 Sovereignty of the Peojde. 
 
 " Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ? " — Shakespeare. 
 
 " For liei- niiml 
 Shaped strictest plans of discipline ; sage schemes, 
 Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine 
 Of the Orthyan goddess he bade tlog 
 The little Spartans ; such as erst chastised 
 Our Milton, when at college." — Canning. 
 
 " Hubble Ijubble, toil and trouble." — Shakespeare. 
 
 Several hours had now elapsed — noon and afternoon had 
 passed away — evening was coming on, but Timothy Hitch and 
 Giles Fillup still retained their station in the porch of the Eed 
 Cabbage. The light heart of our friend Timothy was now 
 rendered considerably lighter by frequent application to the 
 flowing can of mine host's home-brewed ; which can, for some 
 reason or other — either because the weather was so sultry, or 
 because he was getting dry, or because he wanted to M^ash 
 the dust out of his throat, or because he would pledge some old 
 companion who chanced to join them, or because he would 
 drink to the better acquaintance with some casual stranger who 
 stopped to refresh himself, or for some pretext of an equally 
 weighty description — he constantly found occasion for emptying, 
 and as constantly for having filled again. Seven o'clock struck.
 
 142 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 and found tlie young and merry-liearted liangman in a liighly 
 communicative state of mind, his conversational powers in active 
 play, holding " discourse of reason " with an elderly woman, in 
 the dress of a villager, who was resting herself in the porch 
 after the fatigues of a long day's travel. " My good lady," said 
 the kind Timothy, with a gentle and supplicating tone, " let me 
 entreat you to take another taste of the fourpenny ; depend upon 
 it, you'll find yourself the better for it. After a long day's 
 journey, according to my mind, there's nothing so refreshing as 
 a draught of good, strong, home-brewed ale. Some people 
 prefer purl; but I count them as little better than mere 
 ignoramuses in the article of tipple." 
 
 " Well, sir, I do like a glass of good ale myself." 
 
 " My good madam, you're a woman of sense ; — and so you're 
 Hertfordshire, you say, by birth." 
 
 " Xo, sir, — Hampshire ; from the other .side of Alton, down 
 away by Basingstoke." 
 
 " You don't say so ! That's wonderful. So am I ! And what 
 the devil brought you to Islington ? " 
 
 " A fool's errand, I am afraid." 
 
 " Ay, that's the reason most people leave home upon. And 
 pray may I ask what it was ? " 
 
 " Why, you must know, my husband's first wife was a widow ; 
 she was daughter of one iSTash, a baker at Clapton, and had 
 married a person of the name of Clifford, who " 
 
 " 0, confound the family pedigree ! Here, take another pull 
 to wet your whistle, and come at once to the point." 
 
 " Well, then, my husband, Martin Jukes, had a daughter-in- 
 law named Mary Clifford : she was but a little thing when her 
 mother died, about two years old or so ; and when her father-in- 
 law married me, why, as she had no claim upon either of us, as 
 Jukes and I were going to settle on my bit of a farm in Hamp- 
 .sliire, and as we expected to have a large family of our own, we 
 thought it better for ourselves to leave little Moll with her 
 mother's friends in London. Well, nine years passed away, and 
 not a child have we had to bless us. I very often used to think 
 with myself that it was all a judgment from Heaven upon our 
 hardheartedness for turning the poor, helpless, little creature out
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 143 
 
 of our own doors, when we had enough for all of us, and to 
 spare besides. Well, sir, at last my master got the ague, and 
 then, when the cold and fever fits were on him, he fell a-thinking 
 of Molly too ; and nothing would satisfy him but he must see 
 the child once more ; and so, after a deal of talking and thinking 
 upon the matter, off I set in the >vaggon, and came up to 
 London to find her out, and bring her home to her father-in- 
 law's again." 
 
 " Well done, old lady ! I like you the better for it ; so here's 
 to your health, and to the better health of your master too, as 
 you call him ! You're really kind, warm-hearted people, like 
 myself, that have a proper feeling for the sorrows of a fellow- 
 creature ; and that's what I admire, whether in man, woman, or 
 child." So saying, Timothy handed Dame Jukes the tankard 
 with his right hand, and wiped away the starting tear of 
 sensibility with the left. "But," he added, after a pause, 
 " you've found the little dear, I hope ? " 
 
 " I have, and I have not : I've found out where she is," replied 
 the good woman, with a sigh, " but, alas ! I'm not even allowed 
 to have a sight of her.'^ 
 
 " ISTot a sight of her ! What ! in this free country shut up a 
 child from her own flesh and blood, as you are — that is to say, 
 her own flesh and blood by marriage ! 0, it can't be ! — the 
 thing's impossible ! " 
 
 " It may be impossible, but it's very true, nevertheless." 
 
 " How can that be, my good woman ? but are not you her 
 relation, and haven't you a right in her ? " 
 
 " Lord, no, sir ! not now, they tell me ; for, you must know, 
 she's bound an apprentice." 
 
 " Bound an apprentice ? " 
 
 " Ay ! her mother's friends, it seems, got tired of the sweet 
 baby, and sent her to the workhouse ; and there the overseers, I 
 suppose, got tired of her too, and bound her an apprentice, for 
 seven years, up here, at a house hard by in the village." 
 
 " Well, and have you been to the house ? " 
 
 " To be sure I have." 
 
 " And what did they say to you ? " 
 
 " Just told me to get about my business ; that I'd no right to
 
 144 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 meddle or make with the child ; and that, if I occasioned any 
 disturbance, or even presumed to come near the house again 
 before the seven years were out, they'd certainly send for a 
 constable, and have me taken before a magistrate." 
 
 " The devil ! " cried Timothy Hitch, following his ejaculation 
 with a shrill whistle and a draught of ale to season .it. " Why 
 who did you see ? " 
 
 " The lady of the house herself — the mistress of poor little 
 Molly." 
 
 " The mistress ? — and what's the name of her mistress ? " 
 
 " Miss Elizabeth Brownrigge, to be sure ! Didn't I tell you 
 so?" 
 
 " Miss Elizabeth Brownrigge ! " exclaimed the young and 
 enthusiastic admirer of moral and physical beauty, with a start 
 of astonishment. " My good woman, you must be under a 
 mental delusion : why, she's a perfect paragon of goodness and 
 kindness ! " 
 
 " She won't let me see little Mary, though," sighed Mrs. Jukes. 
 
 " This can't be ! there's some mistake here," said Timothy, 
 taking up his hat, which was lying on the bench, and depositing 
 the tankard in its place : " Come along with me, and I'll see if 
 we can't set it all to rights. Giles, my good friend — confound the 
 fellow, he's drunk, and is as fast asleep as a top ! What a state 
 for a landlord and a moralist ! It's too bad — it's too bad ! If a 
 man can't carry his liquor, he ought, as a sober man, to be 
 ashamed of taking his liquor. Here ! House ! Ho ! Within ! 
 Landlady, I'm going, do you see ? So look after your husband." 
 And off he walked towards Elizabeth's cottage, at the rate of five 
 miles an hour, with Dame Jukes keeping up a shuffling run be- 
 hind him, as near his heels as the fatigue of her previous exertions, 
 and the incumbrance of her many, ample, and thickly-quilted 
 petticoats, would allow of. 
 
 They had nearly reached the point of their destination, when 
 they fell in with Mr. and Mrs. Deacon, who were returning 
 home from Mr. Belvidere's at rather an earlier hour than usu.al. 
 Mrs. Deacon had felt herself somewhat indisposed, and had laid 
 her commands upon her husband to decline waiting for the 
 ducks and green peas which were preparing for supper, and
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 145 
 
 which appealed, with arguments of most savoury persuasion, to 
 the olfactory nerves of Mr. Deacon, as he conducted his fair 
 spouse, with an air of implicit but sullen obedience, through the 
 hall and past the kitchen- windows of the manor-house. Our 
 friend Timothy no sooner came within hearing of Mr. Deacon, 
 than, with his mind full of the subject, he immediately entered 
 upon the case of Dame Jukes and little Mary Clifford, her 
 daughter-in-law. The apothecary and his wife both agreed with 
 him that it was very extraordinary — the very most extraordinary 
 thing they ever heard ! The apothecary thought that " it 
 should at once be inquired into ; " but his wife thought that 
 " any inquiry at the present moment was impossible, as she had 
 very good reasons for knowing that Miss Brownrigge was out, 
 late as it was, taking an evening walk with a young gentleman." 
 Again the apothecary surmised, " that the matter could all be 
 very readily explained, and that the good woman before them, 
 whose consideration for the girl was so highly to her credit, 
 would find everything set right the moment she could obtain 
 another interview with the young lady." But again the 
 apothecary's wife, on the contrary, surmised no such thing ; for, 
 " the young lady was a great tyrant, and had always treated the 
 poor child most execrably ; and, for her part, she'd venture to 
 swear that either the poor little dear was barbarously murdered, 
 and actually dead and buried, and could not be produced at all, 
 or, at least, was so black and blue with the blows she had 
 received, that her mistress would be ashamed of producing her 
 in the presence of so near and affectionate a relation as Mrs. 
 Jukes!" 
 
 Timothy Hitch was quite at a loss — he did not know what to 
 make of the matter ; and he vented his astonishment in short 
 asides and ejaculatory sentences, without taking any part in the 
 dialogue. Poor Dame Jukes herself could hardly utter a syllable, 
 except the most common-place expressions of lamentation over 
 the condition of herself and the little apprentice. She was never 
 in a position of such publicity before, and was not only deeply 
 interested for the sake of Mary Clifford, but was become agitated, 
 terrified, and hysterical, at finding herself in close communi- 
 cation with such gentlefolks as Mr. and Mrs. Deacon, and tlie 
 
 L
 
 146 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 object of interest to a group of stragglers which had gradually 
 gathered together, and was every moment becoming more 
 numerous during the discussion of the case. 
 
 But at this point we must for a few moments leave the party 
 at Islington, and follow the steps of Elizabeth and Alphonso 
 through the happy serenity of their evening walk. The lovers, 
 on quitting the cottage, bent their way, over fields and along 
 green shady lanes, towards the romantic and elevated village of 
 Hampstead. The spring of that year had been backward in no 
 ordinary degree ; and now, on the 25tli of June, the summer 
 having at once succeeded to several weeks of heavy and con- 
 tinued rain, the hay-making had but just commenced. The air, 
 impregnated with the perfume which ascended from the meadows, 
 and from the wild flowers that covered the banks and strewed 
 their loose beauties about the hedges, scattered fragrance with 
 every gale that blew. The cheering voices of the labourers in 
 the distance, merrily dissipating the social toil of harvest-time 
 with many a jest, and laugh, and snatches of old songs — the 
 myriads of insects murmuring their busy tale to the still ear of 
 evening — the deep blue of the cloudless sky gradually melting 
 away towards the west, in the yellow glow of sunset ; — all the 
 accessories of the scene harmonised with the serenity of the 
 hour, and conduced to the diffusion of a corresponding feeling 
 over the young and tender hearts of Alphonso and Elizabeth. 
 Full of such sweet thoughts as love is pregnant in, and wearing- 
 out the way in the responsive communication of them, Alphonso 
 had completely lost all recollection of the subject which engaged 
 him at dinner, and, indeed, of the existence of the Deacons and 
 their accusations. Our hero and heroine had already strolled 
 along the rich and beautiful meadows that skirt the foot of 
 Muswell Hill, and had reached a retired and shadowy spot 
 somewhat to the north of Mother Eed Cap's, when, suddenly 
 emerging from a gap in the hedge, a little in advance of them, 
 started forth the female stranger who, at an earlier stage of our 
 narrative, presented herself in so extraordinary a manner at the 
 porch of the Eed Cabbage. Her air was more wild, and her 
 dress still more disordered, than when she first was introduced 
 to the reader as interrupting the philosophic conference of
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 147 
 
 Timothy Hitch and his host Giles Fillup. Elizabeth, agitated 
 at the unexpected appearance of the figure, exclaimed, " Good 
 heavens ! there's that poor mad creature again ! " and, for the 
 first time in her life, placed her arm within that of Alphonso, as 
 if claiming the support of his affection ; but her lover, flung off 
 his guard by so new and so unhoped-for a condescension, 
 involuntarily pressed it to his side, and the arm was immediately 
 removed. 
 
 " Let me protect you," said Alphonso. 
 
 " Thank you," rejoined Elizabeth — " I'm not alarmed. It was 
 mighty idle of me to be thus startled at a mere trifle ; " and, 
 folding her arms composedly before her, she withdrew to the 
 other side of the pathway. 
 
 As they approached the stranger, the stranger also advanced 
 nearer towards them ; till, coming immediately opposite Eliza- 
 beth, she at first fixed her eyes directly upon hers, with as 
 strong an expression of stern defiance as her fair and youthful 
 features were capable of exhibiting, and then, her countenance 
 gradually relaxing from the severity of its character into a look 
 of the deepest tenderness, prostrated herself upon the earth 
 before her, and, her eyes streaming with tears, exclaimed, 
 " Mistress, forgive me — oh, forgive me ! " 
 
 " Eorgive you, young woman !" replied Elizabeth ; " surely you 
 have mistaken me for another ; I never was any mistress of 
 thine ! Till this day I am not conscious of ever having seen 
 you before." 
 
 " Am I so altered, then ? 0, I see ! It is this dress of shame 
 — these badges of disgrace — this detested finery ! " And she 
 began to tear the straggling feathers and flowers from her head- 
 dress. " It is this disguise of sin that " 
 
 " Hold, hold ! " interrupted Elizabeth ; " young woman, I 
 command you to restrain this violence ! " 
 
 The poor girl, either impressed by the natural dignity of Miss 
 Brownrigge's manner, or influenced by long habit of obedience 
 to the voice by which she was addressed, let her hands fall 
 down passively by her side, and, with a look in which 
 affection, fear, and submission were strangely mingled, cried, 
 " Oh ! Miss Brownrioge ! " 
 
 l2
 
 148 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 " My name too ! " exclaimed Elizabeth : " what is the mean- 
 ing of all this ? Who are you ? — where do you come from ?" 
 
 "What, miss ! have you then indeed forgot me? Don't you 
 remember Mary Jones ?" 
 
 " My runaway apprentice ! Are you, then, that wicked girl, 
 who broke her indentures ?" 
 
 "Don't say wicked, miss," exclaimed Mary Jones, rising 
 quickly from the ground ; " only think, miss, what I had to 
 undergo." 
 
 " Undergo, ingrate that you are ! Do you presume to insinuate 
 that I was a harsh or unreasonable mistress to you ?" 
 
 " no ! no, indeed ! " cried the girl, shrinking back, and 
 looking up with a suppliant eye that seemed to deprecate the 
 effects of the fair Elizabeth's anger. 
 
 " If," resumed the lady, " you did your duty well, did I not 
 always deal kindly by you ? if ill, did I not universally deal 
 justly ?" 
 
 " Yes — yes," rejoined the girl, " if I behaved well, I had 
 pudding and no flogging ; and if ill, I had a flogging and no 
 pudding." 
 
 " Alas, alas ! " exclaimed Elizabeth, " how are the most well- 
 considered and most ably-digested systems of discipline rendered 
 ineffectual by the grossness of the natures to which they are 
 applied ! And is it possible that thy intellect, Mary Jones, 
 could have been so obtuse as to apprehend no deeper aims in 
 the duly graduated scale of rewards and punishments under 
 which the domestic economy of my house has always been con- 
 ducted, than the pudding which was the recompense of your 
 diligence, or the flogging that was the penalty of your offences ! 
 Did the sanctions of those laws and ordinances, which I had so 
 carefully established as secondary means of appealing to the 
 affections of your inmost soul — as exciting motives to your 
 emulation — as prevailing arguments to your sense of shame, 
 reach no farther, as inducements to virtue and discouragements 
 from vice, than the mere palate which they gratified or the back 
 they grieved ? Are there, then, really any beings in the world 
 to whom the moral is nothing, and the physical is all in all ? " 
 
 During the progress of this very eloquent apostrophe, while
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 149 
 
 Alphonso was wrapped in silent admiration of the wisdom of 
 his love, Mary Jones, no longer awed by that feeling of habi- 
 tual submission which had returned upon her at first encoun- 
 tering her deserted mistress, had been rapidly relapsing into her 
 former state of mental bewilderment and delirium; and the 
 moment the last tone of Elizabeth's voice passed away from the 
 life of music into the death of silence, she shrieked aloud, 
 
 " Whack, whack ! — whack, whack ! " Alphonso shuddered 
 at the sounds : he seemed to hear in the exclamation the echo 
 of the lashes from which the shrieks that so startled him before 
 dinner had received their origin. " But no double thondno- ," 
 continued the girl — " no double thonging for Mary Jones 
 now ! JSTo, no ! that time's gone for ever ! If you're a miss, 
 my lady, let me tell you that I'm a miss too ! The best 
 of silks and satins to wear— hooped petticoats, fly-caps, laced 
 ruffles, and a chariot to ride in ! No floggings for me ! Me ! — 
 Where's such another equipage as mine ? who so fine and so 
 grand as I, either at the park or the play ? ' That's IMiss 
 Jones !— that's the beautiful Miss Jones ! — that's the old Vis- 
 count of Darling's Miss Jones ! ' cry the gentlemen. ' Which, 
 which ? — where, where ? ' cry the ladies. ' There ! that young, 
 beautiful creature in the front box, with the high head and the 
 diamonds, and the elderly gentleman sitting beside her ! ' reply 
 the gentlemen. And then the people whisper to one another, 
 and stare and talk, and talk and stare, and turn all their atten- 
 tion to me, and never think of the players." 
 
 " Mary Jones ! Mary Jones ! " cried Elizabeth, " are you not 
 ashamed, after the lessons which I inculcated upon you in your 
 childhood, to attach yourself to such passing vanities as these ? " 
 
 " Passing ! — yes, yes ! — passing enough. Heaven knows ; but 
 then my poor mother was to blame. That was never any fault 
 of mine, you know. I'm sure I tried to persuade my old lord 
 to give her the money ; and if he wouldn't, that was no reason 
 why she should write his name upon a paper, and pretend that 
 he had given it her, and send poor brother Tom to get it 
 cashed at the banker's. They called it forgery — ah, ah, ah ! — for- 
 gery ! What fools these lawyers are ! They did not mean any 
 forgery, poor souls ! They only wanted to get the money as
 
 ISO ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 quickly as they could, without troubling the gouty old lord any 
 further. But he had them banged, nevertheless, though he did 
 profess such love for me all the time." 
 
 " Your mother and your brother hanged ! " exclaimed Eliza- 
 beth ; and she turned pale with horror at the thought. " Un- 
 happy Mary ! and you live to tell the tale ! " 
 
 " Ay, ay ! More's the pity ! more's the pity ! — death were 
 better, far better," muttered the girl, in low, deep, hurried 
 accents ; and then, turning briskly round to Alphonso, de- 
 manded, with a sudden change of voice, " Pray, sir, did you 
 ever see an execution ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! — never ! " replied he impatiently, for his attention 
 was drawn towards Elizabeth, whose self-possession, impertur- 
 bable as it generally was, appeared to fail her at the continued 
 mention of such appalling subjects — " j^ever — and I trust I 
 never shall ! " 
 
 " I have ! I have ! " shouted Mary Jones, with a cry of wild 
 exultation — " I was in my chariot, too. When mother and 
 brother were carried to Tyburn, I followed close beside them all 
 the way. Little did the mob suppose that the fine lady, who sat 
 there all alone, dizened out in her carriage, was daughter and 
 sister to the condemned wretches that were dragged so slowly 
 along in the cart, with Timothy Hitch and the chaplain ! Ah ! 
 ah ! ah ! Only think : wouldn't they have prettily hissed and 
 pelted me if they'd found that secret out ? But I sat back, 
 crying all the while, with my handkerchief up to my eyes, so 
 they saw nothing of me. And when the ropes were round their 
 necks, and the caps drawn over their eyes, and the white hand- 
 kerchief raised for the signal, I gave a scream, and before it fell 
 to the ground, burst open the door of the carriage, and I've run, 
 and run, and run, to get away from the sight in my eyes and 
 the sound in my ears, and the aching of my heart, and the 
 burning in my brain ; — but then they follow — follow — follow, 
 and will follow me wherever I go." 
 
 " Be silent ! — for mercy's sake, be silent ! " cried Alphonso, 
 
 observing the nerves of EHzabeth were seriously afiected by the 
 
 girl's story — "Let me entreat you to pursue this theme no further." 
 
 " Mary Jones," interposed Elizabeth, with a strong effort of
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 151 
 
 self-command, "here you perceive the lamentable effects of a 
 single error. Had you but remained under the safeguard of 
 my protection, till your principles were sufficiently confirmed 
 to be intrusted with the conduct of that most attractive and 
 pernicious beauty, all might have still been well. I only hope 
 and trust that these events may for ever act as warnings to you, 
 and serve as future beacons to guide you over the tempestuous 
 suro-es of the world. Adieu ! Be wiser and better : and bear 
 with you the good wishes of a friend." 
 
 " Oh ! but let me kiss that hand once more," said the girl. 
 
 " The request is granted," replied Elizabeth, drawing off the 
 glove from her right hand, which she kindly extended towards 
 her. Mary Jones bent her knee to the ground, kissed it eagerly, 
 and in an instant disappeared through the broken hedge-row by 
 which she had made her approach. 
 
 The lovers turned away, and directed their steps towards 
 Elizabeth's cottage. The sun had now sunk beneath the horizon; 
 the evening was closing in fast around their path ; the stars 
 were beginning to shew themselves in the deep, unfathomable 
 expanse of the heavens; the noise of the harvest-men had 
 ceased ; and no sounds any longer interrupted the stillness of 
 the hour, but the heavier drone of the beetle, the lowing of the 
 distant kine, and, from time to time, the melodious complaining 
 of the nightingale. This interview with Mary Jones had re- 
 called to the mind of young Belvidere the recollection of the 
 cries which he had lately heard issuing from the dwelling of 
 Elizabeth, and of the interpretation put upon them by the 
 malice of Mrs. Deacon. He desired, yet feared, to demand an 
 explanation of them. He desired to hear Elizabeth's vindica- 
 tion pronounced by her own lips ; and yet he feared to touch 
 upon the theme, lest he should seem to imply a doubt of her 
 gentleness and tenderness of heart. But, anxious that no reser- 
 vation of thought on his part should ever interfere with the 
 perfect confidence that subsisted between them, he resolved, 
 boldly and openly, to address his companion on the subject, and 
 without any preliminary circumlocution, at once demanded the 
 origin and the reason of those fearful shrieks which had so 
 startled him in the afternoon.
 
 152 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 " The cries were uttered by Mary Mitchel, my eldest appren- 
 tice," replied Elizabeth, with undisturbed serenity of voice and 
 manner ; " and were occasioned by the correction which I found 
 it incumbent on me to administer." 
 
 " Had she done anything to excite your anger so violently 
 ao'ainst her ? " 
 
 " I never," answered Elizabeth, with the dignity of conscious 
 and suspected virtue, " am tempted to be angry at all ; or, if I 
 am, it could not but have subsided very long before the hour of 
 .castioation. The fault for which the chastisement was dealt 
 took place the day before yesterday. I never punish, or allow 
 any one to punish, a child intrusted to my protection at the 
 moment of the offence, lest the correction, received as the result 
 of thoughtless passion rather than of deliberate justice, should 
 produce but a slight and transient impression upon the offender, 
 and inflict pain upon the body, without producing any concomi- 
 tant improvement of the heart and mind." 
 
 " Wise and right, as all your counsels are ! Yet surely 
 the chastisement which little Mary received must have 
 been very severe, to elicit such loud and piercing shrieks of 
 suffering." 
 
 "Alas!" rejoined Elizabeth, and she looked down, as she 
 closed her eyes a moment to disperse the tears that were gather- 
 ing over them — " Alas ! the stripes were severe." 
 " Was, then, the offence so very great ? " 
 " I am not aware of any scale by which we may measure the 
 relative magnitude, and decide upon the proportionate dimensions 
 of offences. The essence of crime consists in a vicious will, and 
 not in the vicious act. All voluntary and predetermined sins 
 bear, in my estimation, an equal degree of guilt. If a person 
 would steal a pin, or utter a prevarication, or do a fellow- 
 creature an injury, it is only cowardice, and not principle, that 
 deters him from housebreaking, or perjury, or murder. Only 
 let the world awaken from its present miserable state of moral 
 and metaphysical blindness, and punish what are so ignorantly 
 accounted as the slighter offences with the severity which their 
 natural malignity deserves, and it would very soon discover 
 that none of the larger offences remained to be punished."
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 153 
 
 " Oh, Elizabeth ! " exclaimed Alphonso, " how has thy soul 
 become enriched with such wisdom ? " 
 
 " By self-examination," she replied, gravely. The knowledge 
 of my own frailty, and the consideration of the measures that 
 were best adapted to the eradication of it, have been my only 
 masters; but they are masters who, I trust, have afforded me 
 no slight stock of good, and sound, and valuable instruction." 
 
 In the course of this conversation, the lovers had reached the 
 turning which brought them in view of the houses of Mr. Deacon 
 and Elizabeth, and they were surprised at observing a large 
 assembly of people upon the spot. " What can this disturbance 
 mean ? " said Alphonso ; " I suppose some drunkard has " 
 
 " It is in vain," interrupted Elizabeth, " to amuse ourselves 
 with suppositions upon the subject. They who would draw 
 their conclusions from such mere external circumstances, without 
 an accurate knowledge of the particulars, resemble those idle 
 folk who pretend to discover figures in the clouds, each as his 
 own imagination shapes them, and one sees a calf or a weasel 
 in the self-same collection of vapour, which another converts 
 into a whale or a camel." 
 
 " Most justly argued ! To be with you, and to listen to the 
 accents of that voice, is to imbibe wisdom in music ! But, at 
 least, let us not part at this spot, as usual. My own Elizabeth 
 must permit me to conduct her through the throng of that 
 turbulent and assembled mass of people, and see her safely 
 established in the peaceful paradise of her home." 
 
 " By no means ; I thank you for the offer, Alphonso, but 
 cannot assent to it. Your attending me would carry you just 
 so far out of the way on your road to the manor-house, and could 
 not render me any effectual service. Adieu, Alphonso ! I shall 
 not volunteer the inconvenience of threading the mazes of 
 yonder boisterous multitude, but shall effect my entrance to the 
 cottage by the back door, and through the kitchen-garden. And 
 so, again, farewell ! " 
 
 With these words Elizabeth withdrew. Alphonso watched 
 her, the power of his vision gaining strength from the intensity 
 of his affection, till, penetrating the dim twilight, he distinctly 
 saw her pass unobserved into the garden, and heard the gate
 
 154 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 closed after her. And then, supposing it impossible he could 
 have any interest in the affair which had collected and agitated 
 the distant crowd, he bent his way, slowly and contemplatively, 
 towards his father's house. 
 
 During the time of the lovers' walk, the assembly of people in 
 front of Miss Brownrigge's cottage, of which Mr. and Mrs. Deacon, 
 Dame Jukes, and Timothy Hitch had formed the nucleus, had 
 been increased to a very considerable amount, by the addition 
 of all the stragglers from the ale-house — the idlers of the village 
 — the artisans let loose from the stall or the shop-board — the 
 haymakers returning from the surrounding fields — the greater 
 part of the female inhabitants of the neighbourhood — and every 
 child above two years old who was allowed to be at that time 
 out of bed. Among this mass of persons, the tale of Dame 
 Jukes and Mary Clifford had, in the course of frequent repeti- 
 tion, became strangely and variously altered from the original ; 
 and while all were clamorously employed in recounting to any 
 audience they could obtain the most exaggerated versions of 
 the story, there were no two individuals to be met with whose 
 version was the same. 
 
 " Oh, it's a shame ! a shame and a sin ! " cried a hundred 
 voices together. " It's a shame to a Christian country ! " 
 
 " Hey day ! what's the matter here ? " demanded a newly- 
 arrived limb of the mob. 
 
 " All along of that poor old woman there." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! " cried Dame Jukes. " My child ! my 
 child ! What shall I do ? where shall I go ? what will become 
 of me ? " 
 
 " Never mind, my good woman, we'll see you righted." 
 
 " That we will — that we will ! If we don't, we're no English- 
 men," shouted a hundred consolatory voices at once. 
 
 " Eighted ! who's injured her ? I say what's the matter ? " 
 
 " The lady of this house has kidnapped her baby." 
 
 " Nonsense : kidnapped ! no such thing. She bought her only 
 daughter of her, ever so many years ago, for a new gown and a 
 guinea, and has sold her for a slave to the Algerines." 
 
 " That an't so, Gilbert." 
 
 " I say it is."
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 155 
 
 " No ; I tell you it an't. The poor old countrywoman came 
 up here to see the child, who is but a baby of ten months old, 
 and when she saw it she did not know it for her own — there 
 was not a whole place in its body. You could not tell that it 
 was a human creature, the poor baby was so barbarously beat 
 about." 
 
 " That an't it a bit ! " 
 
 " What is it, then ? " 
 
 " Why, I'll tell you the whole long and short of it. Slie 
 wasn't allowed to have a sight of the child. How should she ? 
 Why, everybody knows that the poor thing was murdered a 
 week ago, when Mr. Deacon, the apothecary, heard the voice of 
 a female infant crying murder, three times, in the dead of the 
 night!" 
 
 " Oh, it's a shame ! it's a sin ! " 
 
 Here the mob became liighly excited, and set up a horrid 
 yell, with their faces directed towards Elizabeth's cottage, and 
 shaking their fists up at the windows. In the midst of this 
 riotous vociferation, a boy more zealous than the rest took up a 
 small pebble, and flung it with some violence against the wall 
 of the house. 
 
 This was hailed as the signal for a general attack, and all 
 hands became immediately armed with stones, and all arms 
 were raised to hurl them ; when Timothy Hitch, ashamed at 
 the lawless proceedings of the people, and terrified for the 
 safety of the beautiful Elizabeth, rushing forward into the van 
 of the mob, and raising his deep sonorous voice to the loudest 
 pitch, so as to be audible above the clamour by which he was 
 surrounded, succeeded for one moment in arresting their atten- 
 tion, while he maintained the following interrupted dialogue : 
 
 Tim. H. " My friends ! my good friends ! hear me for one 
 moment." 
 
 Mob. " Hear him ! hear him ! " 
 
 Tim. H. " Let me implore you, as men of judgment, sobriety, 
 and discretion — which I am sure the present assembly is com- 
 posed of " 
 
 Mob. " Hear, hear ! that's right ! — that's sense, now ! " 
 
 Tim. H. " Let me implore you not to prosecute this outrage
 
 156 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 any further. Even to the greatest offender, I'm sure no man 
 amongst you, as an Englishman " 
 
 Mob. " Hear him ! hear him ! " 
 
 Tim, H. " As an Englishman — I repeat it — would deny the 
 privilege which the free institutions of this country afford, and 
 refuse the liberty " 
 
 Moh. " Hurra ! Liberty for ever ! Liberty and reform ! 
 Hurra ! " 
 
 Tim. H. " If Miss Brownrigge be really criminal " 
 
 Mob yells. " She is — she is ! we know it ! Down with her ! 
 Down with her ! " 
 
 Ti7Ji. H. " 1 cannot believe it." 
 
 Mob yells. " Yah ! yah ! yah ! " 
 
 Tim. H. " Has not her whole life been a course of kindness 
 and humanity ? Has she not been the friend of thousands ? 
 and has she ever done an injury to a single human being among 
 you ? " 
 
 Mob. " Down with him ! " {Loud yells : as they die moay, a 
 single voice bawls out — " If she did do us any good, she had her 
 own ends to serve ! " wMcli cry is violently repeated by the mob.) 
 
 Tim. H. " If she has committed any wrong, I don't wish to 
 stand between a culprit and her punishment. Heaven forbid 
 that I should ! But is she not amenable to the courts of justice ? 
 and will not the government take care that the laws are not 
 defrauded of their dues ? " 
 
 Mob. " Down with her ! No laws — no justice — no government 
 — no nothing ! " 
 
 In the midst of this most reasonable cry for the annihilation 
 of the moral and material world, volleys of stones and other 
 missiles were hurled violently against the windows of the house ; 
 and one man, half-drunk with spirits, and half-mad with the 
 excitement of mob enthusiasm, having possessed himself of a 
 torch, was hastening forward, with the intention of setting fire 
 to the building. 
 
 Timothy Hitch, whose influence with the multitude had been 
 rapidly departing, from the moment that he had ceased to flatter 
 and presumed to address a word of salutary counsel to them, 
 here exerted the last effort of his lungs, and made a final trial
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 157 
 
 of the extent of his popularity, by laying hold of the ruffian, 
 and exclaiming, 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, my friends, beware what you're about ! 
 As to Miss Brownrigge, I do not interpose for her ; but will you 
 burn the poor innocent apprentices ? " 
 
 This appeal, bursting upon them in that dull interval of silence 
 which, even in the most turbulent and numerous multitudes, 
 always precedes a moment of action, produced an instantaneous 
 effect. The mass of people rushed forward, with a single impulse, 
 to seize upon Elizabeth, and to rescue the children. The poor 
 girls, who were discovered in the coal-shed, clinging to each 
 other, terrified by the clamours, and grievously bruised by many 
 stones which had been cast from the hands of their friends, were 
 immediately removed, under the care of Mr. Deacon, to the 
 parish work-house. Elizabeth, the object of the hostility of the 
 mob, was nowhere to be found. 
 
 End of Book the First.
 
 158 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 BOOK II. 
 Chaptek I. 
 
 A Departure — Female Pedestrianism — Masquerading — Eliza- 
 
 leth Canning. 
 
 ' Behold them wandering on their hopeless way, 
 Unknowing where they stray ; 
 Yet sure where'er they stop to find no rest." — Southey. 
 
 Ttjv 8 aTTo/xet^o/^evT; 7rpocrecj)i] 7ro\vfxy]TLs. — Homer. 
 
 " So we grew together, 
 Like to a double cherry, seeming parted ; 
 But yet a union in partition — 
 Two lovely berries moulded on one stem." — Shakespeare. 
 
 On quitting Alphonso, and entering the garden, Elizabeth found 
 herself accosted by Mary Jones, who, deeply interested in the 
 safety, and anticipating the movements, of her young mistress, 
 had stationed herself in the garden with the intention of warning 
 her of the impending danger, and preventing her return to the 
 cottage. The poor girl wildly but accurately informed our 
 heroine of the origin of the riot, which was every minute 
 gathering strength, of the strange rumours that circulated among 
 the populace, of their exasperation against her, and of the 
 violence to which she would inevitably be exposed should she 
 venture to encounter them in their present infuriated state. 
 Elizabeth, undismayed by the intelligence, answered her attached 
 and Immble friend with a simple expression of compassion for 
 the state of the poor deluded people, and began, with her usual 
 equability of mind and composure of manner, to retrace her 
 steps towards the road. 
 
