THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 JIM TULLY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 MRS. JIM TULLY
 
 THE WORKS OF 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 CORNHILL EDITION 
 VOLUME XXIII
 
 Thackeray 
 
 From (I phoioyrdjjh taken in 2863 by Erni'st Edirords
 
 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 THE SECOND FUNERAL OF 
 
 NAPOLEON 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR 
 AND BY FREDERICK WALKER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1911
 
 Copyright, 1904, by 
 Charles Scribker's Sons
 
 PJZ 
 
 NOTE 
 
 The publication of Denis Duval, the novel which 
 Thackeray left unfinished, was begun after his death 
 in the Cornhill Magazine for March, 1864, and contin- 
 ued till June, when the last chapter he had written ap- 
 peared with the " Notes " by Mr. Frederick Green- 
 wood, which are printed with it in the revised edition, 
 and are here retained. These notes, and the recollections 
 which Lady Ritchie has given of this last passage of her 
 father's work, make needless any other account of the 
 writing of the story. Concerning no other, as will be 
 seen, have so many details been preserved; the unusu- 
 ally full note-books, the letters quoted by Mr. Green- 
 wood and others, the reminiscences by many friends 
 of the last six months of Thackeray's life, show us al- 
 most every stage of the growth of a novel in which his 
 powers were again at their best, but of which the final 
 course can only be conjectured in spite of the clues 
 given — to such variations in execution were Thack- 
 eray's plans liable, by his own admission. 
 
 The fragment of Denis Duval first appeared in 
 book form in 1867. 
 
 V 
 
 833214
 
 LovEL THE Widower began in the CornMll Maga- 
 zine at its foundation under Thackeray's editorship, 
 in January, 1860, and ended in the June number. 
 The story was founded on — was an " amplification of," 
 as Mr. Marzials perhaps more correctly says — the play 
 of " The Wolves and the Lamb," which Thackeray had 
 written six years before and had vainly offered to at 
 least two managers.^ Trollope says in his Life of 
 Thackeray that it had been intended to begin the 
 magazine with a longer novel (presumably Philip), 
 which was not ready in time, and that this shorter story 
 was substituted; but this is perhaps conjecture. 
 
 LovEL was republished by itself in a small volume 
 at the beginning of 1861. 
 
 " The Second Funeral of Napoleon " was written in 
 Paris in 1840, and published in 1841 in a little 16mo 
 volume with " The Chronicle of the Drum,"— "by M. 
 A. Titmarsh." 
 
 The frontispiece to this volume is from a photograph 
 made by Ernest Edwards in 1863. Either this or the 
 one used as a frontispiece to the Roundabout Papers 
 (vol. xxii) seems to be the last photograph taken of 
 Thackeray. The two possibly date from the same sit- 
 ting; the photographer's notes show, at all events, that 
 they could not have been far apart in time. 
 
 ^ It was indeed after the publication of LOVEL that the play was first seen 
 by his friends, at an amateur performance by way of housewarming when he took 
 possession of the new house at 3 Palace Green. 
 
 VI
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I The Family Tree 3 
 
 n The House of Saverne 12 
 
 in The Travellers 44! 
 
 IV Out of the Depths 67 
 
 V I Hear the Sound of Bow Bells 88 
 
 VI I Escape from a Great Danger Ill 
 
 VII The Last of my School-days 131 
 
 VIII I Enter His Majesty's Navy 152 
 
 Notes on Denis Duval 176 
 
 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 I The Bachelor of Beak Street 197 
 
 II In which Miss Prior is Kept at the Door . . . 227 
 
 III In which I Play the Spy 254 
 
 IV A Black Sheep 282 
 
 v In WHICH I AM Stung by a Serpent 314 
 
 VI Cecilia's Successor 341 
 
 vii
 
 viii CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 371 
 
 THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I On the Disinterment of Napoleon at St. Helena 449 
 
 II On the Voyage from St. Helena to Paris . . . 466 
 
 III On the Funeral Ceremony 484
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Thackeeay Frontispiece 
 
 From a photograph taken in 1863 by Ernest Edwards 
 
 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 Little Denis Dances and Sings before the Navy 
 
 Gentlemen 3 
 
 Last Moments of the Comte de Saverne 64 
 
 Evidence for the Defence 129 
 
 Denis's Valet 169 
 
 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 I AM Referred to Cecilia 225 
 
 Bessy's Spectacles 251 
 
 " Where the Sugar Goes " 264 
 
 Bessy's Reflections 312 
 
 Bedford to the Rescue 316 
 
 Lovel's Mothers 362
 
 DENIS DUVAL
 
 Little Denis Dances 
 and Sings before the 
 Navy Gentlemen
 
 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE FAMILY TREE 
 
 TO plague my wife, who does not understand pleas- 
 antries in the matter of pedigree, I once drew a 
 fine family tree of my ancestors, with Claude Duval, 
 captain and highwayman, sus. per coll. in the reign of 
 Charles II., dangling from a top branch. But this is 
 only my joke with her High Mightiness my wife, and 
 his Serene Highness my son. None of us Duvals have 
 been sus per collated to my knowledge. As a boy, I have 
 tasted a rope's-end often enough, but not round my 
 neck; and the persecutions endured by my ancestors in 
 France for our Protestant religion, which we early re- 
 ceived and steadily maintained, did not bring death upon 
 us, as upon many of our faith, but only fines and pov- 
 erty, and exile from our native country. The world 
 knows how the bigotry of Lewis XIV. drove many 
 families out of France into England, who have become 
 trusty and loyal subjects of the British crown. Among 
 the thousand fugitives were my grandfather and his 
 wife. They settled at Winchelsea, in Sussex, where 
 there has been a French church ever since Queen Bess's 
 time and the dreadful day of Saint Bartholomew. 
 Three miles off, at Rye, is another colony and church of 
 our people: another fester Burg, where, under Britan-
 
 4 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 nia's sheltering buckler, we have been free to exercise 
 our fathers' worship, and sing the songs of our Zion. 
 
 My grandfather was elder and precentor of the church 
 of Winchelsea, the pastor being Monsieur Denis, father 
 of Rear- Admiral Sir Peter Denis, Baronet, my kind and 
 best patron. He sailed with Anson in the famous " Cen- 
 turion," and obtained his first promotion through that 
 great seaman : and of course you will all remember that 
 it was Captain Denis who brought our good Queen 
 Charlotte to England (7th September, 1761), after a 
 stormy passage of nine days, from Stade. As a child I 
 was taken to his house in Great Ormond Street, Queen 
 Square, London, and also to the Admiral's country-seat. 
 Valence, near Westerham, in Kent, where Colonel 
 Wolfe lived, father of the famous General James 
 Wolfe, the glorious conqueror of Quebec/ 
 
 My father, who was of a wandering disposition, hap- 
 pened to be at Dover in the year 1761, when the Commis- 
 sioners passed through, who were on their way to sign 
 the treaty of Peace, known as the Peace of Paris. He 
 had parted, after some hot words, I believe, from his 
 mother, who was, like himself, of a quick temper, and 
 he was on the look-out for employment when Fate threw 
 these gentlemen in his way. Mr. Duval spoke English, 
 French, and German, his parents being of Alsace, and 
 
 Mr. having need of a confidential person to attend 
 
 him, who was master of the languages, my father offered 
 himself, and was accepted mainly through the good 
 offices of Captain Denis, our patron, whose ship was then 
 
 * I remember a saying of G Aug-st-s S-lw-n, Esq., regarding the 
 
 General, which has not been told, as far as I know, in the anecdotes. A 
 Macaroni guardsman, speaking of Mr. Wolfe, asked, " Was he a Jew? Wolfe 
 was a Jewish name." " Certainly," says Mr. S-Iw-n, " Mr. Wolfe was the 
 Height of Abraham,"
 
 THE FAMILY TREE 5 
 
 in the Downs. Being at Paris, father must needs visit 
 Alsace, our native country, and having scarce one guinea 
 to rub against another, of course chose to fall in love with 
 my mother and marry her out of hand. Mons. mon pere, 
 I fear, was but a prodigal ; but he was his parents' only 
 living child, and when he came home to Winchelsea, 
 hungry and penniless, with a wife on his hand, they killed 
 their fattest calf, and took both wanderers in. A short 
 while after her marriage, my mother inherited some 
 property from her parents in France, and most tenderly 
 nursed my grandmother through a long illness, in which 
 the good lady died. Of these matters I knew nothing 
 personally, being at the time a child two or three years 
 old ; crying and sleeping, drinking and eating, growing, 
 and having my infantile ailments, like other little dar- 
 lings. 
 
 A violent woman was my mother, jealous, hot, and 
 domineering, but generous and knowing how to forgive. 
 I fancy my papa gave her too many opportunities of ex- 
 ercising this virtue, for, during his brief life, he was ever 
 in scrapes and trouble. He met with an accident when 
 fishing off the French coast, and was brought home and 
 died, and was buried at Winchelsea ; but the cause of his 
 death I never knew until my good friend Sir Peter Denis 
 told me in later years, when I had come to have troubles 
 of my own. 
 
 I was born on the same day with his Royal Highness 
 the Duke of York, viz. the 13th of August, 1763, and 
 used to be called the Bishop of Osnaburg by the boys in 
 Winchelsea, where between us French boys and the Eng- 
 lish boys I promise you there was many a good battle. 
 Besides being ancien and precentor of the French church 
 at Winchelsea, grandfather was a perruquier and barber
 
 6 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 by trade; and, if you must know it, I have curled and 
 powdered a gentleman's head before this, and taken him 
 by the nose and shaved him. I do not brag of having 
 used lather and brush : but what is the use of disguising 
 anything? Tout se sgait, as the French have it, and a 
 great deal more too. There is Sir Humphrey Howard, 
 who served with me second-lieutenant in the " Meleager " 
 —he says he comes from the N— f-lk Howards; but his 
 father was a shoemaker, and we always called him Hum- 
 phrey Snob in the gunroom. 
 
 In France very few wealthy ladies are accustomed to 
 nurse their children, and the little ones are put out to 
 farmers' wives and healthy nurses, and perhaps better 
 cared for than by their own meagre mothers. My mo- 
 ther's mother, an honest farmer's wife in Lorraine (for 
 I am the first gentleman of my family, and chose my 
 motto ^ of fecimus ipsi not with pride, but with humble 
 thanks for my good fortune) , had brought up Mademoi- 
 selle Clarisse de Viomesnil, a Lorraine lady, between 
 whom and her foster-sister there continued a tender 
 friendship long after the marriage of both. Mother 
 came to England, the wife of Monsieur mon papa; and 
 jNIademoiselle de Viomesnil married in her own country. 
 She was of the Protestant branch of the Viomesnil fam- 
 ily, and all the poorer in consequence of her parents' 
 fidelity to their religion. Other members of the family 
 were of the Catholic religion, and held in high esteem at 
 Versailles. 
 
 Some short time after my mother's arrival in England, 
 she heard that her dear foster-sister Clarisse was going 
 to marry a Protestant gentleman of Lorraine, Vicomte 
 
 ' The Admiral insisted on takinp: or on a bend sable, three razors displayed 
 proper, with the above motto. The family have adopted the mother's coat- 
 of-arms.
 
 THE FAMILY TREE 7 
 
 de Barr, only son of M. le Comte de Saverne, a chamber- 
 lain to his Polish Majesty King Stanislas, father of 
 the French Queen. M. de Saverne, on his son's mar- 
 riage, gave up to the Vicomte de Barr his house at Sa- 
 verne, and here for a while the newly married couple 
 lived. I do not say the young couple, for the Vicomte 
 de Barr was five-and-twenty years older than his wife, 
 who was but eighteen when her parents married her. As 
 my mother's eyes were very weak, or, to say truth, she 
 was not very skilful in reading, it used to be my lot as a 
 boy to spell out my lady Viscountess's letters to her soeur 
 de lait, her good Ursule: and many a smart rap with 
 the rolling-pin have I had over my noddle from mother 
 as I did my best to read. It was a word and a blow with 
 mother. She did not spare the rod and spoil the child, 
 and that I suppose is the reason why I am so well grown 
 — six feet two in my stockings, and fifteen stone four 
 last Tuesday, when I was weighed along with our pig. 
 JNIem. — My neighbour's hams at Rose Cottage are the 
 best in all Hampshire. 
 
 I was so young that I could not understand all I read. 
 But I remember mother used to growl in her rough way 
 (she had a grenadier height and voice, and a pretty 
 smart pair of black whiskers too) — my mother used to 
 cry out, " She suffers— my Biche is unhappy— she has 
 got a bad husband. He is a brute. All men are brutes." 
 And with this she would glare at grandpapa, who was a 
 very humble little man, and trembled before his hru, and 
 obeyed her most obsequiously. Then mother would vow 
 she would go home, she would go and succour her Biche ; 
 but who would take care of these two imbeciles? mean- 
 ing me and my grandpapa. Besides, Madame Duval 
 was wanted at home. She dressed many ladies' heads.
 
 8 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 with very great taste, in the French way, and could 
 shave, frizz, cut hair, and tie a queue along with the best 
 barber in the county. Grandfather and the apprentice 
 wove the wigs ; when I was at home, I was too young for 
 that work, and was taken off from it, and sent to a fa- 
 mous good school, Pocock's grammar-school at Rye, 
 where I learned to speak English like a Briton born as 
 I am, and not as we did at home, where we used a queer 
 Alsatian jargon of French and German. At Pocock's 
 I got a little smattering of Latin, too, and plenty of 
 fighting for the first month or two. I remember my pa- 
 tron coming to see me in uniform, blue and white laced 
 with gold, silk stockings and white breeches, and two 
 of his officers along with him. " Where is Denis 
 Duval? " says he, peeping into our school-room, and all 
 the boys looking round with wonder at the great gentle- 
 man. Master Denis Duval was standing on a bench at 
 that very moment for punishment, for fighting I sup- 
 pose, with a black eye as big as an omelette. " Denis 
 would do very well if he would keep his fist off other 
 boys' noses," says the master; and the Captain gave me 
 a seven-shilling piece, and I spent it all but twopence 
 before the night was over, I remember. Whilst I was at 
 Pocock's, I boarded with Mr. Rudge, a tradesman, who, 
 besides being a grocer at Rye, was in the seafaring way, 
 and part owner of a fishing-boat ; and he took so7ne very 
 queer fish in his nets, as you shall hear soon. He was a 
 chief man among the Wesleyans, and I attended his 
 church with him, not paying much attention to those 
 most serious and sacred things in my early years, when 
 I was a thoughtless boy, caring for nothing but lollipops, 
 hoops, and marbles. 
 
 Captain Denis was a very pleasant, lively gentleman,
 
 THE FAMILY TREE 9 
 
 and on this day he asked the master, Mr. Coates, what 
 was the Latin for a holiday, and hoped Mr. C. would 
 give one to his boys. Of course we sixty boys shouted 
 yes to that proposal ; and as for me. Captain Denis cried 
 out, " Mr. Coates, I i^ess this fellow with the black eye 
 here, and intend to take him to dine with me at the 
 ' Star.' " You may be sure I skipped off my bench, and 
 followed my patron. He and his two officers went to 
 the " Star," and after dinner called for a crown bowl of 
 punch, and though I would drink none of it, never hav- 
 ing been able to bear the taste of rum or brandy, I was 
 glad to come out and sit with the gentlemen, who seemed 
 to be amused with my childish prattle. Captain Denis 
 asked me what I learned, and I dare say I bragged of 
 my little learning : in fact I remember talking in a pom- 
 pous way about Corderius and Cornelius Nepos; and I 
 have no doubt gave myself very grand airs. He asked 
 whether I liked Mr. Rudge, the grocer with whom I 
 boarded. I did not like him much, I said; but I hated 
 Miss Rudge and Bevil the apprentice most because they 
 were always .... here I stopped. " But there is no 
 use in telling tales out of school," says I. " We don't do 
 that at Pocock's, we don't." 
 
 And what was my grandmother going to make of me ? 
 I said I should like to be a sailor, but a gentleman sailor, 
 and fight for King George. And if I did I would bring 
 all my prize-money home to Agnes, that is, almost all of 
 it — only keep a little of it for myself. 
 
 "And so you like the sea, and go out sometimes? " asks 
 Mr. Denis. 
 
 Oh, yes, I went out fishing. Mr. Rudge had a half 
 share of a boat along with grandfather, and I used to 
 help to clean her, and was taught to steer her, with many
 
 10 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 a precious slap on the head if I got her in the wind ; and 
 they said I was very good look-out. I could see well, 
 and remember bluffs and headlands and so forth; and 
 I mentioned several places, points of our coasts, ay, and 
 the French coast too. 
 
 "And what do you fish for? " asks the Captain. 
 
 " Oh, sir, I'm not to say anything about that, Mr. 
 Rudge says!" on which the gentlemen roared with 
 laughter. They knew Master Rudge's game, though I 
 in my innocence did not understand it. 
 
 "And so you won't have a drop of punch? " asks Cap- 
 tain Denis. 
 
 " No, sir, I made a vow I would not, when I saw Miss 
 Rudge so queer." 
 
 " Miss Rudge is often queer, is she? " 
 
 " Yes, the nasty pig! And she calls names, and slips 
 downstairs, and knocks the cups and saucers about, and 
 fights the apprentice, and— but I mustn't say anything 
 more. I never tell tales, I don't! " 
 
 In this way I went on prattling with my patron and 
 his friends, and they made me sing them a song in 
 French, and a song in German, and they laughed and 
 seemed amused at my antics and capers. Captain Denis 
 walked home with me to our lodgings, and I told him 
 how I liked Sunday the best day of the week — that is, 
 every other Sunday — because I went away quite early, 
 and walked three miles to mother and grandfather at 
 Winchelsea, and saw Agnes. 
 
 And who, pray, was Agnes? To-day her name is 
 Agnes Duval, and she sits at her work-table hard-by. 
 The lot of my life has been changed by knowing her. 
 To win such a prize in life's lottery is given but to very,
 
 THE FAMILY TREE 11 
 
 verj^ few. What I have done (of any worth) has been 
 done in trying to deserve her. I might have remained, 
 but for her, in my humble native lot, to be neither honest 
 nor happy, but that my good angel yonder succoured 
 me. All I have I owe to her : but I pay with all I have, 
 and what creature can do more ?
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE HOUSE OF SA VERNE 
 
 MADEMOISELLE DE SAVERNE came from 
 Alsace, where her family occupied a much higher 
 rank than that held by the worthy Protestant elder from 
 whom her humble servant is descended. Her mother 
 was a Viomesnil, her father was of a noble Alsatian fam- 
 ily, Counts of Barr and Saverne. The old Count de 
 Saverne was alive, and a chamberlain in the court of his 
 Polish Majesty good King Stanislas at Nanci, when his 
 son the Vicomte de Barr, a man already advanced in 
 years, brought home his blooming j^oung bride to that 
 pretty little capital. 
 
 The Count de Saverne was a brisk and cheery old gen- 
 tleman, as his son was gloomy and severe. The Count's 
 hotel at Nanci was one of the gayest of the little court. 
 His Protestantism was by no means austere. He was 
 even known to regret that there were no French convents 
 for noble damsels of the Protestant confession, as there 
 were across the Rhine, where his own two daughters 
 might be bestowed out of the way. Mesdemoiselles de 
 Saverne were ungainly in appearance, fierce and sour in 
 temper, resembling, in these particulars, their brother 
 Mons. le Baron de Barr. 
 
 In his youth, Monsieur de Barr had served not with- 
 out distinction, being engaged against jNIessieurs the 
 English at Hastenbeck and Laufeldt, where he had 
 
 12
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 13 
 
 shown both courage and capacity. His Protestantism 
 prevented his promotion in the army. He left it, stead- 
 fast in his faith, but soured in his temper. He did not 
 care for whist or music, like his easy old father. His 
 appearance at the Count's little suppers was as cheerful 
 as a death's-head at a feast. M. de Barr only frequented 
 these entertainments to give pleasure to his young wife, 
 who pined and was wretched in the solitary family man- 
 sion of Saverne, where the Vicomte took up his residence 
 when first married. 
 
 He was of an awful temper, and subject to storms of 
 passion. Being a very conscientious man, he suffered 
 extremely after one of these ebullitions of rage. Be- 
 tween his alternations of anger and remorse, his life was 
 a sad one; his household trembled before him, and es- 
 pecially the poor little wife whom he had brought out of 
 her quiet country village to be the victim of his rage and 
 repentances. More than once she fled to the old Count 
 of Saverne at Nanci, and the kindly selfish old gentle- 
 man used his feeble endeavours to protect his poor little 
 daughter-in-law. Quickly after these quarrels letters 
 would arrive, containing vows of the most abject 
 repentance on the Baron's part. These matrimonial 
 campaigns followed a regular course. First rose the out- 
 break of temper ; then the lady's flight ensued to papa- 
 in-law at Nanci; then came letters expressive of grief; 
 then the repentant criminal himself arrived, whose an- 
 guish and cries of mea culpa were more insupportable 
 than his outbreaks of rage. After a few years, Madame 
 de Barr lived almost entirely with her father-in-law at 
 Nanci, and was scarcely seen in her husband's gloomy 
 mansion of Saverne. 
 
 For some years no child was born of this most un-
 
 14 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 happy union. Just when poor King Stanislas came by 
 his lamentable death (being burned at his own fire) , the 
 old Count de Saverne died, and his son found that he 
 inherited little more than his father's name and title of 
 Saverne, the family estate being greatly impoverished 
 by the late Count's extravagant and indolent habits, and 
 much weighed down by the portions awarded to the 
 Demoiselles de Saverne, the elderly sisters of the present 
 elderly lord. 
 
 The town house at Nanci was shut up for a while ; and 
 the new Lord of Saverne retired to his castle with his 
 sisters and his wife. With his Catholic neighbours the 
 stern Protestant gentleman had little communion; and 
 the society which frequented his dull house chiefly con- 
 sisted of Protestant clergymen who came from the other 
 side of the Rhine. Along its left bank, which had only 
 become French territory of late years, the French and 
 German languages were spoken indifferently; in the 
 latter language M. de Saverne was called the Herr von 
 Zabern. After his father's death, Herr von Zabern may 
 have melted a little, but he soon became as moody, vio- 
 lent, and ill-conditioned as ever the Herr von Barr had 
 been. Saverne was a little country town, with the crumb- 
 ling old Hotel de Saverne in the centre of the place, and 
 a straggling street stretching on either side. Behind the 
 house were melancholy gardens, squared and clipped 
 after the ancient French fashion, and, beyond the gar- 
 den wall, some fields and woods, part of the estate of the 
 Saverne family. These fields and woods were fringed 
 by another great forest, which had once been the prop- 
 erty of the house of Saverne, but had been purchased 
 from the late easy proprietor by Messeigneurs de Rohan, 
 Princes of the Empire, of France, and the Church, Car-
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 15 
 
 dinals, and Archbishops of Strasbourg, between whom 
 and their gloomy Protestant neighbour there was no 
 good-will. Not only questions of faith separated them, 
 but questions of chasse. The Count de Saverne, who 
 loved shooting, and beat his meagre woods for game with 
 a couple of lean dogs, and a fowling-piece over his shoul- 
 der, sometimes came in sight of the grand hunting- 
 parties of ]Monseigneur the Cardinal, wdio went to the 
 chase like a Prince as he was, with piqueurs and horn- 
 blowers, whole packs of dogs, and a troop of gentlemen 
 in his uniform. Not seldom his Eminence's keepers and 
 M. de Saverne's solitary garde-chasse had quarrels. 
 " Tell your master that I will shoot any red-legs w^hich 
 come upon my land," M. de Saverne said in one of these 
 controversies, as he held up a partridge wdiich he had 
 just brought down; and the keeper knew the moody 
 nobleman would be true to his word. 
 
 Two neighbours so ill-disposed towards one another 
 were speedily at law; and in the courts at Strasbourg a 
 poor provincial gentleman was likely to meet with scantj^ 
 justice when opposed to such a powerful enemy as the 
 Prince Archbishop of the province, one of the greatest 
 noblemen of the kingdom. Boundary questions, in a 
 land where there are no hedges, game, forest, and fishery 
 questions— how^ can I tell, who am no lawyer, what set 
 the gentlemen at loggerheads? In later days I met one 
 M. Georgel, an Abbe, who had been a secretary of the 
 Prince Cardinal, and he told me that ^I. de Saverne was 
 a headlong, violent, ill-conditioned little mauvais cou- 
 cheur, as they say in France, and ready to quarrel with 
 or without a reason. 
 
 These quarrels naturally took the Count de Saverne 
 to his advocates and lawyers at Strasbourg, and he would
 
 16 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 absent himself for days from home, where his poor wife 
 was perhaps not sorry to be rid of him. It chanced, on 
 one of these expeditions to the chief town of his province, 
 that he fell in with a former comrade in his campaigns 
 of Hastenbeck and Laufeldt, an officer of Soubise's 
 regiment, the Baron de la Motte.^ La Motte had been 
 destined to the Church, like many cadets of good family, 
 but, his elder brother dying, he was released from the 
 tonsure and the seminar}^ and entered the army under 
 good protection. Mesdemoiselles de Saverne remem- 
 bered this M. de la JNIotte at Nanci in old days. He bore 
 the worst of characters ; he was gambler, intriguer, duel- 
 list, profligate. I suspect that most gentlemen's repu- 
 tations came off ill under the tongues of these old ladies, 
 and have heard of other countries where mesdemoiselles 
 are equally hard to please. " Well, have we not all our 
 faults?" I imagine M. de Saverne saying, in a rage. 
 " Is there no such thing as calumny? Are we never to 
 repent, if we have been wrong? I know he has led a 
 wild youth. Others may have done as much. But prodi- 
 gals have been reclaimed ere now, and I for my part will 
 not turn my back on this one." "Ah, I wish he had! " 
 De la Motte said to me myself in later days, " but it was 
 his fate, his fate! " 
 
 One day, then, the Count de Saverne returns home 
 from Strasbourg with his new friend; presents the 
 Baron de la Motte to the ladies of his house, makes the 
 gloomy place as cheerful as he can for his guest, brings 
 forth the best wine from his cave, and beats his best cov- 
 ers for game. I myself knew the Baron some years 
 
 ' That unlucky Prince de Rohan was to suffer by another Delamotte, who, 
 with his " Valois " of a wife, played such a notorious part in the famous 
 " diamond necklace " business, but the two worthies were not, I believe, re- 
 lated.— D. D.
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 17 
 
 later;— a handsome, tall, sallow-faced man, with a shifty 
 eye, a soft voice, and a grand manner. Monsieur de 
 Saverne for his part was short, black, and ill-favoured, 
 as I have heard my mother say. But Mrs. Duval did 
 not love him, fancying that he ill-treated her Biche. 
 Where she disliked people, my worthy parent would 
 never allow them a single good quality; but she always 
 averred that Monsieur de la Motte was a perfect fine 
 gentleman. 
 