 " The philosopher has said," she nmttered in soliloquy, but 
 still loud enough to be overheard by Mary Jones, who, at a 
 respectful distance, followed her into a path that led over the
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 159 
 
 fields towards Gray's Inn Lane and Holborn Bars — " the 
 pMlosopher has said, that if he were accused of any even the 
 most impossible crime — if he were charged with having pur- 
 loined the church steeple and carried it away in his waistcoat- 
 pocket, his first measure would be flight." 
 
 " And by far the best measure too 1" cried Mary Jones ; "who 
 that had their wits about them would stay to be baited by bum- 
 bailiffs and shoved about by sheriffs' officers, if " 
 
 " Inconsiderate creature that I am ! " interrupted Elizabeth, 
 suddenly recollecting the absence of her dog ; " I protest, in my 
 hurry, I have forgotten Muggletonian. He'll fall a victim to the 
 fury of the mob. Not finding the object of their indignation, 
 they'll vent their blind and ignorant maUce upon my unoffend- 
 ing favourite. It were unjust and cruel to abandon him to such 
 a fate ! Instantly wiU I return and seek him." 
 
 " No, no, ]\Iiss Elizabeth ! " exclaimed her companion ; " stay 
 you there in safety, behind the trunk and beneath the spreading 
 shade of yonder oak, where the branches are so closely inter- 
 woven that not a single ray of moonlight can make its way, and 
 discover your concealment, while I go back to the house. The 
 people won't know me, or, if they should, they'll allow me 
 to pass without annoyance. Do you wait here, and in a trice 
 I'll return with little Muggy." 
 
 " Call him Muggletonian," said Elizabeth : " I have a great 
 dislike to all senseless abbreviations." 
 
 It may be Ciuestioned whether Mary Jones heard this rejoinder 
 of our heroine ; for the faithful creature had no sooner expressed 
 her determination of going in search of the absent animal, than 
 she disappeared with the speed of lightning from the spot ; and, 
 before Elizabeth supposed it possible that she could have reached 
 the cottage, her voice was again heard behind her, exclaiming, 
 in a hurried whisper of exultation, " Come along — come along, 
 my mistress ! the mob have entered and are ransacking the 
 cottage. I saw them in the parlour ; but I passed them un- 
 observed, and have rescued the object of your anxiety." 
 
 " Rescued him !— where is he ? " demanded Elizabeth ; " no 
 Muggletonian do I see ! " 
 
 " See him ! — how should you ? " replied Mary ; " why, bless
 
 i6o ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 your heart, my mistress, the little fellow's fast asleep in my 
 pocket !" 
 
 I need not remind my antiquarian readers, that while in the 
 benighted days of the eighteenth century no mantua-maker had 
 yet advanced so far on the march of intellect as to approach the 
 discovery of a reticule, the lap-dogs of those times were small, 
 and the pockets were capacious. 
 
 The party being thus completed, they, for a short space, 
 wound their way in silence beneath the bright eye of the silver 
 moon, across the dewy fields and along the green winding paths 
 that conducted to the metropolis. They had reached the top of 
 Gray's Inn Lane before Elizabeth, who, during the progress of 
 their walk, had been taking counsel with herself alone upon 
 the course which it would be most advisable for her to adopt, 
 had fully matured her plans of operation, and began, in the 
 following words, to open her intentions to her companion : — 
 
 " You left me of your own accord, Mary, and in violation of 
 the terms of your indentures : I apprehend you repent yourself 
 of that unhappy measure ? " 
 
 " Eepent me of it ! — 0, how bitterly ! " 
 
 " I attempt not to put any constraint upon your inclinations ; 
 you are now at liberty to remain with or to leave me. Make 
 your choice freely ; but, Mary Jones, make it firmly, and once 
 for all." 
 
 " With you — 0, with you ! " cried the affectionate girl, eagerly 
 seizing and kissing the hand of Elizabeth ; — " with you, wherever 
 you go, and whatever may be jqvm destiny ! " 
 
 " That is well ! " rejoined our heroine, giving a shght pressure 
 of acknowledgment to the hand by which her own was respect- 
 fully but affectionately grasped ; " and from this moment, 
 Mary, no longer regarded as an apprentice, but as a friend, I 
 receive you, as the depositary of my most secret thoughts, to the 
 confidence which your fidelity deserves." 
 
 " Me ! — your confidence ! 0, Miss Brownrigge ! " 
 
 " It would be wiser, Mary, to designate me by that name no 
 longer. Nothing can be more foreign from my principles or my 
 inclinations than ' to do evil that good may come.' Never would 
 I attempt to seek an ignominious safety from the persecutions
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. i6i 
 
 of my enemies beneath the shelter of falsehood or prevarication. 
 I do not, therefore, propose, as perhaps might be the case with 
 many persons of a lower tone of morals, when placed in snch an 
 emergency as ours, to assume an alias. It is not my intention 
 to change my name altogether, but I shall no longer make use 
 of more than half of it : instead of denominating me Miss 
 Elizabeth Brownrigge, you will henceforth remember, ]\Iary, 
 that my appellation is Mistress Eliza Brown." 
 
 " Mistress ? " 
 
 " Ay — Mistress, Mary Jones ! The un wedded wife, the virgin 
 widow, of Alphonso Belvidere 1 " 
 
 •' Widow, ma'am ? " 
 
 " From this hour, true to the memory of him to whose love I 
 am for ever dead, and from whose presence I am for ever 
 severed, the lonely sense of widowhood will perpetually rest 
 upon my heart, and the dark weeds of widowhood shall be the 
 constant habiliments of my person." 
 
 " 0, you cannot surely be so cruel ! What I give up poor, 
 dear Mr. Alphonso — such a clever, sweet, virtuous young gentle- 
 man — who stands six feet two without his shoes, and who loves 
 you with such devotion ? " 
 
 " It is because he loves me — because I love him, my friend, 
 that this resolution has been formed. Alphonso is no ordinary 
 man ; and his wife, like that of Caesar, ought not only to be im- 
 maculate in herself, but unsuspected by others. The reproach 
 which attaches to me, and from which I fly, is to my conscience, 
 and ought to be to his, as an irreversible sentence of divorce- 
 ment. It is his duty to forget a name that has been linked in 
 the public voice with dishonourable epithets ; and it is rny duty 
 to prevent its being ever recalled to his recollection." 
 
 " dear. Miss " 
 
 " Mistress, Mary — remember. Mistress ! " 
 
 " Mistress Elizabeth " 
 
 " Eliza ! " 
 
 " Well, well ! — dear, Mrs. Eliza Brownri " 
 
 " Brown ! that's enough." 
 
 " 0, Mrs. Eliza Brown ! Can you have the heart to jilt that 
 beautiful gentleman ? " 
 
 M
 
 1 62 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 " I do not jilt him, Mary. — As an act of self-devotion, I offer 
 np my own happiness as a voluntary sacrifice on the altar of his 
 future respectability in life." 
 
 " And what, for mercy's sake, do you mean to do, ma'am ? " 
 
 " That thought is opportunely suggested," replied Elizabeth. 
 " It is, indeed time that we should provide for the present need. 
 A strict search after us will immediately be set on foot. This 
 we must endeavour to elude. It is first necessary that we should 
 make an alteration in our attire. Attend me here. I'll proceed 
 to yonder warehouse, over the door of which the three golden 
 balls are pendant and tlie large lamp is blazing, and purchase 
 whatever may be requisite to complete the change of our ap- 
 pearance; and in effecting that change, the deserted stable to 
 our right will afford the decent shelter of its roof." 
 
 Elizabeth had no sooner determined upon this plan, than, 
 with that promptitude of execution by which her character was 
 distinguished, she took measures for its instant accomplish- 
 ment. She calndy entered the pawnbroker's, and deliberately 
 made her bargain for the articles required: and after completing 
 her purchases, many minutes did not elapse before she and her 
 companion issued from the deserted building to which they had 
 retired, entirely metamorphosed in their apparel and appearance. 
 The stained and tattered finery of Mary Jones had given place 
 to the decent linen gown, the close cap, the black bonnet, and 
 the red cloak of a country maid-servant ; while our heroine, 
 according to the intention she had previously expressed, as- 
 sumed the dark garments of widowhood. The watchmen — in 
 those days they still existed — were now vociferating, each upon 
 his peculiar beat, " Past ten o'clock ! " Hitherto our fair and in- 
 teresting friends had proceeded on their way almost unobserved 
 and altogether without interruption ; but, on reaching the Hol- 
 born end of Gray's Inn Lane, their progress was impeded by 
 the intervention of a dense crowd, which reached from one side 
 of the street to the other, and threatened to oppose a formidable 
 obstruction to their passage. This mass of people were collected 
 together near the gate of Gray's Inn, and their lieads turned 
 back, their mouths open, and their eyes at the fullest stretch, 
 were listening, with intense and silent interest, to a little
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 163 
 
 chimney-sweeper, who, perched on the top of a lamp-post, was 
 bawlingj forth to the snrroundin<j; audience the contents of a 
 large printed bill. As the fair friends approached this peculiar 
 and novel kind of rostrum, they could not help catching a suffi- 
 cient number of the words which the shrill-tongued urchin was 
 vociferating to Enable them to comprehend the import of his 
 communication ; and as the phrases, " eloped from her chariot," 
 " foot of the gallows," " Tyburn," " young lady," " sixteen years 
 of age," " fashionably attired," struck upon the ear of Mary 
 Jones, she drew closer and closer to Elizabeth : and when she 
 heard that £200 were offered as the reward of her restoration, 
 she was seized with fear and trembling, and whispered her 
 mistress in a voice scarce audible, and broken by apprehen- 
 sion, " 0, ma'am, 'tis I — 'tis I ! They'll find me out and take 
 me from you '. 0, what shall I do ? " 
 
 " Be calm ! " rejoined our heroine, grasping her wrist with an 
 air of dignified authority ; " subdue this idle agitation, and follow 
 me in silence ; — detection is impossible ! Eemember you are 
 again yourself, and no longer disguised as a woman of quality !" 
 
 The expression " disguised " somewhat jarred upon the ear 
 and vanity of Mary Jones ; but she felt consoled by the reflec- 
 tion that her identity with the person described in the placard 
 was not likely to be discovered ; and, obedient to the directions 
 of the superior mind in subjection to which she acted, she 
 quietly followed in the path that was opened for them as the 
 crowd retired on either side, with an involuntary feeling of 
 respect, before the coDimanding brow and elevated deportment 
 of Elizabeth. On regaining the open street, our heroine recom- 
 menced the detail of those plans for the future, in arranging 
 which her mind had been actively engaged, even while acknow- 
 ledging, with a graceful inclination of her head from side to 
 side, the kind attention of the'mob, and sustaining the fainting 
 spirits of her more dependent and less self-possessed companion. 
 
 " We shall soon leave this country for ever, and no more 
 return to it again ! Will it grieve you, Mary ? " 
 
 " Nothing can o-rieve me as long as I am with you." 
 
 " You'll not object, then, to residing in America, whither I 
 purpose retiring to seek an asylum from the tyranny of my 
 
 M2
 
 1 64 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 persecutors, in the arms of friendship and in a land of liberal 
 opinions." 
 
 " Friends in America ! I never heard, ma'am, before," cried 
 Mary Jones, " that you had any friends in foreign parts." 
 
 " Yes, Mary," replied Elizabeth, with a sigh of tender recol- 
 lection, "the dearest and the earliest friend I 'have has long 
 been an unwilling emigrant from her native land, the martyr 
 of inflexible virtue and the victim of an indiscriminating jury. 
 You have, perhaps, heard of Elizabeth Canning ? " 
 
 " To be sure I have ; you mean the girl that was transported 
 for perjury, and who wanted to swear away the life of old 
 Mother Squires, of Enfield Wash ! " 
 
 " 0, Elizabeth, Elizabeth ! my school-girl friend ! my child- 
 hood's monitress ! And is it thus that truth and purity like 
 yours are perverted by the misapprehensions, and profaned by 
 the calumnies, of the multitude ! " 
 
 " Why, la ! ma'am," cried the astonished Mary, " is it possible 
 that that wicked woman was really an acquaintance of yours ? " 
 
 " Hear me, my young friend," replied her mistress, with a 
 calm and gentle tone of admonition, "and ever after learn to 
 mistrust the erring representations of common fame, and to 
 reverence those as the most virtuous of their race whom the 
 voice of public rumour most clamorously condemns. The 
 parents of Elizabeth Canning and myself were not only con- 
 nected by the ties of blood, but by the far closer ties of affec- 
 tionate and long-continued intimacy. Their children — play- 
 mates from their birth, and sisters by adoption — became the 
 natural inheritors of the friendship by which their fathers and 
 mothers were so inseparably united. The daughter of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Canning was a few months my elder ; but I cannot call 
 to mind the time in which we did not share every study and 
 every amusement together — in which I did not find the hours 
 hang heavy on my hands that were not irradiated by the pre- 
 sence of Elizabeth — the pleasure joyless that was not partici- 
 pated by her — and the lesson uninstructive that was not 
 recommended to my attention by the desire of her approval 
 and the consciousness of her companionship. She was just so 
 much my senior as to be capable of assisting, without leading,
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 165 
 
 me — of facilitating my progress, without directing my studies — 
 of preceding and clearing away the difficulties in the paths of 
 erudition, without outstripping me in the attainment of the 
 goal to which they led. Her principles, formed from child- 
 hood by the counsels and the examples of the best and wisest 
 of the human race — I mean her parents and my own — were 
 exalted to a pitch of heroic elevation ; and, in whatever guise 
 temptation might assail her, its assaults fell powerless, and 
 rebounded from her invincible purity of character like the 
 spears of the Trojans from the invulnerable body of Achilles. 
 She bore a charmed spirit ; and her high-enduring constancy of 
 soul was capable of sustaining every species of allurement, and 
 defying every form of intimidation. 0, Mary Jones !" cried 
 Elizabeth, '^ imagine, if I loved such virtue ! Did I love her ? 
 O, she was my life, my joy, my happiness, my supplemental 
 conscience, my second self, my counsellor, my friend ! " 
 
 " And this," said Mary, indignantly, " was the person whom 
 the world had the barbarity to send to gaol and try as a 
 criminal ! " 
 
 •'' The vjorlcl was unworthy of her ! " exclaimed our heroine. 
 " When her tale of oppression was related — When it was told 
 that my fair and admirable friend — kidnapped, stunned, and 
 stripped by a band of ruffians ; threatened with loss of life ; 
 confined for eight-and-twenty days in a cockloft, and deprived of 
 all sustenance, during the time of her imprisonment, but about 
 a quart of water, a few slices of stale bread, and a penny mince- 
 pie that she happened to have in her pocket* — when it was told 
 that such unparalleled inilictions were endured, amid the hardest 
 severities of winter, by a young girl like Elizabeth, at the hands 
 of the most barbarous of men and the most fiend-like of women, 
 because she would not mingle in the pollutions of their orgies, 
 the tale appeared incredible to the multitude. Incapable of 
 comprehending the height of her virtue, they gave belief to the 
 slanders of her oppressors. A judge, a jury, and an English 
 mob, insensible to every feeling of magnanimity themselves, 
 could readily enough imagine that a meek and inexperienced 
 
 * See the trial of Elizabeth Canning for perjury.
 
 i66 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 maiden might invent a falsehood and sustain it by perjury ; but 
 they were unable to raise their petty souls to the conception of 
 a fortitude like that of Elizabeth Canning, who suftered the 
 bitterest oppressions in the cause of virtue, and whose virtue 
 was thus tried and confirmed, but was not at all shaken, by 
 the bitterness of the oppressions which she suffered/' 
 
 " Admirable girl ! 0, how I repent the injurious opinions I 
 have been taught to entertain of her ! How I long to fling 
 myself at her feet, and implore her pardon for my error ! " 
 
 " That meeting may not be long delayed," resumed Elizabeth : 
 " a vessel will, I know, shortly sail for New England ; in it we 
 will take our passage from an ungrateful and benighted land. 
 Till the time of its departure a retired but respectable asylum 
 must be found for us in the neighbourhood of London. ' 0, my 
 ever dear, my oppressed, and most injured friend, my im- 
 patience of absence is increased by the probability of our 
 speedy reunion ! It is painful to remember that 1 am separated 
 from the society of so exalted a creature ; but that state of 
 separation will have an almost immediate conclusion ; and in 
 the meantime it is my duty to be resigned to the inevitable 
 privation." 
 
 After this eulogistic apostrophe to Elizabeth Canning, Miss 
 Brownrigge took the arm of her attendant, and bent her way 
 towards Wandsworth, with a view of seeking some quiet lodg- 
 ing, in which she might reside unknown till she bade an ever- 
 lasting farewell to the country of her birth.
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 167 
 
 ClIAPTEK II. 
 
 The Cottage — the Apprentices — Mrs. Deacon — a Lover — a Billet- 
 Doux — Despair — a Discovery. 
 
 " Dead for a ducat, dead ! " — Shakespeare. 
 
 " The lunatic, tlie lover, and the poet, 
 Are of imagination all compact." — Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 " Heaven, sure, form'd letters for some lover's aid." — Pope. 
 
 " Qualis populea moerens philomela sub umbra 
 Amissos queritur foetus; quos durus arator 
 Observans nido implumes detraxit ; at ilia 
 Flet noctem, ramoque sedeus miserabile carmen 
 Integrat, et moestis late loca questibus implet." — Virgil.* 
 
 Disappointed by our heroine's escape of a living object on 
 which to vent their indignation, the mob were with difficulty 
 prevented, by the humanity of Timotliy Hitch, who was pene- 
 trated with the kindest interest for the property of Elizabeth, 
 and by the prudence of Mr. Deacon, who dreaded the probable 
 effects of a conflagration on premises so nearly connected with 
 his own, from proceeding to set fire to the cottage. The prin- 
 ciple of destructiveness — which may be always regarded as 
 the idiosyncratic and predominating principle of all large masses 
 of the human race — when once excited, is never allowed to pass 
 away without producing its natural effects. It is not more 
 certainly true, that "• nothing can come of nothing," than that 
 " something always comes of something " ; and the present mob, 
 faithful to the prevailing instinct of all mobs, did not think 
 of dispersing till they had left in mischief the traces of their 
 having met. They were not, indeed, afforded an opportunity of 
 gratifying their savage propensities, by the murder of a young, 
 lovely, and unoffending woman, or by burning her cottage to 
 the ground, with the chance of involving half the village of 
 
 [* Georgicon, lib. iv., 511-515. — Ed.]
 
 1 68 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 Islington in the blaze ; but they consoled themselves for the 
 forcible check to which their inclinations were thus subjected, 
 by shattering the carved ivory cabinets, the curious clocks, and 
 the various articles of ornamental furniture — by smashing the 
 glass and china into a thousand pieces — by dashing the pokers 
 through the pictures and mirrors — by tearing up the flowers, 
 trampling upon the borders, levelling the fences, breaking the 
 windows — and by finally effecting a predatory and exterminat- 
 ing inroad on the abundant contents of the cellars, larders, and 
 store-closets. 
 
 On the morning of the 25tli of June, 17G5, the sun shone 
 brightly on the fair abode, the smiling garden, and the well- 
 ordered dwelling of Elizabeth, as on a kingdom happilj" thriving 
 under the kindly auspices of a Tory administration ; on the 
 morning of the 26th the same sun shone full as brightly, but it 
 looked down upon a scene of ruin and devastation, like the 
 same kingdom passed into other hands, and suffering, after a 
 distracting clamour for liberty and reform, under the all- 
 withering government of the Whigs and the Economists. 
 
 But the ravages which laid waste the cottage and the sur- 
 rounding garden of our heroine were not all attributable to the 
 hands of this lawless assembly : devastations were committed 
 for which they were not responsible. They, indeed, had made 
 the premises a wilderness ; but it was rapidly converted into a 
 desert by the crowd of inquisitive and curiosity-seeking virtuosi, 
 who, on the following Sunday, came flocking to the village of 
 Islington for the sake of gratifying their eyes with the sight of 
 the spot in which such atrocities had been perpetrated ; and 
 each of whom carried away some portable relic as a memorial 
 of his visit, till nothing portable remained to be carried away. 
 
 Most eager were the inquiries after the two little girls, Mary 
 Mitchell and Mary Clifford. They had been conveyed, as we 
 have already stated, to the poor-house ; where, under the care of 
 the respectable Mrs. Deacon, and under the eye of an incessant 
 succession of visitors, every relief which medical skill and 
 universal sympathy could afford was most liberally adminis- 
 tered. The whole country was interested in their fate. The 
 parish authorities found it so impossible to answer individually
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 169 
 
 the numerous inquiries after their health, that a bulletin, signed 
 by three eminent disciples of Esculapius, was posted at the 
 church-door, and changed from hour to hour, as any alteration 
 was discovered in their symptoms. 
 
 The public, by the by, had been unfairly dealt with on the 
 occasion ; for the first account which they received of this 
 transaction, through the medium of those most veracious of all 
 organs, the newspapers, had declared that both the children 
 were found covered with bruises, beaten to death, and tied up 
 with the same rope to a large beam in the roof of the coal- 
 cellar. Now this was a very striking and impressive story 
 indeed, and was altogether very highly gratifying to his 
 majesty's loyal subjects of England, Wales, Ireland, Scotland, 
 and the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed. It afforded them an 
 ample opportunity for indulging in what Jeremy Bentham has 
 so aptly designated " the pleasures of malevolence," by ran- 
 corous denunciations on the head of the fair Elizabeth ; for 
 placing their own tenderness of heart in advantageous contrast 
 with her barbarity, by exaggerated expressions of astonishment 
 at her conduct; and for a cheap exercise of the virtue of charity, 
 by pathetic lamentations over the sufferings of her apprentices. 
 The succeeding post-day, on the other hand, brought intelligence 
 altogether as disappointing ; by correcting the falsehood, it very 
 materially diminished the interest of the narrative. Two sick 
 children in a poor-house, desperate as their case was reported to 
 be in a letter signed by Galen Deacon himself, was a sad 
 falling-off from two dead girls in a coal-cellar. But there was 
 still much to keep public curiosity on the stretch, and idle 
 tongues in motion. Their mistress — struck, as it was said, with 
 remorse and alarm — had suddenly disappeared; and the un- 
 certainty of her apprehension was a very interesting circum- 
 stance. Then, again, it was doubted whether either, or which 
 of the children, could recover ; and the suspense of their fate 
 was an extremely interesting circumstance indeed. To be sure, 
 both might get well — a result which a very humane lecturer 
 against West Indian slavery deprecated with the most earnest 
 fervour of his piety ; lest, as he said, '•' that horrid woman their 
 mistress — if the police were fortunate enough to discover her —
 
 lyo ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 should escape the hanging she deserved." Indeed, this last 
 supposition involved such a shameful fraud upon the dues of 
 public justice, that no one could endure to contemplate it for a 
 moment. The restoration of both children was not to be 
 thought of ; in fact, Mr. Deacon was pledged to the public for 
 the death of one of them. In his printed letter on the subject, 
 he had expressed ver}^ slight hopes of the recovery of Mary 
 Mitchell, and none at all of Mary Clifford. So one murder 
 still appeared to be certain, if not two ; and the multitude lived 
 in eager expectation of the realisation of at least half of the 
 original report, which they hoped to find followed by the highly- 
 important supplement of the detection, trial, confession, last 
 dying-speech, and execution of the murderess. 
 
 During this period of excitement, nothing could be more im- 
 portant than Mrs. Deacon's position in the world of Islington 
 and its vicinity. She was at the poor-house the first thing in 
 the morning and the last thing at night ; and had always the 
 most correct information to give, either from personal inspection 
 or from the immediate intelligence of her spouse. She had 
 suddenly swoln into a person of distinction. Like Lord Byron, 
 the morning after the publication of Ohilde Harold, this lady, 
 the morning after the flight of Elizabeth, " awoke and found 
 herself famous." She heard of nothing but her penetration, 
 her perseverance, and her humanity — she had always seen 
 through the hypocrisy of Miss Brownrigge — she had always 
 known that there was something mysterious about her conduct 
 — she had always suspected how the case really stood — she had 
 always predicted that something would be discovered at last — 
 she had afforded poor, old, excellent Mrs. Jukes the first inti- 
 mation of the deplorable condition in which her daughter-in-law 
 was placed — she it was who insisted on having the house 
 searched, who had directed that the deai' children should be 
 carried to the poor-house, and who had undressed them and 
 anointed their bruises with her own hands — she was, besides, 
 the wife of the apothecary that attended them ; and " from night 
 till morn, from morn till dewy eve," she bustled about from 
 house to house, and from neighbour to neighbour, pouring all 
 that she knew, guessed, or could invent, upon the leading topic
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 171 
 
 of the day, into the thirsty ears of her credulous and curious 
 auditors. This lady was one of those who, from the first, had 
 augured the death of both the apprentices. Her opinion was, 
 that " though Deacon was very clever, and could save a patient's 
 life as long as there was any life in him to save, mortification 
 must inevitably ensue, as the consequence of such bruises as 
 both the children had received ; and, as a doctor's wife, she 
 thought her opinion of some value." This opinion she pro- 
 mulgated, indeed, to all the innumerable friends with whom she 
 was so kind as to communicate on the subject ; and when Mary 
 Mitchell was reported better, though the same bulletin declared 
 Mary Clifford dead, it may be doubted whether she was not 
 more grieved by the falsification of her prediction than gratified 
 by the success of her husband's skill. The case of the apprentices, 
 however, was now, and finally, set at rest. Mary Cliftbrd was a 
 corpse in St. Andrew's churchyard, and Mary Mitchell was dis- 
 posed of to another mistress, a Jew slopseller in the neighbour- 
 hood of Eag-Fair. Such being the case, the full and active 
 interest of Mj'S. Deacon's mind was directed into another 
 channel, and became wholly occupied with wondering, and sur- 
 mising, and inquiring about the retreat of Elizabeth ; against 
 whom the coroner's inquest had delivered a verdict of vnlful 
 inurder, and for whose apprehension a reward of £500 had been 
 offered in the Gazette. 
 
 Far different from the feelings of Mrs. Deacon and her friends 
 were those of Alphonso Belvidere. Eemoved as his father's 
 residence was from the scene of tumult, the riot, and the 
 attendant devastation of Miss Brownrioge's cottage, on the niofht 
 of the 25th of June, passed away without its inhabitants 
 receiving any intimation of the event ; and when, on the suc- 
 ceeding morning, the baker arrived at the kitchen-door with 
 the hot rolls for breakfast, and the freshest news of the neigh- 
 bourhood, the domestics, each dreading to be the repeater of any 
 tidings that were injurious to the fame of Miss Brownrigge, 
 after a long discussion on the expediency or inexpediency of 
 relating what they had heard, unanimously resolved to keep 
 silence upon the subject, and leave the knowledge of events so 
 important to their young master's happiness to extend itself as
 
 1/2 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 chance might direct. In total ignorance, therefore, of all the 
 miserable circumstances that had taken place, his fancy bright 
 as the morning, his spirits light as the summer gales that were 
 playing about his cheeks, his mind full of delightful recollec- 
 tions, and his heart bounding high with animating hopes, 
 Alphonso, after a rapid repast, started from the breakfast-table, 
 that he might snatch a moment of brief converse with his 
 Elizabeth, before the hour in which the Islington stage started 
 for the Bank. Happy in himself, he dreamt not of aught but 
 happiness around him — at peace witli his own breast, he could 
 not entertain a thought of enmity against another ; and when 
 he met Mr. and Mrs. Deacon advancing, with a hurried step 
 and an air of bustling importance, towards the poor-house, he 
 quickened his already rapid pace, and, forgetting the dis- 
 agreeable skirmishes of the preceding afternoon, approached 
 them with a smile of welcome, and extended to either neighbour 
 the hand of frank and cordial salutation. To his surprise, the 
 offered courtesy, which was but coolly answered by Mr. Deacon, 
 was disdainfully rejected by the lady. Till that moment, 
 Alphonso had never given a second thought to the extra- 
 ordinary dialogue in which he had so recently exposed himself 
 to her indignation. But as the recollection of it shot across his 
 mind, a sense of the ridiculous nature of his position was simul- 
 taneously engendered, which exhibited itself in the involuntary 
 sparkling of his eye and the playful curling of his upper lip. 
 The expression, slight and fleeting as it was, did not escape the 
 jealous and irritable glance of Mrs. Deacon, Her whole soul 
 was stirred within her ; she felt insulted in thought ; and per- 
 ceiving that Alphonso was still unconscious of the events at 
 the cottage, she found herself in j)OSsession of the means of 
 extorting an ample vengeance for the contumel}" he had offered 
 to her charms, and resolved to make the fullest use of the 
 advantage which was thus afforded her by a chance so favour- 
 able to her malignity. 
 
 " A wretched business, this ! " said Mrs. Deacon, her eye 
 glancing a look of insolent triumph, her cheeks and lips chilled 
 and white with the icy touch of malice, her voice half choked 
 with passion, and its accents rendered peculiarly offensive by an
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 173 
 
 abortive attempt to assume a tone of compassion — " a wretched 
 business this ! But I always foretold how it would turn out." 
 
 " N"o better — no better this morning," said Mr. Deacon ; '' I've 
 already been twice to look at the bruises, and examine the eftect 
 of my lotions ; but I don't entertain a hope." 
 
 " Scarified from top to toe," said his wife ; " great wales all 
 over the back and loins, as big as my fist, and striped all 
 manner of colours, like a rainbow." 
 
 " There's not a chance of life," said Mr. Deacon. 
 
 " No, not a chance ! mortification must inevitably take place," 
 added his wife. 
 
 " Whom are you speaking of ? " demanded Alphouso ; " whose 
 life is in danger ? who has been thus barbarously treated ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " replied Mrs. Deacon, " it's just as I related — ^^jnst as I 
 said ; though Mr. Belvidere and Mr. Alphonso Belvidere did 
 so peremptorily 'put me down. It's all as I predicted ; and 
 your Miss Elizabeth " 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " exclaimed the agonised Alphonso ; " what 
 of Elizabeth ? Has she got great wales on her back ? has she been 
 beaten black and blue ? is her Hfe in dano-er ? " 
 
 " Yes, that indeed is it," replied Mrs. Deacon, bridling up, 
 and kindling as she spoke with the anticipated triumph of an 
 embryo repartee. "Mightily, indeed, is her life in danger, if 
 the constables can but get hold of her ; and, though her neck is 
 so delicate, she may yet chance to find it too large for the halter." 
 
 " Woman ! woman ! " cried Alphonso, '' if you are not lost to 
 every feeKng of compassion as of shame, at once disclose the 
 meaning of these horrible enigmas." 
 
 "Woman ! — Shame ! — Compassion 1 — Enigmas!" — ejaculated 
 Mrs. Deacon, with a little titter of complacent malice, and still 
 swelling more and more with the rapid and abundant secretion 
 of that black venom which, engendered of jealousy and revenge, 
 she was preparing to vent forth in one annihilating gush upon 
 her victim. " Why the meaning's plain enough, Mr. Alphonso 
 Belvidere, since you are so anxious for the discovery of ' my 
 enicjma,' as you call it ; the meaning is, that your sweet, 
 beautiful, amiable Miss Brownrigge, lias whipped her two dear 
 little apprentice girls till they've been carried all but dead to
 
 174 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 the poor-house ; and my young lady has had the prudence to 
 take herself off, and nobody knows where to look after her ! " 
 
 The words were no sooner uttered than, as if a pistol had 
 been fired through his brain, our hero fell as one dead at the 
 feet of his informant. 
 
 ISTow this was more than Mrs. Deacon designed : it was not 
 her wish to kill liim altogether. She would not have been 
 displeased if her words had given him a brain fever, or a serious 
 fit of illness. Had the result been a strait waistcoat or a 
 consumption, it would have gratified her extremely ; but his 
 sudden death was neither expected nor desired. Mrs. Deacon 
 was a philanthropist, according to the modern school of philan- 
 thropy. She patronised slow and lingering inflictions. With 
 regard to our criminal law, she had universally professed herself 
 to be a zealous reformer, on the score of humanity. Her mild 
 and tender heart had always sickened at the very thought of a 
 capital punishment. She was a steady advocate for the sub- 
 stitution of labour for life, and solitary imprisonment in its 
 place ; and when she saw Alphonso lying pale and senseless on 
 the ground before her, reflecting on the world of excruciating 
 anguish which he would necessarily be spared, while the fate of 
 the children was in doubt, and during the pursuit, the prosecu- 
 tion, and perhaps the final condemnation of Elizabeth — like a 
 cat, which will not destroy, but loves to keep her prey in the 
 agony of a suspended destruction — she became intensely anxious 
 that the animation of which her intelligence had deprived him 
 should be quickly and effectually restored. Actuated by these 
 feelings in his favour, Mrs. Deacon earnestly implored her 
 husband to administer his professional assistance. That gentle- 
 man's ready lancet was immediately in his hand ; and, after the 
 loss of a good deal of blood, and swallowing a small quantity of 
 water, the connubial and medical pair had the gratification of 
 seeing the young man conveyed to his father's house on a 
 litter, greatly exhausted in body, and in a high state of mental 
 delirium. 
 
 By the by, though I forgot to mention it before, the full and 
 particular account that Mrs. Deacon was enabled to give of this 
 event, which, according to the lady's report, occurred while she
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 175 
 
 was endeavouring to break the matter to poor Mr. Alplionso as 
 tenderly as possibly, conduced in no trifling degree to enhance 
 the temporary consideration which she enjoyed during the state 
 of public excitement on Miss Brownrigge's cause. 
 
 Alphonso was confined to his room, and perfectly unconscious 
 of the momentous occurrences that were happening around him 
 for several days. During this state of insensibility little Mary 
 Clifford died ; his love was publicly gazetted as a murderess ; 
 and the most dilio-ent exertions were made to discover her 
 retreat. The sole and indefatigable attendant on his illness 
 and his affliction was his father. By night, Mr. Belvidere kept 
 silent watch beside his couch ; by day, he was ever near to 
 administer the appointed medicines, and catch, in the direction 
 of his eye or the slightest motion of his hand, the intimation of 
 his wishes or his wants. When, at length, his delirium left 
 him, and the powers of his mind were restored, a far higlier 
 and more important office devolved on the excellent parent of 
 Alphonso. It was then his task to counsel his son with the 
 lessons of his wisdom and experience, and to fortify his failing 
 spirits under the accumulated burden of the distresses which 
 were pressing on him, by the energy of his own moral and 
 religious principles. Seldom has a case occurred in which such 
 succours were more urgently required. Our hero was not only 
 afflicted by the absence of his Elizabeth ; he did not only grieve 
 over the uncertainty of her fate, and the perils by which she 
 was surrounded ; but he was suffering from her voluntary and 
 most unexpected rejection of him. On the morning of his 
 recovered consciousness, the followino- letter reached the manor- 
 house, by means of the penny post : — 
 
 ''July 1, A.D. 1765, N.s. 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 " Having every reason for confiding in your late 
 
 assurances of esteem and regard, I am not without apprehension 
 
 that this communication may occasion you some degree of 
 
 inconvenience. Circumstances over which I had no control, 
 
 and which you must at this writing be fully acquainted with, 
 
 have rendered it expedient that I should travel abroad. It is 
 
 my intention never to return to England. We shall, con-
 
 176 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 seqiiently, meet no more. Want of time prevents me having 
 the pleasure of detailing the reasons which have induced this 
 determination ; but that good opinion of my judgment and dis- 
 cretion which you have so frequently described yourself as 
 entertaining, will be sufficient to satisfy you that it has not 
 been adopted without strong and substantial grounds. You will 
 be so good as to present my compliments to any neighbours 
 that may be interested in my welfare ; and with my best 
 respects to your honoured father and my very kind friend, 
 Mr. Belvidere^ senior, I beg leave to subscribe myself, 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 Your humble and obedient servant, 
 
 Elizabeth Brownkigge. 
 " Far Mr. Alplionso Bdvidere, 
 
 Manor House, Islington." 
 
 This letter, with the post-mark " Cheapside " upon it, and 
 destitute of any other clue that might serve to guide him to lier 
 retreat, was the only intimation that our hero received of the 
 existence of his mistress. That her resolution was formed on 
 principles of the most perfect wisdom, he had not the temerity 
 to doubt ; but, alas ! our consent to the justice of the sentence 
 which may be passed upon us affords very little alleviation for 
 the misery which we may suffer from its infliction. Alphonso's 
 wretchedness was extreme : the sun of his existence had set. 
 He only lived on the hope of calling Elizabeth his own. All 
 the prospects of his ambition, all the exertions of his genius, 
 had her happiness for their object; and the sole enjoyment 
 which he anticipated from the success and aflluence that awaited 
 him was to result from witnessing the blessings which they 
 would enable him to lavish upon her who was so inestimably 
 dearer to him than himself ; — and that she should give him up ! 
 That he should be abandoned by one for whom lie would have 
 been content to die in torture, and without whom existence was 
 a burden too intolerable to be endured, — the very thought was 
 madness to him ! Why, at the slightest hint from her, he would 
 willingly have relinquished his home, family, country, fortune, 
 fame — all his possessions in the present, all his expectations for
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. lyj 
 
 the future — and have deemed it delight and privilege enough 
 to be allowed to labour for her support, and procure for her the 
 necessaries and the conveniences of life by the sweat of his 
 brow, an unregarded strau2;er in the midst of strani^ers, and an 
 alien in the stranger's land ! And then, to be put away so 
 calmly, and for ever, and without a single expression of regret ! 
 The consideration of these things drove him to desperation ; and, 
 in the changeful paroxysms of his agony, he would now clench 
 his fists, and stamp violently upon the ground, and beat his 
 breast, and tear his hair, and utter the most piercing shrieks and 
 exclamations of suffering ; and then — as if the more acute sense 
 of pain was blunted by continued endurance, and nature, ex- 
 hausted by the excess of torture, had relapsed into insensibility, — 
 he would sit silent, motionless, and abstracted, with the tears 
 fast-flowing, like rivulets from ever-springing fountains, down 
 his cheeks, and without exhibiting the slightest consciousness of 
 the presence of the persons or circumstances around him. Still, 
 reduced as Alphonso was by the loss of his Elizabeth, his own 
 sufferings had not abated, or in the least degree diminished his 
 interest for her safety ; and the dread of her apprehension was 
 another poisoned shaft from the bow of destiny that rankled in 
 his so severely -wounded breast. Aware, however, of her inten- 
 tion to depart from England, and finding that several weeks of 
 vain pursuit had already elapsed during which the police autho- 
 rities had been baffled in all their attempts to discover her abode, 
 both he and his father had begun to lose much of their first appre- 
 hension on her account, and to trust, with considerable confidence, 
 to the probability of her having succeeded in effecting her escape. 
 Such was the posture of affairs when, on the evening of Satur- 
 day the 15th of August, Mr. Belvidere persuaded his son to 
 leave his room, and essay the tranquillising effects of a brilliant 
 sunset, and of the fair and fertile scenery of Islington, in giving 
 a happier direction to his thoughts. At the earnest request of 
 Alphonso, they had quitted the precincts of the manor-house, 
 and bent their steps towards the spot on which Elizabeth's 
 cottage had once smiled. " Cam/pos uU Troja fuit." Mr. Bel- 
 videre had suggested to his son, that the review of scenes once 
 so dear, and now so pregnant of painful recollections — once so 
 
 N
 
 178 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 fair, and now so devastated — would be too severe a trial of his 
 fortitude ; but Alphonso overruled every objection ; and the 
 kindhearted father assented to his wishes, extending the aid of 
 his age-enfeebled arm to sustain the tottering steps of his ema- 
 ciated and grief-enfeebled son. 
 
 " When this sad visit is over, my boy," said Mr. Belvidere, 
 " I trust that the extreme bitterness of your grief will be past ; 
 that we shall have attained the climax of our sorrow, and that 
 we may look for brighter and happier days to come." 
 
 " Oh, my father," said Alphonso, " you can never have known 
 what real grief is, or you would not speak thus." 
 
 " At your early years, Alphonso, I certainly was not acquainted 
 with affliction : there are few, indeed, that are. Yours is a 
 peculiar and a mournful exception from the common lot ; but 
 who ever reached my time of life without being well informed of 
 the flavour of the cup of sorrow ? In early life, with good 
 spirits and good looks, which are as strong magnets that draw 
 love and friendship towards us, almost every thing around us 
 conduces to elate our souls ; but, in after-life, as our spirits and 
 our looks decline, friendship becomes languid, and love falls 
 from us, and there is scarcely anything that does not tend to 
 depress them." 
 
 " Oh ! you talk of the ordinary casualties of life, and the 
 regrets and disappointments which are incident to ordinary 
 men ; but you have never grieved as I have grieved, — you have 
 never wept such scalding tears as those which, like streams of 
 burning lava, are now flowing from my eyes." 
 
 " And, yet, I have shed tears of much bitterness, Alphonso." 
 
 " Father, you cannot have fathomed those extreme depths of 
 sorrow which I have been marked out by the inveteracy of fate 
 to penetrate and explore ; you have not been doomed to undergo 
 that concentration of all agonies in one — the loss of the object 
 of your love." 
 
 " Do you forget, Alphonso, whose tomb it is that stands on the 
 right of the chancel-door ? " 
 
 " Oh ! but did that loss excruciate the inmost recesses of your 
 soul ? Did the contemplation of it scarify your brain, and send 
 molten lead and liquid fire circulating instead of blood through-
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 179 
 
 out your veins ? Did it turn your meat to poisOn, your drink to 
 gall, your sleep to unimaginable horror ? Did it make the light 
 of day a torture to the eye, and the darkness of night an appal- 
 ling oppression to the soul ? Did that loss, my father, work for 
 you what the loss of my Elizabeth has wrought for me ? Did 
 it convert the universe into one vast gloomy dungeon ; and the 
 solid globe on which we stand into an instrument of torture ; 
 and every pulse that reports the assurance of our existence to 
 the mind into another stretch of agony upon the wheel, or 
 another blow from the iron bar of the executioner ? " 
 
 " No, my poor child, my grief certainly did not afflict me in 
 the way you speak of ; but when your dear mother died, after 
 twenty years of happiness together, if you had not looked up 
 from your cradle and smiled upon me, I think it would have 
 broken my heart." 
 
 As they were thus conversing, Mr. Belvidere and his son 
 arrived at the ruins of Miss Brownrigge's cottage, and were 
 joined by Mrs. Deacon. That lady had observed their approach 
 from the gate of her garden, and advanced to meet them, with 
 many kind inquiries after the health of Mr. Alphonso, and many 
 voluble congratulations on seeino; him asjain al:»road. 
 
 To our hero, every word she uttered was as a poisoned arrow to 
 his soul. Mrs. Deacon knew it was so ; and the pleasure which 
 she experienced in contemplating his emaciation, and goading 
 by sly touches the raw and wounded places of his breast, would 
 not allow her to retire from the society into which she had im- 
 pertinently obtruded herself, though Mr. Belvidere scarcely 
 deigned her a reply, and Alphonso remained wrapped in moody 
 and impenetrable silence. As the lady was thus bestowing the 
 full fruits of her vocabulary and her humanity on the gentle- 
 men, in the front of the ruined flower-beds and depopulated 
 parterres of Elizabeth's dwelling, her eloquence was interrupted 
 by an exclamation from Alphonso, who, after having for some 
 time fixed his eyes attentively on a particular spot of the garden, 
 where a broken rose-tree was lying along the path, suddenly 
 cried out — " It is he ! I thought so from the first ; it is poor 
 dear Muggietonian himself ! " and then, breaking with a strong 
 effort from his father's side, he rushed towards the place where 
 
 N 2
 
 i8o ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 the little animal was crouching, covered with dust, panting with 
 fatigue, and wasted from want of food. Though conveyed away 
 from the premises in Mary Jones's pocket, Muggletonian had 
 contrived to find its way back again to Islington. Directed by 
 that sure instinct with which some animals are so wonderfully 
 endowed, the little creature had left his mistress ' in her new 
 abode, and hastened, with a love of place that particularly dis- 
 tinguished him, to regain the well-known haunts of his early 
 and accustomed home. Alphonso, intoxicated with delight at 
 obtaining anything which had been possessed and was valued 
 by his Elizabeth, caught Muggletonian eagerly in his arms, and 
 pressed him to his breast, and smothered him with a multitude 
 of kisses. In this operation, his eye fell upon the collar ; it was 
 inscribed," E. B., Wandsworth, Surrey." 
 
 " Father, my father, she's found ! she's found ! I have dis- 
 covered the abode of my Elizabeth ! " cried Alphonso, losing all 
 presence of mind in the ecstasy of his joy, — " Let us not delay 
 a moment ! Let us instantly away. Father, see here ; she's at 
 Wandsworth!" 
 
 The exertion that he had made, and the violent excitement of 
 his strongest and most inward affections, were more than his 
 debilitated frame could support, and he fainted in his father's 
 arms. 
 
 " Wandsworth 1 " muttered Mrs. Deacon to herself ; and she 
 gave a hint of the direction in which Elizabeth was to be sought 
 before she sent the assistance, that she had pretended to go in 
 search of, to the relief of Alphonso.
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. i8i 
 
 Chaptek III. 
 Tlu Afprehension — Elizabeth's Defence — Death — Conclusion. 
 
 Since laws were made for every degree, 
 To ciu'b vice in others as well as in me, 
 I wonder we han't better company 
 
 Upon Tyburn tree. 
 But gold from law can take out the sting ; 
 And if rich men like us wei-e to swing, 
 "Twould thin the land, such numbers to string 
 
 Upon Tyburn tiee.'' — Gay, Beggar's Opera. 
 
 'At, at, at, at, oai//.(oi/, Satjuojv, 
 'AttoAwX', a> TaAas. — SoPHOCLES. 
 
 Elizabeth, attended by Mary Jones, the temporary disturbance 
 of whose intellect had entirely disappeared on a return to her 
 accustomed habits of submission, and seemed to have been cast 
 off with the trappings of her sin and vanity,' — Elizabeth, with 
 this her humble friend and companion, had established herself 
 in an elegant and commodious apartment in the romantic village 
 of Wandsworth. The house she had selected for her abode 
 belonged to a Mr. Dunbar, who with his wife and children 
 occupied the upper and lower stories, leaving the drawing- 
 rooms at the disposal of their lodger. Our heroine, always 
 anxious to discover and to improve an opportunity of benefiting 
 her fellow-creatures, did not allow her residence in this family 
 to pass away without their deriving some advantage from her 
 sojourn amongst them. By adopting the Socratic mode of 
 questioning the children, she led them to comprehend the 
 meaning of the lessons which they had previously only known 
 by rote. She instructed her host in an easier and less complex 
 mode of bookkeeping, an admirable refinement, of her own 
 invention, on the system of double-entry ; she also imparted 
 some highly valuable hints on the subject of domestic economy 
 to her hostess, by which she was enabled to reduce her monthly
 
 i82 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 bills from 7 to 1\ per cent, on their former amount, and 
 dispense with the hire of a weekly charwoman. Thus, " droppino- 
 the manna " of her wisdom in the way of an ignorance-starved 
 people, Elizabeth by the means of her intellectual superiority — 
 heightened as its inlluence was by the splendour of her beauty 
 and the dignity of her manners — won "golden opinions from all 
 sorts of people." The affections of every heart, and the praises 
 of every tongue, were prodigally bestowed on her ; and when, 
 on the evening of Saturday the loth of August, she informed 
 Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar that it was her intention on the following: 
 Monday to quit their lodgings, and embark on board the vessel 
 that was to convey her to America, they, were afflicted at the 
 intelligence as at the thought of parting with some well-beloved 
 relative, and volunteered a very considerable abatement of the 
 rent and much additional accommodation, with the hope of 
 inducing her to remain an inmate of their dwelling. The kind 
 solicitude of the elder, and the tears of the younger Dunbars, 
 were necessarily unavailing. With danger and bitter enemies 
 in England, with security and Elizabeth Canning in America, 
 our heroine could have no hesitation with regard to the course 
 she ought to follow. She remained fixed in her original deter- 
 mination ; but yet the kindness and the interest which these 
 honest people exhibited for her could not fail of adding another 
 to the many causes of regret wliich already existed in carrying 
 that determination into execution. 
 
 No suspicion had ever entered the minds of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Dunbar that, in the person of the fair and gentle widow, Mrs. 
 Eliza Brown, whom they and their family cherished with so 
 sincere an affection, they were affording concealment to the 
 notorious culprit for whose apprehension a large reward was 
 offered ; whom, under the designation of Mother Brownrigge, 
 every tongue was talking of with execration ; with the account 
 of whose barbarity the newspapers were teeming ; and whose 
 features and manners, portrayed by the hand of prejudice, were 
 represented as indicating, in distinct and not-to-be mistaken 
 characters, the peculiar ferociousness of her disposition. In 
 conversing with our heroine, her host and hostess had often 
 enlarged upon the recent events at Islington, and expressed
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 183 
 
 their abhorrence of the treatment which the little apprentices 
 had received at the hands of their mistress ; but not a word or 
 look had ever evinced that their lodger entertained the slightest 
 knowledge or interest in the fate of the person they condemned. 
 She had sometimes, indeed attempted to mitigate the rancour of 
 their feelings and expressions, by suggesting general arguments 
 of charity, and reminding her friends that, according to the laws 
 of England, every individual, of whatever crime accused, was 
 considered as innocent till he or she was proved to be guilty ; 
 but this mild and temperate view of the subject occasioned ng 
 surprise, as being in harmony with her constant practice ; and, 
 besides, she at the same time acknowledged that, if the facts 
 were true, their indignation was completely justified. What, 
 then, must have been the astonishment of these worthy people 
 when, on the morning of Sunday the 16th of August, about 
 half past ten, as the bells were ringing for church, and the 
 whole family were preparing to obey the summons, a post-chaise 
 drove up to the door, and they saw the fair object of their 
 attachment suddenly seized by a couple of tipstaves, under the 
 name of Elizabeth Brownrigge, and ordered to mount the 
 carriage and to accompany them to town. The scene existed 
 but for a moment — a brief and agitated moment. Mr. Dunbar 
 was in tears — Mrs, Dunbar in hysterics — Mary Jones fainted 
 away ; the elder children clung to Elizabeth and screamed — 
 the younger children ran to their mother and squalled ; — 
 Elizabeth, the incomparable Elizabeth ! was the only one whose 
 constancy was not disturbed. Eeleasing herself from the 
 friendly embraces that delayed her movements, and casting on 
 the assembled group a smile of inexpressible tenderness and 
 pity, she said, " Allow me, Mr. Dunbar, to offer you my thanks 
 for the many civilities which I have received during the time 
 of my residence under your roof. Have the kindness, also, to 
 express my obligations to the worthy lady your wife, when 
 those distressing paroxysms of which I have been the uninten- 
 tional cause, are over. Pray, add to the many favours for which 
 I am already your debtor, by informing my servant, when she 
 comes to herself, that I shall expect her attendance in London. 
 My young friends, I hope to hear of your continuing to be good
 
 1 84 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 children, and proving the source of happiness and credit to 
 your parents. Adieu ! Gentlemen, I am ready to attend you." 
 And, with these words, one of the sheriffs' officers having entered 
 before her, she placed her foot upon the steps of the post-chaise, 
 and ascended the vehicle with her accustomed air of calm and 
 dignified composure. — The magnanimity of her soul, like Mr. 
 Smeaton's 'pharos on the Eddystone, was firmly fixed upon the 
 rock of the soundest principles, and diffused a light around it, 
 for the guidance of those who were beating the waves upon the 
 dark and troubled ocean of adversity, but was itself unshaken 
 by the storm. — The other bailiff jumped in after her, the door 
 of the carriage was closed, and they started on the road to 
 London as fast as four horses could carry them. 
 
 Elizabeth was immediately conveyed to Newgate, where 
 Mary Jones joined her in the course of the day. She would 
 admit no other person to her presence. Alphonso and his 
 father repeatedly solicited an interview ; but, though our heroine 
 tempered her refusal by the most considerate expressions of her 
 esteem and regard, she could not be prevailed upon to accede to 
 their requests. The grounds of her objections were two-fold. 
 In \h% first place, from the prejudices excited against her in the 
 public mind, she felt convinced that an impartial judge and 
 jury could never be assembled for the trial of her cause ; and 
 therefore, as her condemnation was certain, the meeting her 
 friends again could prove neither more nor less than a vain 
 renewal of the misery of parting from them. And, in the 
 second place, limited as she was, during her residence in Newgate, 
 to the use of a single apartment, she had no chamber but the 
 one in which she slept for the reception of her guests ; and the 
 feeling of female delicacy pleaded, in confirmation of the con- 
 clusions of her judgment, against the admission of their visits. 
 Till the day of her trial at the Old Bailey, attended only by 
 Mary Jones, and excluding herself from all society except the 
 stated and official calls of the chaplain, the fair and excellent 
 Elizabeth adopted, as nearly as circumstances would allow, the 
 same admirable disposition of her time to which she had been 
 accustomed when inhabiting her own romantic bower in the 
 village of Islington. She completed a large stock of baby-linen
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 185 
 
 for the poor ; she perused and commented upon the principal 
 new publications of the day ; and she composed an elaborate 
 parallel between the characters of Socrates and Lady Jane Grey, 
 after the manner of Plutarch. These are the two distinouished 
 personages, in the whole range of authentic history, who in 
 their strength of mind, purity of life, and extensive accomplish- 
 ments, bore the strongest resemblance to herself; and to them, 
 perchance, the attention of our heroine was more particularly 
 directed in the quiet and retirement of her cell by the many 
 points of similarity which subsisted between their destiny and 
 her own. 
 
 On Saturday the 12th of September, Miss Brownrigge was 
 conducted, at nine o'clock in the morning, from her cell at 
 Newgate, to undergo her trial at the Old Bailey. The yells 
 and hootings of the mob that greeted her were deafening and 
 terrific ; but, prepared, as the fair Elizabeth was, for their dis- 
 play of misdirected indignation, and sustained under it by the 
 consciousness of innocence, the clamour of their insults past 
 by her unregarded ; and even when, on entering the dock, the 
 dense crowd collected in the court began to exhibit the rancour 
 of their enmity towards her by hissings and reproaches, she did 
 not deign to yield them any other notice of their contumely 
 than a smile of the gentlest and most elevated compassion. 
 
 Elizabeth had requested her friends, as a last and especial 
 favour, to abstain from attending this most momentous scene. 
 Their presence, she was well aware, could not afford her any 
 additional encouragement or support ; while the consciousness 
 of the pain which they were undergoing on her account, might 
 have the effect of shaking her resolution and impairing her 
 self-possession. Her commands had been attended to. Mr. 
 Belvidere and Alphonso had taken their station at a neigh- 
 bouring hotel, hoping against hope, that virtue might triumph 
 over prejudice — that an acquittal might be the result of the 
 proceedings — and that the sun of happiness might yet again 
 shine full upon their fortunes ; but they did not presume to 
 appear in the hall of the Old Bailey, in opposition to the desire 
 which the fair object of their interest and attachment had so 
 touchingly expressed. Around her and before her^ in the judge
 
 1 86 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 upon the bench, in the jury, in the witnesses, and in the whole 
 congregated multitude, Elizabeth did not perceive a single eye 
 that was not turned upon her with an expression of sternness 
 and of loathing ; nor could she believe that a single individual 
 was to be found in the asseml^ly who did not deem all further 
 inquiry a mere form of supererogation, or who was not pre- 
 pared, at once and unheard, to condemn her to the scaffold. 
 Still, her fortitude never for a moment failed her. As soon as 
 the disturbance consequent on the entrance of our heroine into 
 court had ceased, the trial commenced. Elizabeth pleaded " Not 
 Guilty ; " but the plea was followed by shouts of exasperated 
 derision ; and the judge, in commanding silence, seemed to par- 
 ticipate in the sentiments of the multitude, while he checked 
 the expression of them as disorderly. The depositions of the 
 witnesses were quickly given, and allowed to pass unsifted by 
 the salutary process of cross-examination. After Mr. and Mrs. 
 Deacon, Mrs. Jukes, the master of the poor-house, &c., &c., had 
 delivered their evidence. Miss Brownrigge was asked whether 
 she had any witnesses to call, or anything to urge in her defence. 
 She had been allowed a chair in the dock during the progress of 
 the case against her. On being addressed by the bench, she 
 rose slowly, but firmly, from her seat ; and while all was hushed 
 around her, replied in the following words : — 
 
 " My lord, if it were my intention or my desire to influence 
 the judgment of those on whom the determination of this cause 
 depends, by any other arguments than such as may immediately 
 apply to the facts of the case, and address themselves exclusively 
 to the reason, I should, on the present occasion, attempt to de- 
 precate the severity of my hearers, and conciliate their benevo- 
 lence, by directing their attention to the age, the sex, the fortune, 
 the well-known character, and the previous conduct of the indi- 
 vidual who now appears in the degraded situation of a prisoner 
 at your lordship's bar. But 1 have no such wish. I stand here 
 to vindicate my much-calumniated name ; to rebut the imputa- 
 tion of a crime most abhorrent from my nature ; to justify my 
 plea of * Not Guilty ; ' and, as far as in me lies, to nullify that 
 unjust sentence of condemnation which has already been passed 
 upon my conduct, and which, deeply engraven by the iron pen
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 187 
 
 of malice on the adamantine rock of popular prejudice, no tes- 
 timony can ever effectually eradicate, and not even an acquittal 
 at this august tribunal could have the power of totally reversing. 
 But, hopeless as my case may be — judged, as I already am, by 
 the voice of public opinion, I disdain to have recourse to the 
 vain arts of the rhetorician in my defence ; and, whether I 
 stand or fall, my exculpation shall rest upon the simple foun- 
 dations of truth and reason, and of truth and reason alone. 
 
 "I am accused, my lord, of having whipped my little apprentice 
 girl Mary Clifford to death. Supposing that my heart was as 
 insensible to the cries of infant suffering, and my moral prin- 
 ciples as perverted as my enemies would represent, what motive 
 could have induced the perpetration of so abominable an act 
 of inhumanity ? What benefit could I derive from her decease ? 
 They who impute the crime should find out in what manner I 
 could be benefited by the commission of it. Has the whole 
 course of your lordship's experience ever brought you in contact 
 with a culprit who was guilty of a gratuitous homicide, and who 
 volunteered incurring the severest penalties of the law, without 
 the prospect of gratifying some prevaihng passion of our common 
 nature, or securing to himself some anticipated advantage ? No 
 such being ever hved. Your lordsliip's acquaintance with the 
 ordinary springs and general motives of human conduct must 
 convince you, that such an offender would prove a monstrous 
 and unheard-of anomaly in the history of the human race. Yet, 
 my lord, such is the unfruitful folly of guilt, such is the ol)ject- 
 less delirium of iniquity, which the witnesses for the prosecution 
 have had the unblushing effrontery to lay this day to my charge. 
 
 " My lord, I had no reason for desiring or seeking the death 
 of the child ; (jn the contrary, it was for my advantage that she 
 should retain her activity unimpaired, and her strength unbroken. 
 Every accident that befell Mary Clifford was to my own especial 
 injury ; for to what end was she bound my servant, but that I 
 might profit by her services ? 
 
 " The cliild is dead. Granted. But does it therefore follow 
 that she must have died in consequence of a blow ? The de- 
 ceased and Mary Mitchell, her fellow-apprentice, were, we learn, 
 both conveyed to the poor-house, terrified at the riotous attack
 
 1 88 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 which had been made by a band of misguided ruffians upon the 
 humble dwelling of their mistress. May not the fright have 
 been too powerful for nerves so weak as hers, and have produced 
 the dissolution of the younger child, though the elder was strong 
 enough to survive its operation ? Is death an unfrequent con- 
 sequence of terror? But again, my lord, supposing that she 
 did not fall the victim of her apprehensions, but that her end 
 was really hastened by a Uow, why should the chastisement 
 which was dealt by the friendly hand of a mistress, with a rod, 
 upon her back, be fixed upon as the cause, when it is notorious 
 that the child had received many and very severe contusions on 
 more vital parts of her l)ody, inflicted 1 )y the stones and missiles 
 of the multitude ? 
 
 " My lord, this is not all : the deceased was for several days 
 exposed to the peril of the draughts, and pills, and lotions of Mr. 
 Deacon. AVliat reason have we for presuming that instruments, 
 which have so often proved mortal in other cases, were wholly 
 innocent in the case of my late unhappy apprentice ? 
 
 " My lord, I have but one word more to add : it relates to the 
 extreme supposition, that the child really suffered from the cor- 
 rection which I thought it my duty to inflict. Admitting such 
 to be the case, is it possible that the voice of justice can attach the 
 guilt of murder to my act, or the laws consider me as obnoxious 
 to the 'penalty of murder ? The chastisement which I dealt the 
 child was dealt as lovingly as to a child of my own ; it was given 
 after much deliberation, with feelings of deep regret, and with a 
 view to her temporal and eternal welfare. Was I to blame, my 
 lord, in administering such correction ? No ; my conscience 
 acquits me ; and I am satisfied that your lordship's better judg- 
 ment sends back a responsive echo to that silent but most satis- 
 factory acquittal. All errors of conduct are symptoms of moral 
 diseases ; punishment is moral medicine. I may, perchance, 
 actuated by too eager a desire for the rapid cure of my little and 
 much-cherished patient, have dispensed my alteratives too liber- 
 ally, and produced an untoward, an unexpected, and a most 
 deeply-lamented consequence ; but am I, therefore, to be con- 
 demned as guilty ? In the analagous case of the physician, 
 whose too-abundant anodynes may have lulled the sufferer to
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 189 
 
 endless slumbers, or whose too copious phlebotomy may have let 
 out the fever and the life at one and the same moment from the 
 veins, would this most harsh and unmerciful measure Ije applied ? 
 My lord, you know that it would not ; and, admitting the fact, 
 which I most decidedly disbelieve — but admitting the fact of my 
 having caused the death of Mary CHftbrd, as no malice on my 
 part can be imputed — no object but her ultimate good presumed 
 — no motive but correction ascribed to me, I demand from the 
 justice of your lordship and a jury of my countrymen — as a 
 matter not of mercy, but of right — the same impunity in my 
 case which would be accorded, freely and unasked, under parallel 
 circumstances, to the medical practitioner." 
 
 With these words our heroine resumed her seat. The elo- 
 quence of her style and the forcible arguments of her defence 
 produced a most extraordinary effect upon the audience. Not a 
 single look or even murmur of disapprobation was again levelled 
 at her during the period of her remaining in the court. 
 
 The summing-up of the judge inclined most favourably 
 towards her. The jury hesitated in their decision ; and it was 
 supposed by several who were present, and saw how far the 
 sentiments of the jury had been conciliated by the powerful 
 influence of her speech, that Ehzabeth would certainly have 
 been acquitted altogether, but for a stratagem of Mrs. Deacon. 
 That lady, who was still in court, perceiving that the jury were 
 in doubt, and anxious for the condemnation of her rival, sud- 
 denly screamed out that she saw the ghost of Mary Clifford, 
 standing in a menacing attitude at the side of the prisoner in 
 the dock ; and then caused herself to be carried out of the court 
 in a state of \'iolent hysterics. This event decided the cause. 
 The jury were awe-stricken; they came, at once, to a unanimous 
 decision ; and the foreman delivered in the verdict, " Guilty of 
 Wilful Murder." 
 
 Elizabeth, as soon as the sentence of death had been passed, 
 made her curtsey with grace and dignity to the bench and the 
 jury-box, and was conducted to the condemned cell, to await till 
 the following Monday her execution at Tyburn. With less than 
 forty hours to linger in this world, she requested that no one 
 should be allowed to intrude upon her privacy, and applied
 
 I90 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 herself to the final arrangement of her affairs with that equa- 
 nimity of mind which had distinguished her in every other 
 period of her life. The cell in which she passed her time 
 between the trial and her death has been consecrated by the 
 muse of George Canning, in some most expressive lines, which may 
 be found in the early pages of the Poetry of the Anti-Jacohin* 
 
 The morning of Monday the 14th of September at length 
 arrived. I will not recapitulate all the formal ceremonies that 
 preceded the departure of the procession from Newgate — the 
 breakfast of the sheriffs and their friends — the throng of 
 curious visitors who assembled in the press-yard — the leave- 
 taking with Mary Jones — the solemn address which Elizabeth 
 delivered to her fellow-prisoners — the mounting the fatal cart — 
 and the funeral procession to Tyburn. The fair and innocent 
 victim of popular prejudice was followed by a repetition of 
 those incessant yells and vulgar execrations to the place of 
 execution, which had accompanied her, on the preceding Satur- 
 day, to the place of judgment. The train at length reached the 
 spot which had been mortal to the lives of thousands. Eliza- 
 beth was still firm in the energy of her high resolves and her 
 conscious integrity. Timothy Hitch alone was agitated and 
 in tears. His hands trembled to such a degree, from the 
 excitement of his nerves, that they could scarcely fasten the 
 fatal cord about her neck. 
 
 The awful moment had now arrived. Our heroine's last 
 communication with the ordinary was over ; she had expressed 
 the forgiveness of all her enemies — she had bestowed a last 
 memorial of her regard on the gentle Timothy — and she was 
 preparing to utter a few sentences of parting exhortation to the 
 assembled multitude — when, rising; several inches above the 
 crowd that pressed upon him, and immediately in front of the 
 scaffold, pale with sickness and with grief, she suddenly caught 
 a glimpse of Alphonso Belvidere. As their eyes met, he raised 
 a phial to his mouth, and cried, " Elizabeth, my own Elizabeth, 
 our love has been on earth! — our spousals shall be in the grave ! 
 We may not live, but we will die together ! " 
 
 * Vide note supra, p. 117.
 
 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 191 
 
 " N"o, Alphonso ! for the sake of your father and of my fame," 
 she exclaimed, " dismiss so wild, so inexcusable an intention. — 
 You will not obey ! — What ! — How is this ? — Good people, tear 
 away, I entreat you, yon vile and deadly potion from that mad- 
 man's hand ! " 
 
 The people obeyed her mandate — the laudanum was dashed 
 upon the ground; but Alphonso's hand was immediately turned 
 to the butt-end of another weapon of death, which lay con- 
 cealed in the side-pocket of his coat. — There was a pause. — The 
 gaze of the mob was again directed towards Elizabeth. — The cap 
 was drawn over her eyes — the final signal was given — the drop 
 fell, and, as it fell, the explosion of a pistol was heard on the 
 spot where Alphonso stood. — The attention of the multitude 
 was diverted from the struggles of Elizabeth to the agonies of 
 her lover. — The ball had taken effect. — He tottered, and sank 
 into the arms of the by-standers, crying, as the last breath of 
 life departed from hira, " I come — I come, love ! I could not live 
 without thee in the world, and I hasten to join thee for ever in 
 the tomb ! " 
 
 The reader may perhaps be anxious to know the fate of the 
 rest of the personages of my historic tale. Old Mr. Belvidere 
 died of a broken heart soon after the transactions wdiich we 
 have recorded, and left tlie amount of his lar^e fortune in 
 charities, with an annuity to an elderly resident of Islington, on 
 the condition of her seeing Elizabeth's lap-dog, Muggletonian, 
 supphed with a kennel in the neighbourhood of the cottage that 
 he was so attached to, and the daily allowance of sixpenny- 
 worth of cat's meat. 
 
 Mary Jones, to whom Elizabeth had bequeathed the whole of 
 her property, married Timothy Hitch, who withdrew from 
 public life to pass the residue of his days, with his young and 
 beautiful Vvdfe, in a romantic retirement near the Lake of 
 Windermere. 
 
 The rapid increase of Mr. Deacon's practice enabled him to 
 purchase a Scotch doctor's degree, and to set up a snuff-coloured 
 chariot, in which he was accustomed to drive about collecting 
 the guineas of his patients for the greater part of the twenty- 
 four hours ; till, at the age of seventy-two, he was found dead
 
 192 ELIZABETH BROWNRIGGE. 
 
 in the inside of it, with the last guinea he had received grasped 
 tightly in his hand. 
 
 Mrs. Deacon, who survived her much-respected husband 
 nearly twenty years, succeeded to the immense accumulations 
 which he had secured by the exercise of his profession. She 
 had the chariot painted a bright yellow, and drove about in it 
 nearly as many hours every day as its original occupant. 
 Having attained extreme old age, possessing all her faculties to 
 the last, with a large house, a good table, and a hospitable 
 disposition, she eventually attained the designation of " the mne- 
 rable Mrs. Deacon"; and, having lived the universal favourite 
 of the neighbourhood, she died as universally lamented. 
 