 The intimacy between these two gentlemen increased 
 apace. M. de la Motte was ever welcome at Saverne: a 
 room in the house was called his room: their visitor was 
 an acquaintance of their enemy the Cardinal also, and 
 would often come from the one chateau to the other. 
 Laughingly he would tell how angry Monseigneur was 
 with his neighbour. He wished he could make peace be- 
 tween the two houses. He gave quite good advice to 
 Monsieur de Saverne, and pointed out the danger he ran 
 in provoking so powerful an adversary. Men had been 
 imprisoned for life for less reason. The Cardinal might 
 get a lettre de cachet against his obstinate opponent. 
 He could, besides, ruin Saverne with fines and law costs. 
 The contest between the two was quite unequal, and the 
 weaker party must inevitably be crushed, unless these 
 unhappy disputes should cease. As far as the ladies of 
 the house dared speak, they coincided in the opinion of 
 M. de la Motte, and were for submission and reconcilia- 
 tion with their neighbours. Madame de Saverne's own 
 relations heard of the feud, and implored the Count to 
 bring it to an end. It was one of these, the Baron de 
 Viomesnil, going to command in Corsica, who entreated 
 M. de Saverne to accompany him on the campaign. 
 Anywhere the Count was safer than in his own house
 
 18 DE:N^IS DUVAL 
 
 with an implacable and irresistible enemy at his gate. 
 INI. de Saverne yielded to his kinsman's importunities. 
 He took down his sword and pistols of Laufeldt from 
 the wall, where they had hung for twenty years. He 
 set the affairs of his house in order, and after solemnly 
 assembling his family, and on his knees confiding it to 
 the gracious protection of heaven, he left home to join 
 the suite of the French General. 
 
 A few weeks after he left home — several years after 
 his marriage — his wife wrote to inform him that she was 
 likely to be a mother. The stern man, who had been very 
 unhappy previously, and chose to think that his wife's 
 barrenness was a punishment of Heaven for some crime 
 of his or hers, was very much moved by this announce- 
 ment. I have still at home a German Bible which he 
 used, and in which is written in the German a very affect- 
 ing prayer composed by him, imploring the Divine bless- 
 ing upon the child about to be born, and hoping that this 
 infant might grow in grace, and bring peace and love 
 and unity into the household. It would appear that he 
 made no doubt he should have a son. His hope and aim 
 were to save in every possible way for this child. I have 
 read many letters of his which he sent from Corsica to his 
 wife, and which she kept. They were full of strange 
 minute orders, as to the rearing and education of this 
 son that was to be born. He enjoined saving amount- 
 ing to niggardhness in his household, and calculated how 
 much might be put away in ten, in twenty years, so that 
 the coming heir might have a property worthy of his 
 ancient name. In case he should fall in action, he laid 
 commands upon his wife to pursue a system of the most 
 rigid economy, so that the child at coming of age might 
 be able to appear creditably in the world. In these let-
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 19 
 
 ters, I remember, the events of the campaign were dis- 
 missed in a very few words ; the main part of the letters 
 consisted of prayers, speculations, and prophecies re- 
 garding the child, and sermons couched in the language 
 of the writer's stern creed. When the child was born, 
 and a girl appeared in place .of the boy, upon whom the 
 poor father had set his heart, I hear the family were so 
 dismayed, that they hardly dared to break the news to 
 the chief of the house. 
 
 Who told me ? The same man who said he wished he 
 had never seen M. de Saverne: the man for whom the 
 unhappy gentleman had conceived a warm friendship; — 
 the man who was to bring a mysterious calamity upon 
 those whom, as I do think, and in his selfish way, he 
 loved sincerely, and he spoke at a time when he could 
 have little desire to deceive me. 
 
 The lord of the castle is gone on the campaign. The 
 chatelaine is left alone in her melancholy tow^r with her 
 two dismal duennas. ]My good mother, speaking in 
 later days about these matters, took up the part of her 
 Biche against the Ladies of Barr and their brother, and 
 always asserted that the tyranny of the duennas, and the 
 meddling, and the verbosity, and the ill temper of ]M. 
 de Saverne himself, brought about the melancholy events 
 which now presently ensued. The Count de Saverne 
 was a little man (my mother said) who loved to hear 
 himself talk, and who held forth from morning till night. 
 His life was a fuss. He would weigh the coffee, and 
 count the lumps of sugar, and have a finger in every pie 
 in his frugal house. Night and morning he preached 
 sermons to his family, and he continued to preach when 
 not en chair e, laying down the law upon all subjects, un- 
 tiringly voluble. Cheerfulness in the company of such a
 
 20 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 man was hypocrisy. Mesdames de Barr had to dis- 
 guise weariness, to assume an air of contentment, and 
 to appear to be interested when the Count preached. As 
 for the Count's sisters, they were accustomed to listen 
 to their brother and lord with respectful submission. 
 They had a hundred dom.estic occupations: they had 
 baking and boiling, and pickling, and washing, and 
 endless embroidery: the life of the little chateau was 
 quite supportable to them. They knew no better. 
 Even in their father's days at Nanci, the ungainly wo- 
 men kept pretty much aloof from the world, and were 
 little better than domestic servants in waiting on Mon- 
 seigneur. 
 
 And Madame de Saverne, on her first entrance into 
 the family, accepted the subordinate position meekly 
 enough. She spun and she bleached, and she worked 
 great embroideries, and busied herself about her house, 
 and hstened demurely whilst Monsieur le Comte was 
 preaching. But then there came a time when her du- 
 ties interested her no more, when his sermons became 
 especially wearisome, when sharp words passed be- 
 tween her and her lord, and the poor thing exhibited 
 symptoms of impatience and revolt. And with the 
 revolt arose awful storms and domestic battles; and 
 after battles, submission, reconciliation, forgiveness, 
 hypocrisy. 
 
 It has been said that Monsieur de Saverne loved the 
 sound of his own croaking voice, and to hold forth to his 
 own congregation. Night after night he and his friend 
 M. de la Motte would have religious disputes together, 
 in which the Huguenot gentleman flattered himself that 
 he constantly had the better of the ex-pupil of the semi- 
 nary. I was not present naturally, not setting my foot
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 21 
 
 on French ground until five-and-twenty years after, but 
 I can fancy JNIadame the Countess sitting at her tambour 
 frame, and the old duenna ladies at their cards, and the 
 combat of the churches going on between these two 
 champions in the httle old saloon of the Hotel de Sa- 
 verne. "As I hope for pardon," M. de la Motte said 
 to me at a supreme moment of his life, " and to meet 
 those whom on earth I loved, and made unhappj^ no 
 wrong passed between Clarisse and me, save that wrong 
 which consisted in disguising from her husband the re- 
 gard we had for one another. Once, twice, thrice, I 
 went away from their house, but that unhappy Saverne 
 would bring me back, and I was only too glad to return. 
 I would let him talk for hours— I own it— so that I might 
 be near Clarisse. I had to answer from time to time, and 
 rubbed up my old seminary learning to reply to his ser- 
 mons. I must often have spoken at random, for my 
 thoughts were far away from the poor man's radotages, 
 and he could no more change my convictions than he 
 could change the colour of my skin. Hours and hours 
 thus passed away. They would have been intolerably 
 tedious to others: they were not so to me. I preferred 
 that gloomy little chateau to the finest place in Europe. 
 To see Clarisse, was all I asked. Denis! There is a 
 power irresistible impelling all of us. From the moment 
 I first set eyes on her, I knew she was my fate. I shot 
 an English grenadier at Hastenbeck, who would have 
 bayoneted poor Saverne but for me. As I lifted him up 
 from the ground, I thought, ' I shall have to repent of 
 ever having seen that man.' I felt the same thing, 
 Duval, when I saw you." And as the unhappy gentle- 
 man spoke, I remembered how I for my part felt a 
 singular and unpleasant sensation as of terror and
 
 22 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 approaching evil when first I looked at that handsome 
 ill-omened face. 
 
 I thankfully believe the words which ^I. de la Motte 
 spoke to me at a time when he could have no cause to 
 disguise the truth; and am assured of the innocence of 
 the Countess de Saverne. Poor lady! if she erred in 
 thought, she had to pay so awful a penalty for her crime, 
 that we humbly hope it has been forgiven her. She was 
 not true to her husband, though she did him no wa'ong. 
 If, while trembling before him, she yet had dissimulation 
 enough to smile and be merry, I suppose no preacher or 
 husband would be very angry with her for that hypoc- 
 risy. I have seen a slave in the West Indies soundly 
 cuffed for looking sulky: we expect our negroes to be 
 obedient and to be happy too. 
 
 Now when M. de Saverne went away to Corsica, I 
 suspect he was strongly advised to take that step by his 
 friend M. de la Motte. When he was gone, ^M. de la 
 Motte did not present himself at the Hotel de Saverne, 
 where an old schoolfellow of his, a pastor and preacher 
 from Kehl, on the German Rhine bank, was installed in 
 command of the little garrison, from which its natural 
 captain had been obliged to withdraw; but there is no 
 doubt that poor Clarisse deceived this gentleman and 
 her two sisters-in-law, and acted towards them with a 
 very culpable hypocrisy. 
 
 Although there was a deadly feud between the two 
 chateaux of Saverne— namely, the Cardinal's new-built 
 castle in the Park, and the Count's hotel in the little town 
 —yet each house knew more or less of the other's doings. 
 When the Prince Cardinal and his court were at Sa- 
 verne, Mesdemoiselles de Barr w^ere kept perfectly well 
 informed of all the festivities which they did not share.
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 23 
 
 In our little Fareport here, do not the Miss Prys, my 
 neighbours, know what I have for dinner, the amount of 
 my income, the price of my wife's last gown, and the 
 items of my son's. Captain Scapegrace's, tailor's bill? 
 No doubt the ladies of Barr were equally well informed 
 of the doings of the Prince Coadjutor and his court. 
 Such gambling, such splendour, such painted hussies 
 from Strasbourg, such plays, masquerades, and orgies 
 as took place in that castle ! IVIesdemoiselles had the very 
 latest particulars of all these horrors, and the Cardinal's 
 castle was to them as the castle of a wicked ogre. From 
 her little dingy tower at night Madame de Saverne could 
 look out, and see the Cardinal's sixty palace windows all 
 a-flame. Of summer nights, gusts of unhallowed music 
 would be heard from the great house, where dancing fes- 
 tivals, theatrical pieces even, were performed. Though 
 Madame de Saverne was forbidden by her husband to 
 frequent those assemblies, the townspeople were up to 
 the palace from time to time, and Madame could not 
 help hearing of the doings there. In spite of the Count's 
 prohibition, his gardener poached in the Cardinal's 
 woods; one or two of the servants were smuggled in 
 to see a fete or a ball ; then Madame's own woman went ; 
 then Madame herself began to have a wicked longing to 
 go, as JMadame's first ancestress had for the fruit of the 
 forbidden tree. Is not the apple always ripe on that tree, 
 and does not the tempter for ever invite you to pluck and 
 eat? JNIadame de Saverne had a lively little waiting- 
 maid, whose bright eyes loved to look into neighbours' 
 parks and gardens, and who had found favour with one 
 of the domestics of the Prince Archbishop. This woman 
 brought news to her mistress of the feasts, balls, ban- 
 quets, nay, comedies, which were performed at the Prince
 
 24 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 Cardinal's. The Prince's gentlemen went hunting in 
 his uniform. He was served on plate, and a lacquey in 
 his livery stood behind each guest. He had the French 
 comedians over from Strasbourg. Oh! that M. de 
 Moliere was a droll gentleman, and how grand the 
 "Cid"was! 
 
 Now, to see these plays and balls, Martha, the maid, 
 must have had intelligence in and out of both the houses 
 of Saverne. She must have deceived those old dragons, 
 Mesdemoiselles. She must have had means of creeping 
 out at the gate, and silently creeping back again. She 
 told her mistress everything she saw, acted the plays for 
 her, and described the dresses of the ladies and gentle- 
 men. Madame de Saverne was never tired of hearing 
 her maid's stories. When Martha was going to a fete, 
 Madame lent her some little ornament to wear, and yet 
 when Pasteur Schnorr and Mesdemoiselles talked of the 
 proceedings at Great Saverne, and as if the fires of Go- 
 morrah were ready to swallow up that palace, and all 
 within it, the Lady of Saverne sat demurely in silence, 
 and listened to their croaking and sermons. Listened? 
 The pastor exhorted the household, the old ladies 
 talked night after night, and poor Madame de Saverne 
 never heeded. Her thoughts were away in Great Sa- 
 verne; her spirit was for ever hankering about those 
 woods. Letters came now and again from M. de Sa- 
 verne, with the army. They had been engaged with the 
 enemy! Very good. He was unhurt. Heaven be praised ! 
 And then the grim husband read his poor little wife a 
 grim sermon ; and the grim sisters and the chaplain com- 
 mented on it. Once, after an action at Calvi, Monsieur 
 de Saverne, who was always specially lively in moments 
 of danger, described how narrowly he had escaped with
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 25 
 
 his life, and the chaplain took advantage of the circum- 
 stance, and delivered to the household a prodigious dis- 
 course on death, on danger, on preservation here and 
 hereafter, and alas, and alas! poor Madame de Saverne 
 found that she had not listened to a word of the homily. 
 Her thoughts M^ere not with the preacher, nor with the 
 captain of Viomesnil's regiment before Calvi ; they were 
 in the palace at Great Saverne, with the balls, and the 
 comedies, and the music, and the fine gentlemen from 
 Paris and Strasbourg, and out of the Empire beyond 
 the Rhine, who frequented the Prince's entertainments. 
 What happened where the wicked spirit was whisper- 
 ing, "Eat," and the tempting apple hung within reach? 
 One night when the household was at rest, Madame de 
 Saverne, muffled in cloak and calash, with a female com- 
 panion similarly disguised, tripped silently out of the 
 back gate of the Hotel de Saverne, found a carriole in 
 waiting, with a driver who apparently knew the road 
 and the passengers he was to carry, and after half-an- 
 hour's drive through the straight avenues of the park of 
 Great Saverne, alighted at the gates of the chateau, 
 where the driver gave up the reins of the carriole to a 
 domestic in waiting, and, by doors and passages which 
 seemed perfectly well known to him, the coachman and 
 the two women entered the castle together and found 
 their way to a gallery in a great hall, in which many 
 lords and ladies were seated, and at the end of which was 
 a stage, with a curtain before it. Men and women came 
 backwards and forwards on this stage, and recited dia- 
 logue in verses. O mercy! it was a comedy they were 
 acting, one of those wicked delightful plays which she 
 was forbidden to see, and which she was longing to be- 
 hold! After the comedy was to be a ball, in which the
 
 26 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 actors would dance in their stage habits. Some of the 
 people were in masks already, and in that box near to the 
 stage, surrounded by a little crowd of dominoes, sate 
 Monseigneur the Prince Cardinal himself. ]\Iadame de 
 Saverne had seen him and his cavalcade sometimes re- 
 turning from hunting. She would have been as much 
 puzzled to say what the play was about as to give an 
 account of Pasteur Schnorr's sermon a few hours before. 
 But Frontin made jokes with his master Damis; and 
 Geronte locked up the doors of his house, and went to 
 bed grumbling; and it grew quite dark, and JNIathurine 
 flung a rope-ladder out of window, and she and her mis- 
 tress Elmire came down the ladder; and Frontin held 
 it, and Elmire, with a little cry, fell into the arms of 
 Mons. Damis; and master and man, and maid and 
 mistress, sang a merry chorus together, in which human 
 frailty was very cheerfully depicted ; and when the}^ had 
 done, away they went to the gondola which was in wait- 
 ing at the canal stairs, and so good night. And when old 
 Geronte, wakened up by the disturbance, at last came 
 forth in his nightcap, and saw the boat paddling away 
 out of reach, you may be sure that the audience laughed 
 at the poor impotent raging old wretch. It was a very 
 merry play indeed, and is still popular and performed in 
 France and elsewhere. 
 
 After the play came a ball. Would Madame dance? 
 Would the noble Countess of Saverne dance with a 
 coachman? There were others below on the dancing-- 
 floor dressed in mask and domino as she was. Who ever 
 said she had a mask and domino? You see it has been 
 stated that she was muffled in cloak and calash. Well, 
 is not a domino a cloak? and has it not a hood or calash 
 appended to it? and, pray, do not women wear masks at 
 home as well as at the Ridotto?
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 27 
 
 Another question arises here. A high-born lady en- 
 trusts herself to a charioteer, who drives her to the castle 
 of a prince her husband's enemy. Who was her com- 
 panion? Of course he could be no other than that luck- 
 less Monsieur de la ]\Iotte. He had never been very far 
 away from JNIadame de Saverne since her husband's de- 
 parture. In spite of chaplains, and duennas, and 
 guards, and locks and keys, he had found means of com- 
 municating with her. How? By what lies and strata- 
 gems? By what arts and bribery? These poor people 
 are both gone to their account. Both suffered a fearful 
 punishment. I will not describe their follies, and don't 
 care to be INIons. Figaro, and hold the ladder and lan- 
 tern, while the count scales Rosina's window. Poor, 
 frightened, erring soul ! She suffered an awful penalty 
 for what, no doubt, was a great wrong. 
 
 A child almost, she was married to M. de Saverne, 
 without knowing him, without liking him, because her 
 parents ordered her, and because she was bound to com- 
 ply with their will. She was sold, and went to her 
 slavery. She lived at first obediently enough. If she 
 shed tears, they were dried; if she quarrelled with her 
 husband, the two were presently reconciled. She bore 
 no especial malice, and was as gentle, subordinate a slave 
 as ever you shall see in Jamaica or Barbadoes. No- 
 body's tears were sooner dried, as I should judge: none 
 would be more ready to kiss the hand of the overseer who 
 drove her. But you don't expect sinceritj^ and sub- 
 servience too. I know, for my part, a lady who only 
 obeys when she likes : and faith ! it may be it is I who am 
 the hypocrite, and have to tremble, and smile, and 
 swindle before her. 
 
 When IMadame de Saverne's time was nearly come, it 
 was ordered that she should go to Strasbourg, where the
 
 28 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 best medical assistance is to be had : and here, six months 
 after her husband's departure for Corsica, their child, 
 Agnes de Saverne, was born. 
 
 Did secret terror and mental disquietude and remorse 
 now fall on the unhappy lady? She wrote to my mother, 
 at this time her only confidante ( and yet not a confidante 
 of all!)— "O Ursule! I dread this event. Perhaps I 
 shall die. I think I hope I shall. In these long days, 
 since he has been away, I have got so to dread his return, ^ 
 that I believe I shall go mad when I see him. Do you 
 know, after the battle before Calvi, when I read that 
 many officers had been killed, I thought, is M. de 
 Saverne killed ? And I read the list down, and his name 
 was not there : and, my sister, my sister, I was not glad ! 
 Have I come to be such a monster as to wish my own 
 husband . . . No. I wish I was. I can't speak to M. 
 Schnorr about this. He is so stupid. He doesn't un- 
 derstand me. He is like my husband; for ever preach- 
 ing me his sermons. 
 
 "Listen, Ursule! Speak it to nobody! I have been 
 to hear a sermon. Oh, it was indeed divine! It was not 
 from one of our pastors. Oh, how they weary me! It 
 was from a good bishop of the French Church— not our 
 German Church— the Bishop of Amiens— who happens 
 to be here on a visit to the Cardinal Prince. The bishop's 
 name is M. de la Motte. He is a relative of a gentleman 
 of whom we have seen a great deal lately — of a great 
 friend of M. de Saverne, wlio saved my husband's life in 
 the battle M. de S. is always talking about. 
 
 " How beautiful the cathedral is! It was night when 
 I went. The church was lighted like the stars, and the 
 music was like Heaven. Ah, how different from M. 
 Schnorr at home, from— from somebody else at my new
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 29 
 
 home who is always preaching— that is, when he is at 
 home! Poor man! I wonder whether he preaches to 
 them in Corsica! I pity them if he does. Don't men- 
 tion the cathedral if you write to me. • The dragons don't 
 know anything about it. How they would scold if they 
 did! Oh, how they ennuyent me, the dragons! Behold 
 them! They think I am writing to my husband. All, 
 Ursule! When I write to him, I sit for hours before 
 the paper. I say nothing; and what I say seems to be 
 lies. Whereas when I write to you, my pen runs— runs! 
 The paper is covered before I think I have begun. So 
 it is when I write to .... I do believe that vilain 
 dragon is peeking at my note with her spectacles ! Yes, 
 my good sister, I am writing to M. le Comte! " 
 
 To this letter a postscript is added, as by the coun- 
 tess's command, in the German language, in which Ma- 
 dame de Saverne's medical attendant announces the 
 birth of a daughter, and that the child and mother are 
 doing well. 
 
 That daughter is sitting before me now— with spec- 
 tacles on nose too— very placidly spelling the Ports- 
 mouth paper, where I hope she will soon read the pro- 
 motion of Monsieur Scapegrace, her son. She has 
 exchanged her noble name for mine, which is only humble 
 and honest. My dear! your eyes are not so bright as 
 once I remember them, and the raven locks are streaked 
 with silver. To shield thy head from dangers has been 
 the blessed chance and duty of my life. When I turn 
 towards her, and see her moored in our harbour of rest, 
 after our life's chequered voyage, calm and happy, a 
 sense of immense gratitude fills my being, and my heart 
 says a hymn of praise. 
 
 The first days of the hfe of Agnes de Saverne were
 
 30 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 marked by incidents which were strangely to influence 
 her career. Around her little cradle a double, a triple 
 tragedy was about to be enacted. Strange that death, 
 crime, revenge, remorse, mystery, should attend round 
 the cradle of one so innocent and pure — as pure and in- 
 nocent, I pray Heaven now, as upon that day when, at 
 scarce a month old, the adventures of her life began. 
 
 That letter to my mother, written by JNIadame de 
 Saverne on the eve of her child's birth, and finished by 
 her attendant, bears date November 25, 1768. A month 
 later Martha Seebach, her attendant, wrote (in Ger- 
 man) that her mistress had suffered frightfully from 
 fever ; so much so that her reason left her for some time, 
 and her life was despaired of. Mesdemoiselles de Barr 
 were for bringing up the child by hand; but not being 
 versed in nursery practices, the infant had ailed sadly 
 until restored to its mother. Madame de Saverne was 
 now tranquil. Madame w^as greatly better. She had 
 suffered most fearfully. In her illness she was constantly 
 calling for her foster-sister to protect her from some 
 danger, which, as she appeared to fancy, menaced 
 Madame. 
 
 Child as I was at the time when these letters were pass- 
 ing, I remember the arrival of the next. It lies in j^onder 
 drawer, and was written by a poor fevered hand which is 
 now cold, in ink which is faded after fifty years. ^ I re- 
 member my mother screaming out in German, which she 
 always spoke when strongly moved, " Dear Heaven, my 
 child is mad— is mad!" And indeed that poor faded 
 letter contains a strange rhapsody. 
 
 " Ursule! " she wrote (I do not care to give at length 
 
 * The memoirs appear to have been written in the years '20, '21. Mr. Duval 
 was gazetted Rear-Admiral and K.C.B. in the promotions on the accession 
 of King George IV.
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 31 
 
 the words of the poor wandering creature), "after my 
 child was born the demons wanted to take her from me. 
 But I struggled and kept her quite close, and now they 
 can no longer hurt her. I took her to church. Martha 
 went with me, and He was there— he always is— to de- 
 fend me from the demons, and I had her christened 
 Agnes, and I was christened Agnes too. Think of my 
 being christened at twenty-two! Agnes the First, and 
 Agnes the Second. But though my name is changed, I 
 am always the same to my Ursule, and my name now is, 
 Agnes Clarisse de Saverne, born de Viomesnil." 
 
 She had actually, when not quite mistress of her own 
 reason, been baptized into the Roman Catholic Church 
 with her child. Was she sane when she so acted? Had 
 she thought of the step before taking it? Had she 
 known Catholic clergymen at Saverne, or had she other 
 reasons for her conversion than those which were fur- 
 nished in the conversations which took place between her 
 husband and ]M. de la INIotte? In this letter the poor 
 lady says, " Yesterday two persons came to my bed with 
 gold crowns round their heads. One was dressed like 
 a priest ; one was beautiful and covered with arrows, and 
 they said, ' We are Saint Fabian and Saint Sebastian ; 
 and to-morrow is the day of St. Agnes : and she will be 
 at church to receive you there.' " 
 
 What the real case was I never knew. The Protestant 
 clergyman whom I saw in after days could only bring 
 his book to show that he had christened the infant, not 
 Agnes, but Augustine. Martha Seebach is dead. La 
 Motte, when I conversed with him, did not touch upon 
 this part of the poor lady's history. I conjecture that 
 the images and pictures which she had seen in the 
 churches operated upon her fevered brain ; that, having
 
 32 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 procured a Roman Calendar and Missal, she knew saints' 
 days and feasts; and, not yet recovered from her de- 
 lirimii or quite responsible for the actions which she per- 
 formed, she took her child to the cathedral, and was 
 baptized there. 
 
 And now, no doubt, the poor lady had to practise more 
 deceit and concealment. The "demons" were the old 
 maiden sisters left to watch over her. She had to hood- 
 wink these. Had she not done so before— when she 
 went to the Cardinal's palace at Saverne? Wherever the 
 poor thing moved I fancy those ill-omened eyes of La 
 Motte glimmering upon her out of the darkness. Poor 
 Eve— not lost quite, I pray and think,— but that serpent 
 was ever trailing after her, and she was to die poisoned 
 in its coil. Who shall understand the awful ways of 
 Fate? A year after that period regarding which I write, 
 a lovely Imperial Princess rode through the Strasbourg 
 streets radiant and blushing, amidst pealing bells, roar- 
 ing cannon, garlands and banners, and shouting multi- 
 tudes. Did any one ever think that the last stage of that 
 life's journey was to be taken in a hideous tumbrel, and 
 to terminate on a scaffold? The hfe of Madame de 
 Saverne was to last but a year more, and her end to be 
 scarcely less tragical. 
 
 Many physicians have told me how often after the 
 birth of a child the brain of a mother will be affected. 
 Madame de Saverne remained for some time in this 
 febrile condition, if not unconscious of her actions, at 
 least not accountable for all of them. At the end of 
 three months she woke up as out of a dream, having a 
 dreadful recollection of the circumstances which had 
 passed. Under what hallucinations we never shall know, 
 or yielding to what persuasions, the wife of a stern Prot-
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 33 
 
 estant nobleman had been to a Roman Catholic church, 
 and had been christened there with her child. She never 
 could recall that step. A great terror came over her as 
 she thought of it— a great terror and a hatred of her hus- 
 band, the cause of all her grief and her fear. She began 
 to look out lest he should return ; she clutched her child 
 to her breast, and barred and bolted all doors for fear 
 people should rob her of the infant. The Protestant 
 chaplain, the Protestant sisters-in-law, looked on with 
 dismay and anxiety; they thought justly that Madame 
 de Saverne was not yet quite restored to her reason; 
 they consulted the physicians, who agreed with them; 
 who arrived, who prescribed; who were treated by the 
 patient with scorn, laughter, insult sometimes; some- 
 times with tears and terror, according to her wayward 
 mood. Her condition was most puzzling. The sisters 
 wrote from time to time guarded reports respecting her 
 to her husband in Corsica. He, for his part, replied in- 
 stantly with volumes of his wonted verbose common- 
 place. He acquiesced in the decrees of Fate, when in- 
 formed that a daughter was born to him ; and presently 
 wrote whole reams of instructions regarding her nur- 
 ture, dress, and physical and religious training. The 
 child was called Agnes? He would have preferred Bar- 
 bara, as being his mother's name. I remember in some 
 of the poor gentleman's letters there were orders about 
 the child's pap, and instructions as to the nurse's diet. 
 He was coming home soon. The Corsicans had been de- 
 feated in every action. Had he been a Catholic he would 
 have been a knight of the King's orders long ere this. 
 M. de Viomesnil hoped still to get for him the order of 
 Military Merit (the Protestant order which his INIajesty 
 had founded ten years previously). These letters
 
 34 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 ( which were subsequently lost by an accident at sea ^ ) 
 spoke modestly enough of the Count's personal adven- 
 tures. I hold him to have been a very brave man, and 
 only not tedious and prolix when he spoke of his own 
 merits and services. 
 
 The Count's letters succeeded each other post after 
 post. The end of the war was approaching, and with it 
 his return was assured. He exulted in the thought of 
 seeing his child, and leading her in the way she should 
 go — the right way, the true way. As the mother's brain 
 cleared, her terror grew greater — her terror and loath- 
 ing of her husband. She could not bear the thought of 
 his return, or to face him with the confession which she 
 knew she must make. His wife turn Catholic and bap- 
 tize his child? She felt he would kill her, did he know 
 what had happened. She went to the priest who had 
 baptized her. M. Georgel (his Eminence's secretary) 
 knew her husband. The Prince Cardinal was so great 
 and powerful a prelate, Georgel said, that he would pro- 
 tect her against all the wrath of all the Protestants in 
 France. I think she must have had interviews wath the 
 Prince Cardinal, though there is no account of them in 
 any letter to my mother. 
 
 The campaign was at an end. M. de Vaux, M. de Vio- 
 mesnil, both wrote in highly eulogistic terms of the con- 
 duct of the Count de Saverne. Their good wishes would 
 attend him home; Protestant as he was their best in- 
 terest should be exerted in his behalf. 
 
 The day of the Count's return approached. The day 
 arrived: I can fancy the brave gentleman with beating 
 
 ^ The letters from Madame de Saverne to my mother at Winchelsea were 
 not subject to this mishap, but were always kept by Madame Duval in her 
 own escritoire.
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 35 
 
 heart ascending the steps of the homely lodging where 
 his family have been living at Strasbourg ever since the 
 infant's birth. How he has dreamt about that child: 
 prayed for her and his wife at night-watch and bivouac 
 — prayed for them as he stood, calm and devout, in the 
 midst of battle 
 
 When he enters the room, he sees only two frightened 
 domestics and the two ghastly faces of his scared old 
 sisters. 
 
 " Where are Clarisse and the child? " he asks. 
 
 The child and the mother were gone. The aunts knew 
 not where. 
 
 A stroke of palsy could scarcely have smitten the un- 
 happy gentleman more severely than did the news which 
 his trembling family was obliged to give him. In later 
 days I saw M. Schnorr, the German pastor from Kehl, 
 who has been mentioned already, and who was installed 
 in the Count's house as tutor and chaplain during the 
 absence of the master. " When Madame de Saverne 
 went to make her coucher at Strasbourg" (M. Schnorr 
 said to me) , " I retired to my duties at Kehl, glad enough 
 to return to the quiet of my home, for the noble lady's 
 reception of me was anything but gracious; and I had 
 to endure much female sarcasm and many unkind words 
 from Madame la Comtesse, whenever, as in dutj^ bound, 
 I presented myself at her table. Sir, that most unhappy 
 lady used to make sport of me before her domestics. 
 She used to call me her gaoler. She used to mimic my 
 ways of eating and drinking. She would yawn in the 
 midst of my exhortations, and cry out, ' O que c'est 
 bete ! ' and when I gave out a Psalm, would utter little 
 cries, and say, ' Pardon me, INI. Schnorr, but you sing so 
 out of tune you make my head ache ; ' so that I could
 
 36 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 scarcely continue that portion of the service, the very- 
 domestics laughing at me when I began to sing. My 
 life was a martyrdom, but I bore my tortures meekly, 
 out of a sense of duty and my love for M. le Comte. 
 When her ladyship kept her chamber I used to wait 
 almost daily upon Mesdemoiselles the Count's sisters, to 
 ask news of her and her child. I christened the infant ; 
 but her mother was too ill to be present, and sent me out 
 word by Mademoiselle IMarthe that she should call the 
 child Agnes, though I might name it what I pleased. 
 This was on the 21st January, and I remember being 
 struck, because in the Roman Calendar the feast of St. 
 Agnes is celebrated on that day. 
 
 " Haggard and actually grown grey, from a black 
 man which he was, my poor lord came to me with wild- 
 ness and agony of grief in all his features and actions, to 
 announce to me that Madame the Countess had fled, tak- 
 ing her infant with her. And he had a scrap of paper 
 with him, over which he wept and raged as one demented ; 
 now pouring out fiercer imprecations, now bursting into 
 passionate tears and cries, calling upon his wife, his dar- 
 ling, his prodigal, to come back, to bring him his child, 
 when all should be forgiven. As he thus spoke his 
 screams and groans were so piteous, that I myself was 
 quite unmanned, and my mother, who keeps house for 
 me (and who happened to be listening at the door) , was 
 likewise greatly alarmed by my poor lord's passion of 
 grief. And when I read on that paper that my lady 
 countess had left the faith to which our fathers gloriously 
 testified in the midst of trouble, slaughter, persecution, 
 and bondage, I was scarcely less shocked than my good 
 lord himself. 
 
 " We crossed the bridge to Strasbourg back again and
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 37 
 
 went to the Cathedral Church, and entering there, we 
 saw the Abbe Georgel coming out of a chapel where he 
 had been to perform his devotions. The Abbe, who 
 knew me, gave a ghastly smile as he recognized me, and 
 for a pale man, his cheek blushed up a little when I said, 
 ' This is INIonsieur the Comte de Saverne.' 
 
 "'Where is she?' asked my poor lord, clutching the 
 Abbe's arm. 
 
 Who? ' asked the Abbe, stepping back a little. 
 '"Where is my child? where is my wife?' cries the 
 Count. 
 
 Silence, Monsieur! ' says the Abbe. ' Do you know 
 in whose house you are?' and the chant from the altar, 
 where the service was being performed, came upon us, 
 and smote my poor lord as though a shot had struck 
 him. We were standing, he tottering against a pillar 
 in the nave, close by the christening font, and over my 
 lord's head was a picture of Saint Agnes. 
 
 " The agony of the poor gentleman could not but 
 touch any one who witnessed it. ' M. le Comte,' says the 
 Abbe, ' I feel for j^ou. This great surprise has come 
 upon you unprepared — I — I pray that it may be for 
 your good.' 
 
 You know, then, what has happened?' asked M. 
 de Saverne; and the Abbe was obliged to stammer a 
 confession that he did know what had occurred. He 
 was, in fact, the very man who had performed the rite 
 which separated my unhappy lady from the church of 
 her fathers. 
 
 Sir,' he said, with some spirit, ' this was a service 
 which no clergyman could refuse. I would to heaven. 
 Monsieur, that you, too, might be brought to ask it 
 from me.'
 
 38 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 " The poor Count, with despair in his face, asked to 
 see the register which confirmed the news, and there we 
 saw that on the 21st January, 1769, being the Feast of 
 St. Agnes, the noble lady, Clarisse, Countess of Saverne, 
 born de Viomesnil, aged twenty-two years, and Agnes, 
 only daughter of the same Count of Saverne and Cla- 
 risse his wife, were baptized and received into the Church 
 in the presence of two witnesses (clerics) whose names 
 were signed. 
 
 " The poor Count knelt over the registry book with 
 an awful grief in his face, and in a mood which I heartily 
 pitied. He bent down, uttering what seemed an impre- 
 cation rather than a prayer, and at this moment it 
 chanced the service at the chief altar was concluded, and 
 JNIonseigneur and his suite of clergy came into the sac- 
 risty. Sir, the Count de Saverne, starting up, clutching 
 his sword in his hand, and shaking his fist at the Car- 
 dinal, uttered a wild speech calling down imprecations 
 upon the church of which the prince was a chief : ' Where 
 is my lamb that you have taken from me? ' he said, using 
 the language of the Prophet towards the King who had 
 despoiled him. 
 
 " The Cardinal haughtily said the conversion of Ma- 
 dame de Saverne was of heaven, and no act of his, and, 
 adding, ' Bad neighbour as you have been to me, sir, I 
 wish you so well that I hope you may follow her.' 
 
 "At this the Count, losing all patience, made a violent 
 attack upon the Church of Rome, denounced the Car- 
 dinal, and called down maledictions upon his head ; said 
 that a day should come when his abominable pride should 
 meet with a punishment and fall ; and spoke, as, in fact, 
 the poor gentleman was able to do only too readily and 
 volubly, against Rome and all its errors.
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 39 
 
 " The Prince Louis de Rohan rephed with no httle 
 dignity, as I own. He said that such words in such a 
 place were offensive and out of all reason: that it only 
 depended on him to have M. de Saverne arrested, and 
 punished for blasphemy and insult to the Church: but 
 that, pitying the Count's unhappy condition, the Car- 
 dinal would forget the hasty and insolent words he had 
 uttered— as he would know how to defend Madame de 
 Saverne and her child after the righteous step which she 
 had taken. And he swept out of the sacristy with his 
 suite, and passed through the door which leads into his 
 palace, leaving my poor Count still in his despair and 
 fury. 
 
 "As he spoke with those Scripture phrases which M. 
 de Saverne ever had at command, I remember how the 
 Prince Cardinal tossed up his head and smiled. I won- 
 der whether he thought of the words when his own day 
 of disgrace came, and the fatal affair of the diamond 
 necklace which brought him to ruin." ^ 
 
 "Not without difficulty" (M. Schnorr resumed) "I 
 induced the poor Count to quit the church where his 
 wife's apostasy had been performed. The outer gates 
 and walls are decorated with numberless sculptures of 
 saints of the Roman Calendar: and for a minute or 
 two the poor man stood on the threshold shouting im- 
 precations in the sunshine, and calling down woe 
 upon France and Rome. I hurried him away. Such 
 language was dangerous, and could bring no good to 
 either of us. He was almost a madman when I con- 
 ducted him back to his home, where the ladies his sisters, 
 
 ^ My informant, Protestant though he was, did not, as I remember, speak 
 with very much asperity against the Prince Cardinal. He said that the prince 
 lived an edifying life after his fall, succouring the poor, and doing every- 
 thing in his power to defend the cause of royalty. — D. D.
 
 40 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 scared with his wild looks, besought me not to leave 
 him. 
 
 "Again he went into the room which his wife and child 
 had inhabited, and, as he looked at the relics of both 
 which still were left there, gave way to bursts of grief 
 which were pitiable indeed to witness. I speak of what 
 happened near forty years ago, and remember the scene 
 as though yesterday: the passionate agony of the poor 
 gentleman, the sobs and prayers. On a chest of drawers 
 there was a little cap belonging to the infant. He seized 
 it: kissed it: wept over it: calling upon the mother to 
 bring the child back and he would forgive all. He thrust 
 the little cap into his breast : opened every drawer, book, 
 and closet, seeking for some indications of the fugitives. 
 My opinion was, and that even of the ladies, sisters of 
 M. le Comte, that Madame had taken refuge in a con- 
 vent with the child, that the Cardinal knew where she 
 was, poor and friendless, and that the Protestant gen- 
 tleman would in vain seek for her. Perhaps when 
 tired of that place— I for my part thought Madame la 
 Comtesse a light-minded, wilful person, who certainly 
 had no vocation^, as the Catholics call it, for a religious 
 life— I thought she might come out after a while, and 
 gave my patron such consolation as I could devise, upon 
 this faint hope. He who was all forgiveness at one min- 
 ute, was all wrath at the next. He would rather see his 
 child dead than receive her as a Catholic. He would go 
 to the King, surrounded by harlots as he was, and ask for 
 justice. There were still Protestant gentlemen left in 
 France, whose spirit was not altogether trodden down, 
 and they would back him in demanding rej)aration for 
 this outrage. 
 
 " I had some vague suspicion, which, however, I dis-
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 41 
 
 missed from my mind as unworthy, that there might be 
 a third party cognizant of Madame's flight; and this 
 was a gentleman, once a great favourite of M. le Comte, 
 and in whom I myself was not a little interested. Three 
 or four days after the Comte de Saverne went away to 
 the war, as I was meditating on a sermon which I pro- 
 posed to deliver, walking at the back of my lord's house 
 of Saverne, in the fields which skirt the wood where the 
 Prince Cardinal's great Schloss stands, I saw this gen- 
 tleman with a gun over his shoulder, and recognized him 
 — the Chevalier de la Motte, the very person who had 
 saved the life of M. de Saverne in the campaign against 
 the English. 
 
 " ]M. de la Motte said he was staying with the Car- 
 dinal, and trusted that the ladies of Saverne were well. 
 He sent his respectful compliments to them : in a laugh- 
 ing way said he had been denied the door when he came 
 to a visit, which he thought was an unkind act towards 
 an old comrade ; and at the same time expressed his sor- 
 row at the Count's departure — ' for, Herr Pfarrer,' said 
 he, ' you know I am a good Catholic, and in many most 
 important conversations which I had with the Comte de 
 Saverne, the differences between our two churches was 
 the subject of our talk, and I do think I should have con- 
 verted him to ours.' I, humble village pastor as I am, 
 was not afraid to speak in such a cause, and we straight- 
 way had a most interesting conversation together, in 
 which, as the gentleman showed, I had not the worst 
 of the argument. It appeared he had been educated 
 for the Roman Church, but afterwards entered the 
 army. He was a most interesting man, and his name 
 was le Chevalier de la Motte. You look as if you 
 had know him, M. le Capitaine— will it please you
 
 42 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 to replenish your pipe, and take another glass of my 
 beer? " 
 
 I said I had effectivement known M. de la Motte; and 
 the good old clergyman (with many compliments to me 
 for speaking French and German so glibly) proceeded 
 with his artless narrative: " I was ever a poor horseman: 
 and when I came to be chaplain and major-domo at the 
 Hotel de Saverne, in the Count's absence, Madame more 
 than once rode entirely away from me, saying that she 
 could not afford to go at my clerical jog-trot. And 
 being in a scarlet amazon, and a conspicuous object, you 
 see, I thought I saw her at a distance talking to a gen- 
 tleman on a schimmel horse, in a grass-green coat. 
 When I asked her to whom she spoke, she said, ' M. le 
 Pasteur, you radotez with your grey horse and your 
 green coat! If you are set to be a spy over me, ride 
 faster, or bring out the old ladies to bark at your side.' 
 The fact is, the Countess was for ever quarrelling with 
 those old ladies, and they were a yelping ill-natured pair. 
 They treated me, a pastor of the Reformed Church of 
 the Augsburg Confession, as no better than a lacquey, 
 sir, and made me eat the bread of humiliation ; whereas 
 Madame la Comtesse, though often haughty, flighty, 
 and passionate, could also be so winning and gentle, that 
 no one could resist her. Ah, sir! " said the pastor, " that 
 woman had a coaxing way with her when she chose, and 
 when her flight came I was in such a way that the jealous 
 old sister-in-laws said I was in love with her myself. 
 Pfui! For a month before my lord's arrival I had been 
 knocking at all doors to see if I could find my poor 
 wandering lady behind them. She, her chil.d, and Mar- 
 tha her maid, were gone, and we knew not whither. 
 
 " On that very first day of his unhappy arrival, M. le
 
 THE HOUSE OF SAVERNE 43 
 
 Comte discovered what his sisters, jealous and curious 
 as they were, what I, a man of no inconsiderable acumen, 
 had failed to note. Amongst torn papers and chiffons, 
 in her ladyship's bureau, there was a scrap with one line 
 in her handwriting— '^ Ursule^ Ursulej le tyran rev. . . / 
 and no more. 
 
 "'Ah!' M. le Comte said, 'she is gone to her foster- 
 sister in England! Quick, quick, horses!' And before 
 two hours were passed he was on horseback, making the 
 first stage of that long journey."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE TRAVELLERS 
 
 THE poor gentleman was in such haste that the old 
 proverb was realized in his case, and his journey 
 was anything but speedy. At Nanci he fell ill of a 
 fever, which had nearly carried him off, and in which he 
 unceasingly raved about his child, and called upon his 
 faithless wife to return her. Almost before he was con- 
 valescent, he was on his way again, to Boulogne, where 
 he saw that English coast on which he rightly conjec- 
 tured his fugitive wife was sheltered. 
 
 And here, from my boyish remembrance, which, re- 
 specting these early days, remains extraordinarily clear, 
 I can take up the story, in which I was myself a very 
 young actor, playing in the strange, fantastic, often ter- 
 rible, drama which ensued a not insignificant part. As 
 I survey it now, the curtain is down, and the play long 
 over ; as I think of its surprises, disguises, mysteries, es- 
 capes, and dangers, I am amazed myself, and sometimes 
 inclined to be almost as great a fatalist as M. de la Motte, 
 who vowed that a superior Power ruled our actions for 
 us, and declared that he could no more prevent his des- 
 tiny from accomplishing itself, than he could prevent 
 his hair from growing. What a destiny it was ! What 
 a fatal tragedy was now about to begin ! 
 
 One evening in our INIidsummer holidays, in the year 
 1769, 1 remember being seated in my little chair at home,
 
 THE TRAVELLERS 45 
 
 with a tempest of rain beating down the street. We had 
 customers on most evenings, but there happened to be 
 none on this night ; and I remember I was puzzhng over 
 a bit of Latin grammar, to which mother used to keep 
 me stoutly when I came home from school. 
 
 It is fifty years since. ^ I have forgotten who knows 
 how many events of my life, which are not much worth 
 the remembering; but I have as clearly before my eyes 
 now a little scene which occurred on this momentous 
 night, as though it had been acted within this hour. As 
 we are sitting at our various employments, we hear steps 
 coming up the street, which was empty, and silent but 
 for the noise of the wind and rain. We hear steps — sev- 
 eral steps— along the pavement, and they stop at our 
 door. 
 
 " Madame Duval ! It is Gregson ! " cries a voice from 
 without. 
 
 "Ah, bon Dieu!" says mother, starting up and turn- 
 ing quite white. 
 
 And then I heard the ciy of an infant. Dear heart! 
 How well I remember that little cry ! 
 
 As the door opens, a great gust of wind sets our two 
 candles flickering, and I see enter — 
 
 A gentleman giving his arm to a lady who is veiled in 
 cloaks and wraps, an attendant carrying a crying child, 
 and Gregson the boatman after them. 
 
 My mother gives a great hoarse shriek, and crying out, 
 "Clarisse! Clarisse!" rushes up to the lady, and hugs 
 and embraces her passionately. The child cries and 
 wails. The nurse strives to soothe the infant. The gen- 
 tleman takes off his hat and wrings the wet from it, and 
 looks at me. It was then I felt a strange shock and ter- 
 
 * The narrative seems to have been written about the year 1820.
 
 46 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 ror. I have felt the same shock once or twice in my Hf e : 
 and once, notably, the person so affecting me has been 
 my enemy, and has come to a dismal end. 
 
 " We have had a very rough voyage," says the gentle- 
 man (in French) to my grandfather. "We have been 
 fourteen hours at sea. Madame has suffered greatly, 
 and is much exhausted." 
 
 " Thy rooms are ready," says mother, fondly. " ]My 
 poor Biche, thou shalt sleep in comfort to-night, and 
 need fear nothing, nothing! " 
 
 A few days before I had seen mother and her servant 
 mightily busy in preparing the rooms on the first floor, 
 and decorating them. When I asked whom she was ex- 
 pecting, she boxed my ears, and bade me be quiet; but 
 these were evidently the expected visitors; and, of 
 course, from the names which mother used, I knew that 
 the lady was the Countess of Saverne. 
 
 "And this is thy son, Ursule? " says the lady. " He is 
 a great boy! My little wretch is always crying." 
 
 " Oh, the little darling," says mother, seizing the child, 
 which fell to crying louder than ever, " scared by the 
 nodding plume and bristling crest " of Madame Duval, 
 who wore a great cap in those days, and indeed looked as 
 fierce as any Hector. 
 
 When the pale lady spoke so harshly about the child, 
 I remember myself feeling a sort of surprise and dis- 
 pleasure. Indeed, I have loved children all my life, and 
 am a fool about them (as witness my treatment of my 
 own rascal) , and no one can say that I was ever a tyrant 
 at school, or ever fought there except to hold my own. 
 
 My mother produced what food w^as in the house, and 
 welcomed her guests to her humble table. What trivial 
 things remain impressed on the memory! I remember
 
 THE TRAVELLERS 47 
 
 laughing in my boyish way because the lady said, "All! 
 c'est ca du the? je n'en ai jamais goute. Mais c'est tres 
 mauvais, n'est-ce pas, M. le Chevalier? " I suppose they 
 had not learned to drink tea in Alsace yet. Mother 
 stopped my laughing with her usual appeal to my ears. 
 I was daily receiving that sort of correction from the 
 good soul. Grandfather said, If Madame the Countess 
 would like a little tass of real Nantes brandy after her 
 voyage, he could supply her; but she would have none 
 of that either, and retired soon to her chamber, which had 
 been prepared for her with my mother's best sheets and 
 diapers, and in which was a bed for her maid Martha, 
 who had retired to it with the little crying child. For M. 
 le Chevalier de la Motte an apartment was taken at Mr. 
 Billis's the baker's, down the street:— a friend who gave 
 me many a plum-cake in my childhood, and whose wigs 
 grandfather dressed, if you must know the truth. 
 
 At morning and evening we used to have prayers, 
 which grandfather spoke with much eloquence; but on 
 this night, as he took out his great Bible, and was for 
 having me read a chapter, my mother said, " No. This 
 poor Clarisse is fatigued, and will go to bed." And to 
 bed accordingly the stranger went. And as I read my 
 little chapter, I remember how tears fell down mother's 
 cheeks, and how she cried, "Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu! 
 ayez pitie d'elle," and when I was going to sing our 
 evening hymn, " Nun ruhen alle Walder," she told me 
 to hush. Madame upstairs was tired, and wanted to 
 sleep. And she went upstairs to look after Madame, and 
 bade me to be a little guide to the strange gentleman, and 
 show him the way to Billis's house. Off I went, prat- 
 tling by his side; I dare say I soon forgot the terror 
 which I felt when I first saw him. You may be sure all
 
 48 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 Winchelsea knew that a French lady, and her child, and 
 her maid, were come to stay with Madame Duval, and 
 a French gentleman to lodge over the baker's. 
 
 I never shall forget my terror and astonishment when 
 mother told me that this lady who came to us was a 
 Papist. There were two gentlemen of that religion liv- 
 ing in our town, at a handsome house called the Priory; 
 but they had little to do with persons in my parents' 
 humble walk of life, though of course my mother would 
 dress Mrs. Weston's head as well as any other lady's. I 
 forgot also to say that Mrs. Duval went out sometimes 
 as ladies' nurse, and in that capacity had attended Mrs. 
 Weston, who, however, lost her child. The Westons had 
 a chapel in their house, in the old grounds of the Priory, 
 and clergymen of their persuasion used to come over 
 from my Lord Newburgh's of Slindon, or from Arun- 
 del, where there is another great Papist house ; and one 
 or two Roman Catholics— there were very few of them 
 in our town— were buried in a part of the old gardens 
 of the Priory, where a monks' burying-place had been 
 before Harry VIII.'s time. 
 
 The new gentleman was the first Papist to whom I 
 had ever spoken; and as I trotted about the town with 
 him, showing him the old gates, the church, and so forth, 
 I remember saying to him, "And have you burned any 
 Protestants?" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" says he, giving a horrible grin, "I have 
 roasted several, and eaten them afterwards." And I 
 shrank back from him, and his pale grinning face ; feel- 
 ing once more that terror which had come over me when 
 I first beheld him. He was a queer gentleman ; he was 
 amused by my simplicity and odd sayings. He was 
 never tired of having me with him. He said I should
 
 THE TRAVELLERS 49 
 
 be his little English master; and indeed he learned the 
 language surprising^ quick, whereas poor Madame de 
 Saverne never understood a word of it. 
 
 She was very ill— pale, with a red spot on either cheek, 
 sitting for whole hours in silence, and looking round 
 frightened, as if a prey to some terror. I have seen my 
 mother watching her, and looking almost as scared as the 
 countess herself. At times, Madame could not bear the 
 crying of the child, and would order it away from her. 
 At other times, she would clutch it, cover it with cloaks, 
 and lock her door, and herself into the chamber with her 
 infant. She used to walk about the house of a night. I 
 had a httle room near mother's, which I occupied during 
 the holidays, and on Saturdays and Sundays, when I 
 came over from Rye. I remember quite well waking up 
 one night, and hearing Madame's voice at mother's door, 
 crying out, "Ursula, Ursula! quick! horses! I must go 
 away. He is coming ; I know he is coming ! " And then 
 there were remonstrances on mother's part, and Ma- 
 dame's maid came out of her room, with entreaties to her 
 mistress to return. At the cry of the child, the poor 
 mother would rush away from whatever place she was 
 in, and hurry to the infant. Not that she loved it. At 
 the next moment she would cast the child down on the 
 bed, and go to the window again, and look to the sea. 
 For hours she sat at that window, with a curtain twisted 
 round her, as if hiding from some one. Ah! how have 
 I looked up at that window since, and the light twinkling 
 here! I wonder does the house remain yet? I don't like 
 now to think of the passionate grief I have passed 
 through, as I looked up to yon glimmering lattice. 
 
 It was evident our poor visitor was in a deplorable 
 condition. The apothecary used to come and shake his
 
 50 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 head, and order medicine. The medicine did little good. 
 The sleeplessness continued. She was a prey to constant 
 fever. She would make incoherent answers to questions » 
 put to her, laugh and weep at odd times and places ; push 
 her meals away from her, though they were the best my 
 poor mother could supply; order my grandfather to go 
 and sit in the kitchen, and not have the impudence to sit 
 down before her; coax and scold my mother by turns, 
 and take her up very sharply when she rebuked me. 
 Poor Madame Duval was scared by her foster-sister. 
 She, who ruled everybody, became humble before the 
 poor crazy lady. I can see them both now, the lady in 
 white, listless and silent as she would sit for hours taking 
 notice of no one, and mother watching her with terrified 
 dark eyes. 
 
 The Chevalier de la ]\Iotte had his lodgings, and came 
 and went between his house and ours. I thought he was 
 the lady's cousin. He used to call himself her cousin ; I 
 did not know what our pastor M. Borel meant when he 
 came to mother one day, and said, " Fi, done, what a 
 pretty business thou hast commenced, JNIadame Denis — 
 thou an elder's daughter of our Church! " 
 
 " What business? " says mother. 
 
 " That of harbouring crime and sheltering iniquity," 
 says he, naming the crime, viz. No. vii. of the Decalogue. 
 
 Being a child, I did not then understand the word he 
 used. But as soon as he had spoken, mother, taking up 
 a saucepan of soup, cries out, " Get out of there, Mon- 
 sieur, all pastor as you are, or I will send this soup at thy 
 ugly head, and the saucepan afterwards." And she 
 looked so fierce, that I am not surprised the little man 
 trotted off. 
 
 Shortly afterwards grandfather comes home, looking
 
 THE TRAVELLERS 51 
 
 almost as frightened as his commanding officer, M. 
 Borel. Grandfather expostulated with his daughter- 
 in-law. He was in a great agitation. He wondered how 
 she could speak so to the pastor of the Church. "All the 
 town," says he, " is talking about you and this unhappy 
 lady." 
 
 "All the town is an old woman," replies Madame 
 Duval, stamping her foot and twisting her 7noustache, I 
 might say, almost. "What? These white-beaks of 
 French cry out because I receive my foster-sister? 
 What? It is wrong to shelter a poor foolish dying 
 woman? Oh, the cowards, the cowards! Listen, petit- 
 papa: if you hear a word said at the club against your 
 bru, and do not knock the man down, I will." And, 
 faith, I think grandfather's bru would have kept her 
 word. 
 