 Advertisement. — The Author of the foregoing Tale begs leave 
 to state, that he is prepared to treat with any liberal and enter- 
 prising publisher, who may be inclined to embark in the 
 speculation, for a series of novels, each in 3 vols. 8vo., under 
 the title of " Tales of the Old Bailey, or Eomances of Tyburn 
 Tree ; " in which the whole Newgate Calendar shall be tra- 
 vestied, after the manner of Eugene Aram. 
 
 Letters (post-paid) addressed to X. Y. Z., 215 Eegent Street,* 
 will receive immediate attention. 
 
 * Then (1832) the pn1)lisliiiig office of Fraser's Magazine, in wliich the 
 tale of Elizabeth Brownrigge originally ai)peared. — Ed.
 
 CONTRIBUTIONS TO "THE SNOB." 
 
 [Cambridge : 1829.] 
 
 OUE 
 
 SNOB'S" BIETH, PAREXTAGE 
 AND EDUCATION.* 
 
 EVER shall I forget," said an old crone to me the 
 other day, who, as far as we know, is cotemporary 
 with the alley in which we live — " Never shall I 
 forget the night, in which you, Mr. Tudge, made 
 your first appearance among us. Your father had, in his usual 
 jocular manner, turned every one from the fire-side, and putting 
 a foot on each hob, with a pot in one hand, and a pipe in the 
 other, sat blowing a cloud." "Ay, Mrs. Siggins," said I, 
 " vecf>€\r]yep€Ta Zev<;,f I suppose, as the blind bard has it." " Keep 
 your Latin for the collegers," said she ; " I know nothing on 't. 
 Well, lo and behold, as I was saying, we were all sitting quiet 
 as mice, when just as I had turned over the last page of the 
 " Skeleton Chief, or Bloody Bandit," a sound, like I don't know 
 what, came from overhead. Now, no one was up stairs, so, as 
 you may well suppose, the noise brought my heart into my 
 mouth, — nay more, it brought your dad to his legs, and you 
 into the world. For your mother was taken ill directly, and 
 
 we helped her off to bed." " Parturiunt monies, nas "l 
 
 said I, stopping short in confusion, — thank Heaven, the old 
 woman knew not the end of the proverb, but went on with her 
 story. "Go, Bill," says your father, " see what noise was that." 
 
 * The Snob. No. 3. Tlii;rsday, April 23, 1829, pp. 11-12. 
 
 + [ve^eXriyepiTa Zfvs. (HoM. Iliad., a. 511, 517, gf scepius), i.e. "cloud- 
 compelling Jove." — Ed.] 
 
 X [Partui-iunt monies, nascetur ridiculus miis. — HoR. De Art. Poet. — 139. 
 —Ed.] 
 

 
 194 MRS. RAMSBOTTOM IN CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Off went Bill, pale as a sheet, while I attended to your mother. 
 Bill soon came laughing down. " The boot-jack fell off the 
 peg," says he, " It's a boy," screams I. " How odd ! " says 
 your dad. " What's odd ? " says I. " The child and the jack 
 — it's ominous," says he. "As how?" says I. " Call the child 
 Jack," says he. And so they did, and that's the. way, do you 
 see, my nam^e was Jack Clypei Septemplicis Ajax. 
 
 Early in life I was sent to a small school in the next street, 
 where I soon learnt to play at marbles, blow my nose in my 
 pinafore, and bow to the mistress. Having thus exhausted her 
 
 whole stock of knowledge, I migrated to Miss G 's, in 
 
 Trumpington-street, and under the tuition of the sisters, 
 became intimately acquainted, before I was nine years of age, 
 with the proper distribution of letters in most three-syllable 
 words of the British tongue, i.e. I became an expert speller. 
 
 {To he continued.) 
 
 Mes. RAMSBOTTOM IN CAMBEIDGE.* 
 
 Badisli Ground Buildings. 
 Dear Sir, — I was surprised to see my name in Mr. Bull's 
 paper, for I give you my word I have not written a syllabub to 
 him since I came to reside here, that I might enjoy the satiety 
 of the literary and learned world. 
 
 I have the honour of knowing many extinguished persons. 
 I am on terms of the greatest contumacy with the Court of 
 Aldermen, who first recommended your weekly dromedary to 
 my notice, knowing that I myself was a great literati. When 
 I am at home, and in the family way, I make Lavy read it to 
 me, as I consider you the censure of the anniversary, and a 
 great upholder of moral destruction. 
 
 When I came here, I began reading Mechanics (written by 
 that gentleman whose name you whistle). I thought it would 
 be something like the Mechanics Magazine^ which my poor 
 dear Eam used to make me read to him, but I found them very 
 foolish. What do I want to know about weights and measures 
 and bull's-eyes, when I have left off trading ? I have therefore 
 
 * The Snoh. No. 7. Thursday, May 21, 1829, pp. 39-40.
 
 MRS. RAiMSBOTTOM IN CAMBRIDGE. 195 
 
 begun a course of ugly-physics, which are very odd, and 
 written by the Marquis of Spinningtoes. 
 
 I think the Library of Trinity College is one of the most 
 admiral objects here. I saw the busks of several gentlemen 
 whose statutes I had seen at Eoom, and who all received there 
 edification at that College. There was Aristocracy who wrote 
 farces for the Olympic Theatre, and Democracy who was a 
 laughing philosophy. 
 
 I forgot to mention that my son George Frederick is entered 
 at St. John's, because I heard that tliey take most care of their 
 morals at that College. I called on the tutor, who received 
 myself and son very politely, and said he had no doubt my 
 son would be a tripod, and he hoped perspired higher than 
 poUy, which I did not like. I am going to give a tea at my 
 house, when I shall be delighted to see yourself and children. 
 
 Believe me, dear Sir, 
 
 Your most obedient and affectionate 
 
 DoKOTHEA Julia Eajisbottom. 
 
 A STATEMENT OF FAX RELATIVE TO THE LATE 
 
 MUEDER. 
 By D. J. RAM SB OTTO M.* 
 
 " Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral." 
 
 Milton, Julius C^sar, Act III. 
 
 On Wednesday the 3rd of June as I was sitting in my back 
 parlour taking tea, yovmg Frederick Tudge entered the room ; 
 I reserved from his dislevelled hair and vegetated appearance, 
 that something was praying on his vittles. When I heard from 
 him the cause of his vegetation, I was putrified ! I stood 
 transfigured ! His father, the Editor of " The Snolj," had been 
 macerated in the most sanguine manner. The drops of com- 
 passion refused my eyes, for I thought of him, whom I had 
 lately seen high in health and happiness ; that ingenuous 
 
 * The Sjioh. No. 9. Tlmrsday, June 4, 1829, pp. 47-48. 
 
 2
 
 196 MRS. RAMSBOTTOM'S STATEMENT. 
 
 indivisable, who often and often when seated alone with me 
 has " made the table roar," as the poet has it, and whose 
 constant aim in his weakly dromedary was to delight as well 
 as to reprove. His son Frederick, too yonng to be acquainted 
 with the art of literal imposition, has commissioned me to 
 excommunicate the circumstances of his death, and call down 
 the anger of the Proctors and Court of Aldermen on the 
 phlogitious perforators of the deed. 
 
 It appears that as he was taking his customary rendez-vous 
 by the side of Trumpington Ditch, he was stopped by some 
 men in under-gTavy dresses, who put a pitch-plaister on him, 
 which completely developed his nose and eyes, or, as Shakespeare 
 says, " his visible ray." He was then dragged into a field, and 
 the horrid deed was replete ! Such are the circumstances of 
 his death ; but Mr. Tudge died like Wriggle-us, game to the 
 last ; or like Caesar in that beautiful faction of the poet, with 
 which I have headed my remarks, I mean him who wanted to 
 be Poop of Eoom, but was killed by two Brutes, and the 
 fascinating hands of a perspiring Senate. 
 
 With the most sanguinary hopes that the Anniversary and 
 Town will persecute an enquiry into this dreadful action, I will 
 conclude my repeal to the pathetic reader ; and if by such a 
 misrepresentation of fax, I have been enabled to awaken an 
 apathy for the children of the late Mr. Tudge, who are left in 
 the most desultory state, I shall feel the satisfaction of having 
 exorcised my pen in the cause of Malevolence, and soothed the 
 inflictions of indignant Misery. 
 
 D. J. Eamsbottom. 
 
 P.S. — The publisher requests me to state that the present 
 No. is published from the MS. found in Mr. Tudge's pocket, 
 and one more number will be soon forthcoming containing his 
 inhuman papers.
 
 a 
 
 CONTEIBUTIONS TO 
 
 THE NATIONAL STANDARD. 
 
 [1833.] 
 
 ? 5 
 
 FOEEIGX COREESPONDENCE. 
 
 Paris, Safurdai/, June 22. 
 
 'HIS is a most unfavourable moment for commencing a 
 Parisian correspondence. All the world is gone into 
 the country, with the exception of the deputies, who are 
 occupied in voting supplies ; an occupation necessary, 
 but not romantic, and uninteresting to the half million of 
 Englishmen who peruse the " National Standard." However, in 
 all this dearth of political and literary news, the people of 
 France are always rich enough in absurdities to occupy and 
 amuse an English looker-on. I had intended, after crossing the 
 Channel to Boulogne, to have staid there for a while, and to 
 have made some profound remarks on the natives of that town, 
 but of these, I believe, few exist ; they have been driven out by 
 the English settlers, one of whom I had the good fortune to see. 
 He did not speak much, but swore loudly ; he was dressed in a 
 jacket and a pair of maritime inexpressibles, which showed off 
 his lower man to much advantage. This animal, on being 
 
 questioned, informed me that the town was d pretty, the 
 
 society d pleasant, balls delightful, and cookery excellent. 
 
 On this hint, having become famished during a long and stormy 
 voyage, I requested the waiter of the hotel to procure some of 
 the delicacies mentioned by the settler. In an hour he returned 
 with breakfast : the coffee was thin, the butter bad, the bread
 
 1 98 PARIS CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 sour, the delicacies, mutton-chops. This was too much for 
 human patience. 1 bade adieu to the settler, and set off for 
 Paris forthwith. 
 
 I Avas surprised and delighted with the great progress made 
 by the Parisians since last year. Talk of the "march of mind" 
 in England, La jeune France completely distances us: all creeds, 
 political, literary, and religious, have undergone equal revolu- 
 tions, and met with equal contempt. Churches, theatres, 
 painters, booksellers, kings, and poets, have all bowed before 
 this awful . spirit of improvement, this tremendous " Zeitgeist." 
 In poetry and works of fiction, this change is most remarkable, 
 I have collected one or two specimens, which I assure you are 
 taken from works universally read and admired. I have, how- 
 ever, been obliged to confine ourselves to the terrific ; the tender 
 parts are much too tender for English readers. In England it 
 was scarcely permitted in former days to speak of such a book, 
 as the Memoirs of the celel^rated M. de Faublas ; in France it was 
 only " a book of the boudoir," taken in private by ladies, like 
 their cherry-brandy; now the book is public property. It is 
 read by the children, and acted at the theatres ; and for Faublas 
 himself, he is an absolute Joseph, compared to the Satanico- 
 Byronico heroes of the present school of romance. As for 
 murders, &c., mere Newgate-Calendar crimes, they are absolute 
 drugs in the literary market. Young France requires some- 
 thing infinitely more piquant than an ordinary hanging matter, 
 or a common-place crim. con. To succeed, to gain a reputation, 
 and to satisfy La jeune France, you must accurately represent 
 all the anatomical peculiarities attending the murder, or crime in 
 question : you must dilate on the clotted blood, rejoice over the 
 scattered l)rains, particularize the sores and bruises, the quivering 
 muscles, and the gaping wounds ; the more faithful, the more 
 natural ; the more natural, the more creditable to the author, 
 and the more agreealjle to La jeune France. 
 
 I have before me a pleasing work with the following delect- 
 able title : " Champavert : Immoral Tales, By Petrus Borel the 
 Lycanthrope ! "* After having perused this pretty little book, I 
 
 * [Gham2mvert. Gontes Immoraux. Par Petrus Borel le Lycanthrope. 
 Tlie edition before us is a Brussels reprint, bearing date 1872.— Ed.]
 
 CHA MP A VER T : CONTES IMMORA UX. 1 99 
 
 give tlie following summary of it, for the benefit of Engiisli 
 readers. 
 
 Tale 1. " M. cle L'Argentiere," contains a rape, a murder, an 
 execution. 
 
 Tale 2. " Jaquez Barraou," concludes thus : 
 
 " Immediately he seized him by the throat — the blood gushed 
 out, and Juan screamed aloud, falling on one knee and seizing 
 Barraou by the thigh ; who in turn, fastened on his hair, and 
 struck him on the loins, while, with a back-stroke, il lui dtripe 
 k ventre. (The manoeuvre is extraordinary, and the language 
 utterly untranslateable.) They rolled on the ground: now 
 Juan is uppermost, now Jaquez — they roar and writhe ! 
 
 " Juan lifted his arm, and broke his dagger against the wall. 
 Jaquez nailed his in Juan's throat ! Covered with wounds and 
 blood, uttering horrid screams, they seemed a mere mass of 
 blcod flowino- and curdlino- 1 Thousands of obscene flies and 
 
 o o 
 
 beetles might be seen hovering round their mouths and nostrils, 
 and buzzing round the sores of their wounds. 
 
 "Towards night a man stumbled over the corpses. ' They 
 are only negroes,' said he ; and went his way." 
 
 It is, as the reader will see, quite impossible to translate 
 properly this elegant passage ; it displays a force, originality, and 
 good taste, which can never be transferred to our language. 
 
 Tale 3. " Andrea Vesalius." Three adulteries, four murders. 
 The victims are a wife and her three lovers, murdered first, and 
 dissected afterwards, by Andrea Vesalius. 
 
 Tale 4. " Three fingered Jack." Contains only one suicide, 
 and the death of Jack in fair fight. 
 
 Tale 5. " Dina." One rape, one murder, one suicide. 
 
 Tale 6. " Passereau." Two murders, and some intrigues — 
 very prettily descril^ed. 
 
 Tale 7. " Champavert." This is the history of Lycanthrope 
 himself. He was an extraordinary and melancholy young man, 
 remarkable for a strong poetical genius and a long beard, both 
 of which he had manifested from the age of seventeen. This 
 history contains a couple of seductions, a child murder, and two 
 suicides. "Whether Champavert were a fictitious or real personage, 
 I know not ; there is, however, a long circumstantial account of
 
 200 PARIS CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 his suicide here given ; and I trust, for the honour of France, 
 that the Lycanthrope actually lived and died in the manner 
 described in the book. 
 
 My dear young ladies, who are partial to Lord Byron, and 
 read Don Juan slily in the evening ; who admire French 
 fashions, and dishes, and romances, — it is for your profit and 
 amusement that this summary has been made. You will see by 
 it how far this great nation excels us in genius and imaginatior, 
 even thoudi Bulwer and D'Israeli still live and write. 
 
 The costume of Jeune France is as extraordinary as its 
 
 literature. I have sent a specimen, which I discovered the 
 
 other day in the Tuileries. It had just been reading tie 
 
 Tribune, and was leaning poetically against a tree ; it had on a 
 
 red neckcloth and a black flowing mane ; a stick or club, 
 
 intended for ornament as well as use; and a pair of laige 
 
 though innocent spurs, which had never injured anything except 
 
 the pantaloons of the individual who wore them. Near it vas 
 
 sitting an old gentleman, who is generally to be seen of a sunny 
 
 day in the Tuileries, reading his Crebillon or his prayer-book : 
 
 a living illustration of times past, — a strange contrast with 
 
 times present !* 
 
 Paris, Saturday, June 29. 
 
 There is no doubt that the " National Standard," though the 
 best conducted Journal in the world, has a most sensehss^ 
 impotent, and unmeaning title : National Standard ; what does 
 it signify ? It may be a newspaper, or a measure for brandy ; 
 a banner for King William, or a flag for King Cobbett : you 
 should take advice by the papers of this country, and fix on a 
 name more striking. These observations have been inspired by 
 the title of a journal which is about to appear here, " Le 
 Necrologe : Journal des Morts ; " a pretty romantic and 
 melancholy title, printed on a sentimental paper, handsomely 
 edged with black, and bearing an urn for a frontispiece. 
 death ! life ! jeune France, what a triumph of art and taste 
 is here ! Fancy " The Mourning Advertiser ; the Sexton's Mis- 
 
 * Here, in Tlie National Standard, aj)pears an admirable sketch, which, 
 indifferently drawn as it is, has much of the spirit and humour of Thacke- 
 ray's maturer illustrations of his own text. — Ed.
 
 PARIS CORRESPONDENCE. 201 
 
 cdlany ; The Raw Head and Bloody Bones ; the U'nde7iaker's 
 Manual ; the Pickaxe, or Grave-digger's Vade Mecum," pub- 
 lished every morning for breakfast, and treating of all the 
 most fashionable deaths, murders, suicides, and executions in 
 Europe. What a pleasing study for melancholy young men 
 and tender young ladies ! Then one has the advantage of 
 swallowing sentiment and history at the same time, and (as 
 Figaro says,) while Kving, one is a subscriber to it ; when dead, 
 an article. The November suicides in England used to be a 
 staple article of French satire ; they used to think that London- 
 bridge was built for the mere convenience of throwing one's self 
 from it into the Thames, and that our lamp-posts were only 
 cast-iron substitutes for gibbets : in regard to lamp-posts, how- 
 ever, we borrowed our learning from them ; and, as to suicides, 
 the advantage is now decidedly on the French side. Half-a- 
 dozen fellows " asphixient " themselves every morning, and 
 servant-maids with low spirits and wages, generally adopt this 
 means of retirement, as one easy, expeditious, and certain. I 
 heard just now of a young gentleman who had arrived at the 
 mature age of sixteen, and of another more venerable by a 
 couple of years, who some time ago brought their lives to a 
 conclusion in charcoal. They had, together, written a drama, 
 which was represented at the Porte St. Martin, and succeeded ; 
 it procured for them, no doubt, a few dozen francs, and an 
 eternity of half-a-dozen nights, which seemed entirely to 
 answer their hopes and satisfy their ambition. Their enjoy- 
 ment was complete, their cup of fame was full; and they 
 determined, like young sages as they were, to retire from the 
 world before their happiness should fade, or their glory tarnish, 
 thinking no doubt that their death, their last and noblest action, 
 would establish beyond all question their spiritual immortality. 
 So they purchased the means of their death, (it is very 
 cheap, twopenny-worth will kill half a thousand young poets ;) 
 they retired to their sixieme, they shut out the world, and 
 closed up the windows ; and when, some hours after, the door 
 of their apartment was forced open, their spirits and the 
 charcoal-smoke flew out together, leaving only the two corpses 
 to be admired by the public, and buried by the same. In
 
 202 PARIS CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 France they dropped tears on their bodies ; they would have 
 employed stakes, instead of tears, in our less romantic country. 
 However, peace be to their ashes ! they are now, no doubt, 
 comfortably situated in that heaven where they will find Cato 
 and Addison, and Eustace Budgell, and all the suicidal 
 philosophers ; and some day or other, Liston, Talma, and all 
 the great tragedians. 
 
 I asked my informer the names of these young unfortunates, 
 and the title of their tragedy. He had forgotten both ! So 
 much for their reputation. 
 
 The theatres are in a flourishing condition : they have all at 
 this moment some piece of peculiar attraction. At the Amligu 
 Comique is an edifying representation of " Belshazzar's Feast." 
 The second act discovers a number of melancholy Israelites 
 sitting round the waters of Babylon, with their harps on the 
 willows ! A Babylonian says to the leader of the chorus, " Sing 
 us one of the songs of Zion ; " the chorus answers, " How can 
 we sing in a strange land ? " and so on : the whole piece is a 
 scandalous parody of the Scripture, made up with French 
 sentiment and French decency. A large family of children 
 were behind me, looking, with much interest and edification, 
 at the Queen rising from her bath ! This piece concludes with 
 a superb imitation of Martin's picture of Belshazzar. Another 
 piece at the Forte Si. Martin, called " Bergami," vivifies 
 Hayter's picture of the House of Lords, at Queen Caroline's 
 trial. There was a report this morning that a courier had 
 arrived from England, for the express purpose of forbidding 
 this piece ; and supposing, from that circumstance, that it 
 must contain something very terrible, I sallied to the Forte St. 
 Martin to see it ; but I was sadly disappointed : for there was 
 nothing in it but a little Platonic dialogue between Bergami, 
 who is an angel, and the queen, who is an injured woman. 
 Bergami appears first in the character of a post-boy, and makes 
 such delightful remarks on the weather, the scenery, and 
 Italian politics, that the warm-hearted queen is subdued at 
 once, and makes liim forthwith her equerry. The first act ends, 
 and the queen gets into a carriage. In the second she gets 
 into a packet, (that unlucky packet !) in the third she gets into
 
 PARIS CORRESPONDENCE. 203 
 
 a balcony ; in the fourth she gets into a passion, as well she 
 may, since Bergami is assassinated by Lord Ashley, (on which 
 fact we beg to congratulate his lordship ;) and accordingly, she 
 goes to the House of Lords to make her complaint against him 
 for this act of unpoliteness ; here the scene is very animated 
 (it is taken from the picture). Sir Brougham makes a speech 
 about injured women, patriotism, and so forth ; Lord Eldon 
 replies, the Ministerial bench cheers, the Opposition jeers, and 
 the queen comes in majestically, bowing right and left, and 
 uttering the noljlest sentiments. Presently a row is heard in 
 the streets : the mob is in arms for the queen ! Lord Eldon 
 motions the IMinister of War ; he rushes out to quell the dis- 
 turbance, the queen follows him, but the attempts of both are 
 ineffectual ; windows are broken, stones are flung, Lord Eldon 
 disappears. Sir Brougham bolts, and Lord Liverpool, (a stout 
 man in a white w^aistcoat, with a large tin star,) falls to the 
 earth, struck violently in the stomach with a leather brick-bat, 
 and the curtain, of course, drops with the Prime Minister, The 
 French nation was exalted by this exhibition to a pitch of 
 immoderate enthusiasm, and called stoutly for the Marseillaise. 
 I did not see the fifth act, in which the queen is poisoned, 
 (Lord Ashley again !) but returned home to give an account of 
 this strange tragedy. There is a third play, of much more 
 importance than the two former, of which I had wished to give 
 some account, " Les Enfans d'Edouard," by M, Casimir Delavigne, 
 one of the best acted tragedies I had ever the good fortune to 
 see ; but I have made this letter so long, that I must reserve this 
 for some future day. I could not, however refrain from sending 
 a little sketch of Ligier,* who performs the part of Richard, in 
 this play, in a manner, I think, which Kean never equalled. 
 
 Beside Ligier is the admirable Mademoiselle Mars, and that 
 most charming, gay, graceful, naive actress, Madame Anais 
 Aubert. It would be worth an Enolish actor's while to come 
 to Paris, and study the excellent manner of the French 
 comedians ; even Cooper might profit by it, and Diddear go 
 away from the study a wiser and better man. Here is too 
 
 * The sketch appears with the letter in The National Standard : we 
 regret to be unable to reproduce it here. — Ed.
 
 204 PARIS CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 much about theatres, you will say ; but after all, is not this 
 subject as serious as any other ? 
 
 The Charkuas. „ . ^ , _ 
 
 Pans, July 5. 
 
 The wondering reader may fancy that the scene here given 
 was designed in the wilds of America, rather than in this gay 
 city of Paris; but he will see, if he takes the trouble of reading 
 the following article (from the pen of M. Jules Janin), how the 
 figures above* represent three unfortunate Charruas Indians, who 
 have quitted South America to shiver under the cold Parisian sun. 
 
 " AUons ! let us go and see the savages ; they are lodged in the 
 Champs Elysees, in one of those half-built houses, those ruins 
 of yesterday, the view of which is sad without being solemn. 
 Here are the heroes of our drama, not taller than the brave 
 Agaraemnons and Alexanders of the Theatre Frani^ais, but well- 
 built and active, bold cavaliers, and gallant horse-tamers. They 
 are perfidious, idle, revengeful, cruel cannibals, some of them ; 
 perfect dramatic characters, in fact. In truth, they possess all 
 the qualities requisite for the modern drama ; they can ride, 
 fight, betray, revenge, assassinate, and eat raw flesh ; it is true 
 that they don't know a word of French ; but what of that ? it 
 is all the better for the theatre now-a-days. 
 
 " When I saw them huddled together in their court, I declare 
 I thought that I was looking at some modern tragedy : these 
 brave savages wore costumes hideous and fanciful ; they were 
 all three seated in different solemn attitudes. First, the 
 cacique, with hair uncombed, and fierce and heavy looks ; he 
 would have made a capital tyrant for a melo-drama : the next, 
 a lean, livid animal, with a sidelong look, and an indefinable 
 smile, reminded me of Cooper's Magna \ the third was gay, 
 careless, and merry enough : and then came the timid and 
 gentle Guynuya. She sate alone in a corner of the court, with 
 her head on her bosom, bending under the weight of her cap- 
 tivity, like a princess of Ilium of old. This woman is truly 
 sublime: it is true she is fickle and faithless, that she loves 
 pleasure and change, that she has not our ideas of conjugal 
 fidelity ; but she has more passion and love than all the 
 * A sketch of the Charruas headed this letter in T]ie National Standard. — Ed.
 
 THE CHARRUAS. 205 
 
 heroines of our tragedy ; and above all, she has the passion of 
 grief. I was much touched by this woman and her sorrows ; 
 her arms are all scarred over with wounds, and each of these 
 wounds is the history of a sorrow. They were inflicted by her- 
 self : there is a scar for each friend she has lost ; for every child 
 of which she has been deprived there is a finger gone ; she has 
 lost two fingers, and there are near eighty scars on her arm : 
 and this woman is not yet eighteen years old ! 
 
 " Have you, in all the range of your drama, such an heroine as 
 this ? Have you, in all your poetry, so profound a grief as 
 hers ? And, for heroes, here is one whose shoulder has been 
 laid open by a hatchet ; and who, for the last miserable white 
 Frenchwoman, who blunders through your ballets and your 
 choruses, would go gladly to the Bois de Boulogne, and defy a 
 dozen gentlemen at once ! You call your heroes cruel, and 
 your heroines tender ! Here is a hero who poisons his own 
 arrows, and a woman who gashes her arms with a wicked knife 
 with as much ease as you would flourish a fan. Poor dra- 
 matists ! See how utterly you are beaten off your ground by 
 the first arrival from the plains of Paraguay. Thus, in fact, it 
 is: as soon as one quits the poetical dyama for that of the heart, 
 and literary truth for common truth, one must expect to be 
 vanquished by the first matter-of-fact competitor, whether 
 savage or not ; by all which I mean to say, as Lord Byron has 
 said before, that truth is stranger than fiction. 
 
 " ISTow, these heroes of the Champs Elysees are as poetic as 
 the heroes of Homer. Vaimaca Peru is a great chief, a 
 veritable cacique, a specimen, in fact, of vagabond royalty, no 
 more called on to uncover his head than are other vagabond 
 royalties. Senaque is the devoted friend of his chief, a subject 
 faithful and sorrowful, more sorrowful indeed than his destitute 
 master ; and this is a common case about ruined thrones. The 
 next, the young man, is careless and brave ; and, although con- 
 quered, happy still, because he is young, and looks to the 
 future. The woman Guynuya is truly the epic heroine, 
 resigned to her fate ; her very smile is full of tears, her suffer- 
 ings are consoled by her weaknesses. Do you know that these 
 savages have come from the extremity of Southern America ?
 
 2o6 PARIS CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 that they were made prisoners after long and bloody battles ; 
 that they have come hither to Paris, as a last asylum ; and that 
 this is the St. Helena of the vanquished cacique ? For a long- 
 time they fought under Eibera ; a year ago their tribe was 
 destroyed, and they fled into the desert, bearing with them, not 
 their harps, like the Hebrews, but the skulls of their enemies, 
 the ornaments of their cabins. And now, vanquished prisoners, 
 fugitives, they have come so far to find an asylijm, and to receive 
 the visit of that amateur of monsters, M. Geoffrey St. Hilaire. 
 
 " How times are changed ! Formerly, when the grand king- 
 dom of France was a Christian kingdom, the arrival of these 
 savages would have caused a sensation amidst all the catholi- 
 cism of Paris. There would have been a tender solicitude 
 evinced for the welfare of their immortal souls. They would 
 have found, most likely, the king's mistress for a godmother, 
 and the king's brother for a godfather ; they would have been 
 the objects of infinite dissertations, philosophical and religious : 
 Jansenists and Jesuits would have disputed over these four 
 souls with a ferocity altogether ecclesiastical. Our savages 
 meanwhile would have been baptised, feted, and amused, and 
 sent back to their country loaded with presents and honours. 
 At present, what is their fate, poor monarchs of the deserts ? 
 They have been received by the Academy of Sciences ; and 
 next, they will go to St. Cloud, and see the king, that is, if the 
 master of the ceremonies permits it. The director of the opera 
 will give them a box some night when all the boxes are empty; 
 then they will go to the Porte St. Martin, then to Franconi's, 
 and then to some cabaret of the lower order, where the grisette, 
 come out for her Sunday, will scarcely deign to look at them, 
 seeing that she prefers her quadrille to all the savages in the 
 world. Poor fellows ! they will be lucky enough if they do not, 
 like their brethren of the North,* die in the hospital, with a 
 sister of charity on each side of them. 
 
 " I did not forget to caress the ostrich which gallops about in 
 the court ; he is a careless and gentle ostrich, who much pleased 
 me: having nothing to give him, I offered him a piece of 
 
 * The Osages, avIio were exhibited at Paris some years ago, and died there.
 
 THE VENDOME COLUMN. 207 
 
 money, which he did me the honour of accepting, and which he 
 swallowed and pocketed with the grace of a civilized indi^ddual. 
 
 "Jules Janin." 
 
 I have curtailed this article of M. Janin's, which is, I think, 
 a tolerable specimen of the French style of periodical writing. 
 It concludes with a long paragraph, expressing the writer's joy 
 at escaping from the savages into the Champs Elysees ; and 
 some remarks on the civilized world in general. The paragraph 
 proves that M. Janin was in a fright, and no wonder ; three 
 cannibals with knives and poisoned arrows are not pleasant 
 companions even for a brave Frenchman. In the sketch given 
 above, the stout man is the chief ; the lady Guynuya has her 
 back turned, a piece of unpoliteness in which she persisted 
 during the whole of my visit. They play cards all day, laugh, 
 eat raw beef, and drink all they can get. 
 
 Paris, July 13. 
 The figure above* is a copy of the statue which shortly is to 
 decorate the column in the Place Vendome. It is, as every- 
 body knows, to be elevated about the 29th of the month ; but 
 his majesty the king of the French, being averse to emcutcs 
 cUpcnses of all kinds, has determined that it shall be erected 
 privily in the night season, and shall have no needless ex- 
 travagance or unnecessary publicity to accompany its elevation. 
 The statue has been cast of bronze, or brass made of Austrian 
 cannon (the victories of Napoleon are, luckily, not all used up), 
 and represents, as the reader beholds, the Kttle corporal in his 
 habit of war. The column, up to 1814, was surmounted with 
 a representation of the Emperor Napoleon, with robes and sceptre 
 imperial ; it bore on its base the following sonorous inscription : 
 
 Neapolio Imp. Aug. 
 
 Monumentum Belli Germanici 
 
 anno mdcccv. 
 
 Trimestre spatio profligati 
 
 ex oere capto 
 
 Glorite exercitus maximi dicavit. 
 
 * A sketch, of Xapoleon on tlie Vendome Column headed this letter in 
 Tlie National Standard. — Ed.
 
 208 PARIS CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 In 1814 the inscription was removed, the statue torn down, 
 and a dirty white flag replaced it. It seemed a lame and 
 impotent conclusion to the series of victories which are carved 
 on the column itself, and wind from the base to the summit, as 
 if these battles had been fought and won for the sole purpose 
 of re-establishing the white flag aforesaid. 
 
 Next week, however, Napoleon will make his second appear- 
 ance on the column. He certainly ought to make a short 
 speech on the occasion, which, we should think, would run 
 something in this manner. 
 
 The emperor, after having raised his bronze spy-glass to his 
 brazen eye, and regarded the multitude who are waiting to hear 
 his oration, begins 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen ! {Trmundous ajjplause.) 
 
 " Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, and overpowered 
 by feelings of the deepest and tenderest nature, you may readily 
 fancy my inability to address you with the eloquence demanded 
 by your presence, and by this occasion. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen : This is the proudest moment of my 
 life ! {Bravo, and cheers.) 
 
 " I thank you for having placed me in a situation so safe, so 
 commanding, and so salubrious : from this elevation I can look 
 on most parts of your city. I see the churches empty, the 
 prisons crowded, the gambling-houses overflowing ; who, with 
 such sights before him as these, gentlemen, and you, would not 
 be proud of the name of Frenclimen ? {Gh^eat cheers.) 
 
 " The tricolor waves over the Tuileries as it used in my time. 
 It must be satisfactory to Frenchmen to have re-established 
 their glorious standard, and to have banished for ever the old 
 white flag ; and, though I confess myself that I cannot perceive 
 any other benefit you have wrought by your resistance to a 
 late family, you of course can. (Applause, mingled vjith some 
 unseemly groans from the police.) 
 
 " I apprehend that the fat man* with the umbrella, whom I 
 see walking in the gardens of the Tuileries, is the present 
 
 * Napoleon here makes an irreverent and personal allusion to King 
 Louis Philippe. His stoutness and his lunbrella were depicted some two 
 months ago, in our paper \;cide infra, p. 211].
 
 ''THE NATIONAL STANDARD r 209 
 
 proprietor. May I ask what he has done to deserve such a 
 reward from you ? Does he found his claim on his own merits, 
 or on those of his father ? {A tremendous row in the croiod : 
 the police proceed to empoigner several hundred individuals.) 
 " Go your ways," (said the statue, who was what is vulgarly 
 called a dab, at an impromptu ;) " go your ways, happy French- 
 men ! You have fought, you have struggled, you have con- 
 quered : for whom ? for the fat man with the umbrella ! 
 
 " I need not explain what were my intentions and prospects, 
 if I had had the good fortune to remain among you. You were 
 yourselves pleased to receive them with some favour. The rest 
 of Europe, however, did not look on them in the same light, 
 and expressed its opinion so strongly, that we, out of mere 
 politeness, were obliged to give up our own. 
 