 I fear my own unlucky simplicity brought part of the 
 opprobrium down upon my poor mother, which she had 
 now to suffer in our French colony ; for one day a neigh- 
 bour, Madame Crochu by name, stepping in and asking, 
 " How is your boarder, and how is her cousin the 
 Count? " — 
 
 "Madame Clarisse is no better than before," said I 
 (shaking my head wisely) , " and the gentleman is not a 
 count, and he is not her cousin, Madame Crochu! " 
 
 "Oh, he is no relation?" says the mantuamaker. 
 And that story was quickly told over the little town, and 
 when we went to church next Sunday, M. Borel preached 
 a sermon which made all the congregation look to us, and 
 poor mother sat boiling red like a lobster fresh out of 
 the pot. I did not quite know what I had done : I know 
 what mother was giving me for my pains, when our poor 
 patient, entering the room, hearing, I suppose, the hiss-
 
 52 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 ing of the stick (and never word from me, I used to bite 
 a bullet, and hold my tongue), rushed into the room, 
 whisked the cane out of mother's hand, flung her to the 
 other end of the room with a strength quite surprising, 
 and clasped me up in her arms and began pacing up and 
 down the room, and glaring at mother. " Strike your 
 own child, monster, monster I" says the poor lady. 
 "Kneel down and ask pardon: or, as sure as I am the 
 queen, I will order your head off I" 
 
 At dinner, she ordered me to come and sit by her. 
 " Bishop ! " she said to grandfather, " my lady of honour 
 has been naughty. She whipped the little prince with a 
 scorpion. I took it from her hand. Duke! if she does it 
 again, there is a sword: I desire you to cut the coun- 
 tess's head off ! " And then she took a carving-knife and 
 waved it, and gave one of her laughs, which always set 
 poor mother a-crying. She used to call us dukes and 
 princes— I don't know what— poor soul. It was the 
 Chevalier de la Motte, whom she generally styled duke, 
 holding out her hand, and saying, " Kneel, sir, kneel, 
 and kiss our royal hand." And M. de la Motte would 
 kneel with a sad sad face, and go through this hapless 
 ceremony. As for grandfather, who was very bald, 
 and without his wig, being one evening below her win- 
 dow culling a salad in his garden, she beckoned him to 
 her smiling, and when the poor old man came, she upset 
 a dish of tea over his bald pate and said, " I appoint you 
 and anoint you Bishop of St. Denis! " 
 
 The woman Martha, who had been the companion of 
 the Countess de Saverne in her unfortunate flight from 
 home— I believe that since the birth of her child the 
 poor lady had never been in her right senses at all — 
 broke down under the ceaseless watching and care her
 
 THE TRAVELLERS 53 
 
 mistress's condition necessitated, and I have no doubt 
 found her duties yet more painful and difficult when a 
 second mistress, and a very harsh, imperious, and jealous 
 one, was set over her in the person of worthy Madame 
 Duval. My mother was for ordering everybody who 
 would submit to her orders, and entirely managing the 
 affairs of all those whom she loved. She put the mother 
 to bed, and the baby in her cradle; she prepared food 
 for both of them, dressed one and the other with an equal 
 affection, and loved that unconscious mother and child 
 with a passionate devotion. But she loved her own way, 
 was jealous of all who came between her and the objects 
 of her love, and no doubt led her subordinates an un- 
 comfortable life. 
 
 Three months of Madame Duval tired out the Coun- 
 tess's Alsatian maid, Martha. She revolted and said she 
 would go home. Mother said she was an ungrateful 
 wretch, but was delighted to get rid of her. She always 
 averred the woman stole articles of dress, and trinkets, 
 and laces, belonging to her mistress, before she left us: 
 and in an evil hour this wretched JNIartha went away. I 
 believe she really loved her mistress, and would have 
 loved the child, had my mother's rigid arms not pushed 
 her from its cot. Poor little innocent, in what tragic 
 gloom did thy life begin! But an unseen Power was 
 guarding that helpless innocence : and sure a good angel 
 watched it in its hour of danger ! 
 
 So Madame Duval turned Martha out of her tent as 
 Sarah thrust out Hagar. Are women pleased after 
 doing these pretty tricks? Your ladyships know best. 
 INIadame D. not only thrust out Martha, but flung stones 
 after INIartha all her life. She went away, not blameless 
 perhajDs, but wounded to the quick with ingratitude
 
 54 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 which had been shown to her, and a link in that mysteri- 
 ous chain of destiny which was binding all these people 
 — me tlie boy of seven years old; yonder little speech- 
 less infant of as many months; that poor wandering 
 lady bereft of reason; that dark inscrutable com- 
 panion of hers who brought evil with him wherever he 
 came. 
 
 From Dungeness to Boulogne is but six-and-thirty 
 miles, and our boats, when war was over, were constantly 
 making journeys there. Even in war-time the little 
 harmless craft left each other alone, and, I suspect, car- 
 ried on a great deal of peaceable and fraudulent trade 
 together. Grandfather had share of a " fishing " boat 
 with one Thomas Gregson of Lydd. When Martha was 
 determined to go, one of our boats was ready to take her 
 to the place from whence she came, or transfer her to a 
 French boat, which would return into its own harbour.^ 
 She was carried back to Boulogne and landed. I know 
 the day full well from a document now before me, of 
 which the dismal writing and signing were occasioned by 
 that very landing. 
 
 As she stepped out from the pier (a crowd of people, 
 no doubt, tearing the poor wretch's slender luggage from 
 her to carry it to the Customs) almost the first person on 
 whom the woman's eyes fell was her master the Count 
 de Saverne. He had actually only reached the place on 
 that very day, and walked the pier, looking towards 
 England, as many a man has done from the same spot, 
 when he saw the servant of his own wife come up the side 
 of the pier. 
 
 He rushed to her, as she started back screaming and 
 
 ' There were points for which our boats used to make, and meet the 
 French boats when not disturbed, and do a great deal more business than I 
 could then understand. — D. D.
 
 THE TRAVELLERS 55 
 
 almost fainting, but the crowd of beggars behind her 
 prevented her retreat. " The child, — does the child 
 live?" asked the poor Count, in the German tongue, 
 which both spoke. 
 
 The child was well. Thank God, thank God! The 
 poor father's heart was freed from that terror, then! I 
 can fancy the gentleman saying, " Your mistress is at 
 Winchelsea, with her foster-sister?" 
 
 " Yes, M. le Comte." 
 
 " The Chevalier de la Motte is always at Winchel- 
 sea?" 
 
 " Ye— oh, no, no, M. le Comte! " 
 
 " Silence, liar! He made the journey with her. They 
 stopped at the same inns. M. le Brun, merchant, aged 
 34; his sister, Madame Dubois, aged 24, with a female 
 infant in her arms, and a maid, left this port, on 20th 
 April, in the English fishing-boat ' Mary,' of Hye. Be- 
 fore embarking they slept at the ' Ecu de France.' I 
 knew I should find them." 
 
 " By all that is sacred, I never left Madame once dur- 
 ing the voyage!" 
 
 "Never till to-day? Enough. How was the fishing- 
 boat called which brought you to Boulogne?" 
 
 One of the boat's crew was actually walking behind 
 the unhappy gentleman at the time, with some packet 
 which Martha had left in it.^ It seemed as if fate was 
 determined upon suddenly and swiftly bringing the 
 criminal to justice, and under the avenging sword of 
 the friend he had betrayed. He bade the man follow him 
 to the hotel. There should be a good drink-money for 
 him. 
 
 ' I had this from the woman herself, whom we saw when we paid 
 our visit to Lorraine and Alsace in 1814.
 
 56 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 " Does he treat her well? " asked the poor gentleman, 
 as he and the maid walked on. 
 
 "Dame! No mother can be more gentle than he is 
 with her! " Where Martha erred was in not saying that 
 her mistress was utterly deprived of reason, and had been 
 so almost since the child's birth. She owned that she 
 had attended her lady to the cathedral when the Coun- 
 tess and the infant were christened, and that M. de la 
 Motte was also present. " He has taken body and soul 
 too," no doubt the miserable gentleman thought. 
 
 He happened to alight at the very hotel where the fu- 
 gitives of whom he was in search had had their quarters 
 four months before (so that for two months at least 
 poor M. de Saverne must have lain ill at Nanci at the 
 commencement of his journey) . The boatman, the lug- 
 gage people, and Martha the servant followed the Count 
 to this hotel; and the femme-de-chambre remembered 
 how Madame Dubois and her brother had been at the 
 hotel — a poor sick lady, who sat up talking the whole 
 night. Her brother slept in the right wing across the 
 court. Monsieur has the lady's room. How that child 
 did cry! See, the windows look on the port. " Yes, this 
 was the lady's room." 
 
 "And the child lay on which side? " 
 
 " On that side." 
 
 M. de Saverne looked at the place which the woman 
 pointed out, stooped his head towards the pillow, and 
 cried as if his heart would break. The fisherman's tears 
 rolled down too over his brown face and hands. Le 
 pauvre homme, le pauvre homme ! 
 
 " Come into my sitting-room with me," he said to 
 the fisherman. The man followed him and shut the 
 door.
 
 THE TRAVELLERS 57 
 
 His burst of feeling was now over. He became en- 
 tirely calm. 
 
 " You know the house from which this woman came, 
 
 at Winchelsea, in England? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 *' You took a gentleman and a lady thither?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You remember the man? " 
 
 " Perfectly." 
 
 " For thirty louis will you go to sea to-night, take a 
 passenger, and deliver a letter to M. de la Motte?" 
 
 The man agreed: and I take out from my secretary 
 that letter, in its tawny ink of fifty years' date, and read 
 it with a strange interest always: — 
 
 " To the Chevalier Francois Joseph de la Motte, at 
 
 Winchelsea, in England 
 
 '" I KNEW I should find you. I never doubted where you were. 
 But for a sharp illness which I made at Nanci, I should have 
 been with you two months earher. After what has occurred 
 between us, I know this invitation will be to you as a command, 
 and that you will hasten as you did to my rescue from the 
 English bayonets at Hastenbeck. Between us, M. le Chevalier, 
 it is to life or death. I depend upon you to communicate this 
 to no one, and to follow the messenger, who will bring you to me. 
 
 " Count de Saverne." 
 
 This letter was brought to our house one evening as 
 we sat in the front shop. I had the child on my knee, 
 which would have no other playfellow but me. The 
 Countess was pretty quiet that evening— the night 
 calm, and the windows open. Grandfather was reading 
 his book. The Countess and M. de la ]Motte were at 
 cards, though, poor thing, she could scarce play for ten
 
 58 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 minutes at a time; and there comes a knock, at which 
 grandfather puts down his book.^ 
 
 "All's well," says he. "Entrez. Comment! c'est 
 vous, Bidois? " 
 
 "Oui, c'est bien moi, patron!" says Mons. Bidois, a 
 great fellow in boots and petticoat, with an eelskin queue 
 hanging down to his heels. " C'est la le petit du pauv' 
 Jean Louis? Est i genti le pti patron! " 
 
 And as he looks at me, he rubs a hand across his nose. 
 
 At this moment INIadame la Comtesse gave one, two, 
 three screams, a laugh, and cries — "All, c'est mon mari 
 qui revient de la guerre. II est la — a la croisee. Bon 
 jour, M. le Comte! Bon jour. Vous avez une petite 
 jfille bien laide, bien laide, que je n'aime pas du tout, pas 
 du tout, pas du tout! He is there! I saw him at the 
 window. There! there! Hide me from him. He will 
 kill me, he will kill me! " she cried. 
 
 " Calmez-vous, Clarisse," says the Chevalier, who was 
 weary, no doubt, of the poor lady's endless outcries and 
 follies. 
 
 " Calmez-vous, ma fille! " sings out mother, from the 
 inner room, where she was washing. 
 
 "Ah, Monsieur is the Chevalier de la Motte?" says 
 Bidois. 
 
 "Apres Monsieur," says the Chevalier, looking 
 haughtily up from the cards. 
 
 " In that case, I have a letter for M. le Chevalier." 
 And the sailor handed to the Chevalier de la Motte that 
 letter which I have translated, the ink of which was black 
 and wet then, though now it is sere and faded. 
 
 This Chevalier had faced death and danger in a score 
 
 * There was a particular knock, as I learned later, in use among grand- 
 papa's private friends, and Mons. Bidois no doubt liad this signal.
 
 THE TRAVELLERS 59 
 
 of daredevil expeditions. At the game of steel and lead 
 there was no cooler performer. He put the letter which 
 he had received quietly into his pocket, finished his game 
 with the Countess, and telhng Bidois to follow him to his 
 lodgings, took leave of the company. I daresay the 
 poor Countess huilt up a house with the cards, and took 
 little more notice. IMother, going to close the shutters, 
 said, " It was droll, that little man, the friend to Bidois, 
 was still standing in the street." You see we had all sorts 
 of droll friends. Seafaring men, speaking a jargon of 
 English, French, Dutch, were constantly dropping in 
 upon us. Dear heaven! when I think in what a com- 
 pany I have lived, and what a galere I rowed in, is it not 
 a wonder that I did not finish where some of my friends 
 did? 
 
 I made a drole de metier at this time. I was set by 
 grandfather to learn his business. Our apprentice 
 taught me the conmiencement of the noble art of wig- 
 weaving. As soon as I was tall enough to stand to a 
 gentleman's nose I was promised to be promoted to be a 
 shaver. I trotted on mother's errands with her band- 
 boxes, and what not ; and I was made dry-nurse to poor 
 Madame's baby, who, as I said, loved me most of all in 
 the house; and who would put her little dimpled hands 
 out and crow with delight to see me. The first day I 
 went out with this little baby in a little wheel-chair mo- 
 ther got for her the town boys made rare fun of me : and 
 I had to fight one, as poor little Agnes sat sucking her 
 little thumb in her chair, I suppose ; and whilst the battle 
 was going on, who should come up but Doctor Barnard, 
 the English rector of Saint Philip's, who lent us French 
 Protestants the nave of his church for our service, whilst 
 our tumble-down old church was being mended. Doctor
 
 60 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 Barnard (for a reason which I did not know at that time, 
 but which I am compelled to own now was a good one) 
 did not like grandfather, nor mother, nor our family. 
 You may be sure our people abused him in return. He 
 was called a haughty priest— a vilain beeg-veeg, mother 
 used to say, in her French-English. And perhaps one 
 of the causes of her dislike to him was, that his big vig 
 —a fine cauliflower it was— was powdered at another 
 barber's. Well, whilst the battle royal was going on 
 between me and Tom CafRn (dear heart! how well I 
 remember the fellow, though— let me see— it is fifty- 
 four years since we punched each other's little noses), 
 Doctor Barnard walks up to us boys and stops the fight- 
 ing. "You little rogues! I'll have you all put in the 
 stocks and whipped by my beadle," says the Doctor, who 
 was a magistrate too: "as for this little French barber, 
 he is always in mischief." 
 
 " They laughed at me and called me Dry-nurse, and 
 wanted to upset the little cart, sir, and I wouldn't bear 
 it. And it's my duty to protect a poor child that can't 
 help itself," said I, very stoutly. " Her mother is ill. 
 Her nurse has run away, and she has nobody— nobody 
 to protect her but me— and 'Notre Pere qui est aux 
 cieux ; ' " and I held up my little hand as grandfather 
 used to do; " and if those boys hurt the child I will fight 
 for her." 
 
 The Doctor rubbed his hand across his eyes ; and felt 
 in his pocket and gave me a dollar. 
 
 "And come to see us all at the Rectory, child," Mrs. 
 Barnard says, who was with the Doctor; and she looked 
 at the little baby that was in its cot, and said, "Poor 
 thing, poor thing! " 
 
 And the Doctor, turning round to the Enghsh boys.
 
 THE TRAVELLERS 61 
 
 still holding me by the hand, said, " Mind, all you boys! 
 If I hear of you being such cowards again as to strike 
 this little lad for doing his duty, I will have you whipped 
 by my beadle, as sure as my name is Thomas Barnard. 
 Shake hands, you Thomas CafRn, with the French boy; " 
 and I said, " I would shake hands or fight it out when- 
 ever Tom Caffin liked ; " and so took my place as pony 
 again, and pulled my little cart down Sandgate. 
 
 These stories got about amongst the townspeople, and 
 fishermen, and seafaring folk, I suppose, and the people 
 of our little circle; and they were the means, God help 
 me, of bringing me in those very early days a legacy 
 which I have still. You see, the day after Bidois, the 
 French fisherman, paid us a visit, as I was pulling my 
 little cart up the hill to a little farmer's house where 
 grandfather and a partner of his had some pigeons, of 
 which I was very fond as a boy, I met a little dark man 
 whose face I cannot at all recall to my mind, but who 
 spoke French and German to me like grandfather and 
 mother. "That is the child of Madame von Zabern?" 
 says he, trembling very much. 
 
 "Ja, Herr!" says the little boy 
 
 O Agnes, Agnes! How the years roll away! What 
 strange events have befallen us : what passionate griefs 
 have we had to suffer : what a merciful heaven has pro- 
 tected us, since that day when your father knelt over the 
 little car, in which his child lay sleeping ! I have the pic- 
 ture in my mind now. I see a winding road leading 
 down to one of the gates of our town; the blue marsh- 
 land, and yonder, across the marsh, Rye towers and 
 gables; a great silver sea stretching beyond; and that 
 dark man's figure stooping and looking at the child 
 asleep. He never kissed the infant or touched her. I
 
 62 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 remember It woke smiling, and held out Its little arms, 
 and he turned away with a sort of groan. 
 
 Bidois, the French fisherman I spoke of as having 
 been to see us on tJie night before, came up here with an- 
 other companion, an Englishman I think. 
 
 "Ah! we seek for you everywhere, Monsieur le 
 Comte," says he. " The tide serves and it is full time." 
 
 " JNIonsieur le Chevalier is on board? " says the Count 
 de Saverne. 
 
 " II est bien la," says the fisherman. And they went 
 down the hill through the gate, without turning to look 
 back. 
 
 Mother was quite quiet and gentle all that day. It 
 seemed as if something scared her. The poor Countess 
 prattled and laughed, or cried in her unconscious way. 
 But grandfather at evening prayer that night making 
 the exposition rather long, mother stamped her foot, and 
 said, "Assez bavarde comme 9a, mon pere," and sank 
 back in her chair with her apron over her face. 
 
 She remained all next day very silent, crying often, 
 and reading in our great German Bible. She was kind 
 to me that day. I remember her saying, in her deep 
 voice, " Thou art a brave boy, Denikin." It was seldom 
 she patted my head so softly. That night our patient 
 was very wild; and laughing a great deal, and singing 
 so that the people would stop in the streets to listen. 
 
 Doctor Barnard again met me that day, dragging my 
 little carriage, and he fetched me into the Rectory for 
 the first time, and gave me cake and wine, and the book 
 of the "Arabian Nights," and the ladies admired the httle 
 baby, and said it was a pity it was a little Papist, and the 
 Doctor hoped / was not going to turn Papist, and I said, 
 " Oh, never." Neither mother nor I liked that darkling
 
 THE TRAVELLERS 63 
 
 Roman Catholic clergyman who was fetched over from 
 our neighbours at the Priory by M. de la INIotte. The 
 Chevalier was very firm himself in that religion. I little 
 thought then that I was to see him on a day when his 
 courage and his faith were both to have an awful trial. 
 
 ... I was reading then in this fine book of Monsieur 
 Galland which the Doctor had given me. I had no or- 
 ders to go to bed, strange to say, and I dare say was 
 peeping into the cave of the Forty Thieves along with 
 Master Ali Baba, when I heard the clock whirring pre- 
 viously to striking twelve, and steps coming rapidly up 
 our empty street. 
 
 Mother started up, looking quite haggard, and undid 
 the bolt of the door. 
 
 " C'est lui!" says she, with her eyes starting, and the 
 Chevalier de la Motte came in, looking as white as a 
 corpse. 
 
 Poor Madame de Saverne upstairs, awakened by the 
 striking clock perhaps, began to sing overhead, and the 
 Chevalier gave a great start, looking more ghastly than 
 before, as my mother with an awful face looked at him. 
 
 " II I'a voulu," says M. de la Motte, hanging down his 
 head; and again poor Madame's crazy voice began to 
 sing. 
 
 Keport 
 
 " On the 27th June of this year, 1769, the Comte de 
 Saverne arrived at Boulogne-sur-Mer, and lodged at the 
 Ecu de France, where also was staying M. le Marquis 
 du Quesne Menneville, Chef d'Escadre of the Naval 
 Armies of his Majesty. The Comte de Saverne was 
 previously unknown to the Marquis du Quesne, but 
 recalling to M. du Quesne's remembrance the fact
 
 64 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 that his illustrious ancestor the Admiral Duquesne 
 professed the Reformed religion, as did M. de Saverne 
 himself, M. de Saverne entreated the Marquis du 
 Quesne to be his friend in a rencontre which deplorable 
 circumstances rendered unavoidable. 
 
 "At the same time, M. de Saverne stated to M. le 
 Marquis du Quesne the cause of his quarrel with the 
 Chevalier Francis Joseph de la Motte, late officer of 
 the regiment of Soubise, at present residing in Eng- 
 land in the town of Winchelsea, in the county of Sus- 
 sex. The statement made by the Comte de Sa- 
 verne was such as to convince M. du Quesne of the 
 Count's right to exact a reparation from the Chevalier 
 de la Motte. 
 
 "A boat was despatched on the night of the 29th 
 June, with a messenger bearing the note of M. le Comte 
 de Saverne. And in this boat M. de la Motte returned 
 from England. 
 
 " The undersigned Comte de Berigny, in garrison at 
 Boulogne, and an acquaintance of M. de la Motte, con- 
 sented to serve as his witness in the meeting with M. 
 de Saverne. 
 
 " The meeting took place at seven o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, on the sands at half a league from the port of 
 Boulogne: and the weapons chosen were pistols. Both 
 gentlemen were perfectly calm and collected, as one 
 might expect from officers distinguished in the King's 
 service, who had faced the enemies of France as com- 
 rades together. 
 
 " Before firing, M. le Chevalier de la Motte advanced 
 four steps, and holding his pistol down, and laying his 
 hand on his heart, he said, — ' I swear on the faith of a 
 Christian, and the honour of a gentleman, that I am
 
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 THE TRAVELLERS 65 
 
 innocent of the charge laid against me by Monsieur de 
 Saverne.' 
 
 " The Comte de Saverne said, — ' M. le Chevaher de la 
 Motte, I have made no charge; and if I had, a lie costs 
 you nothing.' 
 
 " JNI. de la Motte, saluting the witnesses courteously, 
 and with grief rather than anger visible upon his coun- 
 tenance, returned to his line on the sand which was 
 marked out as the place where he was to stand, at a 
 distance of ten paces from his adversary. 
 
 "At the signal being given both fii'ed simultaneously. 
 The ball of ]VI. de Saverne grazed M. de la Motte's side- 
 curl, while his ball struck M. de Saverne in the right 
 breast. M. de Saverne stood a moment, and fell. 
 
 " The seconds, the surgeon, and M. de la Motte ad- 
 vanced towards the fallen gentleman; and M. de la 
 Motte, holding up his hand, again said, — ' I take heaven 
 to witness the person is innocent.' 
 
 " The Comte de Saverne seemed to be about to speak. 
 He lifted himself from the sand, supporting himself on 
 one arm: but all he said was, — 'You, you — ' and a 
 great issue of blood rushed from his throat, and he fell 
 back, and, with a few convulsions, died. 
 
 (Signed) "Marquis du Quesne Menneville, 
 "Chef d' Escadre mix Annees Navales du Roy. 
 " Comte de Berigny, 
 
 ''Brigadier de Cavalerie." 
 
 burgeon's; Krport 
 
 " I, Jean Baptiste Drouot, Surgeon-Major of the 
 Regiment Royal Cravate, in garrison at Boulogne-sur- 
 Mer, certify that I was present at the meeting which
 
 66 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 ended so lamentably. The death of the gentleman who 
 succumbed was immediate ; the ball, passing to the right 
 of the middle of the breastbone, penetrated the lung 
 and the large artery supplying it with blood, and caused 
 death by immediate suffocation."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS 
 
 THAT last night which he was to pass upon earth, 
 M. de Saverne spent in a little tavern in Winchel- 
 sea, frequented by fishing people, and known to Bidois, 
 who, even during the war, was in the constant habit of 
 coming to England upon errands in which Mons. 
 Grandpapa was very much interested— precentor, elder, 
 perruquier as he was. 
 
 The Count de Saverne had had some talk with the 
 fisherman during the voyage from Boulogne, and more 
 conversation took place on this last night, when the 
 Count took Bidois partly into his confidence: and, with- 
 out mentioning the precise cause of his quarrel with M. 
 de la Motte, said that it was inevitable; that the man 
 was a villain who ought not to be allowed to j3ollute the 
 earth; and that no criminal was ever more righteously 
 executed than this chevalier would be on the morrow, 
 when it was agreed that the two were to meet. 
 
 The meeting would have taken place on that very 
 night, but M. de la Motte demanded, as indeed he had a 
 right to do, some hours for the settlement of his own af- 
 fairs; and preferred to fight on French ground rather 
 than English, as the survivor of the quarrel would be 
 likely to meet with very rough treatment in this country. 
 
 La Motte betook himself then to arranging his papers. 
 As for the Count de Saverne, he said all his dispositions 
 
 67
 
 68 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 were made. A dowry, — that which his wife brought — 
 would go to her child. His own property was devised 
 to his own relations, and he could give the child nothing. 
 He had only a few pieces in his purse, and, " Tenez," 
 says he, " this watch. Should anything befall me, I 
 desire it may be given to the little boy who saved 
 my— that is, her child." And the voice of ^I. le Comte 
 broke as he said these words, and the tears ran over his 
 fingers. And the seaman wept too, as he told the story 
 to me years after, nor were some of mine wanting, I 
 think, for that poor heart-broken, wretched man, writh- 
 ing in helpless agony, as the hungry sand drank his 
 blood. Assuredly, the guilt of that blood was on thy 
 head, Francis de la Motte. 
 
 The watch is ticking on the table before me as I 
 write. It has been my companion for half a century. 
 I remember my childish delight when Bidois brought it 
 to me, and told my mother the tale of the meeting of the 
 two gentlemen. 
 
 " You see her condition," M. de la Motte said to my 
 mother at this time. "We are separated for ever, as 
 hopelessly as though one or other were dead. My hand 
 slew her husband. Perhaps my fault destroyed her 
 reason. I transmit misfortunes to those I love and 
 would serve. Shall I marry her ? I will if you think 
 I can serve her. As long as a guinea remains to me, 
 I will halve it with her. I have but very few left now. 
 My fortune has crumbled under my hands, as have my 
 friendships, my once bright prospects, my ambitions. 
 I am a doomed man: somehow, I drag down those who 
 love me into my doom." 
 
 And so indeed there was a Cain mark, as it were, on 
 this unhappy man. He did bring wreck and ruin on
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS 69 
 
 those who loved him. He was as a lost soul, I somehow 
 think, whose tortures had begun already. Predestined 
 to evil, to crime, to gloom; but now and again some one 
 took pity upon this jDoor wretch, and amongst those who 
 pitied him was my stern mother. 
 
 And here I may relate how it happened that I 
 " saved " the child, for which act j^oor INI. de Saverne 
 rewarded me. Bidois no doubt told that story to M. 
 le Comte in the course of their gloomy voyage. Mrs. 
 Martha, the Countess's attendant, had received or taken 
 leave of absence one night, after putting the child and 
 the poor lady, who was no better than a child, to bed. 
 I went to my bed, and to sleep as boys sleep; and I 
 forget what business called aw^ay my mother likewise, 
 but when she came back to look for her poor Biche and 
 the infant in its cradle — both were gone. 
 
 I have seen the incomparable Siddons, in the play, 
 as, white and terrified, she passed through the darkened 
 hall after King Duncan's murder. JNIy mother's face 
 wore a look of terror to the full as tragical, when, start- 
 ing up from my boyish sleep, I sat up in my bed and 
 saw her. She was almost beside herself with terror. 
 The poor insane lady and her child were gone — who 
 could say where? Into the marshes — into the sea — into 
 the darkness— it was impossible to say w^hither the 
 Countess had fled. 
 
 " We must get up, my boy, and find them," says 
 mother, in a hoarse voice; and I was sent over to Mr. 
 Bliss's the grocer, in East Street, where the Chevalier 
 lived, and where I found him sitting (with two priests, 
 by the wa}^ guests, no doubt, of Mr. Weston, at the 
 Priory), and all these, and mother, on her side, with 
 me following her, went out to look for the fugitives.
 
 70 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 We went by pairs, taking diiFerent roads. Mother's 
 was the right one as it appeared, for we had not walked 
 many minutes, when we saw a white figure coming 
 towards us, gHmmering out of the dark, and heard a 
 voice singing. 
 
 "Ah, mon Dieu! " says mother, and " Gott sey dank," 
 and I know not what exclamations of gratitude and re- 
 lief. It was the voice of the Countess. 
 
 As we came up, she knew us with our light, and began 
 to imitate, in her crazy way, the cry of the watchman, 
 whom the poor sleepless soul had often heard under the 
 windows. "Past twelve o'clock, a starlight night!" she 
 sang, and gave one of her sad laughs. 
 
 When we came up to her, we found her in a white 
 wrapper, her hair flowing down her back and over her 
 poor pale face, and again she sang, " Past twelve 
 o'clock." 
 
 The child was not with her. Mother trembled in every 
 limb. The lantern shook so in her hand I thought she 
 would drop it. 
 
 She put it down on the ground. She took her shawl 
 off her back, and covered the poor lady with it, who 
 smiled in her childish way, and said, " C'est bon; c'est 
 chaud 9a ; ah ! que c'est bien ! " 
 
 As I chanced to look down at the lady's feet, I saw 
 one of them was naked. Mother, herself in a dreadful 
 agitation, embraced and soothed Madame de Saverne. 
 " Tell me, my angel, tell me, my love, where is the 
 child?" says mother, almost fainting. 
 
 " The child, what child? That little brat who always 
 cries? I know nothing about children," says the poor 
 thing. "Take me to my bed this moment, madam! 
 How dare you bring me into the streets with naked 
 feet!"
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS 71 
 
 *' Where have you been walking, my dear? " says poor 
 mother, trying to soothe her. 
 
 "I have been to Great Saverne. I wore a domino. 
 I knew the coachman quite well, though he was muf- 
 fled up all but his nose. I was presented to Monseigneur 
 the Cardinal. I made him such a curtsey— like this. 
 Oh, my foot hurts me! " 
 
 She often rambled about this ball and play, and 
 hummed snatches of tunes and little phrases of dia- 
 logue, which she may have heard there. Indeed, I be- 
 lieve it was the only play and ball the poor thing ever 
 saw in her life; her brief life, her wretched life. 'Tis 
 pitiful to think how unhappy it was. When I recall it, 
 it tears my heart-strings somehow, as it doth to see a 
 child in pain. 
 
 As she held up the poor bleeding foot, I saw that the 
 edge of her dress was all wet, and covered with sand. 
 
 " Mother, mother! " said I, " she has been to the sea! " 
 
 "Have you been to the sea, Clarisse?" asks mother. 
 
 "J'ai ete au bal: j'ai danse; j'ai chante. J'ai bien 
 reconnu mon cocher. J'ai ete au bal chez le Cardinal. 
 But you must not tell M. de Saverne. Oh, no, you 
 mustn't tell him!" 
 
 A sudden thought came to me. And, whenever I 
 remember it, my heart is full of thankfulness to the 
 gracious Giver of all good thoughts. Madame, of whom 
 I was not afraid, and who sometimes was amused by 
 my prattle, would now and then take a walk accom- 
 panied by Martha her maid, who held the infant, and 
 myself, who liked to draw it in its little carriage. We 
 used to walk down to the shore, and there was a rock 
 there, on which the poor lady would sit for hours. 
 
 " You take her home, mother," says I, all in a tremble.
 
 72 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 "You give me the lantern, and I'll go— I'll go"— I 
 was off before I said where. Down I went, through 
 Westgate ; down I ran along the road towards the place 
 I guessed at. When I had gone a few hundred yards, 
 I saw in the road something white. It was the Coun- 
 tess's slipper, that she had left there. I knew she had 
 gone that way. 
 
 I got down to the shore, running, running with all 
 my little might. The moon had risen by this time, shin- 
 ing gloriously over a great silver sea. A tide of silver 
 was pouring in over the sand. Yonder was that rock 
 where we often had sat. The infant was sleeping on it 
 under the stars unconscious. He, Who loves little chil- 
 dren, had watched over it .... I scarce can see 
 the words as I write them down. JNIy little baby was 
 waking. She had known nothing of the awful sea com- 
 ing nearer with each wave ; but she knew me as I came, 
 and smiled, and warbled a little infant welcome. I took 
 her up in my arms, and trotted home with my pretty 
 burden. As I paced up the hill, M. de la JNIotte and one 
 of the French clergymen met me. By ones and twos, 
 the other searchers after my little wanderer came home 
 from their quest. She was laid in her little crib, and 
 never knew, until years later, the danger from which 
 she had been rescued. 
 
 My adventures became known in our town, and I 
 made some acquaintances who were very kind to me, and 
 were the means of advancing me in after-life. I was 
 too young to understand much what was happening 
 round about me; but now, if the truth must be told, I 
 must confess that old grandfather, besides his business 
 of perruquier, which you will say is no very magnificent 
 trade, followed others which were far less reputable.
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS 73 
 
 What do j^ou say, for instance, of a church elder, who 
 lends money a la jJ^tite seniaine, and at great interest? 
 The fishermen, the market-people, naj^ one or two 
 farmers and gentlemen round about, were beholden to 
 grandfather for supplies, and they came to him, to be 
 shaved in more ways than one. No good came out of 
 his gains, as I shall presently tell: but meanwhile his 
 hands were for ever stretched out to claw other folks' 
 money towards himself; and it must be owned that 
 madam e sa hru loved a purse too, and was by no means 
 scrupulous as to the way of filling it. JNIonsieur le 
 Chevalier de la Motte was free-handed and grand in 
 his manner. He paid a pension, I know not how much, 
 for the maintenance of poor Madame de Saverne. He 
 had brought her to the strait in which she was, poor 
 thing. Had he not worked on her, she never would have 
 left her religion : she never would have fled from her hus- 
 band: that fatal duel would never have occurred: right 
 or wrong, he was the cause of her calamity, and he 
 would make it as light as it might be. I know how, for 
 years, extravagant and embarrassed as he was, he yet 
 supplied means for handsomely maintaining the little 
 Agnes when she was presently left an orphan in the 
 world, when mother and father both were dead, and her 
 relatives at home disowned her. 
 
 The ladies of Barr, Agnes's aunts, totally denied that 
 the infant was their brother's child, and refused any 
 contribution towards her maintenance. Her mother's 
 family equally disavowed her. They had been taught 
 the same story, and I suppose we believe willingly 
 enough what we wish to believe. The poor lad}^ was 
 guilty. Her child had been born in her husband's ab- 
 sence. When his return was announced, she fled from
 
 74 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 her home, not daring to face him; and the unhappy 
 Count de Saverne died by the pistol of the man who 
 had ah-eady robbed him of his honour. La Motte had 
 to bear this obloquy, or only protest against it by letters 
 from England. He could not go over to Lorraine, 
 where he was plunged in debt. "At least, Duval," said 
 he to me, when I shook hands with him, and with all my 
 heart forgave him, "mad, and reckless as I have been, 
 and fatal to all whom I loved ; I have never allowed the 
 child to want, and have supported her in comfort, when 
 I was myself almost without a meal." A bad man no 
 doubt this was ; and yet not utterly wicked : a great crim- 
 inal who paid an awful penalty. Let us be humble, who 
 have erred too ; and thankful, if we have a hope that we 
 have found mercy. 
 
 I believe it was some braggart letter, which La Motte 
 wrote to a comrade in M. de Vaux's camp, and in which 
 he boasted of making the conversion of a petite Pro- 
 testante at Strasbourg, which came to the knowledge of 
 poor M. de Saverne, hastened his return home, and 
 brought about this dreadful end. La Motte owned as 
 much, indeed, in the last interview I ever had with 
 him. 
 
 Who told Madame de Saverne of her husband's 
 death? It was not for years after that I myself (un- 
 lucky chatterbox, whose tongue was always blabbing) 
 knew what had happened. My mother thought that she 
 must have overheard Bidois the boatman, who told the 
 whole story over his glass of Geneva in our parlour. 
 The Countess's chamber was overhead, and the door left 
 open. The poor thing used to be very angry at the 
 notion of a locked door, and since that awful escapade 
 to the sea-shore, my mother slept in her room, or a ser-
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS 75 
 
 vant whom she hked pretty well supplied mother's 
 place. 
 
 In her condition the dreadful event affected her but 
 little; and we never knew that she was aware of it until 
 one evening when it happened that a neighbour, one of 
 our French people of Rye, was talking over the tea- 
 table, and telling us of a dreadful thing he had seen on 
 Penenden Heath as he was coming home. He there 
 saw a woman burned at the stake for the murder of her 
 husband. The story is in the Gentleman s Magazine 
 for the year 1769, and that will settle pretty well the 
 date of the evening when our neighbour related the 
 horrible tale to us. 
 
 Poor Madame de Saverne (who had a very grand air, 
 and was perfectly like a lady) said quite simply, "In 
 this case, my good Ursule, I shall be burned too. For 
 you know I was the cause of my husband being killed. 
 M. le Chevalier went and killed him in Corsica." And 
 she looked round with a little smile, and nodded; and 
 arranged her white dress with her slim hot hands. 
 
 When the poor thing spoke, the Chevalier sank back 
 as if he had been shot himself. 
 
 "Good-night, neighbour Marion," groans mother; 
 " she is very bad to-night. Come to bed, my dear, come 
 to bed." And the poor thing followed mother, curtsey- 
 ing very finely to the company, and saying, quite softly, 
 " Oui, oui, oui, they will burn me; they will burn me." 
 
 This idea seized upon her mind, and never left it. 
 Madame la Comtesse passed a night of great agitation; 
 talking incessantly. Mother and her maid were up with 
 her all night. All night long we could hear her songs, 
 her screams, her terrible laughter. . . . Oh, pitiful 
 was thy lot in this world, poor guiltless, harmless lady.
 
 76 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 In thy brief years, how Httle happiness ! For thy mar- 
 riage j)ortion only gloom, and terror, and submission, 
 and captivity. The awful Will above us ruled it so. 
 Poor frightened spirit! it has woke under serener skies 
 now, and j^assed out of reach of our terrors, and tempta- 
 tions, and troubles. 
 
 At my early age I could only be expected to obey my 
 elders and parents, and to consider all things were right 
 which were done round about me. Mother's cuffs on 
 the head I received without malice, and if the truth must 
 be owned, had not seldom to submit to the major opera- 
 tion which my grandfather used to perform with a cer- 
 tain rod which he kept in a locked cupboard, and ac- 
 company with long wearisome sermons between each cut 
 or two of his favourite instrument. These good people, 
 as I gradually began to learn, bore but an indifferent 
 reputation in the town which they inhabited, and were 
 neither liked by the French of their own colony, nor 
 by the English among whom we dwelt. Of course, 
 being a simple little fellow, I honoured my father and 
 mother as became me— my grandfather and mother, that 
 is— father being dead some years. 
 
 Grandfather, I knew, had a share in a fishing-boat, 
 as numbers of people had, both at Rye and Winchelsea. 
 Stokes, our fisherman, took me out once or twice, and 
 I liked the sport very much: but it appeared that I 
 ought to have said nothing about the boat and the fish- 
 ing—for one night when we pulled out only a short 
 way beyond a rock which we used to call the Bull Rock, 
 from a pair of horns which stuck out of the water, and 
 there were hailed by my old friend Bidois, who had come 
 from Boulogne in his lugger— and then . . . well
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS 77 
 
 then, I M^as going to explain the whole matter artlessly 
 to one of our neighbours who happened to step in to 
 supper, when grandpapa (who had made a grace of five 
 minutes long before taking the dish-cover off) fetched 
 me a slap across the face which sent me reeling off my 
 perch. And the ChevaHer, who was supping with us, 
 only laughed at my misfortune. 
 
 This being laughed at somehow affected me more 
 than the blows. I was used to those, from grandfather 
 and mother too; but when peo^^le once had been kind 
 to me I could not bear a different behaviour from them. 
 And this gentleman certainly was. He improved my 
 French very much, and used to laugh at my blunders 
 and bad pronunciation. He took a good deal of pains 
 with me when I was at home, and made me speak French 
 like a little gentleman. 
 
 In a very brief time he learned English himself, with 
 a droll accent to be sure, but so as to express himself 
 quite intelligibly. His head-quarters were at Winchel- 
 sea, though he would frequently be away at Deal, 
 Dover, Canterbury, even London. He paid mother a 
 pension for little Agnes, who grew apace, and was the 
 most winning child I ever set eyes on. I remember, as 
 well as yesterday, the black dress which was made for 
 her after her poor mother's death, her pale cheeks, and 
 the great solemn eyes gazing out from under the black 
 curling ringlets which fell over her forehead and face. 
 
 Why do I make zigzag journeys? 'Tis the privilege 
 of old age to be garrulous, and its happiness to remem- 
 ber early days. As I sink back in my arm-chair, safe 
 and sheltered post tot discrimina, and happier than it 
 has been the lot of most fellow-sinners to be, the past 
 comes back to me— the stormy past, the strange un-
 
 78 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 happy yet happy past — and I look at it scared and as- 
 tonished sometimes; as huntsmen look at the gaps and 
 ditches over which they have leapt, and wonder how 
 they are alive. 
 
 INIy good fortune in rescuing that little darling child 
 caused the Chevalier to be very kind to me; and when 
 he was with us, I used to hang on to the skirts of his 
 coat, and prattle for hours together, quite losing all fear 
 of him. Except my kind namesake, the captain and 
 admiral, this was the first gentleman I ever met in inti- 
 macy — a gentleman with many a stain, nay crime to 
 reproach him ; but not all lost, I hope and pray. I own 
 to having a kindly feeling towards that fatal man. I 
 see myself a child prattling at his coat-skirts, and trot- 
 ting along our roads and marshes with him. I see him 
 with his sad pale face— and a kind of blighting look he 
 had— looking at that unconscious lady, at that little 
 baby. My friends the Neapolitans would have called 
 his an evil eye, and exorcised it accordingly. A favour- 
 ite walk we had was to a house about a mile out of Win- 
 chelsea, where a grazing farmer lived. My delight then 
 was to see not his cattle, but his pigeons, of which he 
 had a good stock, of croppers, pouters, runts, and tur- 
 bits; and amongst these I was told there were a sort of 
 pigeons called carriers, which would fly for prodigious 
 distances, returning from the place to which they were 
 taken though it were ever so distant, to that where they 
 lived and were bred. 
 
 Whilst I was at Mr. Perreau's, one of these pigeons 
 actually came in flying from the sea, as it appeared to me : 
 and Perreau looked at it, and fondled it, and said to the 
 Chevalier, "There is nothing. It is to be at the old 
 place." On which M. le Chevalier only said, " C'est
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS 79 
 
 bien;" and as we walked away told me all he knew about 
 pigeons, which I dare say was no great knowledge. 
 
 Why did he say there was nothing? I asked in the 
 innocence of my prattle. The Chevalier told me that 
 these birds sometimes brought messages, written on a 
 little paper, and tied under their wings, and that Per- 
 reau said there was nothing because there was nothing. 
 
 " Oh, then! he sometimes does have messages with his 
 birds?" 
 
 The Chevalier shrugged his shoulder, and took a great 
 pinch out of his fine snufF-box. " What did papa 
 Duval do to you the other day when you began to talk 
 too fast?" says he. "Learn to hold thy little tongue, 
 Denis, mon gar^on. If thou livest a little longer, and 
 tellest all thou seest, the Lord help thee! " And I sup- 
 pose our conversation ended here, and he strode home, 
 and I trotted after him. 
 
 I narrate these things occurring in childhood by the 
 help of one or two marks which have been left behind— 
 as the ingenious boy found his way home by the pebbles 
 which he dropped along his line of march. Thus I hap- 
 pen to know the year when poor Madame de Saverne 
 must have been ill, by referring to the date of the execu- 
 tion of the woman whom our neighbour saw burned on 
 Penenden Heath. Was it days, was it weeks after this 
 that Madame de Saverne's illness ended as all our ill- 
 nesses will end one day? 
 
 During the whole course of her illness, whatever its 
 length may have been, those priests from Slindon (or 
 from Mr. Weston's the Popish gentleman's at the 
 Priory) were constantly in our house, and I suppose 
 created a great scandal among the Protestants of the 
 town. M. de la Motte showed an extraordinary zeal in
 
 80 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 this business; and, sinner as he was, certainly was a 
 most devout sinner, according to his persuasion. I do 
 not remember, or was not cognizant, when the end came ; 
 but I remember my astonishment as, passing by her 
 open chamber door, I saw candles lighted before her 
 bed, and some of those clergy watching there, and the 
 Chevalier de la Motte kneeling in the passage in an 
 attitude of deep contrition and grief. 
 
 On that last day there was, as it appeared, a great 
 noise and disturbance round our house. The people 
 took offence at the perpetual coming in and out of the 
 priest; and on the very night when the coffin was to be 
 taken from our house, and the clergymen were perform- 
 ing the last services there, the windows of the room, 
 where the poor lady lay, were broken in by a great 
 volley of stones, and a roaring mob shouting, " No 
 Popery, down with priests ! " 
 
 Grandfather lost all courage at these threatening 
 demonstrations, and screamed out at his hru for bring- 
 ing all this persecution and danger upon him. "^ Silence, 
 miscrahle! " says she. " Go sit in the back kitchen, and 
 count your money-bags!" She, at least, did not lose 
 her courage. 
 
 M. de la Motte, though not frightened, was much dis- 
 turbed. The matter might be very serious. I did not 
 know at the time how furiously angry our townspeople 
 were with my parents for harbouring a Papist. Had 
 they known that the lady was a converted Protestant, 
 they would, doubtless, have been more violent still. 
 
 We were in a manner besieged in our house ; the gar- 
 rison being— the two priests in much terror; my grand- 
 father, under the bed for what I know, or somewhere 
 where he would be equally serviceable; my mother and
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS 81 
 
 the Chevalier, with their wits about them; and little 
 Denis Duval, no doubt very much in the way. When 
 the poor lady died it was thought advisable to send her 
 little girl out of the way ; and IVIrs. Weston at the Priory 
 took her in, who belonged, as has before been said, to the 
 ancient faith. 
 
 We looked out with no little alarm for the time when 
 the hearse should come to take the poor lady's body 
 away; for the people would not leave the street, and 
 barricaded either end of it, having perpetrated no actual 
 violence beyond the smashing of the windows as yet, 
 but ready no doubt for more mischief. 
 
 Calling me to him, M. de la Motte said, " Denis, thou 
 rememberest about the carrier pigeon the other day with 
 nothing under his wing?" I remembered, of course. 
 
 " Thou shalt be my carrier pigeon. Thou shalt carry 
 no letter but a message. I can trust thee now with a 
 secret." And I kept it, and will tell it now that the 
 people are quite out of danger from that piece of intel- 
 ligence, as I can promise you. 
 
 " You know Mr. Weston's house? " Know the house 
 where Agnes was— the best house in the town? Of 
 course I did. He named eight or ten houses besides 
 Weston's at which I was to go and say, " The mackerel 
 are coming in. Come as many of you as can." And I 
 went to the houses, and said the words; and when the 
 people said, "Where?" I said, "Opposite our house," 
 and so went on. 
 
 The last and handsomest house (I had never been in 
 it before) was Mr. Weston's, at the Priory: and there 
 I went and called to see him. And I remember Mrs. 
 Weston was walking up and down a gallery over the 
 hall with a little crying child who would not go to sleep.
 
 82 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 "Agnes, Agnes!" says I, and that baby was quiet 
 in a minute, smiling, and crowing and flinging out her 
 arms. Indeed, mine was the first name she could speak. 
 
 The gentlemen came out of their parlour, where they 
 were over their pipes, and asked me, surlily enough, 
 "What I wanted?" I said, "The mackerel were out, 
 and the crews were wanted before Peter Duval's, the 
 barber's." And one of them, with a scowl on his face, 
 and an oath, said they would be there, and shut the door 
 in my face. 
 
 As I went away from the Priory, and crossed the 
 churchyard by the Rectory gate, who should come up 
 but Doctor Barnard in his gig, with lamps lighted; and 
 I always saluted him after he had been so kind to me, 
 and had given me the books and the cake. " What," 
 says he, "my little shrimper! Have you fetched any 
 fish oiF the rocks to-night?" 
 
 " Oh, no, sir! " says I. " I have been taking messages 
 all round." 
 
 "And what message, my boy?" 
 
 I told him the message about the mackerel, &c. ; but 
 added that I must not tell the names, for the Chevalier 
 had desired me not to mention them. And then I went 
 on to tell how there was a great crowd in the street, and 
 that they were breaking windows at our house. 
 
 " Breaking windows? What for?" I told him what 
 had happened. " Take Dolly to the stables. Don't say 
 anything to your mistress, Samuel, and come along with 
 me, my little shrimper," says the Doctor. He was a 
 very tall man in a great white wig. I see him now skip- 
 ping over the tombstones, by the great ivy tower of the 
 church, and so through the churchyard-gate towards 
 our house.
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS 83 
 
 The hearse had arrived by this time. The crowd had 
 increased, and there was much disturbance and agita- 
 tion. As soon as the hearse came, a yell rose up from 
 the people. " Silence, shame! Hold your tongue ! Let 
 the poor woman go in quiet," a few people said. These 
 were the men of the mackerel fishery; whom the Weston 
 gentleman presently joined. But the fishermen were 
 a small crowd; the townspeople were many and very 
 angry. As we passed by the end of Port Street (where 
 our house was) we could see the people crowding at 
 either end of the street, and in the midst the great 
 hearse with its black plumes before our door. 
 
 It was impossible that the hearse could pass through 
 the crowd at either end of the street, if the people were 
 determined to bar the way. I went in, as I had come, 
 by the back gate of the garden, where the lane was still 
 quite solitary. Dr. Barnard following me. We were 
 awfully scared as we passed through the back kitchen 
 (where the oven and boiler is) by the sight of an 
 individual who suddenly leapt out of the copper, and 
 who cried out, " O mercy, mercy, save me from the 
 wicked men!" This was my grandpapa, and, with all 
 respect for grandpapas (being of their age and stand- 
 ing myself now), I cannot but own that mine on this 
 occasion cut rather a pitiful figure. 
 
 "Save my house! Save my property!" shouts my 
 ancestor, and the Doctor turns away from him scorn- 
 fully, and passes on. 
 
 In the passage out of this back kitchen we met Mon- 
 sieur de la Motte, who says, "Ah, c'est toi, mon gar9on. 
 Thou hast been on thy errands. Our people are well 
 there! " and he makes a bow to the Doctor, who came in 
 with me, and who replied by a salutation equally stiff.
 
 84. DENIS DUVAL 
 
 M. de la Motte, reconnoitering from the upper room, 
 had, no doubt, seen his people arrive. As I looked 
 towards him I remarked that he was armed. He had a 
 belt with pistols in it, and a sword by his side. 
 
 In the back room were the two Roman Catholic 
 clergymen, and four men who had come with the hearse. 
 They had been fiercely assailed as they entered the house 
 with curses, shouts, hustling, and I believe even sticks 
 and stones. My mother was serving them with brandy 
 when we came in. She was astonished when she saw the 
 rector make his appearance in our house. There was 
 no love between his reverence and our family. 
 
 He made a very grand obeisance to the Roman Cath- 
 olic clergymen. " Gentlemen," said he, " as rector of 
 this parish, and magistrate of the county, I have come 
 to keep the peace: and if there is any danger, to share 
 it with you. The lady will be buried in the old church- 
 yard, I hear. Mr. Trestles, are you ready to move? " 
 
 The men said they would be prepared immediately, 
 and went to bring down their melancholy burden. 
 "Open the door, you!" says the Doctor. The people 
 within shrank back. "' I will do it," says mother. 
 
 " Et moi, parbleu! " says the Chevalier advancing, his 
 hand on his hilt. 
 
 " I think, sir, I shall be more serviceable than you," 
 says the Doctor, very coldly. "If these gentlemen my 
 confreres are ready, we will go out; I will go first, as 
 rector of this parish." And mother drew the bolts, and 
 he walked out and took off his hat. 
 
 A Babel roar of yells, shouts, curses, came pouring 
 into the hall as the door opened, and the Doctor re- 
 mained on the steps, bareheaded and undaunted. 
 
 "How many of my parishioners are here? Stand
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS 85 
 
 aside all who come to my church!" he called out very 
 bold. 
 
 At this arose immense roars of "No Popery! down 
 with the priests! down with them! drown them!" and I 
 know not what more words of hatred and menace. 
 
 " You men of the French church," shouted out the 
 Doctor, "are you here?" 
 
 "We are here! Down with Popery!" roar the 
 Frenchmen. 
 
 " Because you were persecuted a hundred years ago, 
 you want to persecute in your turn. Is that what your 
 Bible teaches you? Mine doesn't. When your church 
 wanted repair, I gave you my nave where you had your 
 service, and were welcome. Is this the w^ay you repay 
 kindness which has been shown to you, you who ought 
 to know better? For shame on you! I say for shame! 
 Don't try and frighten me. Roger Hooker, I know 
 you, you poaching vagabond; who kept your wife and 
 children when you were at Lewes Gaol ? How dare you 
 be persecuting anybody, Thomas Flint? As sure as my 
 name is Barnard, if you stop this procession, I will 
 commit j^ou to-morrow." 
 
 Here was a cry of " Huzzay for the Doctor! huzzay 
 for the Rector!" which I am afraid came from the 
 mackerels, who were assembled by this time, and were 
 not mum, as fish generally are. 
 
 "Now% gentlemen, advance, if you please!" This 
 he said to the two foreign clergymen, who came forward 
 courageously enough, the Chevalier de la Motte walk- 
 ing behind them. " Listen, you friends and parishion- 
 ers. Churchmen and Dissenters! These two foreign 
 dissenting clergymen are going to bury, in a neigh- 
 bouring churchyard, a departed sister, as you foreign
 
 86 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 dissenters have buried your own dead without harm or 
 hindrance ; and I will accompany these gentlemen to the 
 grave prepared for the deceased lady, and I will see 
 her laid in peace there, as surely as I hope myself to 
 lie in peace." 
 
 Here the people shouted; but it was with admiration 
 for the rector. There was no outcry any more. The 
 little procession fell into an orderly rank, passed through 
 the streets, and round the Protestant church to the old 
 burying-ground behind the house of the Priory. The 
 rector walked between the two Roman Catholic clergy- 
 men. I imagine the scene before me now — the tramp 
 of the people, the flicker of a torch or two ; and then we 
 go in at the gate of the Priory ground into the old 
 graveyard of the monastery, where a grave had been 
 dug, on which the stone still tells that Clarissa, born de 
 Viomesnil, and widow of Francis Stanislas Count of 
 Saverne and Barr in Lorraine, lies buried beneath. 
 
 When the service was ended, the Chevalier de la 
 Motte (by whose side I stood, holding by his cloak) 
 came up to the Doctor. " Monsieur le Docteur," says 
 he, *'you have acted like a gallant man; you have pre- 
 vented bloodshed — " 
 
 " I am fortunate, sir," says the Doctor. 
 
 " You have saved the lives of these two worthy eccle- 
 siastics, and rescued from insult the remains of one—" 
 
 " Of whom I know the sad history," says the Doctor, 
 very gravely. 
 