 " I confess myself that I was somewhat arbitrary and 
 tyrannical : luit what is our fat friend below ? Is it not better 
 to be awed by a hero than to be subdued by a money-lender ? 
 to be conquered by a sword than to be knocked down by an 
 umbrella ? (Here there loas an immense cry of " A bas les 
 Parapluies !" Some further arrests took place.) 
 
 " Perhaps, if it be not a bore, [go on,) you will allow me to 
 say a word concerning those persons who so strosgly voted my 
 own removal, and the re-establishment of the white cloth, now 
 folded up for ever. 
 
 '' The Kussians are occupied in strangling, murdering, and 
 banishing ; I could not possibly have chosen for them a better 
 occupation. 
 
 " The English, with their £800,000,000 of debt, have des- 
 troyed their old institutions, and have as yet fixed on no new 
 ones. {Here a further crowd vjcrc marched off hy the iwlice) 
 I congratulate you. Gentlemen, they too have policemen.* 
 
 "The Portuguese are fighting about two brothers, both of 
 whom they detest. Heaven preserve the right, whichever he 
 may be. 
 
 " From Italy there are delightful accounts of revolts, and 
 deaths thereon consequent. 
 
 * Tills struck us as rather a vulgar allusion on tlie part of tlie statue.
 
 2IO CONTRIBUTIONS TO 
 
 " The Germans are arresting students for want of a better 
 employment. The Spaniards are amusing themselves with 
 sham fights : what a pity they cannot be indulged with real 
 ones ! 
 
 " And the family ! for whom about five hundred thousand 
 lives were sacrificed, — where are they ? The king is doting, and 
 the dauphin is mad in a chateau in Germany ; and the duchess 
 must divide her attentions between her son and her daughter! 
 
 " And yourselves, gentlemen, you have freedom of the press, 
 — but your papers are seized every morning, as in my time. 
 You have a republic, but Ijeware how you speak of the king ! 
 as in my time also. You are free ; but you have seventeen 
 forts to keep you in order. I don't recollect anything of the 
 sort in my time. 
 
 " Altogether, there is a most satisfactory quantity of bullying, 
 banishing, murdering, taxing, and hanging, throughout Europe. 
 I perceive by your silence " — Here the emperor stopped : the 
 fact was, there was not a single person left in the Place 
 Vendome ; they had all been carried off by the police !
 
 "THE NATIONAL STANDARD:' 211 
 
 LOUIS PHILIPPE.* 
 
 Heee is Louis Philippe, the great Pioi des Fran^ais, 
 (Roi de France is no longer the phrase of the day :) 
 His air just as noble, his mien as complete. 
 His face as majestic, his breeches so neat ; 
 His hat just so furnish'd with badge tricolor. 
 Sometimes worn on the side, sometime sported before, 
 But wherever 'tis placed, much in shape and in size, 
 Like an overgrown pancake " saluting men's eyes." 
 From hat down to boots, from his pouch to umbrella, 
 He here stands before you, a right royal fellow. 
 
 Like " the king in the parlour " he's fumbling his money, 
 
 Like " the queen in the kitchen," his speech is all honey, 
 
 Except when he talks it, like Emperor Nap, 
 
 Of his wonderful feats at Fleurus and Jemappe ; 
 
 But, alas ! all his zeal for the multitude's gone. 
 
 And of no numbers thinking, except number one ! 
 
 jSTo huzzas greet his coming, no patriot-club licks 
 
 The hand of " the best of created republics." 
 
 He stands in Paris as you see him before ye, 
 
 Little more than a snob — Tliere's an end of the story. 
 
 * This and tlie four following pieces were accompanied witli caricature 
 portraits, by the author, of the persons described, on their original appear- 
 ance in The National Standard. — Ed. 
 
 p2
 
 212 CONTRIBUTIONS TO 
 
 ME. BEAHA^I. 
 SONXET.— By W. Wordsworth. 
 
 Say not that Judah's harp hath lost its tone, 
 
 Or that no l)arcl hath found it where it hung, 
 
 Broken and lonely, voiceless and unstrung. 
 
 Beside the sluggish streams of Babylon ; 
 
 Sloman ! * repeats the strain his fathers sung. 
 
 And Judah's burning lyre is Braham's own ! 
 
 Behold him here. Here view the wondrous man, 
 
 Majestical and lovely as when first 
 
 In music on a wondering world he burst, 
 
 And charm'd the ravish'd ears of sovereign Anne !"f 
 
 Mark well the form, ! reader, nor deride 
 
 The sacred symbol — Jew's harp glorified — 
 
 Which circled with a blooming wreath is seen 
 
 Of verdant bays ; and thus are typified 
 
 The pleasant music and the baize of green. 
 
 Whence issues out at eve, Braham with front serene ! 
 
 K M. EOTHSCHILD, Esq. 
 
 Here's the pillar of 'Change ! Nathan Eothschild himself, 
 With whose fame every bourse through the universe rings ; 
 
 The first % Baron Juif ; by the grace of his pelf, 
 
 Not " the king of the Jews," but " the Jew of the kings." 
 
 * It i.s needless to speak of this eminent vocalist and improvisatore. He 
 nightly delights a nuinerons and respectaljle audience at the Cider-cellar ; 
 and wliile on this sulject, I cannot refrain from mentioning the kindness 
 of Mr. Evans, the worthy proprietor of that establishment. N.B. A taljle 
 d'hote every Friday. — W. JFordsivorth. 
 
 t Mr. Braham made his first appearance in England in the reign of 
 Queen Anne. — TF. JF. 
 
 + Some years ago, shortly after the elevation (In' the emperor of Austria) 
 of one of the Rothschilds to the lank of Baron, he was present at a soiree 
 in Paris, which he entered about the same time as the Due de Montmo-
 
 " THE NA TIONA L S TA NDA RD." 2 1 3 
 
 The great incarnation of cents and consols, 
 
 Of eighths, halves, and qnarters, scrip, options, and shares ; 
 Who plays with new kings as yonng Misses with dolls ; 
 
 The monarch undonbted of bulls and of bears ! 
 
 0, Plutns ! your graces are queerly bestow'd ! 
 
 Else sure we should think you behaved infra difj. 
 When with favours surpassing it joys yon to load 
 
 A greasy-faced compound of donkey and pig. 
 
 Here, just as he stands with his head pointed thus. 
 At full-length, gentle reader, we lay him before ye ; 
 
 And we then leave the Jew (what we wish he'd leave us, 
 But we fear to no purpose,) a lone in his glory. 
 
 A. BUNK 
 
 What gallant cavalier is seen 
 So dainty set before the queen, 
 
 Between a pair of candles ? 
 Who looks as smiling and as bright. 
 As oily, and as full of light, 
 
 As is the wax he handles ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Dress'd out as gorgeous as a lord. 
 Stuck to his side a shining sword, 
 
 A-murmuring loyal speeches, 
 The gentleman who's coming on 
 Is Mr. Manager A. Bunn, 
 
 All in his velvet breeches. 
 
 lenci. "Ah!" said Talleyrand, "void le premier baron Chretien, et h- 
 premier baron Juif." The Montmorencies boast, and we believe justly, 
 that they are the first Christian barons. We all know that the Rotliscliilds 
 may make the same claim of precedence among the Jews.
 
 214 CONTRIBUTIONS TO 
 
 III. 
 He moves our gracious queen to greet, 
 And guide lier to her proper seat, 
 
 (A bag-wigg'd cicerone.) 
 Adelaide ! you will not see, 
 'Mong all the German com-pa-ny, 
 A figure half so droll as he, 
 
 Or half so worth your money. 
 
 PETRUS LAUEEUS. 
 
 Who sits in London's civic chair, 
 With owlish look and buzzard air, 
 The wise and worshipful Lord Mayor ? 
 
 Sir Peter ! 
 
 Who, spectacle astride on nose. 
 
 Pours fortli a flood of bright bon-mots. 
 
 As brilliant and as old as Joe's ? 
 
 Sir Peter ! 
 
 Who, sworn to let thieves thrive no longer. 
 Shows to the rogues that law is stronger. 
 And proves himself a costermonger ? 
 
 Sir Peter ! 
 
 Who, fairly saddled in his seat. 
 Affords the Queen a hit to eat, 
 And hridles up before the great ? 
 
 Sir Peter ! 
 
 happy l3e your glorious rein, 
 And may its traces long remain. 
 To check and citrb the rogues in grain ! 
 
 Sir Peter 
 
 And when to leatherary ease 
 Eeturn'd, you give up London's keys. 
 May luck thy patent-axles grease. 
 
 Sir Peter !
 
 THE NATIONAL STANDARD." 215 
 
 LOVE IX FETTEES.* 
 
 A TOTTEXHAM-COURT-EOAD DITTY, 
 
 Shovnnrj hoic dangerous it is for a Gentleraan to fall in love vntli 
 an " Officer^ s Daughter.'' % 
 
 An Ower True Tale. 
 
 I FELL ill love, three days ago, 
 With a fair maid as bright as suow. 
 
 Whose cheek would beat the rose ; 
 The raven tresses of her hair 
 In blackness could with night compare, 
 
 Like Venus's her nose : 
 Her eyes, of lustre passing rare. 
 
 Bright as the diamond glow'd, 
 If you would know, you may go see, 
 If you won't go, pray credit me ; 
 'Twas at the back 
 Of the Tabernac, 
 In Tottenham Court Eoad, 
 
 The street in which my beauty shone 
 Is named, in compliment to John ; 
 
 Her house is nigh to where 
 A massy hand all gilt with gold, 
 A thimdering hammer doth uphold, 
 
 High lifted in the air : 
 
 * When it originally appeared in Tlie National Standard this " Ditty " 
 was accompanied with an illustx'ation by the author. — Ed.
 
 2 1 6 "LOVE IN FE TTERSr 
 
 What house it is you shall be told, 
 
 Before I end my ode, 
 If you would know, go there and see, 
 If you won't go, then credit me ; 
 
 'Twas at the back 
 
 Of the Tabernac, 
 In Tottenham Court Eoad. 
 
 3. 
 
 Smitten with love, at once I wrote 
 A neat triangular tender note, 
 
 All full of darts and flame ; 
 Said I, " Sweet star," — but you may guess 
 How lovingly I did express 
 
 My passion for the dame ; 
 I sioii'd mv name and true address, 
 
 But she served me like a toad. 
 If you would know, pray come and see. 
 If you won't come, then credit me ; 
 'Twas at the back 
 Of the Tabernac, 
 In Tottenham Court Eoad. 
 
 4. 
 
 Next morn, 'tis true, an answer came, 
 I started when I heard my name, 
 
 As I in bed did lie ; 
 Says a soft voice, " Are you the cove 
 Wot wrote a letter full of love ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes," I cried, " 'tis I :" 
 " An answer's sent," said he — Jove ! 
 
 What a sad note he show'd. 
 If you would know, pray come and see, 
 If you will not, then credit me ; 
 'Twas at the back 
 Of the Tabernac, 
 In Tottenham Court Road.
 
 ''LOVE IN FE TTERSr 2 1 7 
 
 5. 
 
 By a parchment slip I could discern 
 That by me stood a bailiff' stern, 
 
 My Eosamunda's sire ! 
 I served the daughter with verse and wit, 
 And the father served me with a writ, 
 
 An exchange I don't admire : 
 So here in iron bars I sit. 
 
 In quod securely stow'd. 
 Being captivated by a she, 
 Whose papa captivated me ; 
 All at the back 
 Of the Tabernac, 
 In Tottenham Court Eoad.
 
 2i8 '^ DADDY, FM HUNGRYr 
 
 DADDY, I'M HUNGEY. 
 
 A Scene in an Irish Coachmaker's Family, 
 Designed by Lord Lowther, July, 1843. 
 
 A SWEET little picture, that's fully desarving 
 Your lordship's approval, we here riprisint — 
 
 A poor Irish coachmaker's family starving 
 
 (More thanks to your lordship) is dhrawn in the print. 
 
 See the big lazy blackguard ! although it is Monday, 
 He sits at his ease with his hand to his cheek, 
 
 And doin' no more work nor a Quaker on Sunday, 
 
 Nor your lordship's own self on most days of the week. 
 
 And thim's the two little ones, Eory and Mysie, 
 
 Whom he'd dandle and jump every night on his knee — 
 
 Faith he gives the poor darlin's a welcome as icy 
 As I'd give a bum-bailiff that came after me ! 
 
 He turns from their prattle as angry as may be, 
 " 0, daddy, I'm hungry," says each little brat ; 
 
 And yonder sits mammy, and nurses the baby. 
 Thinking how long there'll be dinner for that. 
 
 For daddy and children, for babby and mammy. 
 No work and no hope, O ! the prospect is fine ; 
 
 liut I fancy I'm hearing your lordship cry — " Dammee, 
 Suppose they do starve, it's no business of mine." 
 
 Well, it's " justice," no doubt, that your lordship's obsarving, 
 And that must our feelings of hunger console ; 
 
 We're five hundred families, wretched and starving 
 Ijut what matter's that, so there's Justice for Croal?
 
 THE 
 
 Biftliosrapf)i> of Cljacfeera^ 
 
 A. BIBLIOGEAPHICAL LIST 
 
 ARRANGED TN C1I1;()N0L0G1CAL ORDER 
 
 OF THE 
 
 PUBLISHED WRITINGS IN PROSE AND VERSE 
 AND THE SKETCHES AND DRAWINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 (From 1829 to 1886)
 
 [This Bibliograijliy was first publislied, in a sejiarate form, in the winter 
 of 1880 : in the present issue it has been thoroughly revised and consider- 
 ably enlarged.]
 
 THE BIBLIOGEAPHY OF THACKERAY. 
 
 1829. 
 
 The Sxob : A Literary and Scientific Journal, not " conducted 
 hj Members of the University." Cambridge: Published hy 
 W. H. Smith, Eose-crescent. 1829, 12mo, pp. 64. 
 
 Consisting of eleven weekly numbers, printed on paper of several 
 dilferent colours, commencing Thursday, April 9, and ending Thiu'sday, 
 June 18, 1829. 
 
 1832. 
 
 Elizabeth Browneigge: A Tale, in Tioo Books. Frasers 
 
 Magazine, August — September, 1832, vol. vi. (pp. 67-88, 
 
 131-148). 
 
 1833. 
 
 Contributious in verse and prose to The National Standard and 
 
 Journal of Literature, Science, Music, Tlicatricals and the Fine 
 
 Arts. London: Thomas Hurst, 65, St. Paul's Churchyard. 
 
 1833, 4to. 
 
 The contributions distinctly traceable as Thackeray's are as follows 
 
 (though probably others might be identified) : — 
 
 Vol. i. (1833.) 
 May 4, p. 273. Louis Philippe (Verses and Sketch). 
 May 11, p. 289. Mr. Braham, " Sonnet by W. Wordsworth," 
 
 and Sketch. 
 May 18, p. 305. N. M. Eothschild, Esq. (Verses and Sketch). 
 June 1, p. 345. A. Bunn (Verses and Sketch). 
 June 8, p. 362. Love in Fetters ; a Tottenham-court-road Ditty 
 
 (with Sketch). 
 June 15, pp. 380-381. Covent Garden (with Sketch). 
 June 22, p. 395. Petrus Laureus (Verses and Sketch). 
 June 29, pp. 412-413. Paris Correspondence (with Sketch).
 
 222 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1833- 
 
 Vol. ii. (1833). 
 
 Paris Correspondence (with three Sketches). 
 
 July 6, pp. 10-11.) 
 
 July 13, pp. 28-29. 
 
 July 20, pp. 42-43. 
 
 August 10, pp. 85-86. ")The Devil's Wager (with an Illus- 
 
 August 24,* pp. 121-122.) tration). 
 
 The Devil's Wager, \\-ith the same illustration repiodiiced, is reprinted 
 in The Paris Sketch Book (1840), vol. ii., pp. 83-101. Tliere are some verbal 
 alterations throughout, and the words of the incantation of Father Ignatius 
 are omitted in the later version. 
 
 1836. 
 
 Flore et Zephye. Baixet Mythologique par Theophile 
 Wagstaff. — London : Published March 1st, 1836, by J. 
 Mitchell, Library, 33, Old Bond-street. A Paris, chez Eittner 
 & Goupil, Boulevard Montmartre. Folio. 
 
 Eight plates, lithographed by Edward Morton, of which the following 
 is the letterpress description : 
 
 1. La Danse fait ses offrandes sur I'autel de I'Harmonie. 
 
 2. Jeux Innocens de Zephyr et Flore. 
 
 3. Flore deplore I'absence de Zephyr. 
 
 4. Dans un pas-seul il exprime son extreme desespoir. 
 
 5. Triste et abattu, les seductions des Nymphes le tentent en vain. 
 
 6. Reconciliation de Flore et Zephyr. 
 
 7. La Retraite de Flore. 
 
 8. Les Delassements de Zephyr ; and vignette on wrapjier-title. 
 
 " In 1836 his first attempt at independent authorship appeared simulta- 
 neously at London and Paris. This publication, at a time when he still 
 hoped to make his l)read by art, is, like indeed everything he either said or 
 did, so characteristic, and has been so utterly forgotten, that an account of it 
 may not be out of place,' perhaps more minute than its absolute merits 
 deserve. 
 
 'It is a small folio, slightly tinted, entitled Flore et Zephyr, Ballet Mytho- 
 logirpte dedie d—par Th(fo2)hile Wagstaff. Between "«" and "^ar" on the 
 cover is the exf(uisite Flore herself, all alone in some rosy and bedizened 
 bower. She has the old jaded smirk, and, with eyebrows up and eyelids 
 dropped, she is looking down oppressed with modesty and glory. Her nose, 
 
 * With this number Thackeray's contril)utions appear to have ceased ; 
 though the Journal itself continued to exist until Februaiy 1, 1834, com- 
 pleting a second volume and running on to a fragment (eighty pages) of 
 a third.
 
 1836.] '' FLORE ET ZEPHYRr 223 
 
 which is long, and has a ripe droop, gives to the semicircular smirk of the 
 large mouth, do^\^l upon the centre of which it comes in the funniest way, 
 an indescribably sentimental absurdity. Her thin, sinewy arms and large 
 hands are crossed on her breast, and her petticoat stands out like an inverted 
 white tulip — of miislin — out of which come her professional legs, in the 
 only position which human nature never puts its legs into ; it is her special 
 pose. Of course, also, you are aware, by that smirk, that look of being 
 looked at, that though alone in maiden meditation in this her bower, and 
 sighing for her Zephyr, she is in front of some thousand pairs of eyes, and 
 under the fire of many double-barrelled lorgnettes, of which she is the focus. 
 "In the first plate. La Dansefait ses offrandes sur Vautel de Vharmonie, in the 
 shapes of Flore and Zephyr coming trippingly to the footlights, and paying 
 no manner of regard to the altar of harmony, represented by a fiddle with 
 an old and dreary face, and a laurel wreath on its head, and very great 
 regard to the unseen but perfectly luiderstood " house." Next is Triste et 
 ahattu, les seductions des Xymphes le tentent en vain., Zephyr looking 
 theatrically sad. Then Flore (with one lower extremity at more than a 
 right angle to the other) deplore Vabsence de Zephyr. The man in the orchestra 
 endeavouring to combine business with pleasure, so as to play the flageolet 
 and read his score, and at the same time miss nt)thing of the deploring, is 
 intensely comic. Xext Zephyr has his turn, and duns un pas seul exprime 
 sa supreme d^sespoir — the extremity of despair being expressed by doubling 
 one leg so as to toiich the knee of the other, and then whirling round so as 
 to suggest the regulator of a steam-engine run ofi". Next is the rapturous re- 
 conciliation, when the faithful creature bounds into his arms, and is held up 
 to the house by the waist in the wonted fashion. Then there is La Retraite 
 de Flore, where we find her with her mother and two admirers — Zephyr, of 
 course, not one. This is in Thackeray's strong unflinching line. One lover 
 is a young dandy without forehead or chin, sitting idiotically astride his 
 chair. To him the old lady, who has her slight rouge, too, and is in a 
 homely shawl and muft', having walked, is making faded love. In the 
 centre is the fair darling herself still on tiptoe, and wrapped up, but not too 
 much, for her fiacre. With his back to the comfortable fire, and staring 
 wickedly at her, is the other lover, a big, burly, elderly man, probably well 
 to do on the Bourse, and with a wife and family at home in their Ijeds. The 
 last exhibits Les delassements de Zephijr. That hard-working and homely 
 personage is resting his arm on the chimney-piece, taking a huge pinch of 
 snufl' from the box of a friend, with a refreshing expression of satisfaction, 
 the only bit of nature as yet. A dear Jittle innocent pot-boy, such as only 
 Thackeray knew how to draw, is gazing and waiting upon the two, holding 
 up a tray from the nearest tavern, on which is a great pewter-pot of foam- 
 ing porter for Zephyr, and a rummer of steaming brandy and water for his 
 friend, who has come in from the cold air. These drawings are lithographed 
 by Edward Morton, son of "Speed the Plough," and are done with that 
 delicate strength and truth for which this excellent but little known artist
 
 224 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1837- 
 
 is always to be praised. In each corner is the monogram, W. T., which 
 appears so often afterwards witli the M added, and is itself superseded by 
 the well-known pair of spectacles. Thackeray must have been barely five- 
 and-twenty when this was published by ]\Iitchell in Bond Street. It can 
 hardly be said to have sold."— Dr. John Brown {North British Review, 
 February 1864). 
 
 1837. 
 Carlyle's French Eevolution. — Times, Thursday, August 3, 
 
 1837, fol. 6, col. 4-6. 
 
 " I understand there have been many reviews of a very mixed character. 
 I got one in the ' Times ' last week. The writer is one Thackeray, a half- 
 monstrous Cornish giant, kind of painter, Cambridge man and Paris news- 
 paper correspondent, who is now writing for his life in London. . . . His 
 article is rather like him, and I suppose calculated to do the book good." — 
 CarlyU to his brother: 'Scotsbrig, August 12, 1837.' (Carlyle's Life in 
 London, i. 113). 
 
 The Professor. A Tale. By Goliali Gahagan. — Bcntlcy's Mis- 
 cellany, September, 1837 (vol. ii., pp. 277-288). 
 Reprinted in Comic Tales and Sketches (1841), vol. ii., and in the Col- 
 lected Works of Thackeray, vol. xxv. (1885), but not in any intermediate 
 edition. 
 
 The Yellowplush Correspondence. Fasliionable Fax and 
 Polite Annygoats. By Charles Yellowplush, Esq. — Fraser's 
 Magazine, November, 1837 (vol. xvi., pp. 644-649). 
 A review of a volume entitled " My Book, or the Anatomy of Conduct," 
 
 by a Mr. John Henry Skelton. 
 
 Reprinted in Thackeray's Collected Works, vol. xxv. (1885). 
 
 1838. 
 
 The Yellowplush Correspondence: — 
 
 No. II. Miss Shum's Husband. 
 
 No. III. Dimond cut Dimond. 
 
 No. IV. Skimmings from the Dairy of George IV. 
 
 No. V. Poring Parts. 
 
 No. VI. Mr. Deuceace at Paris. 
 
 The End of Mr. Deuceace's History. 
 Mr. Yellowplush's Ajew. 
 Fraser's Magazine, January to August, 1838, vol. xvii., pp. 39- 
 
 49, 243-250, 353-359 ; 404-408, 616-627, 734-741 ; vol. xviii., 
 
 pp. 59-71, 195-200. 
 
 Ri-Y>vint(;tl in Comic Tales and Sketches (1841).
 
 I839-] BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 225 
 
 Strictures on Pictures. A Letter from Michael Angelo Tit- 
 marsh, Esq. — Fraser's Magazine, June, 1838 (vol. xvii., pp. 
 758-764). 
 With sketch by the author of " Titmarsh placing the laurel- wreath on 
 
 the brows of Mulready." 
 
 Eeprinted in Thackeray's Collected Works, vol. xxv. (1885). 
 
 Twelve Plates illustrative of " Men of Character. By Douglas 
 Jerrold. In three volumes. — London : Henry Colburn. 1838." 
 
 List of Plates : Vol. I. Practical Philosophy of Adam Buff ; The Fall of 
 Pippins ; Job Pijjpins a Murderer ; Jack Runnymede's Dream. Vol. II. 
 John Applejohn's Humane Intentions ; Maximilian Tape before the 
 "Lords;" Final Reward of John Applejohn. Vol. III. Barnaby Palms 
 "feeling his way ; " Cheek's Introduction to a new subject ; The Ghost of 
 Kemp ; Matthew Clear not " seeing his way ; " Introduction of Titus 
 Trumps to " Miss Wolfe." 
 
 " The illustrations were by Mr. W. M. Thackeray, now the renowned 
 novelist." — Life and Remains of Douglas Jerrold, by his son Blancliard 
 Jerrold. London : 1859, p. 144. 
 
 The Story of Mary Ancel. — Neio Monthly Magazine. (London : 
 Colburn), October, 1838 (vol. liv., pp. 185-197). 
 
 Reprinted in The Paris Sketch-Book (vol. i., pp. 254-290). 
 
 1838-1839. 
 Some Passages in the Life of Major Gahagan. — New 
 Monthly Magazine. London : Colburn. February, March, 
 November, December, 1838, and February, 1839 (vol. lii., pp. 
 174-182, 374-378 ; vol. liv., pp. 319-328, 543-552 ; vol. Iv., 
 pp. 266-281). 
 
 Reprinted in Comic Tales and Sketches (1841), vol. ii. 
 
 1839. 
 
 Stubbs's Calendar; or. The Fatal Boots. With twelve 
 illustrations by George Cruikshank. — Comic Ahiianach for 
 1839. London : Charles Tilt. 
 
 Reprinted in Comic Tales and Sketches (1841), vol. ii. 
 
 Contributions to The Corsair, 1839 : — 
 
 Letters from London, Paris, Pekin, Petersburg, &c. By the 
 Author of " The Yellowplush Correspondence," the " Memoirs 
 of Major Gahagan, &c. (signed T. T.) 
 No. 1, dated " Hotel Mirabeau, July 25, 1839." 
 
 Q
 
 226 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1839- 
 
 No. 2, dated " Paris, 16th August, 1839 " (Madame Sand and Sjjiridion). 
 
 No. 3, 
 
 No. 4, dated " 31 August." 
 
 The Corsair : A Gazette of Literature, Art, Dramatic Criticism, 
 Fashion and Novelty (Office in Astor House, No. 8, Barclay- 
 street. Edited by K P. Willis and T. 0. Porter. New York : 
 August 24, September 14, 21, October 5, 26, 1839, vol. i. 
 pp. 380-382, 429-430, 445-447, 473-475, 521-523. 
 
 The first three contributions were reprinted substantially, under the titles 
 of "An Invasion of France," "Madame Sand and the New Aiiocalypse," and 
 " The Fetes of July," in The Paris Sketch- Book (1840), vol. i. pp. 1-22, 59-75 ; 
 vol. ii. j)p. 102-151, although several paragraphs appearing in The Corsair 
 are omitted or altered. The fourth contribution was not reprinted, and is 
 now only accessible in the late Mr. Hotten's volume, entitled " The Students' 
 Quarter." (Vide infra, p. 252-253). 
 
 1839-1840. 
 
 Catherine: A Stoky. By Ikey Solomons, Esq., junior. — 
 
 Fraser's Magazine, May, June, July, August, November, 1839 ; 
 
 January, February, 1840. 
 
 With four full-page illustrations by the author : Mrs. Catharine's 
 Temptation ; The Interrupted Marriage ; Captain Brock appears at Court 
 with my Lord Peterborough ; Catharine's Present to Mr. Hayes. 
 
 Keprinted in the Collected Editions of Thackeray's Works. 
 
 1839. 
 
 A Second Lecture on tlie Fine Arts, by Michael Angelo Tit- 
 marsh, Esq. — Fraser's Magazine, June, 1839 (vol. xix., pp. 
 743-750). 
 
 Eeprinted in Thackeray's Collected Works, vol. xxv (1885). 
 
 The French Plutarch, No. 1. 1. Cartouche. 2. Poinsinet. — 
 Frasers Magazine, October, 1839 (vol. xx., pp. 447-459). 
 Eeprinted in The Paris Sketch-Booh, 1840. 
 
 On the French School of Painting — in a Letter from Mr. 
 Michael Angelo Titmarsh to Mr. MacGilp of London. — 
 Frasers Magazine, December, 1839 (vol. xx., pp. 679-688). 
 Eeprinted in The Paris Shetch-Book, 1840, vol. i. 
 
 1840. 
 Baeber Cox, and the Cutting of his Comb. With twelve
 
 1840.] BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 227 
 
 illustrations by George Cruikshank. — Comic Almanack for 
 
 1840. London : Charles Tilt. 
 
 Afterwards, when first reprinted in Thackeray's Miscellanies (1856), en- 
 titled " Cox's Diary." 
 
 Epistles to the Literati. Ch-s Y-11-wpl-sh, Esq., to Sir Edward 
 Lytton Buhver, Bart. John Thomas Smith, Esq., to C — s 
 Y — h, Esq. — Frascrs Magazine, January, 1840 (vol. xxi., 
 
 pp. 71-80). 
 
 Reprinted in Comic Tales and Sketches, 1841, vol. i. 
 
 The Bedford-Row Conspiracy. In two Parts. — Mio Monthly/ 
 Magazine, January, March and April, 1840 (vol, Iviii., 
 pp. 99-111, 416-425, 547-557). 
 
 Reprinted in Comic Tales and Sketches (1841), vol. ii. 
 
 The Paris Sketch-Book. By Mr. Titmaesh. With numerous 
 designs by the author, on copper and wood. In two volumes, 
 pp. 304, 298.— London : John Macrone, 1840. 
 
 Contents of Vol. I. 
 
 An Invasion of France. On some French Fashionable 
 
 A Caution to Travellers. Novels. 
 
 The Fetes of July. A Gambler's Death. 
 
 On the French School of Painting. Napoleon and his System. 
 
 The Painter's Bargain. The Story of Mary Ancel. 
 
 Cartouche. Beatrice Merger. 
 
 Contexts of Vol. II. 
 
 Caricatures and Lithography in The Case of Peytel. 
 
 Paris. Imitations of Beranger. 
 
 Little Poinsinet. French Dramas and Melo- 
 
 The Devil's Wager. dramas. 
 
 Madame Sand and the New Apo- Meditations at Versailles. 
 
 calypse. 
 
 The Preface is dated "London, July 1, 1840." 
 
 An Essay on the Genius of George Cruikshank, with numerous 
 
 illustrations of his works (from the Westminster Revicio, No. 
 
 Ixvi.), with additional Etchings. Henry Hooper, 13, Pall ]\Lall 
 
 East, 1840, pp. ii., 59. 
 
 Reprinted separately from the Westminster Eevieto, June, 1840 (vol. xxxiv. 
 pp. 1-60), where it originally appeared. 
 
 A Pictorial Pihapsody, by Michael Angelo Titmarsh. With an 
 Introductory Letter to Mr. Yorke. — Fraser's Magazine, June, 
 1840 (vol. xxi., pp. 720-732). 
 
 q2
 
 228 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1840- 
 
 A Pictorial Ehapsody, concluded, and followed by a remarkable 
 statement of facts by Mrs. Barbara. — Frasers Magazine, July, 
 1840 (vol. xxii., pp. 112-126). 
 
 Eeprinted iu Thackeray's Collected Works, vol. xxv. (1885). 
 
 Going to see a Man Hanged. Signed W. M. T. — Fraser's 
 Magazine, August, 1840 (vol. xxii., pp. 150-158). 
 Reprinted in several of the Collected Editions of Thackeray's Works, 
 among " Sketches and Travels in London." 
 
 A Shabby Genteel Story. In Mne Chapters. — Fraser's 
 
 Magazine, June, July, August, October, 1840. 
 
 Reprinted in Thackeray's Miscellanies, 1857, vol. iv, pp. 221-324), with a 
 brief note of fourteen lines added at the end, signed " W. M. T." and dated 
 " London : April 10, 1857." 
 
 Sketches by Spec. No. 1.— Britannia protecting the Drama. 
 Published by H. Cunningham, 3, St. James' Square [1840]. 
 Print and letterpress Explanation. 
 
 This work, if ever actually issued, does not appear to have been continued. 
 The only known copy of the only number known to exist, is in the posses- 
 sion of Mr. Charles Plumptre Johnson, under whose auspices, and with a 
 prefatory note written by him, it was reproduced in facsimile by the 
 Autotype Company in 1885, in a wrapper, privately printed. 
 
 Captain Eook and Mr. Pigeon. By William Thackeray. With 
 two illustrations by Kenny Meadows. — Heads of the People : 
 or, Portraits of the English. Drawn hy Kenny Meadows. With 
 Original Essays hy distinguished writers. London : Eobert 
 Tyas, 1840, pp. 305-320. 
 
 1841. 
 
 The Fashionable Authoress. By William Thackeray. With an 
 illustration by Kenny Meadows. — Heads of the People. Brawn 
 hy Kenny Meadows. London : Eobert Tyas, 1841, pp. 73-84. 
 
 The Artist. By Michael Angelo Titmarsh. With an illustra- 
 tion by Kenny Meadows. — Heads of the People. London : 
 1841, pp. 161-176. 
 These three contributions to Kenny Meadows's Heads of the People were 
 
 reprinted in Thackeray's collected Miscellanies (London, 1856), vol. ii, pp. 
 
 443-494. 
 
 CoMic Tales and Sketches. Edited and Illustrated by Mr. 
 Michael Angelo Titmarsh. In two volumes. London :
 
 i84i.] BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 229 
 
 Hugh Cunningham, 1841, 12mo (vol. i., pp. vii., 299 ; vol. ii., 
 
 pp. 370). 
 
 The Preface is dated " Paris, April 1, 1841." 
 
 Contents of Vol. I. : — The Yellowplush Papers. — 1. Miss Shum's 
 Husband ; 2. The Amours of Mr. Deuceace — Dimond cut Dim end ; 
 3. Skimmings from the Dairy of George IV. ; 4. Foring Parts ; 5. Mr. 
 Deuceace at Paris, in ten chapters ; 6. Mr. Yellowplush's Ajew ; 7. Epistles 
 to the Literati. 
 
 Contents of Vol. II. : — Some Passages in the Life of Major Gahagan ; 
 The Professor ; The Bedford-Row Conspiracy ; Stubbs's Calendar, or the 
 Fatal Boots. 
 
 The Second Funeeal of Napoleon ; in Three Letters to Miss 
 Smith, of London, and The Chronicle of the Drum. By Mr. 
 M. A. Titmarsh. London : Hugh Cunningham. 1841, pp. 
 122. 
 