 " I am not rich, but will you permit me to give this 
 purse for your poor!" 
 
 *' Sir, it is my duty to accept it," replied the Doctor. 
 The purse contained a hundred louis, as he afterwards 
 told me.
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS 87 
 
 "And may I ask to take your hand, sir?" cries the 
 poor ChevaHer, clasping his own together. 
 
 "No, sir!" said the Doctor, putting his own hands 
 behind his back. " Your hands have that on them which 
 the gift of a few guineas cannot wash away." The Doc- 
 tor spoke very good French. "My child, good-night; 
 and the best thing I can wish thee is to wish thee out of 
 the hands of that man." 
 
 "Monsieur!" says the Chevalier, laying his hand on 
 his sword mechanically. 
 
 " I think, sir, the last time it was with the pistol you 
 showed your skill!" says Doctor Barnard, and went in 
 at his own wicket as he spoke, leaving poor La Motte 
 like a man who has just been struck with a blow; and 
 then he fell to weeping and crying that the curse— the 
 curse of Cain was upon him. 
 
 "My good boy," the old rector said to me in after 
 days, while talking over these adventures, "thy friend 
 the Chevalier was the most infernal scoundrel I ever set 
 eyes on, and I never looked at his foot without expecting 
 to see it was cloven." 
 
 "And could he tell me anything about the poor Coun- 
 tess?" I asked. He knew nothing. He saw her but 
 once, he thought. "And faith," says he, with an arch 
 look, "it so happened that I was not too intimate with 
 your own worthy family."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 I HEAR THE SOUND OF BOW BELLS 
 
 WHATEVER may have been the rector's dislike 
 to my parents, in respect of us juniors and my 
 dear Httle Agnes de Saverne he had no such prejudices, 
 and both of us were great favourites with him. He con- 
 sidered himself to be a man entirely without prejudices; 
 and towards Roman Catholics he certainly was most 
 liberal. He sent his wife to see Mrs. Weston, and an 
 acquaintance was made between the families, who had 
 scarcely known each other before. Little Agnes was 
 constantly with these Westons, with whom the Chevalier 
 de la Motte also became intimate. Indeed, we have seen 
 that he must have known them already, when he sent 
 me on the famous "mackerel" message which brought 
 together a score at least of townspeople. I remember 
 Mrs. Weston as a frightened-looking woman, who 
 seemed as if she had a ghost constantly before her. 
 Frightened, however, or not, she was always kind to my 
 little Agnes. 
 
 The younger of the Weston brothers (he who swore 
 at me the night of the burial) was a red-eyed, pimple- 
 faced, cock-fighting gentleman for ever on the trot, 
 and known, I dare say not very favourably, all the coun- 
 try round. They were said to be gentlemen of good pri- 
 vate means. They lived in a pretty genteel way, with 
 a postchaise for the lady, and excellent nags to ride. 
 
 88
 
 I HEAR THE SOUND OF BOW BELLS 89 
 
 They saw very little company; but this may have been 
 because they were Roman Catholics, of whom there were 
 not many in the count}^ except at Ai'undel and Slindon, 
 where the lords and ladies were of too great quality to 
 associate with a pair of mere fox-hunting, horse-deal- 
 ing squires. M. de la JNIotte, who was quite the fine 
 gentleman, as I have said, associated with these people 
 freely enough: but then he had interests in common 
 with them, which I began to understand when I was 
 some ten or a dozen years old, and used to go to see my 
 little Agnes at the Priory. She was growing apace to 
 be a fine lady. She had dancing-masters, music-masters, 
 language-masters (those foreign tonsured gentry who 
 were always about the Priory), and was so tall that 
 mother talked of putting powder in her hair. All, belle 
 dame! another hand hath since whitened it, though I 
 love it ebony or silver! 
 
 I continued at Rye School, boarding with Mr. Rudge 
 and his dram-drinking daughter, and got a pretty fair 
 smattering of such learning as was to be had at the 
 school. I had a fancy to go to sea, but Doctor Barnard 
 was strong against that wish of mine: unless indeed I 
 should go out of Rye and Winchelsea altogether— get 
 into a King's ship, and perhaps on the quarter-deck, 
 under the patronage of my friend Sir Peter Denis, who 
 ever continued to be kind to me. 
 
 Every Saturday night I trudged home from Rye, as 
 gay as school-boy could be. After Madame de Saverne's 
 death the Chevalier de la Motte took our lodgings on 
 the first floor. He was of an active disposition, and 
 found business in plenty to occupy him. He would 
 be absent from his lodgings for weeks and months.
 
 90 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 He made journeys on horseback into the interior 
 of the country; went to London often; and some- 
 times abroad with our fishermen's boats. As I have 
 said, he learned our language well, and taught me his. 
 Mother's German was better than her French, and my 
 book for reading the German was Doctor Luther's 
 Bible; indeed, that very volume in which poor M. de 
 Saverne wrote down his prayer for the child whom he 
 was to see only twice in this world. 
 
 Though Agnes's little chamber was always ready at 
 our house, where she was treated like a little lady, hav- 
 ing a servant sjoecially attached to her, and all the world 
 to spoil her, she passed a great deal of time with Mrs. 
 Weston, of the Priory, who took a great affection for 
 the child even before she lost her own daughter. I have 
 said that good masters were here found for her. She 
 learned to speak English as a native, of course, and 
 French and music from the fathers who always were 
 about the house. Whatever the child's expenses or 
 wants were, M. de la Motte generously defrayed them. 
 After his journeys he would bring her back toys, sweet- 
 meats, knick-knacks fit for a little duchess. She lorded 
 it over great and small in the Priory, in the Perruquery, 
 as we may call my mother's house, ay, and in the Rectory 
 too, where Dr. and Mrs. Barnard were her very humble 
 servants, like all the rest of us. 
 
 And here I may as well tell you that I was made to 
 become a member of the Church of England, because 
 mother took huff at our French Protestants, who would 
 continue persecuting her for harbouring the Papists, 
 and insisted that between the late poor Countess and the 
 Chevalier there had been an unlawful intimacy. M. 
 Borel, our pastor, preached at poor mother several times,
 
 I HEAR THE SOUND OF BOW BELLS 91 
 
 she said. I did not understand his inuendoes, being a 
 simple child, I fear not caring much for sermons in those 
 days. For grandpapa's I know I did not; he used to 
 give us half an hour at morning, and half an hour at 
 evening. I could not help thinking of grandfather 
 skipping out of the copper, and calling on us to spare 
 his life on the day of the funeral; and his preaching 
 went in at one ear and out at t'other. One day — apropos 
 of some pomatum which a customer wanted to buy, and 
 which I know mother made with lard and bergamot 
 herself — I heard him tell such a fib to a customer, that 
 somehow I never could respect the old man after- 
 wards. He actually said the pomatum had just come 
 to him from France direct — from the Dauphin's own 
 hair-dresser: and our neighbour, I dare say, would have 
 bought it, but I said, " Oh, grandpapa, you must mean 
 some other pomatum ! I saw mother make this with her 
 own hands." Grandfather actually began to cry when 
 I said this. He said I was being his death. He asked 
 that somebody should fetch him out and hang him that 
 moment. Why is there no bear, says he, to eat that 
 little monster's head off and destroy that prodigy of 
 crime? Nay, I used to think I was a monster some- 
 times: he would go on so fiercely about my wickedness 
 and perverseness. 
 
 Doctor Barnard was passing by our pole one day, 
 and our open door, when grandfather was preaching 
 upon this sin of mine, with a strap in one hand, laying 
 over my shoulders in the intervals of the discourse. 
 Down goes the strap in a minute, as the Doctor's lean 
 figure makes its appearance at the door; and grand- 
 father begins to smirk and bow, and hope his reverence 
 was well. ]My heart was full. I had had sermon in
 
 92 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 the morning, and sermon at night, and strapping every 
 day that week; and heaven help me, I loathed that old 
 man, and loathe him still. 
 
 " How can I, sir," says I, bursting out into a passion 
 of tears — "How can I honour my grandfather and 
 
 mother if grandfather tells such d lies as he does? " 
 
 And I stamped with my feet, trembling with wrath 
 and indignation at the disgrace put upon me. I then 
 burst out with mv storv, which there was no contro- 
 verting; and I will say grandfather looked at me as if 
 he would kill me; and I ended my tale sobbing at the 
 Doctor's knees. 
 
 " Listen, INIr. Duval," says Dr. Barnard, very sternly: 
 " I know a great deal more than you think about you 
 and your doings. My advice to you is to treat this 
 child well, and to leave off some practices which will 
 get you into trouble, as sure as your name is what it is. 
 I know where your pigeons go to, and where they come 
 from. And some day, when I have you in my justice- 
 room, we shall see whether I will show you any more 
 mercy than you have shown to this child. I know you 
 to be . . . ." and the Doctor whispered something 
 into grandfather's ears and stalked away. 
 
 Can you guess by what name the Doctor called my 
 grandfather? If he called him hypocrite, ma foi, he was 
 not far wrong. But the truth is, he called him smug- 
 gler, and that was a name which fitted hundreds of 
 people along our coast, I promise you. At Hythe, at 
 Folkestone, at Dover, Deal, Sandwich, there were 
 scores and scores of these gentry. All the way to 
 London they had depots, friends, and correspondents. 
 Inland and along the Thames there were battles endless 
 between them and the revenue people. Our friends
 
 I HEAR THE SOUND OF BOW BELLS 93 
 
 " the mackerel," who came out at Monsieur de la Motte's 
 summons, of course were of this calling. One day when 
 he came home from one of his expeditions, I remember 
 jumping" forward to welcome him, for he was at one 
 time very kind to me, and as I ran into his arms he 
 started back, and shrieked out an oath and a sac7'e-hleu 
 or two. He was wounded in the arm. There had been 
 a regular battle at Deal between the dragoons and 
 revenue officers on the one side, and the smugglers and 
 their friends. Cavalry had charged cavalry, and Mon- 
 sieur de la Motte (his smuggling name, he told me 
 afterwards, was Mr. Paul, or Pole) had fought on the 
 mackerel side. 
 
 So were my gentlemeii at the Priory of the Mackerel 
 party. Why, I could name you great names of mer- 
 chants and bankers at Canterbury, Dover, Rochester, 
 who were engaged in this traffic. My grandfather, you 
 see, howled with the wolves; but then he used to wear a 
 snug lamh's-skin over his wolf's hide. Ah, shall I 
 thank Heaven like the Pharisee, that I am not as 
 those men are ? I hope there is no harm in being thank- 
 ful that I have been brought out of temptation; that 
 I was not made a rogue at a child's age ; and that I did 
 not come to the gallows as a man. Such a fate has 
 befallen more than one of the precious friends of my 
 youth, as I shall have to relate in due season. 
 
 That habit I had of speaking out everything that 
 was on my mind brought me, as a child, into innumer- 
 able scrapes, but I do thankfully believe has preserved 
 me from still greater. What could you do with a little 
 chatterbox, who, when his grandfather offered to sell a 
 pot of pomatum as your true Pommade de Cythere, 
 must cry out, " No, grandpapa, mother made it with
 
 94 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 marrow and bergamot?" If anything happened which 
 I was not to mention, I was sure to blunder out some 
 account of it. Good Doctor Barnard, and my patron 
 Captain Denis (who was a great friend of our rector), 
 I suppose used to joke about this propensity of mine, 
 and would laugh for ten minutes together, as I told 
 my stories; and I think the Doctor had a serious con- 
 versation with my mother on the matter; for she said, 
 " He has reason. The boy shall not go any more. We 
 will try and have one honest man in the family." 
 
 Go any more where? Now I will tell you (and I am 
 much more ashamed of this than of the barber's pole, 
 JNIonsieur mon tils, that I can promise you). When 
 I was boarding at the grocer's at Rye, I and other boys 
 were constantly down at the water, and we learned to 
 manage a boat pretty early. Rudge did not go out 
 himself, being rheumatic and lazy, but his apprentice 
 would be absent frequently all night ; and on more than 
 one occasion I went out as odd boy in the boat to put 
 my hand to anything. 
 
 Those pigeons I spoke of anon come from Boulogne. 
 When one arrived he brought a signal that our Boulogne 
 correspondent was on his way, and we might be on the 
 look-out. The French boat would make for a point 
 agreed upon, and we lie off until she came. We took 
 cargo from her: barrels without number, I remember. 
 Once we saw her chased away by a revenue-cutter. Once 
 the same ship fired at us. I did not know what the balls 
 were, which splashed close alongside of us; but I re- 
 member the apprentice of Rudge's (he used to make 
 love to Miss R., and married her afterwards,) singing 
 out, " Lord, have mercy," in an awful consternation, 
 and the Chevalier crying out, " Hold your tongue, mis-
 
 I HEAR THE SOUND OF BOW BELLS 95 
 
 erable! You were never born to be drowned or shot." 
 He had some hesitation about taking me out on this 
 exjjedition. He was engaged in running smuggled 
 goods, that is the fact; and "smuggler" Avas the word 
 which Doctor Barnard whispered in my grandfather's 
 ear. If we were hard pressed at certain points which 
 we knew, and could ascertain by cross-bearings which 
 we took, we would sink our kegs till a more convenient 
 time, and then return and drag for them, and bring 
 them up with line and grapnel. 
 
 I certainly behaved much better when we were fired 
 at, than that oaf of a Bevil, who lay howling his " Lord, 
 have mercy upon us," at the bottom of the boat; but 
 somehow the Chevalier discouraged my juvenile efforts 
 in the smuggling line, from his fear of that unlucky 
 tongue of mine, which would blab everything I knew. 
 I may have been out a- fishing half-a-dozen times in all ; 
 but especially after we had been fired at. La Motte was 
 for leaving me at home. My mother was averse, too, 
 to my becoming a seaman (a smuggler) by profession. 
 Her aim was to make a gentleman of me, she said, and 
 I am most unfeignedly thankful to her for keeping me 
 out of mischief's way. Had I been permitted to herd 
 along with the black sheep. Doctor Barnard would never 
 have been so kind to me as he was ; and indeed that good 
 man showed me the greatest favour. When I came 
 home from school he would often have me to the Rec- 
 tory, and hear me my lessons, and he was pleased to say 
 I was a lively boy of good parts. 
 
 The Doctor received rents for his college at Oxford, 
 which has considerable property in these parts, and 
 twice a year would go to London and pay the moneys 
 over. In my boyish times these journeys to London
 
 96 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 were by no means without danger; and if you will take 
 a Gentleman s Magazine from the shelf you will find 
 a highway robbery or two in every month's chronicle. 
 We boys at school were never tired of talking of high- 
 waymen and their feats. As I often had to walk over to 
 Rye from home of a night ( so as to be in time for early 
 morning school ) , I must needs buy a little brass-barrelled 
 pistol, with which I practised in secret, and which I had 
 to hide, lest mother or Rudge, or the schoolmaster, 
 should take it away from me. Once as I was talking 
 with a schoolfellow, and vapouring about what we would 
 do, were we attacked, I fired my pistol and shot away a 
 piece of his coat. I might have hit his stomach, not his 
 coat — heaven be good to us! — and this accident made 
 me more careful in the use of my artillery. And now 
 I used to practise with small shot instead of bullets, and 
 pop at sparrows whenever I could get a chance. 
 
 At Michaelmas, in the year 1776 (I promise you I 
 remember the year) , my dear and kind friend. Doctor 
 Barnard, having to go to London with his rents, pro- 
 posed to take me to London to see my other patron. Sir 
 Peter Denis, between wliom and the Doctor there was a 
 great friendshij); and it is to those dear friends that I 
 owe the great good fortune which has befallen me in 
 life. Indeed, when I think of what I might have been, 
 and of what I have escaped, my heart is full of thank- 
 fulness for the great mercies which have fallen to my 
 share. Well, at this happy and eventful JNIichaelmas 
 of 1776, Doctor Barnard says to me, " Denis, my child, 
 if thy mother will grant leave, I have a mind to take 
 thee to see thy godfather. Sir Peter Denis, in London. 
 I am going up with my rents, my neighbour Weston 
 will share the horses with me, and thou shalt see the
 
 I HEAR THE SOUND OF BOW BELLS 97 
 
 Tower and jNIrs. Salmon's wax-work before thou art a 
 week older." 
 
 You may suppose that this proposition made Master 
 Denis Duval jump for joy. Of course I had heard of 
 London all my life, and talked with people who had 
 been there, but that I should go myself to Admiral Sir 
 Peter Denis's house, and see the play, St. Paul's, and 
 Mrs. Salmon's, here was a height of bliss I never had 
 hoped to attain. I could not sleep for thinking of my 
 pleasure; I had some money, and I promised to buy as 
 many toys for Agnes as the Chevalier used to bring 
 her. My mother said I should go hke a gentleman, and 
 turned me out in a red waistcoat with plate buttons, a 
 cock to my hat, and ruffles to my shirts. How I counted 
 the hours of the night before our departure! I was up 
 before the dawn, packing my little valise. I got my 
 little brass-barrelled pocket-pistol, and I loaded it with 
 shot. I put it away into my breast-pocket; and if we 
 met with a highwayman I promised myself he should 
 have my charge of lead in his face. The Doctor's post- 
 chaise was at his stables not very far from us. The 
 stable lanterns were alight, and Brown, the Doctor's 
 man, cleaning the carriage, when Mr. Denis Duval 
 comes up the stable door, lugging his portmanteau after 
 him through the twilight. Was ever daylight so long 
 a-coming? Ah! There come the horses at last; the 
 horses from the " King's Head," and old Pascoe, the 
 one-eyed postilion. How well I remember the sound 
 of the hoofs in that silent street! I can tell everything 
 that happened on that day; what we had for dinner— 
 viz., veal cutlets and French beans, at Maidstone; where 
 we changed horses, and the colour of the horses. " Here, 
 Brown! Here's my portmanteau! I say, where shall
 
 98 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 I stow it?" My portmanteau was about as large as a 
 good-sized apple-pie. I jump into the carriage and we 
 drive up to the Rectory: and I think the Doctor will 
 never come out. There he is at last : with his mouth full 
 of buttered toast, and I bob my head to him a hundred 
 times out of the chaise window. Then I must jump 
 out, forsooth. " Brown, shall I give you a hand with 
 the luggage?" says I, and I dare say they all laugh. 
 Well, I am so happy that anybody may laugh who likes. 
 The Doctor comes out, his precious box under his arm. 
 I see dear Mrs. Barnard's great cap nodding at us out 
 of the parlour window as we drive away from the Rec- 
 tory door to stop a hundred yards farther on at the 
 Priory. 
 
 There at the parlour window stands my dear little 
 Agnes, in a white frock, in a great cap with a blue riband 
 and bow, and curls clustering over her face. I wish 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds had painted thee in those days, 
 my dear: but thou wert the very image of one of his 
 little ladies, that one who became Duchess of Buccleuch 
 afterwards. There is my Agnes, and now presently 
 comes out Mr. Weston's man and luggage, and it is 
 fixed on the roof. Him, his master, Mr. George Wes- 
 ton, follows. This was the most good-natured of the 
 two, and I shall never forget my sensation of delight, 
 when I saw him bring out two holster-pistols, which he 
 placed each in a pocket of the chaise. Is Tommy Chap- 
 man, the apothecary's son of Westgate, alive yet, and 
 does he remember my wagging my head to him as our 
 chaise whirled by? He was shaking a mat at the door 
 of his father's shop as my lordship accompanied by my 
 noble friends passed by. 
 
 First stage. Ham Street, "The Bear." A grey
 
 I HEAR THE SOUND OF BOW BELLS 99 
 
 horse and a bay to change, / remember them. Second 
 stage, Ashford. Third stage .... I think I am 
 asleep about the third stage: and no wonder, a poor 
 httle wretch who had been awake half the night before, 
 and no doubt many nights previous, thinking of this 
 wonderful journey. Fourth stage, Maidstone, " The 
 Bell." "And here we will stop to dinner, Master 
 Shrimpcatcher," says the Doctor, and I jump down 
 out of the carriage nothing loth. The Doctor followed 
 with his box, of which he never lost sight. 
 
 The Doctor liked his ease in his inn, and took his sip 
 of punch so comfortably, that I, for my part, thought 
 he never would be gone. I was out in the stables and 
 looking at the horses, and talking to the ostler who was 
 rubbing his nags down. I dare say I had a peep into 
 the kitchen, and at the pigeons in the inn yard, and at 
 all things which were to be seen at " The Bell," while my 
 two companions were still at their interminable punch. 
 It was an old-fashioned inn, with a gallery round the 
 court-yard. Heaven bless us! FalstafF and Bardolph 
 may have stopped there on the road to Gadshill. I was 
 in the stable looking at the nags, when Mr. Weston 
 comes out of the inn, looks round the court, opens the 
 door of the postchaise, takes out his pistols, looks at the 
 priming, and puts them back again. Then we are off 
 again, and time enough too. It seemed to me many 
 hours since we had arrived at that creaking old " Bell." 
 And away we go through Addington, Eynesford, by 
 miles and miles of hop-gardens. I dare say I did not 
 look at the prospect much, beautiful though it might be, 
 my young eyes being for ever on the look-out for St. 
 Paul's and London. 
 
 For a great part of the way Doctor Barnard and his
 
 100 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 companion had a fine controversy about their respective 
 rehgions, for which each was ahke zealous. Nay: it 
 may be the rector invited Mr. Weston to take a place in 
 his postchaise in order to have this battle, for he never 
 tired of arguing the question between the two churches. 
 Towards the close of the day Master Denis Duval fell 
 asleep on Dr. Barnard's shoulder, and the good-natured 
 clergyman did not disturb him. 
 
 I woke up with the sudden stoppage of the carriage. 
 The evening was falling. We were upon a lonely com- 
 mon, and a man on horseback was at the window of the 
 postchaise. 
 
 "Give us out that there box! and your money!" I 
 heard him say in a very gruff voice. O heavens! we 
 were actually stopped by a highwayman! It was de- 
 lightful. 
 
 Mr. Weston jumped at his pistols very quick. 
 "Here's our money, you scoundrel!" says he, and he 
 fired point-blank at the rogue's head. Confusion ! The 
 pistol missed fire. He aimed the second, and again no 
 report followed! 
 
 " Some scoundrel has been tampering with these," 
 says Mr. Weston, aghast. 
 
 "Come," says Captain Macheath, "come, your — " 
 
 But the next word the fellow spoke was a frightful 
 oath; for I took out my little pistol, which was full of 
 shot, and fired it into his face. The man reeled, and I 
 thought would have fallen out of his saddle. The pos- 
 tilion, frightened no doubt, clapped spurs to his horse, 
 and began to gallop. " Shan't we stop and take that 
 rascal, sir?" said I to the Doctor. On which Mr. 
 Weston gave a peevish kind of push at me, and said, 
 " No, no. It is getting quite dark, Let us push on."
 
 I HEAR THE SOUND OF BOW BELLS 101 
 
 And, indeed, the highwayman's horse had taken fright, 
 and we could see him galloping away across the com- 
 mon. 
 
 I was so elated to think that I, a little boy, had shot 
 a live highwayman, that I daresay I bragged outra- 
 geously of my action. We set down INIr. Weston at his 
 inn in the Borough, and crossed London Bridge, and 
 there I was in London at last. Yes, and that was the 
 Monument, and then we came to the Exchange, and 
 yonder, yonder was St. Paul's. We went up Holborn, 
 and so to Ormond Street, w^here my patron lived in a 
 noble mansion; and where his wife, my Lady Denis, 
 received me with a great deal of kindness. You may 
 be sure the battle with the highwayman was fought over 
 again, and I got due credit from myself and others for 
 my gallantry. 
 
 Sir Peter and his lady introduced me to a number 
 of their acquaintances as the little boy who shot the 
 highwayman. They received a great deal of companj^ 
 and I was frequently had in to their dessert. I suppose 
 I must own that my home was below in the housekeeper's 
 room with Mrs. Jellicoe; but my lady took such a fancy 
 to me that she continually had me upstairs, took me out 
 driving in her chariot, or ordered one of the footmen 
 to take me to the sights of the town, and sent me in his 
 charge to the play. It was the last year Garrick per- 
 formed; and I saw him in the play of INIacbeth, in a 
 gold-laced blue coat, with scarlet plush waistcoat and 
 breeches. Ormond Street, Bloomsbury, was on the out- 
 skirts of the town then, with open country behind, 
 stretching as far as Hampstead. Bedford House, north 
 of Bloomsbury Square, with splendid gardens, was close 
 by, and Montague House, where I saw stuffed camel-
 
 102 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 opards, and all sorts of queer things from foreign 
 countries. Then there were the Tower, and the Wax- 
 work, and Westminster Abbey, and Vauxhall. What 
 a glorious week of pleasure it was! At the week's end 
 the kind Doctor went home again, and all those dear 
 kind people gave me presents, and cakes, and money, 
 and spoilt the little boy who shot the highwayman. 
 
 The affair was actually put into the newspapers, and 
 who should come to hear of it but my gracious Sovereign 
 himself. One day, Sir Peter Denis took me to see Kew 
 Gardens and the new Chinese pagoda her INIajesty had 
 put up. Whilst walking here, and surveying this pretty 
 place, I had the good fortune to see his M-j-sty, walk- 
 ing with our most gracious Qu — n, the Pr-nce of W — s, 
 the Bishop of Osnahurg, my namesake, and, I think, 
 two, or it may be three, of the Princesses. Her M-j-sty 
 knew Sir Peter from having sailed with him, saluted 
 him very graciously, and engaged him in conversation. 
 And the Best of Monarchs, looking towards his humblest 
 subject and servant, said, "What, what? Little boy 
 shot the highwayman. Shot him in the face. Shot 
 him in the face!" On which the youthful Pr-nces gra- 
 ciously looked towards me, and the King asking Sir 
 Peter what my profession was to be, the admiral said 
 I hoped to be a sailor and serve his Majesty. 
 
 I promise you I was a mighty grand personage when 
 I went home; and both at Rye and Winchelsea scores 
 of people asked me what the King said. On our return, 
 we heard of an accident which had happened to Mr. 
 Joseph Weston, which ended most unhappily for that 
 gentleman. On the very day when we set out for Lon- 
 don he went out shooting — a sport of which he was very 
 fond; but in climbing a hedge, and dragging his gun
 
 I HEAR THE SOUND OF BOW BELLS 103 
 
 incautiously after him, the lock caught in a twig, and 
 the piece discharged itself into the poor gentleman's 
 face, lodging a number of shot into his left cheek, and 
 into his eye, of which he lost the sight, after suffering 
 much pain and torture. 
 
 "Bless my soul! A charge of small shot in his face! 
 What an extraordinary thing!" cries Dr. Barnard, who 
 came down to see mother and grandfather the day after 
 our return home. Mrs. Barnard had told him of the 
 accident at supper on the night previous. Had he been 
 shot or shot some one himself, the Doctor could scarce 
 have looked more scared. He put me in mind of Mr. 
 Garrick, whom I had just seen at the playhouse, Lon- 
 don, when he comes out after murdering the King. 
 
 " You look, Docteur, as if you done it yourself," says 
 M. de la Motte, laughing, and in his English jargon. 
 " Two time, three time, I say, Weston, you shoot you- 
 self, you carry you gun that way, and he say he not 
 born to be shot, and he swear ! " 
 
 " But, my good Chevalier, Doctor Blades picked 
 some bits of crape out of his eye, and thirteen or 
 fourteen shot. What is the size of your shot, Denny, 
 with which you fired at the highwayman?" 
 
 '"Quid autem vides festucam in ociilo fratris tui, 
 Doctor?" says the Chevalier; "that is good doctrine — 
 Protestant or Popish, eh?" On which the Doctor held 
 down his head, and said, " Chevalier, I am corrected; I 
 was wrong — very wrong." 
 
 "And as for crape," La Motte resumed, "Weston 
 is in mourning. He go to funeral at Canterbury four 
 days ago. Yes, he tell me so. He and my friend Llit- 
 terloh go." This Mr. Llitterloh was a German living 
 near Canterbury, with whom ]\I. de la Motte had deal-
 
 104 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 ings. He had dealings with all sorts of people; and very 
 queer dealings, too, as I hegan to understand now that 
 I was a stout boy approaching fourteen years of age, 
 and standing pretty tall in my shoes. 
 
 De la ]Motte laughed then at the Doctor's suspicions. 
 " Parsons and women all the same, save your respect, 
 ma bonne ^ladame Duval, all tell tales; all believe evil 
 of their neighbours. I tell you I see Weston shoot 
 twenty, thirty time. Always drag his gun through 
 hedge." 
 
 " But the crape — ? " 
 
 " Bah! Always in mourning, Weston is! For shame 
 of your cancans, little Denis! Never think such thing 
 again. Don't make Weston your enemy. If a man say 
 that of me, I would shoot him myself, parbleu! " 
 
 "But if he has done it?" 
 
 " Parbleu! I would shoot him so much ze mor! " says 
 the Chevalier, with a stamp of his foot. And the first 
 time he saw me alone he reverted to the subject. 
 "Listen, Denisot!" says he: "thou becomest a great 
 boy. Take my counsel, and hold thy tongue. This 
 suspicion against JNIr. Joseph is a monstrous crime, as 
 well as a folly. A man say that of me — right or wrong 
 — I burn him the brain. Once I come home, and you 
 run against me, and I cry out, and swear and pest. I 
 was wounded myself, I deny it not." 
 
 "And I said nothing, sir," I interposed. 
 
 "No, I do thee justice: thou didst say nothing. You 
 know the metier we make sometimes? That night in 
 the boat" ('' zat night in ze boat," he used to say), 
 " when the revenue cutter fire, and your poor camarade 
 howl — ah, how he howl — you don't suppose we were 
 there to look for lobstarepot, eh? Tu n'as pas bronche.
 
 I HEAR THE SOUND OF BOW BELLS 105 
 
 toi. You did not crane; you show yourself a man of 
 heart. And now, petit, apprends a te taire!" And he 
 gave me a shake of the hand, and a couple of guineas 
 in it too, and went off to his stables on his business. He 
 had two or three horses now, and was always on the 
 trot; he was very liberal with his money, and used to 
 have handsome entertainments in his uj)stairs room, 
 and never quarrelled about the bills which mother 
 sent in. " Hold thy tongue, Denisot," said he. " Never 
 tell who comes in or who goes out. And mind thee, 
 child, if thy tongue wags, little birds come whisper me, 
 and say, ' He tell.' " 
 
 I tried to obey his advice, and to rein in that truant 
 tongue of mine. When Dr. and Mrs. Barnard them- 
 selves asked me questions I was mum, and perhaps 
 rather disappointed the good lady and the rector too by 
 my reticence. For instance, Mrs. Barnard would say, 
 " That was a nice goose I saw going from market to 
 your house, Denny." 
 
 " Goose is very nice, ma'am," says I. 
 
 " The Chevalier often has dinners?" 
 
 " Dines every day, regular, ma'am." 
 
 " Sees the Westons a great deal? " 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," I say, with an indescribable heart- 
 pang. And the cause of that pang I may as well tell. 
 You see, though I was only thirteen years old, and 
 Agnes but eight, I loved that little maid with all my 
 soul and strencyth. Boy or man I never loved any other 
 woman. I write these very words by my study fire in 
 Fareport with madam opposite dozing over her novel 
 till the neighbours shall come in to tea and their rubber. 
 When my ink is run out, and my little tale is written, 
 and yonder church that is ringing to seven o'clock
 
 106 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 prayer shall toll for a certain D.D., you will please, 
 good neighbours, to remember that I never loved any 
 but yonder lady, and keep a place by Darby for Joan, 
 when her turn shall arrive. 
 
 Now in the last year or two, since she had been 
 adopted at the Priory, Agnes came less and less often 
 to see us. She did not go to church with us, being a 
 Catholic. She learned from the good fathers her tutors. 
 She learned music and French and dancing to perfec- 
 tion. All the county could not show a finer little 
 lady. When she came to our shop, it was indeed a lit- 
 tle countess honouring us with a visit. Mother was gen- 
 tle before her — grandfather obsequious — I, of course, 
 her most humble little servant. Wednesday (a half- 
 holiday), and half Saturday, and all Sunday I might 
 come home from school, and how I used to trudge, and 
 how I longed to see that little maiden, any gentleman 
 may imagine who has lost his heart to an Agnes of 
 his own. 
 
 The first day of my arrival at home, after the mem- 
 orable London journey, I presented myself at the 
 Priory, with my pocket full of presents for Agnes. The 
 footman let me into the hall civilly enough: but the 
 young lady was out with Mrs. Weston in the postchaise. 
 I might leave my message. 
 
 I wanted to give my message. Somehow, in that fort- 
 night's absence from home, I had so got to long after 
 Agnes that I never had my little sweetheart quite out 
 of my mind. It may have been a silly thing, but I got 
 a little pocket-book, and wrote in French a journal of 
 all I saw in London. I dare say there were some pretty 
 faults in grammar. I remember a fine paragraph about 
 my meeting the royal personages at Ivew, and all their
 
 I HEAR THE SOUND OF BOW BELLS 107 
 
 names written down in order ; and this little pocket-book 
 I must needs send to Mademoiselle de Saverne. 
 
 The next day I called again. Still Mademoiselle de 
 Saverne was not to be seen: but in the evening a servant 
 brought a little note from her, in which she thanked her 
 dear brother for his beautiful book. That was some 
 consolation. She liked the pocket-book, anyhow. I 
 wonder, can you young people guess what I did to it 
 before I sent it away? Yes, I did. "One, tree, feefty 
 time," as the Chevalier would say. The next morning, 
 quite early, I had to go back to school, having promised 
 the Doctor to work hard after my holiday; and work 
 I did with a will, at my French and my English, and 
 my Navigation. I thought Saturday would never come : 
 but it did at last, and I trotted as quick as legs would 
 carry me from school to Winchelsea. My legs were 
 growing apace now; and especially as they took me 
 homewards, few could outrun them. 
 
 All good women are match-makers at heart. My 
 dear ]\Irs. Barnard saw quite soon what my condition 
 of mind was, and was touched by my boyish fervour. I 
 called once, twice, thrice, at the Priory, and never could 
 get a sight of Miss Agnes. The servant used to shrug 
 his shoulders and laugh at me in an insolent way, and 
 the last time said— "You need not call any more. We 
 don't want our hair cut here, nor no pomatum, nor no 
 soap, do you understand that?" and he slammed the 
 door in my face. I was stunned by this insolence, and 
 beside myself with rage and mortification. I went to 
 Mrs. Barnard, and told her what had happened to me. 
 I burst into tears of passion and grief as I flung myself 
 on a sofa by the good ladies. I told her how I had res- 
 cued little Agnes, how I loved the little thing better than
 
 108 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 all the world. I spoke my heart out, and eased it some- 
 what, for the good lady wiped her eyes more than once, 
 and finished by giving me a kiss. She did more ; she in- 
 vited me to tea with her on the next Wednesday when 
 I came home from school, and who should be there but 
 little Agnes. She blushed very much. Then she came 
 towards me. Then she held up her little cheek to be 
 kissed, and then she cried — oh, how she did cry! There 
 were three people whimpering in that room. (How 
 well I recollect it opening into the garden, and the little 
 old blue dragon teacups and silver pot!) There were 
 three persons, I say, crying: a lady of fifty, a boy of 
 thirteen, and a little girl of seven years of age. Can 
 you guess what happened next? Of course the lady of 
 fifty remembered that she had forgotten her spectacles, 
 and went upstairs to fetch them; and then the little 
 maiden began to open her heart to me, and told her dear 
 Denny how she had been longing to see him, and how 
 they were very angry with him at the Priory; so angry 
 that his name was never to be spoken. " The Chevalier 
 said that, and so did the gentlemen — especially Mr. 
 Joseph, who had been dreadful since his accident, and 
 one day (says my dear) when you called, he was behind 
 the door with a great horse-whip, and said he would let 
 you in, and flog your soul out of your body, only Mrs. 
 Weston cried, and Mr. George said, 'Don't be a fool, 
 Joe.' But something you have done to Mr. Joseph, 
 dear Denny, and when your name is mentioned, he 
 rages and swears so that it is dreadful to hear him. 
 What can make the gentleman so angry with you? " 
 
 " So he actually was waiting with a horse-whip, was 
 he? In that case I know what I would do. I would 
 never go about without my pistol. I have hit one fel-
 
 I HEAR THE SOUND OF BOW BELLS 109 
 
 low," said I, " and if any other man threatens me I will 
 defend myself." 
 
 My dear Agnes said that they were very kind to her 
 at the Priory, although she could not bear ]Mr. Joseph 
 — that they gave her good masters, that she was to go to 
 a good school kept by a Catholic lady at Arundel. And 
 oh, how she wished her Denny would turn Catholic, and 
 she prayed for him always, always ! And for that mat- 
 ter I know some one who never night or morning on 
 his knees has forgotten that little maiden. The father 
 used to come and give her lessons three or four times 
 in the week, and she used to learn her lessons by heart, 
 walking up and down in the great green walk in the 
 kitchen-garden every morning at eleven o'clock. I 
 knew the kitchen-garden! the wall was in North Lane, 
 one of the old walls of the convent: at the end of the 
 green walk there was a pear-tree. And that was where 
 she always went to learn her lessons. 
 
 And here, I suppose, Mrs. Barnard returned to the 
 room, having found her spectacles. And as I take 
 mine off my nose and shut my eyes, that well-remem- 
 bered scene of boyhood passes before them — that 
 garden basking in the autumn evening — that little 
 maiden with peachy cheeks, and glistening curls, that 
 dear and kind old lady, who says, " 'Tis time now, chil- 
 dren, you should go home." 
 
 I had to go to school that night; but before I went I 
 ran up North Lane and saw the old wall and the pear- 
 tree behind it. And do you know I thought I would 
 try and get up the wall, and easy enough it was to find 
 a footing between those crumbling old stones ; and when 
 on the top I could look down from the branches of the 
 tree into the garden below, and see the house at the
 
 110 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 farther end. So that was the broad walk where Agnes 
 learned her lessons? Master Denis Duval pretty soon 
 had that lesson by heart. 
 
 Yes: but one day in the Christmas holidays, when 
 there was a bitter frost, and the stones and the wall were 
 so shppery that Mr. D. D. tore his fingers and his small 
 clothes in climbing to his point of observation, it hap- 
 pened that little Agnes was not sitting under the tree 
 learning her lessons, and none but an idiot would have 
 supposed that she would have come out on such a day. 
 
 But who should be in the garden, pacing up and down 
 the walk all white with hoar-frost, but Joseph Weston 
 with his patch over his eye. Unluckily he had one eye 
 left with which he saw me ; and the next moment I heard 
 the report of a tremendous oath, and then a brickbat 
 came whizzing at my head, so close that, had it struck 
 me, it would have knocked out my eye, and my brains 
 too. 
 
 I was down the wall in a moment: it was slippery 
 enough; and two or three more brickbats came a mon 
 adresse, but luckily failed to hit their mark.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 I ESCAPE FROM A GREAT DANGER 
 
 I SPOKE of the aiFair of the brickbats, at home, to 
 Monsieur de la Motte only, not caring to tell mo- 
 ther, lest she should be inclined to resume her box-on-the- 
 ear practice, for which I thought I was growing too old. 
 Indeed, I had become a great boy. There were not half- 
 a-dozen out of the sixty at Pocock's who could beat me 
 when I was thirteen years old, and from these champions, 
 were they ever so big, I never would submit to a thrash- 
 ing, without a fight on my part, in which, though I 
 might get the worst, I was pretty sure to leave some ugly 
 marks on my adversary's nose and eyes. I remember 
 one lad especially, Tom Parrot by name, who was three 
 years older than myself, and whom I could no more beat 
 than a frigate can beat a seventy-four; but we engaged 
 nevertheless, and, after we had had some rounds to- 
 gether, Tom put one hand in his pocket, and, with a 
 queer face and a great black eye I had given him, says— 
 "Well, Denny, I could do it— you know I could: but 
 I'm so lazy, I don't care about going on." And one of 
 the bottle-holders beginning to jeer, Tom fetches him 
 such a rap on the ear, that I promise you he showed no 
 inclination for laughing afterwards. By the way, that 
 knowledge of the noble art of fisticuffs which I learned 
 at school, I had to practise at sea presently, in the cock- 
 pit of more than one of his Majesty's ships of war. 
 
 Ill
 
 112 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 In respect of the slapping and caning at home, I think 
 M. de la JMotte remonstrated with my mother, and repre- 
 sented to her that I was now too old for that kind of 
 treatment. Indeed, when I was fourteen, I was as tall 
 as grandfather, and in a tussle I am sure I could have 
 tripped his old heels up easily enough, and got the better 
 of him in five minutes. Do I speak of him with undue 
 familiarity? I pretend no love for him; I never could 
 have any respect. Some of his practices which I knew 
 of made me turn from him, and his loud professions only 
 increased my distrust. Monsieur mon fils, if ever you 
 marry, and have a son, I hope the little chap will have an 
 honest man for a grandfather, and that you will be able 
 to say, " I loved him," when the daisies cover me. 
 
 La Motte, then, caused " the abolition of torture " in 
 our house, and I was grateful to him. I had the queer- 
 est feelings towards that man. He was a perfect fine 
 gentleman when he so wished : of his money most liberal, 
 witty (in a dry, cruel sort of way) — most tenderly at- 
 tached to Agnes. Eh hien! As I looked at his yellow, 
 handsome face, cold shudders would come over me, 
 though at this time I did not know that Agnes's father 
 had fallen by his fatal hand. 
 
 When I informed him of Mr. Joe Weston's salute of 
 brickbats, he looked very grave. And I told him then, 
 too, a thing which had struck me most forcibly— viz. that 
 the shout which Weston gave, and the oath which he 
 uttered when he saw me on the wall, were precisely like 
 the oath and execration uttered by the man with the 
 craped face, at whom I fired from the postchaise. 
 
 "Bah, betise!" savs La Motte. "What didst thou 
 on the wall? One does not steal pears at thy age." 
 
 I dare say I turned red. " I heard somebody's voice,"
 
 I ESCAPE FROM A GREAT DANGER 113 
 
 I said. " In fact, I heard Agnes singing in the garden, 
 and — and I got on the wall to see her." 
 
 " What, you— you, a little barber's boy, climb a wall 
 to speak to jNIademoiselle Agnes de Saverne, of one of 
 the most noble houses of Lorraine?" La Motte yelled, 
 with a savage laugh. " Parbleu! Monsieur Weston has 
 well done!" 
 
 " Sir!" said I, in a towering rage, "barber as I am, 
 my fathers were honourable Protestant clergymen in 
 Alsace, and we are as good as highwaymen at any rate! 
 Barber, indeed! " I say again. "And now I am ready to 
 stjcear that the man who swore at me, and the man I shot 
 on the road, are one and the same; and I'll go to Dr. 
 Barnard's, and swear it before him! " 
 
 The Chevalier looked aghast, and threatening for 
 awhile. " Tu me menaces, je crois, petit manant! " says 
 he, grinding his teeth. " This is too strong. Listen, 
 Denis Duval! Hold thy tongue, or evil will come to 
 thee. Thou wilt make for thyself enemies the most un- 
 scrupulous, and the most terrible — do you hear? I have 
 placed Mademoiselle Agnes de Saverne with that admir- 
 able woman, JNIistriss Weston, because she can meet at the 
 Priory with society more fitting her noble birth than that 
 which she will find under your grandfather's pole — par- 
 bleu. Ah, you dare mount on wall to look for Mademoi- 
 selle de Saverne? Gare aux manstraps, mon gar^on! 
 Vive Dieu, if I see thee on that wall, I will fire on thee, 
 moi le premier! You pretend to Mademoiselle Agnes. 
 Ha! ha! ha!" And he grinned and looked like that 
 cloven-footed gentleman of whom Dr. Barnard talked. 
 
 I felt that henceforward there was war between La 
 Motte and me. At this time I had suddenly shot up to 
 be a young man, and was not the obedient, prattling
 
 114 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 child of last year. I told grandfather that I would bear 
 no more punishment, such as the old man had been ac- 
 customed to bestow upon me ; and once when my mother 
 lifted her hand, I struck it up, and griped it so tight that 
 I frightened her. From that very day she never raised 
 a hand to me. Nay, I think she was not ill-pleased, and 
 soon actually began to spoil me. Nothing was too good 
 for me. I know where the silk came from which made 
 my fine new waistcoat, and the cambric for my ruffled 
 shirts, but very much doubt whether they ever paid any 
 duty. As I walked to church, I dare say I cocked my 
 hat, and strutted very consequentially. When Tom Billis, 
 the baker's boy, jeered at my fine clothes, " Tom," says 
 I, " I will take my coat and waistcoat off for half an 
 hour on Monday, and give thee a beating if thou hast a 
 mind; but to-day let us be at peace, and go to church." 
 On the matter of church I am not going to make any 
 boast. That awful subject lies between a man and his 
 conscience. I have known men of lax faith pure and 
 just in their lives, as I have met very loud-professing 
 Christians loose in their morality, and hard and unjust 
 in their dealings. There was a little old man at home — 
 heaven help him!— who was of this sort, and who, when 
 I came to know his life, would put me into such a rage of 
 revolt whilst preaching his daily and nightly sermons, 
 that it is a wonder I was not enlisted among the scoffers 
 and evil-doers altogether. I have known many a young 
 man fall away, and become utterly reprobate, because the 
 bond of discipline was tied too tightly upon him, and 
 because he has found the preacher who was perpetually 
 prating over him lax in his own conduct. I am thankful, 
 then, that I had a better instructor than my old grand- 
 father with his strap and his cane ; and was brought ( I
 
 I ESCAPE FROM A GREAT DANGER 115 
 
 hope and trust) to a right state of thinking by a man 
 whose brain was wise, as his life was excellently benevo- 
 lent and pure. This was my good friend Dr. Barnard, 
 and to this day I remember the conversations I had with 
 him, and am quite sure they influenced my future life. 
 Had I been altogether reckless and as lawless as many 
 people of our acquaintance and neighbourhood, he would 
 have ceased to feel any interest in me; and instead of 
 wearing his Majesty's epaulets (which I trust I have not 
 disgraced), I might have been swabbing a smuggler's 
 boat, or riding in a night caravan, with kegs beside me 
 and pistols and cutlasses to defend me, as that unlucky 
 La Motte owned for his part that he had done. My good 
 mother, though she gave up the practice of smuggling, 
 never could see the harm in it ; but looked on it as a game 
 where you played your stake, and lost or won it. She 
 ceased to play, not because it was wrong, but it was ex- 
 pedient no more ; and Mr. Denis, her son, was the cause 
 of her giving up this old trade. 
 
 For me, I thankfully own that I was taught to see the 
 matter in a graver light, not only by our Doctor's ser- 
 mons (two or three of which, on the text of " Render 
 unto Csesar," he preached, to the rage of a great number 
 of his congregation), but by many talks which he had 
 with me; when he showed me that I was in the wrong 
 to break the laws of my country to which I owed obedi- 
 ence, as did every good citizen. He knew (though he 
 never told me, and his reticence in this matter was surely 
 very kind) that my poor father had died of wounds re- 
 ceived in a smuggling encounter ; but he showed me how 
 such a life must be loose, lawless, secret, and wicked; 
 must bring a man amongst desperate companions, and 
 compel him to resist Caesar's lawful authority by re-
 
 116 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 bellion, and possibly murder. " To thy mother I have 
 used other arguments, Denny, my boy," he said, very 
 kindly. " I and the Admiral want to make a gentleman 
 of thee. Thy old grandfather is rich enough to help us 
 if he chooses. I won't stop to inquire too strictly where 
 all his money came from ; ^ but 'tis clear we cannot make 
 a gentleman of a smuggler's boy, who may be trans- 
 ported any day, or, in case of armed resistance, may 
 
 be " And here my good Doctor puts his hand to his 
 
 ear, and indicates the punishment for piracy which was 
 very common in my young time. *' My Denny does not 
 want to ride with a crape over his face, and fire pistols 
 at revenue officers! No! I pray you will ever show an 
 honest countenance to the world. You will render unto 
 Ceesar the things which are Caesar's and — the rest, my 
 child, you know." 
 
 Now, I remarked about this man, that when he ap- 
 proached a certain subject, an involuntary awe came over 
 him, and he hushed as it were at the very idea of that 
 sacred theme. It was very different with poor grand- 
 father prating his sermons (and with some other pastors 
 I have heard), who used this Name as familiarly as any 
 other, and .... but who am I to judge? and, my poor 
 old grandfather, is there any need at this distance of 
 time that I should be picking out the trahem in oculo tuo? 
 .... Howbeit, on that night, as I was walking home 
 after drinking tea with my dear Doctor, I made a vow 
 that I would strive henceforth to lead an honest life; 
 that my tongue should speak the truth, and my hand 
 should be sullied by no secret crime. And as I spoke I 
 saw my dearest little maiden's light glimmering in her 
 chamber, and the stars shining overhead, and felt — who 
 could feel more bold and happy than I ? 
 
 ^Eheu! where a part of it went to, I shall have to say presently.— D. D.
 
 I ESCAPE FROM A GREAT DANGER 117 
 
 That walk schoolwards by West Street certainly was 
 a detour. I might have gone a straighter road, but then 
 I should not have seen a certain window: a little twink- 
 ling window in a gable of the Priory House, where the 
 light used to be popped out at nine o'clock. T'other day, 
 when we took over the King of France to Calais (his 
 Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence being in com- 
 mand), I must needs hire a postchaise from Dover, to 
 look at that old window in the Priory House at Win- 
 chelsea. I went through the old tears, despairs, trage- 
 dies. I sighed as sentimentally, after forty years, as 
 though the infandi dolores were fresh upon me, as 
 though I were the schoolboy trudging back to his task, 
 and taking a last look at his dearest joy. I used as a boy 
 to try and pass that window at nine, and I know a prayer 
 was said for the inhabitant of yonder chamber. She 
 knew my holidays, and my hours of going to school and 
 returning thence. If my little maid hung certain sig- 
 nals in that window (such as a flower, for example, to 
 indicate all was well, a cross-curtain, and so forth), I 
 hope she practised no very unjustifiable stratagems. 
 We agreed to consider that she was a prisoner in the 
 hands of the enemy ; and we had few means of commu- 
 nication save these simple artifices, which are allowed 
 to be fair in love and war. Monsieur de la Motte con- 
 tinued to live at our house, when his frequent affairs did 
 not call him away thence; but, as I said, few words 
 passed between us after that angry altercation already 
 described, and he and I were never friends again. 
 
 He warned me that I had another enemy, and facts 
 strangely confirmed the Chevalier's warning. One Sun- 
 day night, as I was going to school, a repetition of the 
 brickbat assault was made upon me, and this time the 
 smart cocked hat which mother had given me came in for
 
 118 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 such a battering as effectually spoiled its modish shape. 
 I told Dr. Barnard of this second attempt, and the good 
 Doctor was not a little puzzled. He began to think that 
 he was not so very wrong in espying a beam in Joseph 
 Weston's eye. We agreed to keep the matter quiet, 
 however; and a fortnight after, on another Sunday 
 evening, as I was going on my accustomed route to 
 school, whom should I meet but the Doctor and Mr. 
 Weston walking together! A little way beyond the 
 town gate there is a low wall round a field; and Dr. Bar- 
 nard, going by this field a quarter of an liour before my 
 usual time for iiassing, found Mr. Joseph Weston walk- 
 ing there behind the stone enclosure ! 
 
 " Good-night, Denny," says the Doctor, when he and 
 his companion met me; but surly Mr. Weston said no- 
 thing. " Have you had any more brickbats at your head, 
 my boy? " the Rector continued. 
 
 I said I was not afraid. I had got a good pistol, and 
 a bullet in it this time. 
 
 " He shot that scoundrel on the same day you were 
 shot, Mr. Weston," says the Doctor. 
 
 "Did he?" growls the other. 
 
 "And your gun was loaded with the same-sized shot 
 which Denis used to pepper his rascal," continues the 
 Doctor. " I wonder if any of the crape went into the 
 rascal's wound?" 
 
 " Sir," said Mr. Weston, with an oath, " what do you 
 mean for to hint? " 
 
 " The very oath the fellow used whom Denny hit 
 when your brother and I travelled together. I am sorry 
 to hear you use the language of such scoundrels, Mr. 
 Weston." 
 
 " If you dare to suspect me of anything unbecoming
 
 I ESCAPE FROM A GREAT DANGER 119 
 
 a gentleman, I'll have the law of you, Mr. Parson, that 
 I will! " roars the other. 
 
 " Denis, mon gar9on, tire ton pistolet de suite, et vise 
 moi bien cet homme la," says the Doctor; and griping 
 hold of Weston's arm, what does Dr. Barnard do but 
 plunge his hand into Weston's pocket, and draw thence 
 another pistol ! He said afterwards he saw the brass butt 
 sticking out of Weston's coat, as the two were walking 
 together. 
 
 "What!" shrieks Mr. Weston; "is that young mis- 
 creant to go about armed, and tell everybody he will 
 murder me ; and ain't I for to defend myself ? I walk in 
 fear of my life for him! " 
 
 " You seem to me to be in the habit of travelling with 
 pistols, Mr. Weston, and you know when people pass 
 sometimes with money in their postchaises." 
 
 " You scoundrel, you— you boy! I call you to witness 
 the words this man have spoken. He have insulted me, 
 and libelled me, and I'll have the lor on him as sure as I 
 am born ! " shouts the angry man. 
 
 " Very good, Mr. Joseph Weston," replied the other 
 fiercely. "And I will ask Mr. Blades, the surgeon, to 
 bring the shot which he took from your eye, and the 
 scraps of crape adhering to your face, and we will go to 
 lor as soon as you like ! " 
 
 Again I thought with a dreadful pang how Agnes 
 was staying in that man's house, and how this quarrel 
 would more than ever divide her from me ; for now she 
 w^ould not be allowed to visit the rectory — the dear neu- 
 tral ground where I sometimes hoped to see her. 
 
 Weston never went to law with the Doctor, as he 
 threatened. Some awkward questions would have been 
 raised, which he would have found a difficulty in answer-
 
 120 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 ing: and though he averred that his accident took place 
 on the day before our encounter with the beau masque 
 on Dartford Common, a Httle witness on our side was 
 ready to aver that Mr. Joe Weston left his house at the 
 Priory before sunrise on the day when we took our jour- 
 ney to London, and that he returned the next morning 
 with his eye bound up, when he sent for ]Mr. Blades, the 
 surgeon of our town. Being awake, and looking from 
 her window, my witness saw Weston mount his horse by 
 the stable-lantern below, and heard him swear at the 
 groom as he rode out at the gate. Curses used to drop 
 naturally out of this nice gentleman's lips ; and it is cer- 
 tain in his case that bad words and bad actions went 
 together. 
 
 The Westons were frequentl}^ absent from home, as 
 w as the Chevalier our lodger. My dear little Agnes was 
 allowed to come and see us at these times ; or slipped out 
 by the garden-door, and ran to see her nurse Duval, as 
 she always called my mother. I did not understand for 
 a while that there was any prohibition on the Westons' 
 part to Agnes' \isiting us, or know that there was such 
 mighty wrath harboured against me in that house. 
 