 With frontispiece of "Tomb in the Chapel of the Invalides," and vignette 
 drawn by the author on the coloured wrapper. 
 
 " The Second Funeral of Napoleon " was reprinted (with prefatory note), 
 from the original manuscript, in the Cornhill Magazine, January 1866 
 (vol. xiii., pp. 48-80). A small portion of the manuscript is facsimiled in 
 The AidocjrapMc Mirror of February 20, 1864 (vol. i., p. 6). 
 
 The Chronicle of the Drum was reprinted in Thackeray's collected 
 Ballads (1855). The original manuscript, twenty pages quarto, is in ]\Ir. 
 Frederick Locker-Lampson's Collection of Autographs (see Catalogue, p. 217). 
 
 Memorials of Gormandising. In a letter to Oliver Yorke, Esq., 
 by M. A. Titmarsh. — Fraser's Magazine, June, 1841 (vol. xxiii., 
 pp. 710-725). 
 
 On Men and Pictures. Apropos of a Walk in the Louvre. — 
 Frasers Magazine, July, 1841 (vol. xxiv., pp. 98-111). 
 
 Men and Coats. — Fraser's Magazine, August, 1841 (vol. xxiv., 
 
 pp. 208-217). 
 
 The above three papers are reprinted in Thackeray's Collected Works, 
 vol. XXV. (1885). 
 
 The Histoky of Samuel Titmarsh and the Geeat Hoggarty 
 Diamond. Edited and illustrated by Sam's Cousin, Michael 
 Angelo. — Frasers Magazine, September to December, 1841 
 (vol. xxiv.). 
 
 The History of Samuel Titmarsh and the Great Hoggarty
 
 230 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1841- 
 
 DiAMOND. By W. M. Thackeray. — London : Bradbury and 
 Evans, 1849, pp. xii., 189. 
 Witli engraved title and nine full-page illustrations by tlie author. The 
 
 Preface is dated " Kensington, January 25, 1849." 
 
 Little Spitz. A Lenten Anecdote, from the German of Pro- 
 fessor Spass. By Michael Angelo Titmarsh. With woodcut 
 illustration by G-eorge Cruiksliank. — Printed in George Cruik- 
 shanlcs Omnibus, No. vi., October 1841. London: Tilt and 
 Bogue, pp. 167-172. 
 
 The King of Brentford's Testament. By Michael Angelo 
 Titmarsh. — Printed in George Cruikshank's Omnibus, No. viii., 
 December, 1841, pp. 244-246. 
 
 Reprinted in Thackeray's collected Ballads (1855). 
 
 1842. 
 Dickens in Prance (with two illustrations by the author). — 
 
 Fraser's Magazine, March 1842 (vol. xxv., pp. 342-352). 
 Sultan Stork : being the One Thousand and Second Night. By 
 
 Major G. O'G. Gahagan, H.E.I.C.S. Part the First.— The 
 
 Magic Powder. Part the Second. — The Enchanted Princess. 
 
 With two illustrations on wood by George Cruiksliank. — 
 
 Ainsworth's Magazine, February and May, 1842 (vol. i. pp. 
 
 33-38 ; 233-237). 
 An Exhibition Gossip. By Michael Angelo Titmarsh. — 
 
 Ainsworth's Magazine, June, 1842 (vol. i., pp. 319-322). 
 
 Contributions to Punch : — 
 
 Vol. iii. (1842.) 
 Miss Tickletoby's Lectures on English History. With 
 twenty-three illustrations by the author. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Character (to introduce another Character) . . 8 — 9 
 
 Miss Tickletoby's Lecture ..... 12 — 13 
 
 Miss Tickletoby's Second Lectiire .... 28 — 30 
 
 Lecture III. The Sea-kings in England . . . 58 — 59 
 
 With a ballad of eight stanzas (24 lines), 'vEthlfred Koning 
 Murning Post redinge,' and ' The Song of King Canute,' twenty- 
 four stanzas (72 lines), afterwards reprinted in Rebecca and Eowena, 
 pp. ;32-35. 
 
 Lecture IV. Edward the Confessor — Harold — William the 
 
 Con(|ueror ...... 70 — 72 
 
 Lecture V. William Rufus .... 84—85
 
 I843-] BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 231 
 
 Lecture VI. Henr>^ I — Maude — Stephen — Henry II . 91 — 92 
 
 Richard the First . . . 11(5—117 
 
 . . . . ... 121—122 
 
 Edward I— The Scots and their Claims 131—133 
 
 Edward III . . . . 142—143 
 
 (Cetera desunt.) 
 
 Reprinted in Thackeray's Collected Works, vol. xxv. (1885). 
 
 Vol. iv. (1843.) 
 
 Mr. Spec's Eemonstrance (signed "Alonzo Spec, Historical 
 Painter.") With two illustrations by the author, pp. 69-70. 
 
 A Turkish Letter concerning the Divertissement " Les Houris." 
 With two illustrations, one signed with the spectacles, p. 199. 
 
 Second Turkish Letter, &c. With one illustration, p. 209. 
 
 1842-1843. 
 
 Fitz-Boodle's Confessions. — Fraser's Magazine, June, 1842 
 (vol. XXV., pp. 707-721). 
 
 Pkofessions by George Fitz-Boodle. Being appeals to the 
 unemployed younger sons of the nobility. — Fraser's Magazine, 
 July, 1842 (vol. xxvi., pp. 43-60). 
 
 Fitz-Boodle's Confessions. Miss Lowe. — Fraser's Magazine, 
 October, 1842 (vol. xxvi., pp. 395-405). 
 
 Confessions of Geokge Fitz-Boodle. Dorothea. — Fraser's 
 Magazine, January, 1843 (vol. xxvii., pp. 76-84). 
 
 Confessions of George Fitz-Boodle. Ottilia. — Fraser's Maga- 
 zine, February, 1843 (vol. xxvii., pp. 214-224). 
 
 Confessions of George Fitz-Boodle. Men's Wives. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Frank Berry. — Fraser's Magazine, March, 1843 (vol. 
 xxvii., pp. 349-361). 
 
 With an illustration by the author. 
 
 Confessions of George Fitz-Boodle. Men's Wives, No. II. 
 The Ravenswing. In eight chapters. — Fi^aser's Magazine, 
 April to June, August and September, 1843. 
 
 Men's Wives. By George Fitz-Boodle. No. III. Dennis 
 Haggarty's Wife. — Fraser's Magazine, October, 1843 (vol. 
 xxviii., pp. 494-504). 
 
 Men's Wives. By George Fitz-Boodle. No. IV. The 's
 
 232 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1843- 
 
 Wife. — Fraser's Magazine, November, 1843 (vol. xxviii., pp. 
 
 581-592). 
 
 The " Fitzboodle Papers " were collected in Thackeray's Miscellanies 
 (1857), with the exception of Dorothea and Ottilia, substantially reprinted 
 for the first time in the posthumous editions of his Works, Miss Lowe, first 
 reprinted in the supplementary twenty-fifth volume, and Men's Wives, 
 
 No. IV. TJie 's Wife, which, together with the third of Fitzljoodle's 
 
 " Professions," have never been reprinted. 
 
 The Irish Sketch-Book. By Mk. M. A. Titmarsh. With 
 numerous engravings on wood, drawn by the author. In two 
 volumes, 12mo. London : Chapman and Hall, 186, Strand, 
 1843. (Vol. i., pp. vi. 311 ; vol. ii., pp. vi. 327). 
 
 The Dedication, to Dr. Charles Lever, is dated " London, April 27, 
 1843." 
 
 A literary treasure of singular appositeness has lately turned up in the 
 form of a preface, written by Thackeray for the second edition of his 
 ' Irish Sketch Book,' but suppressed by the publishers as being too out- 
 spoken. This preface forms a long essay on the political situation in 
 Ireland. In it Thackeray strongly sujiports not merely the disestablish- 
 ment of the alien English Church, which, he says, " will no more grow in 
 Ireland than a palm-tree in St. Paul's Churchyard," but even the Repeal 
 of the Union. He goes so far as to venture on a prophecy that the latter 
 concession will be eventually wrung from Sir Robert Peel. The paper is 
 said to be written in Thackeray's most vivacious and characteristic style, 
 and to form a curious contrast to the acid comments bj'- Carlyle on 
 Irish affairs lately given to the world. This preface was some time ago 
 announced as about to appear in the CenUiry Magazine, but was for some 
 reason again suppressed, and has not yet seen the light. 
 
 1843. 
 
 Daddy, I'm hungry. — A Scene in an Irish Coachmaker's Family, 
 
 designed by Lord Lowther, July, 1843. (Six stanzas of four 
 
 lines each, with woodcut illustration, from a drawing by 
 
 the author. — Printed in The Nation (Dublin), Saturday, 
 
 May 13, 1843 (vol. i. no. 31, fol. 492, col. 1). 
 
 Reprinted, with the illustration, in Sir Charles Gavan Duffy's 
 Young Ireland, Loud. 1880, p. 243. 
 
 1 Letters on the Fine Arts. No. 1. — The Art Unions. From 
 M. A. Titmarsh, Esq., to Sanders M'Gilp, Esq. — Pictorial 
 Times, No. 1, Saturday, March 18, 1843, fol. 13-14 (signed 
 Michael Angelo Titmarsh).
 
 1 844] BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 233 
 
 2 No. 2. The Objections against Art Unions. — 
 
 Pictorial Times, April 1, 1843, fol. 43. 
 
 3 No. 2. (concluded). — Pictorial Times, April 8, 
 
 1843, fol. 61-62. 
 
 4 The Water-Colour Exhibitions. — Pictorial Times, May 6, 
 1843, fol. 125. 
 
 5 Letters on the Fine Arts. No. 3. The Eoyal Academy. — 
 Pictorial Times, May 13, 1843, fol. 136-137. 
 
 6 Letters on the Fine Arts. No. 4. The Eoyal Academy. 
 Second ^oticQ.— Pictorial Times, May 27, 1843, fol. 
 169-170. 
 
 [77te Pictorial Times: A Weekly Journal of News, Literature, 
 Fine Arts, and the Drama : illustrated with engravings on 
 Wood hy Henry Vizctelly and others. London: Office, 135, 
 Fleet Street, 1843.] 
 Jerome Paturot. With Considerations on Novels in General. 
 In a letter from M. A. Titmarsh. — Fraser's Magazine, Septem- 
 ber, 1843 (vol. xxviii., pp. 349-362). 
 Bluebeard's Ghost. By M. A. Titmarsh. — Frasers Magazine, 
 
 October, 1843 (vol. xxviii., pp. 413-425). ■ 
 Grant in Paris. By Fitz-Boodle. — Fraser's Magazine, December, 
 1843 (vol. xxviii., pp. 702-712). 
 
 A satirical notice of a book by Mr. James Grant, entitled " Paris and its 
 People." 
 
 The above three pieces are reprinted in Thackeray's Collected Works, 
 vol. XXV. (1885). 
 
 1844. 
 
 The Luck of Barky Lyndon. A Ptomance of the Last Century. 
 By Fitz-Boodle. — Fraser's Magazine, January to September, 
 November and December, 1 844 (vols. xxix. and xxx.). 
 First re-issued in a separate form, under the title of " Memoirs of Barry 
 
 Lyndon," in Thackeray's Miscellanies, 1856. 
 
 A Box of Novels. — Frasers Magazine, February, 1844 (vol. 
 xxix., pp. 153-169). 
 
 Reprinted in Thackeray's Collected "Works, vol. xxv. (1885). 
 
 The History of the Next French Eevolution. (From a
 
 234 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1844- 
 
 forthcoming History of Europe.) — Punch, February 24 ; 
 March 2 to 30 ; April 6 to 20, 1844 (vol. vi.). With fourteen 
 illustrations. 
 
 Reprinted in Thackeray's Collected Works, London : 1879, Vol. xv., 
 pp. 163-201. 
 
 Titmaesh's Carmen Lilliense. — FTaser's Magazine, Mdivoh, 1844 
 (vol. xxix., pp. 361-363). 
 
 Reprinted in Thackeray's Ballads (1855). 
 
 Eeview of " A New Spirit of the Age, by E. H. Home." — 
 Morning Chronicle, Tuesday, April 2, 1844, fol. 6. 
 This notice is referred to and quoted as the work of Michael Angelo 
 
 Titmarsh in the late Mr. Home's Introductory Comments to the second 
 
 edition of his " New Spirit of the Age." 
 
 Reprinted in Thackeray's Collected Works, vol. xxv. (1885). 
 
 Little Teavels and Eoad-side Sketches. By Titmaesh. 
 (From Eichmond in Surrey to Brussels in Belgium.)— i^rase?''s 
 Magazine, May, 1844 (vol. xxix., pp. 517-528). 
 
 Little Teavels and Eoad-side Sketches. By Titmarsh. 
 No. XL Ghent — Bruges. — Fraser's Magazine, October, 1844 
 (vol. XXX., pp. 465-471). No. Ill W ^ie\\oo— Frasers 
 Magazine, January, 1845 (vol. xxxi., pp. 94-96). 
 
 May Gambols ; or, Titmarsh in the Picture Galleries. — Fraser's 
 Magazine, June, 1844 (vol. xxix., pp. 700-716). 
 
 Reprinted in Thackeray's Collected Works, vol. xxv. (1885). 
 
 The Partie Fine, by Lancelot Wagstaff, Esq. — Arabella ; or, the 
 Moral of " The Partie Fine " (signed Titmaesh). — Colhirn's 
 JVew Mo7ithly Magazine, May and June, 1844, (vol. Ixxi., pp. 
 22-28, 169-172). 
 
 Greenwich — Whitebait. By Mr. Wagstaff. — Colhurn's New 
 Monthly Magazine, July, 1844, pp. 416-421. 
 
 The last-named paper is reprinted in Thackeray's Collected Works, vol. 
 xxv. (1885). 
 
 Wanderings of our Fat Contributor. — Punch, August 3, 1844 
 (vol. vii., pp. 61-62). 
 
 With three illustrations by the author. 
 
 Travelling Notes by our Fat Conteibutoe. — Punch, August 
 10, 1844 (vol. vii., pp. 66-67). 
 
 With an illustration by the author.
 
 I84S-] BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 235 
 
 August 17, 1844 (vol. vii., pp. 83-84). 
 
 With three illustrations by the author. 
 November 30, 1844 (vol. vii., p. 237). 
 
 With two illustrations hy the author. 
 
 December 7, 1844 (vol. vii., pp. 256-257). 
 
 With three illustrations liy the author. 
 
 December 14, 1844 (vol. vii., pp. 265-266). 
 
 With four illustrations by the author. 
 
 1845. 
 Punch in the East. From oue Fat Contributor. — Punch, 
 January 11, 1845 (vol. viii., pp. 31-32). 
 
 With an illustration by the author. 
 January 18, 1845 (vol. viii., pp. 35-36). 
 
 With two illustrations by the author. 
 January 25, 1845 (vol. viii., p. 45). 
 
 With three illustrations by the author. 
 February 1, 1845 (vol. viii., p. 61). 
 
 With two illustrations by the author. 
 February 8, 1845 (vol. viii., p. 75). 
 
 With an illustration by the author. 
 
 Picture Gossip : in a Letter from Michael Angelo Titmarsh. — 
 
 Fraser's Magazine, June, 1845 (vol. xxxi., pp. 713-724). 
 
 Eeprinted in Thackeray's Collected Works, vol. xxv. (1885). 
 
 The Chest of Cigars. By Lancelot Wagstaff, Esc^. Colburn's 
 
 Nevj Montlily Magazine, July, 1845 (vol. Ixxiv., pp. 381-385). 
 
 Bob Eobinson's First Love. By Lancelot Wagstaff, Esq. 
 Colburn's New Monthly Magazine, August, 1845 (vol. Ixxiv., 
 pp. 519-525). 
 
 The Pimlico Pavilion. By the Mulligan (of Kilballymulligan). 
 Punch, August 9, 1845 (vol. ix., p. 66). 
 
 Meditations on Solitude. By our Stout Commissioner. — Punch, 
 
 September 13, 1845 (vol. ix., p. 123). 
 
 With an illustration by the avithor. 
 Beulah Spa. By "Punch's" Commissioner. — Punch, September 
 
 27, 1845 (vol. ix., pp. 137-138). 
 
 With two illusti-atious by the author.
 
 236 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1845- 
 
 The Georges. — Punch, October 11, 1845 (vol. ix., p. 159). 
 
 A Legend of the Ehine. By Michael Angelo Titmarsh. 
 
 With fourteen woodcut illustrations by George Cruikshank. — 
 
 Printed in George Cruikshank' s Tabic Book. London : Published 
 
 at the Punch Office, 1845. 
 
 Divided into thirteen chapters, pul)lished in instalments, commencing in 
 the sixth and ending in the twelfth and last number. 
 
 Notice of N. P. Willis's Dashes at Life. — Edinburgh Review, 
 
 October, 1845 (vol. Ixxxii., pp. 470-480). 
 Two letters to Mr. Macvey Napier, Editor of the Edinburgh 
 
 Review, dated, " St. James's-street, July 16, 1845," and 
 
 " October 16, 1845," and signed " W. M. Thackeray."— (7or- 
 
 respondence of the late Macvey Napier, edited by his son. 
 
 London : Macmillan and Co., 1879, pp. 498-499. 
 Barmecide Banquets with Joseph Bregion and Anne Miller. 
 
 George Savage Fitz-Boodle, Esquire, to the Eev. Lionel Gaster. 
 
 — Erasers Magazine, November, 1845 (vol. xxxii., pp. 584- 
 
 593). 
 
 Keprinted in Thackeray's Collected Works, vol. xxv (1885). 
 
 Brighton. By " Punch's Commissioner." — Punch, October 11, 
 
 1845 (vol. ix., p. 158). 
 
 With three illustrations by the author. 
 
 A Brighton Night Entertainment. By "Punch's Commissioner." 
 
 —Punch, October 18, 1845 (vol. ix., p. 168). 
 
 With four illustrations by the author. 
 
 Meditations over Brighton. By " Punch's Commissioner." (From 
 
 the Devil's Dyke.) — Punch, October 25, 1845 (vol. ix., p. 
 
 187). 
 
 With an illustration by the author. 
 
 A Doe in the City. By Frederick Haltamont de Montmorency. 
 
 — Punch, November 1, 1845 (vol. ix., p. 191). 
 With an illustration by the author. 
 About a Christmas Book. In a Letter from Michael Angelo 
 
 Titmarsh to Oliver Yorke, Esq. — Eraser's Magazine, December, 
 
 1845 (vol. xxxii., pp. 744-748). 
 
 A notice of " Poems and Pictures ; A Collection of Ballads, Songs and 
 other Poems. With designs on wood by the principal artists ; 4to. London : 
 James Burns, 1845."
 
 1 847-] BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 237 
 
 A Lucky Speculator. (With " Jearues of Buckley-square, A 
 Heligy.")— Pwwc'Z^ August 2, 1845 (vol. ix., p. 59). 
 With an illustration by John Leech. 
 
 A Letter from " Jeames of Buckley-square." — Piwic/t, August 16, 
 
 1845 (vol. ix., p. 76). 
 
 Jeames on Time Bargings. — Fundi, November 1, 1845 (vol. ix., 
 
 p. 195). 
 
 With an illustration. 
 
 1845-1846. 
 
 Jeames's Diary. — Punch, November 8 to 29 ; December 6, 13, 
 
 1845 (vol. ix.) ; December 27, 1845 ; January 3, 10, 17, 31 ; 
 February 7, 1846 (vol. x.) 
 
 With twenty illustrations by the author. 
 First reprinted in collected form in Thackeray's Miscellanies, 1856. 
 
 1846. 
 
 Notes of a Joueney fkoji Cornhill to Grand Cairo, by way 
 
 of Lisbon, Athens, Constantinople and Jerusalem. Performed 
 
 in the Steamers of the Peninsular and Oriental Company. 
 
 By Mr. M. A. Titmarsh. London : Chapman and Hall, 1846. 
 
 With coloured frontispiece and numerous woodcut illustrations by the 
 author. The Dedication, to Captain Samuel Lewis, is dated " London : 
 December 24, 1845." 
 
 Eonsard to his Mistress. Signed " Michael Angelo Titmarsh." — 
 FrascTs Magazine, January, 1846 (vol. xxxiii., p. 120). 
 Eeprinted in Thackeray's collected Ballads (1855). 
 ,> A Brother of the Press on the History of a Literary Man, 
 Laman Blanchard, and the chances of the Literary Profession. 
 In a Letter to the Eeverend Francis Sylvester at Eome, from 
 Michael Angelo Titmarsh, Esq. — Fraser's Magazine, March, 
 
 1846 (vol. xxxiii., pp. 332-342). 
 
 Eeprinted in Thackeray's Collected Works, vol. xxv (1885). 
 
 Titmarsh v. Tait. Letter to Mr. Punch. Signed " Michael 
 Angelo Titmarsh," and dated " Blue Posts, March 10, 1846." 
 —Punch, March 14, 1846 (vol. x., p. 124). 
 
 On some Illustrated Children's Books. By Michael Angelo 
 Titmarsh. — Fraser's Magazine, April, 1846 (vol. xxxiii. pp. 
 495-502).
 
 238 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1846- 
 
 Jeames on the Gauge Question. — Punch, May 16, 1846 (vol. x., 
 p. 223). With an illustration. 
 
 Mr. Jeames again. — Punch, June 13, 1846 (vol. x., p. 267). 
 Witli an illustration by the author. 
 
 Proposals for a Continuation of Ivanhoe. In a letter to 
 Monsieur Alexandre Dumas, by Monsieur Michael Angelo 
 Titmarsh. — Frascrs Magazine, August and September, 1846 
 (vol. xxxiv., pp. 237-245, 359-367). 
 
 This was the germ of the Christmas book afterwards published under the 
 title of Rebecca and Eoioena. 
 
 1847. 
 
 Mrs. Perkins's Ball. By Mr. M. A. Titmarsh. — London : 
 Chapman and Hall, 186, Strand. 1847, pp. 46. 
 
 With illustrations by the author, coloured in some of the copies. 
 
 1846-1848. 
 The Snobs of England. By One of Themselves. 
 
 With numerous illustrations by the author, commencing in Punch of 
 February 28, 1846 (vol. x., p. 101), and ending February 27, 1847 (vol. xii., 
 p. 86). (Prefatory Eemarks and fifty-two Chapters.) 
 
 The Book of Snobs : By W. M. Thackeray. London : Punch Office, 
 1848, pp. viii, 180, in green wrapper (with the original illustrations and 
 a vignette on title, not appearing in the Punch issue). 
 
 The following Chapters are omitted in this Collected Edition : Chapter 
 XVII. — On Literary Snobs, in a letter from "One of themselves" to 
 Mr. Smith, the celebrated penny-a-liner {Punch, June 27, 1846, vol. x., 
 p. 281); Chapter XVIII. OnsomePoliticalSnobs(Pimc/i, July 4, 1846, voL xi., 
 p. 4) : Chapter XIX. On Whig Snobs (July 11, 1846, vol. xi, p. 19) ; Chap- 
 ter XX. On Conservative or Country-Party Snobs (July 18, 1846, vol. xi., 
 p. 23) ; Chapter XXI. Are there any Whig Snobs ? (July 25, 1846, vol. xi., 
 p. 39) ; Chapter XXII. On the Snob Civilian (August 1, 1846, vol. xi., 
 p. 43) ; Chapter XXIII. On Radical Snobs (August 8, 1846, vol. xi., p. 59). 
 
 " On reperusing these papers," writes the author, p. 66, note, " I have 
 found them so stupid, so personal, so snobbish— in a word— that I have 
 withdrawn them from this collection." 
 
 The " stupid " papers, thus repudiated by the author, are with question- 
 able judgment, reprinted separately in the second supplementary volume of 
 Thackeray's Collected Works (vol. xxvi.), published by Messrs. Smith 
 Elder and Co. in tlie winter of 1885.
 
 1847-] BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 239 
 
 1847. 
 
 A Grumble about the Christmas Books. By Michael Angelo 
 Titmarsh. — Fraser's Marjazine, January, 1847 (vol. xxxv., pp. 
 111-126). 
 
 1847-1848. 
 
 Vanity Fair. A Novel without a Hero. By William 
 Makepeace Thackeray. With Illustrations on Steel and 
 Wood by the Author, — London : Bradbury and Evans. 1848, 
 pp. xvi., 624. 
 
 Issued in montlily instalments in yellow wrappers, originally bearing 
 the title, " Vanity Fair : Pen and Pencil Sketches of English Society. By 
 W. M. Thackeray." On the wrapper is an illustration by the author not 
 reproduced in the body of the work. No. 1 is dated January, 1847, and 
 Nos. 19 and 20 (double number), July, 1848. 
 
 The Preface ("Before the Curtain") is dated " London : June 28, 1848." 
 
 1847. 
 
 An Eastern Adventure of the Fat Contributor.— P?Mic7i's Pockd- 
 Book, for 1847, pp. 148-156. 
 
 With full-page illustration by the author. 
 
 The Mahogany Tree. — Punch, January 9, 1847 (vol. xii., p. 13). 
 
 The second stanza is omitted in Thackeray's Collected Ballads {Mis- 
 cellanies^ vol. i. 1855, pp. 47-48). 
 
 Two Letters to William Edmondstoune Aytoun, dated " 13, 
 Young-street, Kensington, January 2," and " January 13, 
 1847," and signed " W. M. Thackeray."~Printed in Memoir 
 of William Edmondstoune Aytoun, by Theodore Martin. 
 Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh and London, 1867, pp. 
 131-135. 
 
 Mr. Jeames's Sentiments on the Cambridge Election. — Punch, 
 March 6, 1847 (vol. xii., p. 102). 
 
 LovE-SoNGS MADE Easy.— " What makes my heart to thrill and 
 glow ? " Song by Fitzroy Clarence. — Punch, March 6, 1847 
 (vol. xii., p. 101). 
 
 With an illustration by the author. 
 
 LovE-SoNGS BY THE Fat CONTRIBUTOR. — The Domestic Love-
 
 240 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1847- 
 
 Song. " The Cane-Bottomed Chair."— P^mc/t, March 27, 1847 
 (vol. xii., p. 125). 
 
 With two illustrations by the author. 
 
 Love-Songs of the Fat Contributor. — The Ghazul, or Oriental 
 Love-Song. The Eocks. The Merry Bard. The Caique. — 
 Pimclh, June 5, 1847 (vol. xii., p. 227). 
 
 With two illustrations by the author. 
 
 Punch's Prize Novelists : — 
 
 1. George de Barnwell. — Fundi, April 3-17, 1847. 
 
 With three illustrations by the author. 
 
 2. Codlingsby. By B. de Shrewsbury, Esq. — Fundi, April 24, 
 
 May 15 to 29, 1847. 
 
 With four illustrations by the author. 
 
 3. Lords and Liveries. — Fundi, June 12 to 26, 1847. 
 
 With three illustrations by the author. 
 
 4. Barbazure. By G. P. E. Jeames, Esq. — Fundi, July 10 
 
 to 24, 1847. 
 
 With five illustrations by the author. 
 
 5. Phil. Fogarty. A Tale of the Fighting Onety-Oneth. By 
 
 Harry Eollicker. — Fundi, August 7 to 21, 1847. 
 With five illustrations by the author. 
 
 6. Crinoline. By Je-mes Pl-sh, Esq. — Fundi, August 28, 
 
 September 4, 11, 1847. 
 
 With six illustrations by the author. 
 
 7. The Stars and Stripes. — Fundi, September 25, October 9, 
 
 1847. 
 
 With two illustrations by the author. 
 
 Brighton in 1847. By the F. Q.— Fundi, October 23, 30, 
 
 1847 (vol. xiii., pp. 153, 157-158). 
 
 With three illustrations by the author. 
 
 Travels in London, by Spec. — Fundi, November 20, 1847 (vol. 
 
 xiii., p. 193). 
 
 With an illustration. 
 
 Travels in London. The Curate's Walk, November 27, 1847. 
 
 Travels in London. A Walk with the Curate. December 4, 
 
 1847. A Dinner in the City. December 11, 25, and 31, 
 
 1847. 
 
 With nine illustrations by the author.
 
 1848.] BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 241 
 
 1848. 
 
 Travels in London. A Night's Pleasure. — Bunch, January 8-29 
 and February 12, 19, 1848. With ten illustrations by the 
 author. A Club in an Uproar. — Punch, March 11, 1848 
 (vol. xiv., pp. 95-96). With two illustrations by the author. 
 A Eoundabout Eide. — Punch, March 25, 1848 (vol. xiv., p. 
 119). With an illustration by the author. 
 
 " Our Street." By Mr. M. A. Titmarsh. London : Chapman 
 and HalL 1848, pp. 54. 
 With ilhistrations by tlie author, coloured in some of the copies. 
 
 The Persecution of British Footmen. By Mr. Jeames. — Punch, 
 April 1 and 8, 1848 (vol. xiv., pp. 131, 143-144). 
 
 With three illustrations. 
 
 The Battle of Limerick. — Punch, May 13, 1848 (vol. xiv., p. 
 195). 
 
 On the New Forward Movement. A Letter from our old friend, 
 
 Mr. Snob, to Mr. Joseph Hume. — Punch, May 20, 1848 (vol. 
 
 xiv., p. 207). 
 
 With an illustration. 
 
 Mr. Snob's Eemonstrance with Mr. Smith. — Punch, May 27, 
 1848 (vol. xiv., p. 217). 
 
 With an illustration. 
 
 A Little Dinner at Timmins's. — Punch, May 27 ; June 17 and 
 24, and July 1, 8,22 and 29, 1848 (vol. xiv., pp. 219-223, 247, 
 258 ; vol. XV., pp. 5, 13, 33-34, 43). 
 
 With eight illustrations by the author. 
 Eeprinted in Thackeray's Miscellanies, 1856. 
 
 Letters to a Nobleman visiting Ireland. — Punch, September 2-9 
 1848 (vol. XV., pp. 95-96, 107). 
 
 With two illustrations by the author. 
 
 Science at Cambridge. — Punch, November 11, 1848 (vol. xv., p. 
 
 201). 
 
 With an illustration. 
 
 A Bow Street Ballad. By a Gentleman of the Force (Signed 
 " Policeman X. 54 "). — Punch, November 25, 1848 (vol. xv., 
 p. 229). 
 
 With an illustration. 
 R
 
 242 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1848- 
 
 Death of the Earl of Eobinson. (In the manner of a popular 
 Necrographer.) — Punch, December 2, 1848 (vol. xv., p. 231). 
 
 With an illustration. 
 
 Bow Street Ballads. No. II. Jacob Omnium's Hoss. Punch, 
 December 9, 1848 (vol. xv,, p. 251). 
 
 With an illustration. 
 
 The Great Squattleborough Soiree. — Punch, December 16, 1848 
 
 (vol. XV., pp. 253-254). 
 
 With an illustration by the author, representing Dr. Johnson and Bos- 
 well walking together. 
 
 The Three Christmas Waits. — Punch, December 23, 1848 (vol. 
 XV., p. 265). 
 
 1848-1850. 
 
 The History of Pendennis ; his Fortunes and Misfortunes, 
 HIS Friends and his Greatest Enemy. By William Make- 
 peace Thackeray. With illustrations on steel and wood by 
 the Author. In two volumes (pp. viii. 384, xii. 372). London : 
 Bradbury and Evans, 1849-50. 
 Originally issued in monthly numbers in yellow wrappers, No. 1 being 
 
 dated November, 1848, and Nos.23and 24 (double number) December, 1850. 
 
 After the appearance of the eleventh number (dated September, 1849), the 
 
 publication was suspended during four months, on account of the author's 
 
 illness. The twelfth number bears date January, 1850. The Preface is 
 
 dated " Kensington, November 26, 1850." 
 
 1849. 
 An Interesting Event. By Mr. Titmarsh. — Printed in The 
 
 Keepsake, 1849, edited hy the Countess of Blessinyton. London : 
 
 David Bogue. 1849, pp. 207-215. 
 Doctor Birch and his Young Friends. By Mr. M. A. Titmarsh. 
 
 London : Chapman and Hall. 1849, pp. 49. 
 
 With vignette title and fifteen full-page illustrations by the author, 
 coloured in some copies. The " Epilogue " is in verse. 
 
 Contributions to Punch : — 
 Child's Parties : and a Eemonstrance concerning them, — 
 Punch, January 13 and 27, 1849 (vol. xvi., pp. 13-14, 35-36). 
 With two illustrations by the author. 
 Paris Eevisited. By an Old Paris Man. — Punch, February 10, 
 1849 (vol. xvi., pp. 55-56). 
 
 With an illustration.
 
 1849] BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 243 
 
 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse. From the Contributor at 
 Paris. — Punch, February 17, 1849 (vol. xvi., p. 67). 
 
 Two or Thr6e Theatres at Paris. — Punch, February 24, 1849 
 
 (vol. xvi., p. 75). 
 
 With an illustration by Eicliarcl Doyle. 
 
 On Some Dinners at Paris. — Punch, March 3, 1849 (vol. xvi., 
 
 p. 92). 
 
 With an illustration by Richard Doyle. 
 
 Mr. Brown's Letters to a Youxg Man about Town : — 
 Introductory. — Punch, March 24, 1849 (vol. xvi., p. 115). 
 On Tailoring and Toilettes in General. — March 31, 1849, p. 125. 
 The Influence of Lovely Woman upon Society. — April 7, 1849, 
 
 pp. 135-6. 
 Some More Words about the Ladies. — April 14, 1849, pp. 145-6. 
 On Friendship.— April 28, May 5, 1849, pp. 165-6, 184-5. 
 Mr. Brown the Elder takes Mr. Brown the Younger to a Club. 
 
 —May 12 to 26, 1849, pp. 187-8, 197-8, 207-8. 
 A Word about Balls in Season.— June 9, 1849, pp. 229-230. 
 A Word about Dinners.— June 16, 1849, pp. 239-240. 
 On some Old Customs of the Dinner-table. — June 23, 1849, 
 
 pp. 249-250. 
 Great and Little Dinners. — July 7, 1849 (vol. xvii., pp. 1-2). 
 On Love, Marriage, Men, and Women. — July 14, 1849, pp. 13- 
 
 14 ; July 21, 1849, p. 23 ; August 4, 1849, p. 43. 
 
 Out of Town, August 11 and 18, 1849, pp. 53, 66-69. 
 
 With sixteen illustrations. 
 
 The Three Sailors. (With Pieminiscences of Michael Angelo 
 Titmarsh at Pome). — Printed in Sand and Canvas ; A Narra- 
 tive of Adventures in Egypt, with a Sojourn among the Artists 
 in Rome, by Samuel Bevan. London : Charles Gilpin, 5, 
 Bishopsgate street-without, 1849, pp. 336-342. 
 
 The Three Sailors. Autograph copy sent to Mr. Bevan (with note com- 
 mencing " Dear Bevan," and signed "W. M. Thackeray") fur insertion 
 in Sand and Canvas. — Facsimiled in The Autographic Mirror, 
 November 1, 1864 (vol. ii., p. 156). 
 In the North British Review, February, 1S64 (vol. xL, p. 254), appears a 
 
 printel version of " The Three Sailors," under the title of "Little Billee,'' 
 
 differing considerably from the above. 
 
 r2
 
 244 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1850- 
 
 1850. 
 Eebecca and Eowena : A Eomance upon Eomance. By Me. 
 M. A. Titmaesh. With Illustrations by Eidhard Doyle. 
 London : Chapman and Hall, 186, Strand. 1850, pp. viii., 102. 
 
 The Preface is dated " Kensington, December 20tli, 1849." 
 In some copies the full-page illustrations are coloured. 
 The substance of this jtu d'esprit had already appeared in Fraser's Magazine 
 for August and September, 1846. Vide supra. 
 
 The Dignity of Literature. To the Editor of the Morning 
 Chronicle. Letter dated " Eeforni Club, Jan. 8," and signed 
 "W.M.Thackeray." — Morning Chronicle, Saturday, January 12, 
 1850. 
 
 In answer to some remarks in a leading article which had appeared in 
 the Morning Chronicle of Thursday, January 3. 
 
 Reprinted in Thackeray's collected Works, vol. xxv. (1885). 
 
 Sketches after English Landscape Painters. By Louis Marvy. 
 
 With short notices by W. M. Thackeray. London : David 
 
 Bogue, 86, Fleet-street. 4to. [1850]. 
 
 The letter-press consists of a Preface and twenty short notices of 
 Callcott, Turner, Holland, Danby, Creswick, Collins, Redgrave, Lee, 
 Cattermole, Miiller, Harding, Nasmyth, Richard Wilson, Cooke, Con- 
 stable, De Wint, Cox, Gainsborough, Roberts, and Stanfield. There is no 
 pagination to the volume. 
 
 Capers and Anchovies. To the Editor of the Morning Chronicle. 
 Letter of nearly a column, dated " Garrick Club, April 11, 
 1850," and signed " Wm. Thackeray." — Morning Chronicle, 
 Friday, April 12, 1850. 
 
 Contributions to Punch : — 
 
 The Peosee : Essays and Discourses, by Dr. Solomon Pacifico. 
 
 Vol. xviii. (1850.) pp. 151-152. 1. On a Lady in an Opera-Box. 
 
 (With an illustration.) 
 „ „ 173. 2. On the Pleasures of being a Fogy. 
 
 (With an illustration.) 
 
 3. On the Benefits of being a Fogy. 
 
 4. On a good-looking young Lady. 
 (With an illustration.) 
 
 5. On an Interesting French Exile. 
 
 6. On an American Traveller. 
 
 7. On the Press and the Public. 
 (With an illustration.) 
 
 » 
 
 
 „ 197-198. 
 
 » 
 
 
 „ 223-224. 
 
 )) 
 
 
 „ 234-235. 
 
 Vol. xix. 
 
 (1850.) 
 
 pp. 7- 8. 
 59.
 
 1853.] BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 245 
 
 Ballads of Policeman X. 
 
 Vol. xviii. (1850.) 
 The Ballad of Eliza Davis. With an illustratiou, p. 53. 
 The Lamentable Ballad of the Foundling of Shoreditch. With an illus- 
 tration, p. 73. 
 
 Lines on a Late Hospicious Ewent, p. 189. 
 
 The Wofle New Ballad of Jane Eoney and Mary Brown, p. 209. 
 
 Damages Two Hundred Pounds, vol. xix. (1850), p. 88. 
 
 1851. 
 
 The Kicklebueys on the Ehine. By Mr. M. A. Titmarsh. 
 Second Edition. With Preface, being an Essay on Thunder 
 and Small Beer. London : Smith, Elder, and Co. 1851, pp. 
 XV. 87. 
 
 With fifteen illustrations by the author, coloured in some of the copies. 
 Voltigeur. By W. M. Thackeray, Esq. — Printed in The Keep- 
 sake for 1851, edited hy Miss Power. London : David Bogue, 
 1851, pp. 238-250. 
 
 May Day Ode, containing nineteen stanzas of eight lines 
 each, dated " April 29/' and signed " W. M. Thackeray."— 
 Times, Wednesday, April 30, 1851. 
 
 1852. 
 
 The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., a Colonel in the service 
 of Her Majesty Q. Anne. Written by himself. In Three 
 Volumes. London : printed for Smith, Elder, and Company, 
 over against St. Peter's Church in Cornhill. 1852, pp. 344, 
 vi. 319, ^/i. 324. 
 The half-title runs as follows : — " Esmond : A Story of Queen Anne's 
 
 Keign. By W. M. Thackeray." 
 
 1853. 
 
 The English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century. A 
 Series of Lectures delivered in England, Scotland, and the 
 United States of America. By W. M. Thackeray. London : 
 Smith, Elder, and Co. 1853, pp. 322. 
 
 Mr. Thackeray in the United States. To the Editor of Frasers 
 Magazine. — F. M., January, 1853 (vol. xlvii., pp. 100-103). 
 Signed " John Small." 
 
 Reprinted in Thackeray's collected Works, vol. xxv. (1885).
 
 246 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1853- 
 
 The Pen and The Album. (Stanzas.) By W. M. Thackeray.— 
 The, Keepsahe for 1853, edited by Miss Power. London : 
 David Bogue, pp. 48-50. 
 Preface to a Selection from his Contributions to Punch, pub- 
 lished in America. 1. Mr. Brown's Letters to a Young Man 
 about Town ; with The Proser and other Papers. 2. Punch's 
 Prize Novelists, The Fat Contributor, and Travels in London. 
 By W. M. Thackeray. Two volumes. New York : D. 
 Appleton and Co. 1853, pp. 256, 306. 
 
 This selection was made by the author himself during his first visit to 
 America. The Preface, of five pages, is signed "W. M. Thackeray," and 
 dated " New York : December, 1852." 
 
 The Proser contains the following papers : 1. On a Lady in an Opera 
 Box ; 2. On the pleasures of being a Fogy ; 3. On the benefits of being a 
 Fogy." The Miscellanies that follow comprise : 1. Child's Parties, and a 
 Remonstrance concerning them ; 2. The Story of Koompanee Jehan ; 3. 
 Science at Cambridge ; 4. A Dream of Whitefriars ; 5. Mr. Punch's 
 Address to the Great City of Castlebar ; 6. Irish Gems ; 7. The Charles 
 the Second Ball ; 8. The Georges ; 9. Death of the Earl of Robinson. 
 
 1853-1855. 
 The Newcomes. Memoiks of a most Eespectable Family. 
 Edited by Arthuk Pendennis, Esq. With illustrations on 
 steel and wood, by Eichard Doyle (vol. i., pp. viii. 380 ; vol. 
 ii., pp. viii. 375). London: Bradbury and Evans, 11, 
 Bouverie-street. 1854-1855. 
 
 Issued in monthly numbers in yellow wrappers ; the first dated 
 October, 1853, and the last (Nos. 23-24 — a double number), August, 
 1855. The last chapter is dated at the end, " Paris, 28tli June, 1855." 
 
 1853. 
 " Mr. Washington." To the Editor of the Times. Letter dated 
 
 "Athenaeum, Nov. 22," and signed "W. M. Thackeray." — 
 
 Times, Wednesday, November 23, 1853. 
 
 In answer to some strictures of the New York Correspondent of the 
 Times (dated " New York, Nov. 8," printed in the Times of Nov. 22, 1853), 
 I'especting a passage in the first number of The Newcomes, which had given 
 offence in the United States. 
 
 1854. 
 Lucy's Birthday, 
 
 " Seventeen rosebuds in a ring." 
 Three stanzas of eight lines each, dated " New York, April 15."
 
 1 85 7-] BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 247 
 
 Printed in The Keepsake, 1854, edited hy Miss Power. 
 
 London : David Bogue. 1854, p. 18. 
 Letters from the East by our own Bashi-Bazouk. — Punch, 
 
 June 24, July 1, 1854 (voL xxvi., pp. 257-258, 267-268) ; 
 
 July 8 to 29, August 5, 1854 (vol. xxvii., pp. 1-2, 11-12, 
 
 21-22, 31-32, 41). 
 
 With seven illustrations by the author. 
 Pictures of Life and Character. By John Leech. — Quarterly 
 
 Revieu), December, 1854 (vol. xcvi., pp. 75-86). 
 
 1855. 
 The Eose and the Eing ; or, the History of Prince Giglio and 
 
 Prince Bulbo. A Fire-side Pantomime for Great and Small 
 
 Children. By Mr. M. A. Titmarsh. London : Smith, Elder, 
 
 and Co. 1855, pp. iv. 128. 
 
 With illustrations by the author, plain in all the copies. The Preface, 
 or " Prelude," is dated " December, 1854." 
 
 Reminiscences of Weimar and Goethe, in a letter addressed to 
 Mr. G. H. Lewes, dated " London, 28th April, 1855," and signed 
 " W. M. Thackeray." — Printed in Lewes s Life and Works of 
 Goethe. London : David Nutt. 1855, vol. ii., pp. 442-446. 
 
 Letter to Mr. Edmund Yates, dated " Michaelmas Day, 1855," 
 and signed " W. M. Thackeray." — Edmund Yates, his Recol- 
 lections and Experiences. London : Bentley. 1884, vol. i., 
 p. 280. 
 
 1856. 
 
 The Idler. By W. M. Thackeray. Eleven stanzas of eight lines 
 each, signed " Essel." — Published in The Idler, Magazine of 
 Fiction, Essay, Belles Lettres and Comedy. Edited hy Edward 
 Wilberforce. (London : Eobert Hardwicke, Piccadilly), No. 3, 
 March, 1856, pp. 172-173. 
 
 Eeprinted in Thackeray's collected Works, vol. xxv. (1885). 
 
 1857. 
 Address to the Electors of Oxford, dated " Mitre, July 9, 1857," 
 
 and signed " W. M. Thackeray." 
 A Letter of Thackeray (to Captain George Francklin Atkinson, 
 
 in acknowledgment of his illustrated work entitled " Curry
 
 248 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1857- 
 
 and Eice," dated " Hotel Bristol, Place Vendome, December 
 27, 1858," and signed "W. M. Thackeray.")— Facsimiled in 
 The Leisure LLour, September, 1883. (London), pp. 560-561. 
 
 1857-59. 
 
 The Vikginians : A Tale of the Last Centuky. By W. M. 
 Thackeray. "With illustrations on steel and wood by the 
 Author. In Two Volumes (pp. viii. 382, viii. 376). London : 
 Bradbury and Evans. 1858-1859. 
 Issued in twenty-foiir montMy numbers (in yellow illustrated wrappers), 
 
 commencing November, 1857, and ending October, 1859. 
 
 Letter to Mr. Anthony Trollope, dated " 36, Onslow-square, 
 October 28" [1859], and signed "W. M. Thackeray."— ^71 
 Autobiography ly Anthony Trollope. Blackwood, 1883, vol. i., 
 pp. 183-184 
 
 Letter to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, dated " 36, Onslow- 
 square, November 16, 1859," and signed " W. M. Thackeray." 
 — Printed in the Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, edited 
 by Samuel Longfellow. London: Kegan Paul. 1886, vol. ii.,_ 
 
 p. 346. 
 
 1860. 
 Nil Nisi Bonum. — Cornhill Magazine, February, 1860 (vol. i., 
 
 pp. 129-134). 
 The Last Sketch. (A short paper signed W. M. T., prefixed to 
 
 " Emma, a Fragment of a Story by the late Chailotte Bronte.") 
 
 — Cornhill Magazine, April, 1860 (vol. i., pp. 485-487). 
 Vanitas Vanitatum. (Sixteen stanzas of four lines each). — 
 
 Cornhill Magazine, July, 1860 (vol. ii., pp. 59-60). 
 
 1861. 
 A Leaf out of a Sketch-Book. By W. M. Thackeray. — Printed 
 
 in The Victoria Regia, a Volume of Original Contributions in 
 
 Poetry and Prose, edited by Adelaide A. Procter. London : 
 
 Emily Faithfull and Co. 1861, pp. 118-125. 
 With two sketches by the author. 
 
 1860-1861. 
 
 Lovel the Widower. By W. M. Thackeray. With illustra- 
 tions. London : Smith, Elder, and Co. 1861, pp. 258. 
 Originally published in monthly instalments in the first six numbers of 
 
 the Cornhill Magazine (January to June, 186u).
 
 1863.] ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 249 
 
 " The Wolves and the Lamb," the original of the story of Lovel the 
 Widower (printed for the first time in Thackeray's collected Works, 
 London : Smith, Elder and Co., 1879, vol. xxiv., pp. 125-175), was written 
 for the stage, and refused by the management of the Olympic about 1854. 
 
 The Four Georges. By W. M. Thackeray. With illustrations. 
 
 London : Smith, Elder, and Co. 1861, pp. 226. 
 
 Originally published in the Cornhill Magazine, July to October, 1860 
 (vol. ii, pp. 1-20, 175-191, 257-277, 385-406). 
 
 .1861-1862. 
 The Adventures of Philip on his Way through the World ; 
 
 SHEWING who robbed HIM, WHO HELPED HIM, AND WHO 
 
 PASSED HIM BY. By W. M. Thackeray. In Three Volumes, 
 pp. 329, 304, 301. London : Smith, Elder, and Co., 65, Corn- 
 hill. 1862. 
 
 Originally published in instalments, with illustrations, in the Cornhill 
 Magazine, commencing January, 1861 (vol. iii. p. 1), and ending August, 
 1862 (vol. vi., p. 240). The illustrations do not re-appear in the three- 
 volume edition of the book. 
 
 1860-1863. 
 EouNDABOUT PAPERS. Reprinted FROM The Cornhill Maga- 
 zine, WITH Illustrations. By W. M. Thackeray. London : 
 
 Smith, Elder, and Co. 1863. 
 
 These papers originally appeared in the Cornhill Magazine, as follows : — 
 
 No. 1. On a Lazy, Idle Boy.— January, 1860 (vol. i., pp. 124-128). 
 
 No. 2. On Two Children in Black.— March, 1860 (vol. i. pp. 380-384). 
 
 No. 3. On Ribbons.— May, 1860 (vol. i., pp. 631-640). 
 
 No. 4. On some late Great Victories.— June, 1860 (vol. i., pp. 755-760). 
 
 No. 5. Thorns in the Cushion.— July, 1860 (vol. ii., pp. 122-128). 
 
 No. 6. On Screens in Dining-rooms, — August, 1860 (vol. ii., pp. 252-256). 
 
 No. 7. Tunbridge Toys.— September, 1860 (vol. ii., pp. 380-384). 
 
 No. 8. De Juventute.— October, 1860 (vol. ii., pp. 501-512). 
 
 A Roundabout Journey ; Notes of a Week's Holiday. — No- 
 vember, 1860 (vol. ii.,pp. 623-640), 
 
 No. 9. On a Joke I once heard from the late Thomas Hood.) — December, 
 1860 (vol. ii., pp. 752-760). 
 
 No. 10. Round about the Christmas Tree. — February, 1861 (vol. iii., 
 pp. 250-256). 
 
 No. 11. On a Chalk-mark on the Door. — April, 1861 (vol. iii., pp. 504- 
 512). 
 
 No. 12. On Being Found Out.— May, 1861 (vol. iii., pp. 636-640). 
 
 No. 13. On a Hundred Years Hence.— June, 1861 (vol. iii., pp. 755-760). 
 
 No. 14. Small-Beer Chronicle.— July, 1861 (vol. iv., pp. 122-128).
 
 250 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. [1861- 
 
 No. 15. Ogres.— August, 1861 (vol. iv., pp. 251-256). 
 No. 16. On Two Eoundabout Papers wliich I intended to write. — Sep- 
 tember, 1861 (vol. iv., pp. 377-384). 
 No. 17. A Mississippi Bubble.— December, 1861 (vol. iv., pp. 755-760). 
 No. 18. On Letts's Diary.— January, 1862 (vol. v., pp. 122-128). 
 No. 19. On Half-a-Loaf. — A Letter to Messrs. Broadway, Battery and 
 
 Co., of New York, Bankers.— February, 1862 (vol. v., pp. 250- 
 
 256). 
 Nos. 20 to 22. The Notch on the Axe. A Story d la Mode. In Three 
 Parts.— April,* May and June, 1862 (vol. v., pp. 508- 
 512, 634-640, 754-760). 
 No. 23. De Finibus.— August, 1862 (vol. vi., pp. 282-288). 
 No. 24. On a Peal of Bells.— September, 1862 (vol. vi., pp. 425-432). 
 No. 25. On a Pear-Tree.— November, 1862 (vol. vi., pp. 715-720). 
 No. 26. Dessein's. — December, 1862 (vol. vi., pp. 771-779). 
 No. 27. On Some Carp at Sans Souci. — January, 1863 (vol. vii., pp. 126- 
 
 131). 
 No. 28. Autour de mon Chapeau. — February, 1863 (vol. vii., pp. 
 
 260-267). 
 On Alexandrines. A Letter to some Countrj^ Cousins. April, 1863 
 
 (vol. vii., pp. 546-552). 
 On a Medal of George the Fourth.— August, 1863 (vol. viii.,pp. 250-256)- 
 " Strange to say, on Club paper." — November, 1863 (vol. viii., pp. 636- 
 
 640). 
 
 1863. 
 
 Cruikshank's Galleiy. (Notice of a column and a quarter.) 
 
 Printed in The Times, Friday, May 15, 1863. 
 
 " Kind Thackeray came, with his grave face, and looked through the little 
 gallery, and went off to write one of his charming essays, which 
 appeared in The Times." — Life of George Cruikshank, by Blanchard 
 Jerrold. 
 
 * On the reverse of the title of the Gornhill Magazine for April, 1862, is 
 a valedictory address of the Editor " To Contributors and Correspondents," 
 on resigning his post, dated " March 18, 1862," and signed " W. M. T.''
 
 i88s.] BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 251 
 
 POSTHUMOUS. 
 
 1864-1885. 
 
 Denis Ditv^al. By W. M. Thackeray.— London: Smith, Elder, 
 and Co. 1867, pp. 275. — Gornhill Magazine, March to June, 
 1864, with illustrations (vol. ix., pp. 257-291, 385-409, 513- 
 536, 641-665). 
 
 Mrs. Katherine's Lantern. ("Written by W. M. Thackeray in a 
 Lady's Album).— Gornhill Magazine, January, 1867 (vol. xv., 
 pp. 117-118). 
 
 The Anglers. By the late W. M. Thackeray. Seven stanzas 
 of eight lines each. — The Princess Alexandra Gift Booh, edited 
 by John Sherer. London : Hamilton, Adams, and Co. 1868, 
 pp. 22-23. 
 
 The Orphan of Plmlico, and other Sketches, Fragments 
 AND Drawings. By William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 With some Notes by Anne Isabella Thackeray. London : 
 Smith, Elder, and Co. 1876 ; 4to, pages unnumbered. 
 
 Prefixed is a portrait of the author, " copied by Mr. Thackeray from a 
 drawing by D. Maclise about 1840." The Preface (signed "A. I. T.") is 
 dated " London, November 20, 1875." 
 
 Etchings by the late William Makepeace Thackeray while at 
 
 Cambridge, illustrative of University Life, etc, Now first 
 
 published from the Original Plates. London: H. Sotheran 
 
 and Co., PiccadHly. 1878. 
 
 List of Subjects : 1. Departure for Cambridge ; 2. Arrival from Cam- 
 bridge ; 3. Worldly Study ; 4. Imposition ; 5. First Term ; 6. Second 
 Term ; 7. Work Within ; 8. Pleasure Without ; 9. Collera Morbus ; 10. 
 Scene from the Deluge ; 11. Ah, Mr. Goldfinch ! 
 
 Miscellaneous Essays, Sketches and Eeviews. — Contributions to 
 " Punch " (not previously reprinted). By William Make- 
 peace Thackeray. With Hlustrations by the Author (forming 
 Volumes xxv. and xxvi. of the Works of William Makepeace 
 Thackeray). London: Smith, Elder, and Co. 1885-1886, pp. 
 X. 468 ; xii. 404. 
 
 In Vol. xxv. (pp. 355-372) appears a Lecture on " Charity and Humour," 
 previously impublished.
 
 252 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 
 
 SKETCHES AXD CAEICATUEES. 
 
 1 
 
 Chaeles IX. firing at the Huguenots out of the windows of the 
 Louvre. Sketched on the blank portion of the yellow paper 
 cover of a Erench drama. — Eacsimiled in Tlu Recollections 
 and Reflections of J. R. PlancM. London : Tinsley Brothers, 
 1872, vol. i. to face p. 171. 
 
 2 
 Signor Balfi. Sketch made in Mr. Planche's box during the 
 performance of Balfe's opera, " The Siege of Rochelle," 16th 
 November, 1835.— Eacsimiled in Planche's Recollections and 
 Reflections, vol. i., p. 241. 
 
 3 
 
 The " Whitey-Browx Papee Magazke." — Suggested to be 
 
 issued in 1838-9, as a weeldy publication. 
 
 A series of humorous sketches, with brief descriptive letterpress, in 
 prose and verse, representing the fortunes and misfortunes of Dionysius 
 Diddler, facsimiled in the first eight numbers of The Atttographic Mirror, 
 February 20 to June 1, 1864 (vol. i., pp. 6, 15, 28, 39, 40, 60, 68, 76). 
 
 4 
 
 The Student's Quarter, or Paris Eive-and-Thirty Years Since, 
 by the late William Makepeace Thackeray. Not included in 
 his Collected Writings. With original coloured illustrations. 
 London : John Camden Hotten, Piccadilly {n.d.), pp. 202. 
 
 This volume consists (1) of four original contributions to The Corsair, a 
 New York weekly journal, Aug.-Oct. 1839 {vide supra, pp. 225-226), of 
 which three were reprinted, with slight alterations, omissions and additions, 
 in the Paris Sketch-Booh (1840), vol. i. pp. 22-24, 59-75 ; vol. ii. pp. 445-447, 
 imder the titles of "An Invasion of France;" "The Fetes of July;" 
 "Madame Sand and the New Apocalypse." It also contains (2) two articles 
 by Thackeray, — " Cartouche," and " A Ramble in the Picture Galleries," — 
 which had, before theii" appearance in TJie Corsair, already appeared in 
 Fraser's Magazine, where the latter paper bore the title, " On the French 
 School of Painting," which it afterwards retained in The Paris Sketch-BooJc, 
 where both these articles likeAvise reappear. 
 
 The chief if not sole literary interest which Mr. Hotten's volume possesses 
 consists in the preservation of the suppressed paper, there christened "More 
 Aspects of Paris," though bearing no title in The Corsair, published in that
 
 SKETCHES AND CARICATURES. 253 
 
 journal in the number for October 26, 1839 (vol. i. pp. 521-523) — tlie only 
 letter which justifies the legend of the title-page, "not included in 
 Thackeray's Collected Writings." Those desirous of more minute infor- 
 mation on the subject may refer to two letters entitled "Thackeraj^s 
 'Paris Sketch-Book,' " in The Athenceum of August 7, 14, 1886. 
 
 It shoidd be added that the coloured illustrations which figure in this 
 volume were not executed to accompany the letter-press, even if, as seems 
 probable, they are rightly attributed to Thackeraj^'s pencil. 
 
 Note addressed to Mr. Planche, and signed " W. M. Thackeray," 
 dated " 13, Great Coram-street, Brunswick-square, with pen- 
 and-ink sketch of the State \'isit of the Queen and Prince 
 Albert to Covent Garden Theatre, 1840. — Facsimiled in 
 Planche's Becolledions and Reflections, vol. ii. p. 40. 
 
 6 
 
 The Gamblers. A Sketch. — Facsimiled in The Autographic 
 Mirror, March 15, 1864 (vol. i., p. 27). 
 
 7 
 
 Note dated " 36, Onslow-square, 26th March, 1855," and signed 
 " W. M. Thackeray." — Facsimiled in TJic Autographic Mirror, 
 libi supra. 
 
 8 
 
 Caricature Sketch of himself seated, writing on the banks of the 
 Nile, sketched on the first page of a copy of " Cornhill to 
 Cairo," presented to his friend, William Bevan, and two 
 letters, dated "36, Onslow-square, Brompton, February 21, 
 1855 " one commencing, " My dear W. B." [William Bevan], 
 and the other, " My dear S." ; both signed " W. M. Thackeray." 
 — The sketch and the two letters facsimiled in TJie Auto- 
 graphic Mirror (October 1, 1864), vol. ii., p. 139. 
 
 9 
 
 The Three Sailoes, by the late W. M. Thackeray (Sketch and 
 Anecdote). — The Editor's Box, A Midsummer Annual. Lon- 
 don : Cecil Brooks and Co., Strand, 1880, p. 80. 
 
 A reproduction in facsimile of a page from the autograph album of the 
 late Mr. Shirley Brooks.
 
 254 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 
 
 Ana. 
 1 
 
 Thackeray's Writings. — Edinhurgh Revieiv, January, 1848 (vol. 
 Ixxxvii., pp. 46-67). 
 
 2 
 
 " Esmond." — Essays hy the, late George Brimley, M.A. Cam- 
 bridge : Macmillan and Co., 1858, pp. 258-269. 
 
 Reprinted from the Spectator of November 6, 1852. 
 
 3 
 
 Essay on the Newcomes. — Oxford and Caiiibridge Magazine. 
 
 London : Bell and Daldy, 1856, pp. 50-61. 
 Thackeray and Currer ^e\\.—Ihid., pp. 323-335. 
 
 The Modern Novel. — Dickens, Bulwer, Thackeray. Essays in 
 Biography and Criticism hy Peter Bayne, M.A. First Series. 
 Boston: Gonld and Lincoln, 1857, pp. 363-392. 
 
 Thackeray, Humourist and Satirist, his Works, Original Cha- 
 racters, and Comic Writings. A Lecture, principally treating 
 on Vanity Fair. By Thomas Edward Crispe. London : 
 printed by William Davy and Son, 8, Gilbert-street, 1857, 
 pp. 34, coloured wrapper. 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. — Novels and Novelists from 
 Elizaheth to Victoria. By J. Cordy Jeaffreson. London : 
 Hurst and Blackett, 1858, vol. ii., pp. 262-281. 
 
 British Novelists and their Styles : a Critical Sketch of the 
 History of British Prose Fiction. By David Masson, M.A. 
 Cambridge : Macmillan and Co., 1859. 
 Pages 233-253 are devoted to a consideration of Dickens and Thackeray.
 
 THA CKERA YANA. 255 
 
 8 
 
 Thackeray. — Calcutta Review, December, 1861 (vol, xxxvii., 
 
 pp. 245-280). 
 
 9 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. With portrait from a photo- 
 graph by Herbert Watkins. — Illlustrated London Nevjs, 
 January 9, 1864. 
 A memorial notice (signed "S. B.") written by the late Mr. Shirley 
 
 Brooks. 
 
 10 
 
 In Memoeiam. By Charles Dickens. 
 
 Historical Contrast, May, 1701 ; December, 1863 (Dryden and 
 
 Thackeray), by Lord Houghton, signed " H°." 
 W. M. Thackeray. By Anthony Trollope. 
 
 Comhill Magazine, February, 1864 (vol. ix., pp. 129-137). 
 
 11 
 
 Thackeray. — North British Eevieiv, February, 1864 (vol. xl., pp. 
 210-265). 
 By the late Dr. John Brown, of Edinburgh, avithor of Rorce Subsecivce. 
 
 The paper is accompanied by a fac-simile of a drawing by Thackeray, 
 
 representing Johnson and Goldsmith passing the shop of Filby, the 
 
 tailor, with a street-boy and his little sister stepping out in mimicry of 
 
 the two. 
 
 12 
 
 The National Shakespeare Committee and the late Mr. 
 Thackeray. London : Joseph Clayton, 265, Strand [1864], 
 pp. 23. 
 
 13 
 
 Thackeray, the Humourist and the Man of Letters. The 
 Story of his Life, including a Selection from his Character- 
 istic Speeches, now for the first time gathered together. By 
 Theodore Taylor, Esq. With photograph from life by Ernest 
 Edwards, B.A., and original illustrations. London : John 
 Camden Hotten, Piccadilly, 1864, pp. vii. 223. 
 " Theodore Taylor " was merely a nom-de-gtierre. The book (mainly a 
 
 scissors-and-paste production) was compiled by the publisher himself, whom 
 
 no one would at this distance of time wish to deprive of any credit or 
 
 discredit that might attach to it.
 
 256 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERA Y. 
 
 14 
 
 Thackeray. — Westminster Review, July, 1864. Eeprinted in A 
 Scratch Team of Essays, never hefore put together. By Sept. 
 Berdmore. London: W. H. Allen and Co., 1883, pp. 97-122. 
 
 15 
 
 Mr. Thackeray, Mr. Yates, and the Garrick Club. The Corres- 
 pondence and Facts. Stated by Edmund Yates. — Printed for 
 Private Circulation. 1859, pp. 15. 
 
 Contains a letter to Mr. Edmund Yates, dated " 36, Onslow-square, June 
 14," and signed " W. M. Thackeray ; " a letter to the Committee of the 
 Garrick Club, dated " 36, Onslow-square, June 19, 1858," signed " W. M. 
 Thackeray ; " a letter to Charles Dickens, dated " 36, Onslow-square, 
 26th November, 1858 ;" and a letter to the Committee of the Garrick 
 Club, dated " Onslow-square, November 28, 1858," both signed " W. M. 
 Thackeray." 
 
 The substance of this narrative, and the correspondence appertaining to 
 it, re-appeared in an article entitled " An Old Club Scandal," in Time, a 
 Monthly Miscellany, &c., edited by Edmund Yates, London : January, 1880 
 (vol. ii., pp. 385-382), with an Illustration, and again in Edmund Yates : 
 his Recollections and Experiences : London : Bentley, 1884, vol. ii., pp. 9-37. 
 
 16 
 
 Footprints on the Eoad. By Charles Kent. London : Chapman 
 
 and Hall, 1864. 
 
 The chapter on " W. M. Thackeray, the Satirist-humourist," occupies 
 pp. 370-407. 
 
 17 
 Haud Immemor: A Few Personal Recollections of Mr. 
 Thackeray in Philadelphia. (Privately printed.) William 
 P. Kildare, 422, Walnut-street, 1864, 8vo., pp. 31. 
 
 Contains six letters from "W. M. Thackeray to W. B. Reed, dated — 
 
 1. Mr. Anderson's Music Store, Penn's Aveniie, Friday. 
 
 2. Neufchatel, Switzerland, July 21, 1853. 
 
 3. 36, Onslow-square, Brompton, November, 8, 1854. 
 
 4. Baltimore, January 16, 1856. 
 
 5. April 24, 1856. 
 
 6. Maurigy's Hotel, 1 Regent-street, Waterloo-place, April 2, 1859. 
 And a letter to Clement C. Biddle, dated Girard House (Philadelphia), 
 
 January 23, 1853, and signed " W. M. Thackeray." 
 
 [The substance of this pamphlet reappeared, under the same title, as an 
 article in Blackwood's Magazine, June 1872, pp. 678-690.]
 
 THA CKERA YANA. 2^7 
 
 18 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. By one who knew him 
 (Bayard Taylor). — Atlantic Monthly, March, 1864 (vol. xiii., 
 pp. 371-379). 
 
 19 
 
 A Brief Memoir of the late Mr. Thackeray. By James Hannay. 
 (Eeprinted from the Edinlurgh Conrant.) Edinburgh : Oliver 
 and Boyd ; London : Simpkin, Marshall and Co., 1864, pp. 31. 
 
 20 
 
 Studies on Thackeray. By James Hannay. London: Eout- 
 
 ledge and Sons \ii. d.'], pp. 107. 
 
 Witli vignette portrait on title. Divided into four chapters : " Thackeray 
 as a Novelist," " as a Humourist and Satirist,'"' " as a Critic and Essayist," 
 " as a Poet." 
 
 21 
 
 A Memorial of Thackeray's School-days. (Signed J. F. B.) — 
 Cornhill Magazine, January, 1865 (vol. xi., pp. 118-128). 
 With five sketches by Thackeray. 
 
 22 
 
 Thackerayiana. Account of an Album containing five inedited 
 designs by W. M. T., in a Letter to the Editor of the Times, 
 dated " Paris, Oct. 7," and signed " J. Augustus O'Shea." — 
 Times, Wednesday, October 9, 1867. 
 
 23 
 
 Personal Eecollections of Tliackeray. (With Letters to Mr. 
 Bedingfield). — CasscU's Magazine, April, 1870, new series, 
 vol. i., pp. 296-299. 
 
 Recollections of Thackeray. With some of his letters, anec- 
 dotes and criticisms. By his cousin, Eichard Bedingfield. — 
 CasscWs Magazine, vol. ii. (1870), pp. 12-14 ; 28-30 ; 72-75 ; 
 108-110 ; 134-136 ; 230-232. 
 
 24 
 
 Yesterdays with Authors. By James T. Eields. London : 
 Sampson Low, 1872. 
 
 The chapter on Thackeray occupies pp. 11-37. 
 
 S
 
 258 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERAY. 
 
 25 
 
 The Best of all Good Company. By Blanchard Jerrold. — A Day 
 with W. M. Thackeray. With facsimile page of extract from 
 MS. letter. — London ; Houlston and Sons, 1872,- 8vo. (num- 
 bered pp. 315-392). 
 
 26 
 
 Anecdote Biographies of Thackeray and Dickens. Edited by 
 Ptichard Henry Stoddard. New York : Scribner, Armstrong 
 and Co., 1874. 
 The biography of Thackeray occupies the first 196 pages. A facsimile 
 
 is given of one of his letters, with sketch. 
 
 27 
 Thackeeayana : Notes and Anecdotes, illustrated by nearly six 
 hundred sketches by William Makepeace Thackeray, de- 
 picting humorous incidents in his school-life, and favourite 
 scenes and characters in the books of his every-day reading. 
 London : Chatto and AVindus, Piccadilly, 1875, pp. xx. 492. 
 Compiled by Mr. Joseph Grego. 
 
 28 
 
 Thackeray and Leech. — Forty Years Recollections of Life, Litera- 
 ture and Public Affairs, from 1830 to 1870. By Charles 
 Mackay, LL.D. London : Chapman and Hall, 1877, vol. ii. 
 pp. 294-304. 
 
 29 
 
 An Essay on the Writings of W. j\I. Thackeray. By Leslie 
 Stephen. Printed in the twenty-fourth volume of the Works 
 of W. M. Thackeray. London : Smith, Elder and Co., 1879, 
 pp. 313-378. 
 With two facsimile leaves of autograph letter to Mr. Smith, dated " Sat. 
 
 29 Oct.," and Postscript to Eoundabout Paper, dated " Dec. 16" (1861). 
 
 30 
 
 Thackeray. By Anthony Trollope. London : Macmillan and 
 Co., 1879, pp. vi., 210. 
 One of the series of " English Men of Letters, edited by John Morley."
 
 THA CKERA VAN A. 259 
 
 31 
 
 Studies of English Authors. By Peter Bayne. — W. M. 
 
 Thackeray. — Literary World, September 12, 1879 to 
 March 19, 1880. 
 
 32 
 
 Great Novelists : Scott, Thackeray, Dickens, Lytton, By James 
 Crabb Watt. Edinburgh : Macniven and Wallace, 1880. 
 The chapter on Thackeray occupies pp. 97-159. 
 
 33 
 
 Stray Moments with Thackeray: his humour, satire, and 
 characters. Being Selections from his Writings, prefaced 
 with a few Biographical Notes. By William H. Eideing. 
 New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1880, pp. 192. 
 
 34 
 
 Thackeray as a Draughtsman. By Eussell Sturgis. (With 
 numerous illustrations.) — Scribncrs Monthly, New York : 
 June, 1880, vol. xx., pp. 256-274. 
 
 35 
 
 The Bibliography of Thackeray. A Bibliographical List, 
 arranged in chronological order, of the published Writings in 
 Prose and Verse, and the Sketches and Drawings, of William 
 Makepeace Thackeray, from 1829 to 1880. London: Elliot 
 Stock [1880], pp. viii., 62. 
 
 Compiled liy Eichard Heme Shepherd. 
 
 36 
 
 Thackeray's Pielations to English Society. By E. S. Nadal. 
 With a pen-sketch by Eobert Blum of Boehm's statuette of 
 Thackeray. — Scribncr''s Monthly, February, 1881, vol. xxi., pp. 
 535-543. 
 
 37 
 
 Extracts from the Writings of W. M. Thackeray, cliiefly philo- 
 sophical and reflective. (With portrait, engraved by J. C. 
 Armytage, from a photograph.) London : Smith, Elder, and 
 Co., 1881, pp. xiv., 395.
 
 26o BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THACKERA Y. 
 
 38 
 An Essay on the Genius of George Cruikshank. Eeprinted, 
 with ilhistrations, from the Westminster Review. With Pre- 
 fatory Essay on Thackeray as an art-critic, by W. E. Church. 
 London : George Red way, 1883. 
 
 39 
 
 W. M. Thackeray. — Essays in History and Biography. By John 
 
 Skelton (" Shirley "). Edinburgh : Blackwood, 1883, pp. 293- 
 
 295. 
 
 40 
 
 In the Footsteps of Thackeray. By William H. Rideing. 
 (With Illustrations by Hubert Herkomer and others, and a 
 Portrait engraved by W. B. Closson, from a daguerreotype taken 
 by Brady during Thackeray's visit to America.) — The Century, 
 Illustrated Monthly Magazine, October, 1883, pp. 830-844. 
 
 41 
 Thackeray's London. A description of his haunts and the 
 scenes of his novels. By William H. Eideing. London : 
 J. W. Jarvis and Son ; Boston, U. S. : Cupples, Upham and 
 Co., 1885, pp. 103. 
 
 With a reduced engraving of Mr. G. Barnett Smith's large etching of 
 Thackeray. 
 
 42 
 
 Unpublished Drawings by Thackeray. — Tlie Century, 3vlj, 1884. 
 
 43 
 Hints to Collectors of Original Editions of the Works of 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. By Charles Plumptre 
 Johnson. London : George Eedway, 1885, pp. 48. 
 
 44 
 
 The Works of W. M. Thackeray contemplated or commenced, 
 
 but not completed. By Charles P. Johnson. — Walford's 
 
 Antiquarian, August, 1885 (vol. viii., pp. 81-87). 
 
 An account of The Wliitey-Brown Pai^er Magazine, Sketches by Spec (vide 
 supra, p. 228), Dinner Reminiscences, and other works announced or pro- 
 jected, but not earned out.
 
 _C^^ 
 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Abdulramax, King, 1 
 Absolon, Mr., drawings by, 57 
 Adelaide, Queen, 214 
 Ahrimanians, expulsion ijf, 1 
 Ainsivorth's Magazine, Thackeray's 
 contributions to, 1-18, 48-57, 230 
 
 Albert, Prince, 77, 78 
 Ale, home-brewed, virtues of, 142 
 America, why peaceful and free, 112 
 Anachi'onism, 3 
 Anacreon, 59 
 Anne, Queen, 212, 245 
 Anti-Jacobin, The, 117 
 Armvtage, J C, engraved portrait 
 of Thackeray, 259 
 
 Art Unions, 58 
 Ashley, Lord, 203 
 Asphyxiation by charcoal, 201 
 Athenceum, The, on the Art Union, 61 
 
 Atkinson, Capt. G. F., letter of 
 
 Thackeray to, 247 
 Attwood, Mr. a BrTimmageni Bar- 
 
 baroux, 112 
 Aubert, Madame Anais, as an actress, 
 
 203 
 Autographic Mirror, Tlie, 229, 243, 
 
 252, 253 
 Aytoim, William Edmondstoune, 
 
 letters of Thackeray to, 239 
 
 Balfe, Thackeray's sketch of, 252 
 Bastille, siege and capture of, 101-102 
 Bayne, Peter, on Thackeray, 254,259 
 Beauty, a fading flower, 123 
 Bedingfield, Richard, his Recollec- 
 tions of Thackeray, 257 
 
 Belgium, 234 
 
 " Belshazzai-'s Feast," 202 
 
 Bentham, Jeremy, on " the pleasures 
 of malevolence," 169 
 
 Benthifs Miscellany, 224 
 
 Beranger, Thackeray's imitations of, 
 
 227 
 Bex'dmore, Sept., on Thackeray, 256 
 
 " Bergami," at the Porte St. Martin, 
 202 
 
 Bevan, Samuel, his Sand and Canvas, 
 243, letter of Thackeray to, ih., 253 
 
 Bihliography of Thackeray, 219-260 
 
 Blackbird, song of, 51 
 
 Blair's Sermons, 95 
 
 Blanchard, Laman, 237 
 
 Bombay, a long way from Persia, 2 
 
 Boswell, James, 242 
 
 Bouillabaisse, Ballad of, 243 
 
 Boulogne, 197 
 
 Boulogne schoolmaster, or French 
 
 Squeers, 47 
 Boz, 28, 39 
 
 Braham, Mr., lines on, 212 
 Briggs, Mr., portrait by, 56 
 Brigiiton, 236, 240 
 Brimley, George, on Thackeray's 
 
 Esmond, 254 
 Bronte, Charlotte, her last Sketch, 
 
 248, 254 
 Brooks, Shirley, Album of, 253 ; his 
 
 memorial notice of Thackeray, 255 
 Brougham, Lord, 203 
 Brown, Dr. John, of Edinburgh, on 
 
 Thackeray's "Flore et Zephyr," 
 
 222-224 ; his paper on Thackeray, 
 
 255
 
 262 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Browniigge, Elizabetli. See Eliza- 
 
 hcth Brovmrigge 
 Bruges, 234 
 Brussels, 234 
 Brussels point-lace, 125 
 Budgaroo, transmutations or meta- 
 
 morplioses of, 6 
 Buhver, E. L., his book on Athens, 
 
 111; liis Eugene Aram, 114-118, 
 
 200 ; letter to, from Yellowplush, 
 
 227 
 Bmin, Alfred, lines on, 213-214 
 Byron, Lord, 41; liis Don Juan, 43, 
 '200 ; effect of the publication of 
 
 his Ghilde Harold, 170 ; on truth 
 
 and fiction, 205 
 
 Cadger's Cavern, 34, 35 
 
 Cadger's Hall, 35 
 
 Ca;sar, death of, 196 
 
 Cajsar's wife, must be unsuspected, 
 161 
 
 Calcott, Sir Augustus, golden land- 
 scapes of, 52 
 
 Canning, Elizabeth, 164, 165, 166, 
 182 
 
 Canning, George, his lines on Eliza- 
 beth Brownrigge, quoted, 117, 141, 
 190 
 
 Cant, the worst of sins, 108, 111 
 
 " Capers and Anchovies," 244 
 
 Carlyle, Thomas, his French Revolu- 
 tion, reviewed, 99-113, 224; his 
 description of Thackeray, ib. ; his 
 comments on Irish affairs, 232 
 
 Caroline, Queen, trial of, 202 
 
 Carrick, Mr., his miniatures, 78 
 
 Cartouche, 227 
 
 Catnach's ballads, 64 
 
 Chalon, Mr , his ogling beauties, 56, 
 78 
 
 Chamyjavert, Contes Immoraux, 198- 
 200 
 
 Chapone, Mrs., 96 
 
 Charcoal, asphyxiation by, 201 
 
 Charruas, The, 204-208 
 
 (Jliildii Harold, publicati<jn of, 170 
 
 Chilly, as Ralph Nickleby, 38 
 
 Chinese war, the, 60 
 
 Chronicle of the Drum, The, 229 
 
 Church, W. E., on Thackeray as an 
 art-critic, 259 
 
 Cider-ceUar, the, 212 
 
 " Claret " (blood), 46 
 
 Claude, 80 
 
 Clifford, Mary, apprentice of Eliza- 
 beth Brownrigge, 127, 142, 145, 
 154, 168, 170 ; death of, 171, 175, 
 187, 189; ghost of, ib. 
 
 Closson, W. B., engra\dng of Thacke- 
 ray from a daguerreotype, 260 
 
 Comic Tales and Sketches, 224, 225, 
 227, 228-229 
 
 Coopei', Fenimore, his Magna, 204 
 
 Cooper, Mr., 203 
 
 Cope, C. W., his pictures feeble in 
 hand, but beautifully tender and 
 graceful, 54 
 
 Gomhill Magazine, 229 ; Thackeray's 
 contributions to, 248, 249, 250, 251 
 
 CornUll to Cairo, 237, 253 
 
 Corsair, Tlie, Thackeray's contribu- 
 tions to, 225-226, 252 
 
 Coutts, Miss, 69 
 
 Crebillon fils, 200 
 
 Creswick, Mr., his "Welsh Girl " and 
 " Evening," 79 
 
 Crispe, Thomas Edward, on Thacke- 
 ray, 254 
 
 Croal, Mr., his contract, 218 
 
 Cruikshank, George, illustrates 
 Thackerav's Fatal Boots, 225 ; Bar- 
 ber Cox," 226-227; Thackeray's 
 essay on his genius, 227, 259 ; 
 illustrates Thackeray's Little tiixitz 
 and Sultan Stork, 230 ; his illustra- 
 tions to Thackeray's Legend of the 
 Rhine, 236 ; Thackeray's notice of 
 his Gallery, 250 
 
 "Daddy, I'm hungry," 218, 232 
 Danton, awful image of, 105 ; warrant 
 made out, ib. ; his prison-thoughts, 
 106 ; liefore the Revolutionary 
 Tribunal, 107; in the death-cart, 
 108 
 David, French painter, 53 
 Decamjis, M., drawings of, 49
 
 INDEX. 
 
 263 
 
 Delavigne, Casimir, his tragedy of 
 "Les Enfans d'Edouard," 203 
 
 DelH, on the banks of the Jumna, 15 
 
 Denis Duval, 251 
 
 Desmonlins, Camille, 106 ; his young 
 beautiful wife, ib.; before the Re- 
 volutionary Tribunal, 107; in the 
 death-cart, 108 
 
 DeviUs Wager, 222, 227 
 
 Dickens, Charles, in America, 39 ; 
 his memorial notice of Thackeray, 
 255 ; letter of Thackeray to, 256 ; 
 anecdote biography of, by Stod- 
 dard, 258 
 
 Dickens in France, 27-47, 230 
 
 D'Orsay, Count, 80 
 
 Diddear, 203 
 
 DTsraeli, Mr., his novels, 200, 240 
 
 Doyle, Richard, 243 ; his illustra- 
 tions to Thackeray's Rebecca and 
 Rmoena, 244 ; to Tlie Newcomes, 
 246 
 
 Dryden, quoted, 119 
 
 Duffy, Sir Charles Gavan, his Voting 
 
 Ireland, 232 
 Dumas, Alexandre, 238 
 
 Eastlake, Sir Charles, purity of his 
 work, 50 ; his " Hagar," 76 
 
 Eddystone lighthouse, 184 
 
 Edinburgh Review, 236, 254 
 
 Eldon, Lord, 203 
 
 Elizabeth Brownrigge, CO Tale, 114-192 
 
 Elizabeth, Queen, 119, 120 
 
 Esmond, 245, 254 
 
 " Essel," pseudonym of Thackeray, 
 
 247 
 Etty, William, 52 ; his picture of the 
 
 " Entombment," 76 ; his pictures 
 
 of the heathen sort, ib.; his colour 
 
 jjieces, 79 
 
 Eugene Aram, 115-118, 192 
 
 Euripides, quoted, 114 
 
 Eyans, Mr., proprietor of the Cider- 
 cellar, 212 
 
 Execiition, a fine sight, 122 
 
 Fallacies of Hope, quoted, 56, 57, 79 
 
 "Fat Contributor," the, nom-de-guerre 
 
 of Thackeray, 234, 235, 239, 240 
 
 Faulilas, Memoirs of, 198 
 
 Ferooz, the poet, observation of, on 
 
 women, 12 
 
 Fields, James T., on Thackeray, 257 
 
 Fitzboodle, George, nom-de-qnerre of 
 Thackeray, 231-232, 233, 236 
 
 Fire-worship, 1 
 
 Fouc[uier, 107 
 
 Flore et Zephyr, Ballet Mythologique, 
 222-224 
 
 Eraser's Magazine, Thackeray's con- 
 tributions to, 27-47, 31 note, 45 
 note, 114-192, 221, 224, 22.5, 226, 
 227, 228, 229, 231, 232, 233, 234, 
 235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 244, 245, 
 252 
 
 Frere, John Hookham, a joint pro- 
 duction of his and of Canning's, 
 117 
 
 Gahagan, Major Goliah, nom-de- 
 guerre of Thackeray, 1, 3 note, 6 
 note, 224, 225, 229,' 230 
 
 Gambling, 66 
 
 Garrick Club, the, 256 
 
 Gay, John, his Beggar's Opera, quoted, 
 181 
 
 Genius, rare, 68 
 
 Gerard, Baron, 53 
 
 Ghebir, or fire-worship, 1 
 
 Ghebirs, general slaughter of, 2 
 
 Ghent, 234 
 
 Gibbon, 99, 111 
 
 Gil Bias, 71, 72, 74 
 
 Godwin, William, followers of, 116 
 
 Goethe, Thackeray's reminiscences 
 of, 247 
 
 Goldsmith, his Deserted Village 
 quoted, 54; Ms Vicar of Wake- 
 field, 71, 72; Thackeray's sketch 
 of, 255 
 
 Grant, James (author of Random 
 Recollections), his ignorance of En- 
 glish, 45 ; Thackeray's satirical 
 notice of his book on " Paris and 
 its People," 233 
 
 Grant, Sir Francis, his portrait of 
 " Lord Cardigan," 56
 
 264 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Grego, Joseph, his " Thackerayana," 
 
 258 
 Guyiuiya, 204, 205, 207 
 
 Hafiz, well-known verses of, 2 
 
 Hamlet, 53 
 
 Hangman, more honourable than 
 
 the judge, 122 
 Hannay, James, on Thackeray, 257 
 Haydon, B. K., his picture of "The 
 
 Maid of Saragossa," 72 
 Hayes, Catherine, 226 
 Hayter, his picture of the House of 
 
 Lords at Queen Caroline's trial, 
 
 202 
 Reads of the Peoide, 228 
 Henriot, wretched fate of, 109 
 Herbert, Mr., his "Woman of Sa- 
 maria," 76 
 Herkomer, Hubert, 260 
 Hesiod, 59 
 
 Heywood, Thomas, quoted, 129 
 Hobbima, 79 
 Hogarth, 73, moral tendency of his 
 
 pictures, 92 
 Homer, quoted, 158, 193 
 Horace, quoted, 87, 193 
 Home, R. H., Thackeray's notice of 
 
 his " New Spirit of the Age," 234 
 Hotten, John Camden, 226, 252 ; his 
 " Story of Thackeray's Life," 255 
 Houghton, Lord, his "Historical 
 
 Contrast," 255 
 Hume, David, 99 
 Hume, Joseph, 241 
 
 Idler, The, 247 
 Irish Sketch-Booh, 232 
 Islington, as it was, 119 
 Ivanhoe, continuation of, 238 
 
 James, G. P. R., parody of, 240 
 Janin, Jules, on the French melo- 
 drama of Nicholas Nickleby, 39-47; 
 article on the Charruas Indians, 
 204-207 
 JeafFreson, J. Cordy, on Thackeray, 
 254 
 
 Jerrold, Elan chard, hinLife of Douglas 
 Jerrold quoted, 225 ; his Life uf 
 George Omikshank quoted, 250 ; 
 A Day with W. M. Thackeray, 258 
 
 Jerrold, Douglas, his " Men of Cha- 
 racter," illustrated by Thackeray, 
 225 
 
 Johnson, Charles Plumptre, repro- 
 duces Thackeray's "Sketches by 
 Spec," 228 ; his " Hints to Collec- 
 tors of Thackeray," &c., 260 
 
 Johnson, Dr., and Boswell, 242 ; an<l 
 Goldsmith, 255 
 
 Journal des De'bats, 27, 47 
 
 Kantian philosophy, 100 
 
 Keau, Charles, 56 
 
 Kean, Edmund, as Richard III., 203 
 
 Kean, Mrs. Charles, portrait of, by 
 Mr. Chalon, 56 
 
 Keelev, Mrs., her acting in the part 
 of Smike, 27 
 
 Kec2]sahe, TJie, Thackeray's contribu- 
 tions to, 242, 245, 246!; 247 
 
 Kent, Charles, on Thackeray, 256 
 
 Kenwigses, the, 28 
 
 Kickleburys on the Rhine, 245 
 
 Koran, the, 4 ; ninth book of, 14 
 
 Kiahwinkel, university of, 21 
 
 La Jeune France, 198 
 
 Landseer, Charles, his picture of 
 "Ladies and Cavaliers," 55, pic- 
 ture by, 73 ; his " Monks of Ru- 
 brosi," 75 
 
 Landseer, Sir Edwin, a sort of aristo- 
 crat among painters, 51, his pic- 
 tures of " the Otter and Trout " 
 and "The Hunted Stag," 52; 80 
 
 Laurie, Sir Peter, lines on, 214 
 
 Lawrence, Samuel, portrait by, 56 
 
 Leader, Mr., Ill 
 
 Lee, his Rival Queens quoted, 129 
 
 Lee and Creswick, English land- 
 scapes of, 57, 80 
 
 Leech, John, 237; Thackeray's re- 
 view of his " Pictures of Life and 
 Character," 247; 258 
 
 Legendre, his plea for Danton, 106 
 
 Lempriere, justly neglected, 72
 
 INDEX. 
 
 265 
 
 Lenten Anecdote, A, 19-26 
 
 LesHe, C. E., his " Scene from Twelfth 
 Night" ami "Queen Catherine," 
 51 ; his " Scene from the Vicar of 
 Wakefield " and " Malade Imagi- 
 naire," 73 ; his precious qi;ality of 
 making us laugh kindly, ib.; his 
 Coronation picture, 76, 78 
 
 Lever, Charles, portrait of, 79 ; his 
 Speech at the Literary Fund, ib.; 
 parody of, 240 
 
 Lewes, G. H., his Life and Works of 
 Goethe, 247 
 
 Ligier, his performance of the part 
 of Richard in " Les Enfans 
 d'Edouard," 203 
 
 Linnell, John, portraits by, 56 ; his 
 " Supper at Emmaus," 76 
 
 Little Spitz, a Lenten Anecdote, 19-26, 
 
 230 
 Liverpool, Lord, 203 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 
 letter of Thackeray to, 248 
 
 Louis Philippe, 56 ; irreverent allu- 
 sion to, 208, 209 ; lines on, 211 
 
 Louis XVI., feebleness of character 
 and action, 104, 105, 112 
 
 Louvre, historical paintings at, 49 ; 
 A Walk in the, 229 
 
 Love in Fetters, a Tottenham-Court- 
 
 road Dittij, 215-217 
 Lovel the Widower, 248 
 
 Lover, Samuel, his portrait of Mr. 
 Lever, 79 
 
 Lowther, Lord, 218, 232 
 
 Lucy's Birthdmj, 246-247 
 
 Lusus-naturoi school of novel-writers, 
 116-118 
 
 Macabaw snuff, 62 
 
 Macassar oil, 3 
 
 Mackay, Charles, on Thackeray and 
 Leech, 258 
 
 Maclise, Daniel, his picture of " Ham- 
 let," 52, 53 ; of " Gil Bias," 73, 74; 
 his " Cornish Waterfall," 74 ; his 
 portrait of Thackeray, 251 
 
 Macnee, Mr., picture by, 73 
 
 Mangnall's Questions, 96 
 
 Mantalini, Yates in the part of, 27 
 
 Marat, 100 
 
 Marie Antoinette, 100, 105 
 Marryat, Captain, 46, 47 
 Mars, Mademoiselle, 203 
 
 Martin, his picture of " Belshazzar," 
 
 202 
 Martin, Theodore, his Memoir of 
 
 William Edmondstoune Aytoun, 
 
 239 
 Marvy, Louis, Sketches after English 
 
 Landscaj)e Painters, 244 
 
 Masson, David, on Thackeray, 254 
 May Day Ode, 245 
 
 Meadows, Kenny, his illustrations to 
 three sketches by Thackeray, 228 
 Michael Angelo, 49, 72 
 Miller, Joe, his jests, 214 
 
 Milnes, Richard ]\Ionckton, quoted, 
 84 ; see Houghton, Lord. 
 
 Milton, his Samson Agonistes, 41; 50, 
 71, 72 
 
 Mirabeau, Marquis, " VAmi des 
 Hommes," 103 
 
 Mii'abeau, Gabiiel Honore de Ri- 
 quetti, 103, 104 
 
 Mirabeau, "Tonneau" or Barrel, 
 death of, 103-104 
 
 Mitchell, Mary, apprentice of Eliza- 
 beth Brownrigge, 127, 152, 168, 
 170, 171, 187 ' 
 
 Moliere, his Malade Imaginaire, 73 
 
 Montmorencis, the first Christian 
 barons, 213 note 
 
 Morning Chronicle, TJie, 234, 244 
 
 Morton, Edwaixl, his lithographs of 
 Thackerav's drawings of " Flore 
 et Zephyr," 223 
 
 Mother Red Cap, 146 
 
 Mulready, his picture of "The Ford," 
 50 ; Titmarsh placing the laurel- 
 wreath on his brows, 225 
 
 Muswell Hill, 146 
 
 Nadal, E. S., on Thackeray's rela- 
 tions to English society, 259 
 
 Napier, Mr. Macvey, letters of 
 Thackeray to, 236 
 
 Napoleon, Turner's picture of, 56 ; 
 statue of, 207 ; supposed speech of, 
 208, 211; Second Funeral of, 229
 
 266 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Nation, The (Dublin), 232 
 
 National Standard, The, Thackeray's 
 contributions to, 197-218, 221-222 
 
 Necrologe, le. Journal des Morts, 200 
 Newcomes, The, 246, 254 
 Newgate Calendar, 116, 192, 198 
 Nero Monthly Magazine (Colburn's), 
 Thackeray's contributions to, 81- 
 98, 92, 225, 227, 234, 235 
 Nicholas Nickleby, 27 
 Nickleby, Mrs., 28 
 
 North British Review, 222-224, 243, 
 255 
 
 Northcote, 53 
 
 Novalis, quoted, 107 
 
 Nugee, fashionable tailor, 97 
 
 Omar, followers of, 1 
 
 Ojiie, 53 
 
 Osages, the, 206 
 
 O'Shea, J. Augustus, account of an 
 Album with designs by Thacke- 
 ray, 257 
 
 Ovid, quoted, 59 
 
 Oxford, Thackeray's address to the 
 electors of, 247 
 
 Pacipico, Dr. Solomon, nom-de- 
 
 guerre of Thackeray, 244 
 Paganini, wasted his jtower of hand 
 
 in capriccios and extravaganzas, 
 
 53 
 
 " Paradis des Enfans," 28, 30 
 Paris, 242, 243 
 
 Paris Correspondence, 197-210 
 Paris Sketch-Book, 222, 225, 226, 227, 
 252, 253 
 
 Partridge, Mr., his portrait of the 
 Queen, 52 
 
 Paul de Kock, novels of, 85 
 
 Peel, Sir Kobert, 63, 232 
 
 Pen and the Album, 246 
 
 Pendennis, 242 
 
 Persia, long wars in, 1 
 
 Persians, Soonies by creed, 1 
 
 Petowker, Juliana, 28 
 
 Pickersgill, Mr., portrait by, 56 
 
 Pictorial Times, Thackeray's contri- 
 butions to, -58-80, 232-233 
 Pig in a j^oke, a, 13, 14 
 Piping bullfinch, 51 
 Plague of London, 75 
 
 Planch^, J. R., his Recollections and 
 Reflections, 252, 253 
 
 Plutarch, 185, 226 
 
 Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin, 117, 190, 
 
 Policeman X., Ballads of, 245 
 
 Pons Asinorum, 22 
 
 Poole, Mr., his picture of " Solomon 
 
 Eagle and the Plague of London," 
 
 75 
 
 Pope, 41, 44; quoted, 167 
 
 Proser, The, 244 
 
 Prosper, Madame, her performance 
 of the part of Smike, 38 
 
 Punch, Thackeray's contributions to, 
 230, 231, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238, 
 239, 240, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 
 246, 247, 251 
 
 Punch's Pocket-Book, 239 
 Purl, 142 
 
 Quarterly Review, 247 
 
 Rachel, Mdlle., portrait of, by 
 Chalon, 56 
 
 Ramsbottom, Mrs., in Cambridge, 
 194-195; her Statement of Fax 
 relative to the late murder, 195-196 
 Rebecca and Rowena, 230, 238, 244 
 Redgrave, Richard, his "Cinderella," 
 54; pictures by, 73; his "Going 
 to Service," 74 
 
 Reed, W. B., his Personal Recol- 
 lections of Thackeray in Philadel- 
 phia, 256 
 
 Regulus, death of, 196 
 
 Rembrandt, 103 
 
 Richardson, his Clarissa, 43 
 
 Richmond, Mr., his beautiful water- 
 colour figures, 55; his excellent 
 heads, 78 
 
 Rideing, W. H., on Thackeray, 259, 
 260 
 
 Ritchie, Mrs. Richmond. See 
 
 Thackeray, Anne Isabella. 
 Robespierre, Augustin, 109, 111
 
 INDEX 
 
 267 
 
 Robespierre, tlie "sea-green," 105, 
 
 106; death of, 109-110 
 Roebuck, Mr., Ill, 112 
 Roland, Madame, 100, 104 
 Ronsard to his mistress, 237 
 Rose and the Ring, 247 
 Rothschikl, Baron, 69; verses on, 
 
 212-213 
 
 Roundabout Pampers, 249 
 
 Rubens, 76, 79 
 
 Russell's History of Modern Europe, 
 one of the dullest books ever 
 written, 48 
 
 Ruysdael, 79 
 
 Sadee, the poet, touching exclama- 
 tion of, 6 
 
 Saint Ernest, his acting of the part 
 of John Browdie, 38 
 
 Salvator Rosa, 102 
 
 Samson, the headsman, 108, 110 
 
 Sand and Canvas, 243 
 
 Sand, George, 226, 227, 252 
 
 Sanscrit, 6 
 
 Sausages, varieties of, 19 
 
 Scheherazade, 1, 2 
 
 Schiller, song of, quoted, 68, 69 
 
 Schwani, Professor, his Sanskritische 
 Alterthumshiinde, 6 note 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter, 41, 44; as a party 
 historian, 100 
 
 Setchel, Miss, drawing by, 57 
 
 Shaitan, 12 
 
 Shakespeare, 44; quoted, 141,158,167 
 
 Shirley. See Skelton, John 
 
 Shepherd, Richard Heme, his Biblio- 
 graphy of Thackeray, 259 
 
 Slieridan, quoted, 129 
 
 Skelton, John, on Thackeray, 260 
 
 Skelton, John Henry, " My Book, or 
 the Anatomy of Conduct," 224 
 
 Small, Jolm, nom-de-guerre of Thack- 
 eray, 245 
 
 Smeaton, Mr., his pharos on the Ed- 
 dystone, 184 
 
 Smike, as performed by Mrs. Keeley, 
 27; by Madame Prosper, 38 ; pro- 
 nounced " Smeek," 30, 31, 38 
 
 Smith, Mr. George Barnett, his etch- 
 ing of Tliackeray, 260 
 
 S7whs of England, Tlie, 238 
 
 S7iob, Tlie, Thackeray's contributions 
 
 to, 193-196, 221 
 Socratic mode of questioning, 181 
 
 Solomons, Ikey, junior, pseudonym 
 
 of Thackeray, 226 
 Sones, General, 60 
 Soonies, 1 
 
 Sophocles, quoted, 181 
 Southey, quoted, 158 
 Spanish Armada, defeat of, 120 
 Spass, Professor, 19 
 
 " Spec," nom-de-guerre of Thackeray, 
 228, 231, 240 
 
 Spectator, The, suggestion of with 
 regard to Art Unions, 71 
 
 Squeers, as represented by Mr. 
 Wilkinson, 27 ; his " Paradis des 
 Enfans," 28 ; his sample-boy, 29, 
 45,46 
 
 Stanfield, Clarkson, his Italian land- 
 scapes, 79 
 
 Stephen, Leslie, his Essay on Thac- 
 keray, 258 
 
 Sterne, 45 
 
 St. Hilaire, M. Geoffroy, 206 
 
 Stoddard, R.H., Anecdote Biography 
 of Thackeray, 258 
 
 Stone, Frank, his pictm-e of "Advice," 
 54 ; picture liy, 67, 73 ; his " Last 
 Appeal," 74 
 
 Student's Quarter, The, 226, 252-253. 
 
 Sturgis, Russell, on Thackeray as a 
 draughtsman, 259 
 
 Sultan Stork, 1-18 
 
 Sylvester, Rev. Francis, 237 
 
 Talleyrand, Imi mot of, 213 note 
 
 Tallien, 109 
 
 " Tart Union," suggestion for a, 63, 
 
 64 
 Taylor, Bayard, on Thackeray, 257 
 
 "Taylor, Theodore," his Story of 
 Thackeray's Life, 255 
 
 Tehran, garden-pavilion at, 3; great 
 mosque of, 5
 
 268 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Terburg,. 74 
 
 Thackeray, Anne Isabella (daugbter 
 of William Makepeace Thackeray), 
 251 
 
 Thackeray, Bibliography of, 219-260 
 
 Theatre Ambigu-Comique, 27 
 
 Thiers, his impartiality as an his- 
 torian, 100 
 
 Thorburn, 79 
 
 Thunder and Small Beer, essay on, 
 245 
 
 Thurtell's Cottage, 67 
 
 Tickletoby, Miss, her Lectures on 
 English History, 230 
 
 Times, Tlie, Thackeray's contributions 
 to, 224, 245, 250 ; strictures on 
 Thackeray in, 245, 246 
 
 Titmarsh, Michael Angelo, pseu- 
 donym of Thackeray, 19, 48, 57, 
 58, 59 note, 63, 64, 71, 76, 80, 98, 
 225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 230, 232, 
 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 
 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 247 
 
 Titmarsh, Samuel, History of, 229. 
 
 Tottenham-court-road Bitty, a, 215- 
 217 
 
 Tournay, Louis, 101 
 
 Trollope, Anthony, letter of Thack- 
 eray to, 248 ; his memorial notice 
 of Thackeray, 255 ; his volume 
 on Thackerav in "English Men 
 of Letters," 258 
 
 Turner, J. M. W., 'his picture of 
 " The Exile and the Eock -limpet," 
 56; 57, 79 
 
 Ulysses Polytlas, 106 
 
 Vanitas Vanitatum, 248 
 Vanity Fair, 239 
 Vendome Column, 207 
 Virgil, quoted, 167 
 
 Virginians, The, 248 
 Vizetelly, Henry, 233 
 
 "Wagstaff, Lancelot, nom-de-guerre of 
 
 Thackeray, 81, 234, 235 
 Wagstaff, Theophile, nom-de-guerre 
 
 of Thackeray, 222 
 Wandsworth, 181 
 Washington, George, 246 
 Waterloo, 234 
 Watt, James Crabb, on Thackeray, 
 
 259 
 
 Webster, Thomas, his picture of 
 " Returning to School," 54-55 
 
 Weimar, Thackeray's reminiscences 
 of, 247 
 
 Wellington, Duke of, 56; his pen- 
 sion, 69 
 
 West, Benjamin, President of the 
 Royal Academy, 53 
 
 Westall, 53 
 
 Westminster Review, 227, 256 
 
 " Whitey-Brown Paper Magazine," 
 
 252 
 Wilkinson, Mr., as Squeers, 27 
 
 Willis, N. P., editor of TJie Corsair, 
 226 ; his Dashes at Life, 236 
 
 Windbeutel, Father, discourses of, 
 22, 23 
 
 Wordsworth, William, j^arody of his 
 sonnets, 212 
 
 Yates, Edmund, letter of Thacke- 
 ray to, 247 ; his quarrel with 
 Thackeray, 256 
 
 Yates, Frederick, his acting in the 
 part of Mantalini, 27 
 
 Yellowplush, Charles, nom-de-guerre 
 of Thackeray, 224 
 
 Yellovyplush Correspondence, 224. 
 
 Yorke, Oliver, 229, 236 
 
 Zephvr, les de'lassements de, 222, 223 
 
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