 I was glad, for the sake of a peaceable life at home, as 
 for honesty's sake too, that my mother did not oppose 
 my determination to take no share in that smuggling 
 business in which our house still engaged. Any one who 
 opposed mother in her own house had, I promise you, 
 no easy time: but she saw that if she wished to make a 
 gentleman of her boy, he must be no smuggler's appren- 
 tice; and when M. le Chevalier, being appealed to, 
 shrugged his shoulders and said he washed his hands of 
 me— "Eh bien, M. de la ]Motte!" says she, "we shall 
 see if we can't pass ourselves of you and your patronage.
 
 I ESCAPE FROM A GREAT DANGER 121 
 
 I imagine that people are not always the better for it." 
 " No," replied he, with a groan, and one of his gloomy 
 looks, " my friendship may do people harm, but my en- 
 mity is worse — entendez-vous? " "Bah, bah!" saj^s the 
 stout old lady. " Denisot has a good courage of his own. 
 What do you say to me about enmity to a harmless boy, 
 M. le Chevalier?" 
 
 I have told how, on the night of the funeral of INIa- 
 dame de Saverne, Monsieur de la Motte sent me out to 
 assemble his Mackerel men. Among these was the fa- 
 ther of one of my town playfellows, by name Hookham, 
 a seafaring man, who had met with an accident at his 
 business — strained his back — and was incapable of work 
 for a time. Hookham was an improvident man: the 
 rent got into arrears. My grandfather was his landlord, 
 and I fear me, not the most humane creditor in the world. 
 Now, when I returned home after my famous visit to 
 London, my patron. Sir Peter Denis, gave me two 
 guineas, and my lady made me a present of another. 
 No doubt I should have spent this money had I received 
 it sooner in London ; but in our little town of Winchel- 
 sea there was nothing to tempt me in the shops, except 
 a fowling-piece at the pawnbroker's, for which I had a 
 great longing. But Mr. Triboulet wanted four guineas 
 for the gun, and I had but three, and would not go into 
 debt. He would have given me the piece on credit, and 
 frequently tempted me with it, but I resisted manfully, 
 though I could not help hankering about the shop, and 
 going again and again to look at the beautiful gun. The 
 stock fitted my shoulder to a nicety. It was of the most 
 beautiful workmanship. " Why not take it now, Master 
 Duval?" Monsieur Triboulet said to me; "and pay 
 me the remaining guinea when you please. Ever so
 
 122 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 many gentlemen have been to look at it; and I should 
 be sorry now, indeed I should, to see such a beauty go out 
 of the town." As I was talking to Triboulet (it may have 
 been for the tenth time), some one came in with a tele- 
 scope to 2)awn, and went away with fifteen shillings. 
 "Don't you know who that is?" says Triboulet (who 
 was a chatter-box of a man). "That is John Hook- 
 ham's wife. It is but hard times with them since John's 
 accident. I have more of their goods here, and, ent?^e 
 nous, John has a hard landlord, and quarter-day is just 
 at hand." I knew well enough that John's landlord was 
 hard, as he was my own grandfather. " If I take my 
 three pieces to Hookham," thought I, "he may find the 
 rest of the rent." And so he did ; and my three guineas 
 went into my grandfather's pocket out of mine; and I 
 suppose some one else bought the fowling-piece for 
 which I had so longed. 
 
 " What, it is you who have given me this money, Mas- 
 ter Denis?" says poor Hookham, who was sitting in his 
 chair, groaning and haggard with his illness. " I can't 
 take it — I ought not to take it." 
 
 " Nay," said I ; "I should only have bought a toy 
 with it, and if it comes to help you in distress, I can do 
 without my plaything." 
 
 There was quite a chorus of benedictions from the 
 poor family in consequence of this act of good nature; 
 and I dare say I went away from Hookham's mightily 
 pleased with myself and my own virtue. 
 
 It appears I had not been gone long when Mr. Joe 
 Weston came in to see the man, and when he heard that 
 I had relieved him, broke out into a flood of abuse against 
 me, cursed me for a scoundrel and impertinent jacka- 
 napes, who was always giving myself the airs of a gen-
 
 I ESCAPE FROM A GREAT DANGER 123 
 
 tleman, and flew out of the house in a passion. Mother 
 heard of the transaction, too, and pinched my ear with 
 a grim satisfaction. Grandfather said nothing, but 
 pocketed my three guineas when jMrs. Hookham brought 
 them ; and, though I did not brag about the matter much, 
 everything is known in a small town, and I got a great 
 deal of credit for a very ordinary good action. 
 
 And now, strangely enough, Hooldiam's boy con- 
 firmed to me what the Slindon priests had hinted to good 
 Dr. Barnard. "Swear," says Tom (with that wonder- 
 ful energy we used to have as boys) — " Swear, Denis, 
 ' So help you, strike you down dead ! ' you never will 
 tell!" 
 
 " So help me, strike me down dead ! " said I. 
 
 " Well, then, those — you know who — the gentlemen — 
 want to do you some mischief." 
 
 "What mischief can they do to an honest boy?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " Oh, you don't know what they are," says Tom. " If 
 they mean a man harm, harm will happen to him. Fa- 
 ther says no man ever comes to good who stands in Mr. 
 Joe's way. Where's John Wheeler, of Rye, who had a 
 quarrel with Mr. Joe? He's in gaol. Mr. Barnes, of 
 Playden, had words with him at Hastings market: and 
 Barnes' ricks were burnt down before six months were 
 over. How was Thomas Berry taken, after deserting 
 from the man-of-war? He is an awful man, Mr. Joe 
 Weston is. Don't get into his way. Father says so. 
 But you are not to tell — no, never, that he spoke about it. 
 Don't go alone to Rye of nights, father says. Don't go 
 on any — and you know what not — any fishing business, 
 except with those you know." And so Tom leaves me 
 with a finger to his lip and terror in his face.
 
 124. DENIS DUVAL 
 
 As for the fisliing, though I loved a sail dearly, my 
 mind was made up by good Dr. Barnard's advice to me. 
 I would have no more night-fishing such as I had seen 
 sometimes as a boy; and when Rudge's apprentice one 
 night invited me, and called me a coward for refusing 
 to go, I showed him I was no coward as far as fisticuifs 
 went, and stood out a battle with him, in which I do be- 
 lieve I should have proved conqueror, though the fellow 
 was four years my senior, had not his ally, Miss Sukey 
 Rudge, joined him in the midst of our fight, and 
 knocked me down with the kitchen bellows, when they 
 both belaboured me, as I lay kicking on the ground. 
 Mr. Elder Rudge came in at the close of this dreadful 
 combat, and his abandoned hussy of a daughter had the 
 impudence to declare that the quarrel arose because I 
 was rude to her — I, an innocent boy, who would as soon 
 have made love to a negress as to that hideous, pock- 
 marked, squinting, crooked, tipsy Sukey Rudge. I fall 
 in love with Miss Squintum, indeed! I knew a pair of 
 eyes at home so bright, innocent, and pure, that I should 
 have been ashamed to look in them had I been guilty of 
 such a rascally treason. ]My little maid of Winchelsea 
 heard of this battle, as she was daily hearing slanders 
 against me from those worthy Mr. Westons; but she 
 broke into a rage at the accusation, and said to the as- 
 sembled gentlemen ( as she told my good mother in after 
 days), "Denis Duval is not wicked. He is brave and 
 he is good. And it is not true, the story you tell against 
 him. It is a lie! " 
 
 And now, once more it happened that my little pistol 
 helped to confound my enemies, and was to me, indeed, 
 a gute Wehr und Waff en. I was for ever popping at 
 marks with this little piece of artillery. I polished, oiled,
 
 I ESCAPE FROM A GREAT DANGER 125 
 
 and covered it with the utmost care, and kept it in my 
 little room in a box of which I had the key. One day, by 
 a most fortunate chance, I took my schoolfellow, Tom 
 Parrot, who became a great crony of mine, into the room. 
 We went upstairs, by the private door of Rudge's house, 
 and not through the shop, where IMademoiselle Figs and 
 Monsieur the apprentice were serving their customers; 
 and arrived in my room, we boys opened my box, ex- 
 amined the precious pistol, screw, barrel, flints, powder- 
 horn, &c., locked the box, and went away to school, 
 promising ourselves a good afternoon's sport on that 
 half -holiday. Lessons over, I returned home to dinner, 
 to find black looks from all the inmates of the house 
 where I lived, from the grocer, his daughter, his appren- 
 tice, and even the little errand-boy who blacked the boots 
 and swept the shop stared at me impertinently, and said, 
 " Oh, Denis, ain't you going to catch it! " 
 
 "What is the matter?" I asked, very haughtily. 
 
 " Oh, my lord! well soon show your lordship what is 
 the matter." (This was a silly nickname I had in the 
 town and at school, where, I believe, I gave mj^self not a 
 few airs since I had worn my fine new clothes, and paid 
 my visit to London.) "This accounts for his laced 
 waistcoat, and his guineas which he flings about. Does 
 your lordship know these here shillings, and this half- 
 crown? Look at them, Mr. Beales! See the marks on 
 them which I scratched with my own hand before I put 
 them into the till from which my lord took 'em." 
 
 Shillings? — till? What did they mean? " How dare 
 you ask, you little hypocrite ! " screams out Miss Rudge. 
 " I marked them shillings and that half-crown with my 
 own needle, I did; and of that I can take my Bible 
 oath."
 
 " ^Tr 
 
 " •\r. 
 
 126 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 "Well, and what then?" I asked, remembering how 
 this young woman had not scrupled to bear false witness 
 in another charge against me. 
 
 "What then? They were in the till this morning, 
 young fellow; and you know well enough where they 
 were found afterwards," says Mr. Beales. " Come, 
 come ! This is a bad job. This is a sessions job, my lad." 
 
 " But where were they found? " again I asked. 
 
 " We'll tell you that before Squire Boroughs and the 
 magistrates, you young vagabond ! " 
 
 You little viper, that have turned and stung me ! " 
 You precious young scoundrel!" 
 You wicked little story-telling, good-for-nothing 
 little thief!" cry Budge, the apprentice, and Miss 
 Rudge in a breath. And I stood bewildered by their 
 outcry, and, indeed, not quite comprehending the charge 
 which they made against me. 
 
 " The magistrates are sitting at Town Hall now. We 
 will take the little villain there at once," says the grocer. 
 "You bring the box along with you, constable. Lord! 
 Lord! what will his poor grandfather say?" And, 
 wondering still at the charge made against me, I was 
 made to walk through the streets to the Town Hall, 
 passing on the way by at least a score of our boys, who 
 were enjoying their half -holiday. It was market-day, 
 too, and the town full. It is forty years ago, but I 
 dream about that dreadful day still ; and, an old gentle- 
 man of sixty, fancy myself walking through Rye mar- 
 ket, with Mr. Beales' fist clutching my collar ! 
 
 A number of our boys joined this dismal procession, 
 and accompanied me into the magistrate's room. 
 " Denis Duval up for stealing money ! " cries one. 
 " This accounts for his fine clothes," sneers another.
 
 I ESCAPE FROM A GREAT DANGER 127 
 
 " He'll be hung," says a third. The market people stare, 
 and crowd round, and jeer. I feel as if in a horrible 
 nightmare. We pass under the i3illars of the Market 
 House, up the steps to the Town Hall, where the mag- 
 istrates were, who chose market-day for their sittings. 
 
 How my heart throbbed, as I saw my dear Dr. Bar- 
 nard seated among them. 
 
 " Oh, Doctor," cries poor Denis, clasping his hands, 
 "you don't believe me guilty? " 
 
 "Guilty of what?" cries the Doctor, from the raised 
 table round which the gentlemen sat. 
 
 " Guilty of steahng." 
 
 " Guilty of robbing my till." 
 
 " Guilty of taking two half-crowns, three shillings 
 and twopence in copper, all marked," shriek out Rudge, 
 the apprentice, and Miss Rudge in a breath. 
 
 "Denny Duval steal sixpences!" cries the Doctor; 
 "I would as soon believe he stole the dragon oiF the 
 church steeple ! " 
 
 "Silence, you boys! Silence in the court, there; or 
 flog 'em and turn 'em all out," says the magistrates' 
 clerk. Some of our boys — friends of mine — who had 
 crowded into the place, were hurrajang at my kind 
 Doctor Barnard's speech. 
 
 " It is a most serious charge," says the clerk. 
 
 "But what is the charge, my good Mr. Hickson? 
 You might as well put me into the dock as that—" 
 
 "Pray, sir, will you allow the business of the court 
 to go on?" asks the clerk, testily. "Make your state- 
 ment, Mr. Rudge, and don't be afraid of anybody. You 
 are under the protection of the court, sir." 
 
 And now for the first time I heard tlie particulars of 
 the charge made against me. Rudge, and his daughter
 
 128 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 after him, stated (on oath, I am shocked to say) that 
 for some time past they had missed money from the 
 till; small sums of money, in shillings and half-crowns, 
 they could not say how much. It might be two pounds, 
 three pounds, in all; but the money was constantly 
 going. At last, JNIiss Rudge said, she was determined 
 to mark some money, and did so; and that money w^as 
 found in that box which belonged to Denis Duval, and 
 which the constable brought into court. 
 
 "Oh, gentlemen!" I cried out in agony, "it's a 
 wicked, wicked lie, and it's not the first she has told about 
 me. A week ago she said I wanted to kiss her, and she 
 and Bevil both set on me; and I never wanted to kiss 
 the nasty thing, so help me — " 
 
 " You did, you lying wicked boy ! " cries Miss Sukey. 
 "And Edward Bevil came to my rescue; and you struck 
 me, like a low mean coward ; and we beat him well, and 
 served him right, the little abandoned boy." 
 
 "And he kicked one of my teeth out— you did, you 
 httle villain!" roars Bevil, whose jaws had indeed suf- 
 fered in that scuffle in the kitchen, when his precious 
 sweetheart came to his aid with the bellows. 
 
 "He called me a coward, and I fought him fair, 
 though he is ever so much older than me," whimpers 
 out the prisoner. "And Sukey Rudge set upon me, 
 and beat me too; and if I kicked him, he kicked me." 
 
 "And since this kicking match they have found out 
 that you stole their money, have they?" says the 
 Doctor, and turns round, appealing to his brother mag- 
 istrates. 
 
 "Miss Rudge, please to tell the rest of your story?" 
 calls out the justices' clerk. 
 
 The rest of the Rudges' story was, that having their
 
 icJiL A. ■ <• 
 
 mill ) ' 
 
 Evidence for 
 the Defence
 
 I ESCAPE FROM A GREAT DANGER 129 
 
 suspicions roused against me, they determined to ex- 
 amine my cupboards and boxes in my absence, to see 
 whether the stolen objects were to be found, and in my 
 box they discovered the two marked half-crowns, the 
 three marked shillings, a brass-barrelled pistol, which 
 were now in court. " Me and Mr. Bevil, the apprentice, 
 found the money in the box; and we called my papa 
 from the shop, and we fetched Mr. Beales, the con- 
 stable, who lives over the way ; and when the little mon- 
 ster came back from school, we seized upon him, and 
 brought him before your worships, and hanging is what 
 I said he would always come to," shrieks my enemy Miss 
 Rudge. 
 
 " Why, I have the key of that box in my pocket now! " 
 I cried out. 
 
 "We had means of opening it," says Miss Rudge, 
 looking very red. 
 
 " Oh, if you have another key — ," interposes the 
 Doctor. 
 
 "We broke it open with the tongs and poker," says 
 Miss Rudge, "me and Edward did— I mean Mr. Bevil, 
 the apprentice." 
 
 " When? " said I, in a great tremor. 
 
 "When? When you was at school, you little mis- 
 creant! Half-an-hour before you came back to din- 
 
 ner." 
 
 "Tom Parrot, Tom Parrot!" I cried. "Call Tom 
 Parrot, gentlemen. For goodness' sake call Tom!" 
 I said, my heart beating so that I could hardly 
 speak. 
 
 "Here I am, Denny!" pipes Tom in the crowd; 
 and presently he comes up to their honours on the 
 bench.
 
 130 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 "Speak to Tom, Doctor, dear Doctor Barnard I" I 
 continued. " Tom, when did I show you my pistol? " 
 
 " Just before ten o'clock school." 
 
 "What did I do?" 
 
 " You unlocked your box, took the pistol out of a 
 handkerchief, showed it to me, and two flints, a powder- 
 horn, a bullet-mould, and some bullets, and put them 
 back again, and locked the box." 
 
 " Was there any money in the box? " 
 
 " There was nothing in the box but the pistol, and the 
 bullets and things. I looked into it. It was as empty 
 as my hand." 
 
 "And Denis Duval has been sitting by you in school 
 ever since?" 
 
 " Ever since— except when I was called up and caned 
 for my Corderius," says Tom, with a roguish look; and 
 there was a great laughter and shout of aj^plause from 
 our boys of Pocock's when this testimony was given in 
 their schoolfellow's favour. 
 
 My kind Doctor held his hand over the railing to me, 
 and when I took it, my heart was so full that my eyes 
 overflowed. I thought of little Agnes. What would 
 she have felt if her Denis had been committed as a thief? 
 I had such a rapture of thanks and gratitude that I 
 think the pleasure of the acquittal was more than equiv- 
 alent to the anguish of the accusation. What a shout 
 all Pocock's boys set up, as I went out of the justice- 
 room! We trooped joyfully down the stairs, and there 
 were fresh shouts and huzzays as we got down to the 
 market. I saw Mr. Joe Weston buying corn at a stall. 
 He only looked at me once. His grinding teeth and his 
 clenched riding-whip did not frighten me in the least 
 now.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE LAST OF MY SCHOOL-DAYS 
 
 AS our joyful procession of boys passed by Partlett's 
 AJL the pastrycook's, one of the boys — Samuel Arbin 
 — I remember the fellow well — a greedy boy, with a 
 large beard and whiskers, though only fifteen years old 
 — insisted that I ought to stand treat in consequence of 
 my victory over my enemies. As far as a groat went, I 
 said I was ready: for that was all the money I had. 
 
 "Oh, you storyteller!" cries the other. "What have 
 you done with your three guineas which j^ou were brag- 
 ging about and showing to the boys at school? I sup- 
 pose they were in the box when it M^as broken open." 
 This Samuel Arbin was one of the boys who had jeered 
 when I was taken in charge by the constable, and would 
 have liked me to be guilty, I almost think. I am afraid 
 I had bragged about my money when I possessed it, 
 and may have shown my shining gold pieces to some 
 of the boys in school. 
 
 "I know what he has done with his money!" broke 
 in my steadfast crony Tom Parrot. " He has given 
 away every shilling of it to a poor family who wanted 
 it, and nobody ever knew you give away a shilling, 
 Samuel Arbin," he says. 
 
 " Unless he could get eighteenpence by it! " sang out 
 another little voice. 
 
 " Tom Parrot, I'll break every bone in your body, as 
 sure as my name is Arbin! " cried the other, in a fury. 
 
 131
 
 132 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 " Sam Arbin," said I, " after you have finished Tom, 
 you must try me; or we'll do it now, if you like." To 
 say the truth, I had long had an inclination to try my 
 hand against Arbin. He was an ill friend to me, and 
 amongst the younger boys a bully and a usurer to boot. 
 The rest called out, "A ring! a ring! Let us go on the 
 green and have it out!" being in their innocent years 
 always ready for a fight. 
 
 But this one was never to come off: and (except in 
 later days, when I went to revisit the old place, and ask 
 for a half -holiday for my young successors at Pocock's) 
 I was never again to see the ancient school-room. 
 While we boys were brawling in the market-place before 
 the pastrycook's door, Dr. Barnard came up, and our 
 quarrel was hushed in a moment. 
 
 "What! fighting and quarrelling already?" says the 
 Doctor, sternly. 
 
 " It wasn't Denny's fault, sir! " cried out several of the 
 boys. " It was Arbin began." And, indeed, I can say 
 for myself that in all the quarrels I have had in life — 
 and they have not been few— I consider I always have 
 been in the right. 
 
 " Come along with me, Denny," says the Doctor, 
 taking me by the shoulder: and he led me away and we 
 took a walk in the town together, and as we passed old 
 Ypres Tower, which was built by King Stephen, they 
 say, and was a fort in old days, but is used as the town- 
 prison now, " Suppose you had been looking from 
 behind those bars now, Denny, and awaiting your trial 
 at assizes? Yours would not have been a pleasant 
 plight," Dr. Barnard said. 
 
 " But I was innocent, sir! You know I was!" 
 
 " Yes. Praise be where praise is due. But if you had
 
 THE LAST OF MY SCHOOL-DAYS 133 
 
 not providentially been able to prove your innocence 
 — if you and your friend Parrot had not happened to 
 inspect your box, you would have been in yonder place. 
 Ha! there is the bell ringing for afternoon service, 
 which my good friend Dr. Wing keeps up. What say 
 you? Shall we go and — and — offer up our thanks, 
 Denny — for the — the immense peril from which — you 
 have been — delivered? " 
 
 I remember how my dear friend's voice trembled as 
 he spoke, and two or three drops fell from his kind eyes 
 on my hand, which he held. I followed him into the 
 church. Indeed and indeed I was thankful for my 
 deliverance from a great danger, and even more thank- 
 ful to have the regard of the true gentleman, the wise 
 and tender friend, who was there to guide, and cheer, 
 and help me. 
 
 As we read the last psalm appointed for that evening 
 service, I remember how the good man, bowing his own 
 head, put his hand upon mine; and we recited together 
 the psalm of thanks to the Highest, who had had respect 
 unto the lowly, and who had stretched forth His hand 
 upon the furiousness of my enemies, and whose right 
 hand had saved me. . 
 
 Dr. Wing recognized and greeted his comrade when 
 service was over: and the one doctor presented me to 
 the other, who had been one of the magistrates on the 
 bench at the time of my trial. Dr. Wing asked us 
 into his house, where dinner was served at four o'clock, 
 and of course the transactions of the morning were 
 again discussed. What could be the reason of the per- 
 secution against me? Who instigated it? There were 
 matters connected with this story regarding which I 
 could not speak. Should I do so, I must betray secrets
 
 134 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 which were not mine, and which imphcated I knew not 
 whom, and regarding which I must hold my peace. 
 Now, they are secrets no more. That old society of 
 smugglers is dissolved long ago: nay, I shall have to 
 tell presently how I helped myself to break it up. 
 Grandfather, Rudge, the Chevalier, the gentlemen of 
 the Priory, were all connected in that great smuggling 
 society of which I have spoken; which had its depots 
 all along the coast and inland, and its correspondents 
 from Dunkirk to Havre de Grace. I have said as a 
 boy how I had been on some of these " fishing " expe- 
 ditions ; and how, mainly by the effect of my dear Doc- 
 tor's advice, I had withdrawn from all participation in 
 this lawless and wicked life. When Bevil called me 
 coward for refusing to take a share in a night-cruise, a 
 quarrel ensued between us, ending in that battle royal 
 which left us all sprawling, and cuffing and kicking each 
 other on the kitchen floor. Was it rage at the injury to 
 her sweetheart's teeth, or hatred against myself, which 
 induced my sweet Miss Sukey to j^ropagate calumnies 
 against me? The provocation I had given certainly 
 did not seem to warrant such a deadly enmity as a 
 prosecution and a perjury showed must exist. Howbeit, 
 there was a reason for the anger of the grocer's daughter 
 and apprentice. They would injure me in any way they 
 could; and (as in the before-mentioned case of the bel- 
 lows) take the first weapon at hand to overthrow me. 
 
 As magistrates of the county, and knowing a great 
 deal of what was happening round about them, and 
 the character of their parishioners and neighbours, the 
 two gentlemen could not, then, press me too closely. 
 Smuggled silk and lace, rum and brandy? Who had 
 not these in his possession along the Sussex and Kent
 
 THE LAST OF MY SCHOOL-DAYS 135 
 
 coast? "And, Wing, will you promise me there are no 
 ribbons in your house but such as have paid duty? " asks 
 one Doctor of the other. 
 
 " My good friend, it is lucky my wife has gone to her 
 tea-table," replies Dr. Wing, " or I would not answer 
 for the peace being kej)t." 
 
 *' My dear Wing," continues Dr. Barnard, " This 
 brandy punch is excellent, and is worthy of being smug- 
 gled. To run an anker of brandy seems no monstrous 
 crime; but when men engage in these lawless ventures 
 at all, who knows how far the evil will go? I buy ten 
 kegs of brandy from a French fishing-boat, I land it 
 under a lie on the coast, I send it inland ever so far, be 
 it from here to York, and all my consignees lie and 
 swindle. I land it, and lie to the revenue officer. Under 
 a lie (that is, a mutual secrecy,) I sell it to the landlord 
 of 'The Bell' at Maidstone, say — where a good friend 
 of ours, Denny, looked at his pistols. You remember 
 the day when his brother received the charge of shot in 
 his face? My landlord sells it to a customer under a 
 lie. We are all engaged in crime, conspiracy, and false- 
 hood; nay, if the revenue looks too closely after us, we 
 out with our pistols, and to crime and conspiracy add 
 murder. Do you suppose men engaged in lying ever}'^ 
 day will scruple about a false oath in a witness-box? 
 Crime engenders crime, sir. Round about uSj Wing, I 
 know there exists a vast confederacy of fraud, greed, 
 and rebellion. I name no names, sir. I fear men high 
 placed in the world's esteem, and largely endowed 
 with its riches too, are concerned in the pursuit of this 
 godless traffic of smuggling, and to what does it not 
 lead them? To falsehood, to wickedness, to murder, 
 to-"
 
 136 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 "Tea, sir, if you please, sir," says John, entering. 
 *' My mistress and the young ladies are waiting." 
 
 The ladies had previously heard the story of poor 
 Denis Duval's persecution and innocence, and had 
 shown him great kindness. By the time when we joined 
 them after dinner, they had had time to perform a new 
 toilette, being engaged to cards with some neighbours. 
 I knew Mrs. Wing was a customer to my mother for 
 some of her French goods, and she would scarcely, on 
 an ordinary occasion, have admitted such a lowly guest 
 to her table as the humble dressmaker's boy ; but she and 
 the ladies were very kind, and my persecution and 
 proved innocence had interested them in my favour. 
 
 " You have had a long sitting, gentlemen," says Mrs. 
 Wing: "I suppose you have been deep in politics, and 
 the quarrel with France." 
 
 "We have been speaking of France and French 
 goods, my dear," said Dr. Wing, dryly. 
 
 "And of the awful crime of smuggling and encour- 
 aging smuggling, my dear Mrs. Wing!" cries my 
 Doctor. 
 
 "Indeed, Dr. Barnard!" Now, Mrs. Wing and the 
 young ladies were dressed in smart new caps, and rib- 
 bons, which my poor mother supplied ; and they turned 
 red, and I turned as red as the cap-ribbons, as I thought 
 how my good ladies had been provided. No wonder 
 Mrs. Wing was desirous to change the subject of con- 
 versation. 
 
 "What is this young man to do after his persecu- 
 tion?" she asked. "He can't go back to Mr. Rudge— 
 that horrid Wesleyan who has accused him of steal- 
 ing." 
 
 No, indeed, I could not go back, We had not thought
 
 THE LAST OF MY SCHOOL-DAYS 137 
 
 about the matter until then. There had been a hundred 
 things to agitate and interest me in the half-dozen hours 
 since my apprehension and dismissal. 
 
 The Doctor would take me to Winchelsea in his 
 chaise. I could not go back to my persecutors, that was 
 clear, except to reclaim my little property and my poor 
 little boxes, which they had found means to open. Mrs. 
 Wing gave me a hand, the young ladies a stately curt- 
 sey; and my good Dr. Barnard putting a hand under 
 the arm of the barber's grandson, we quitted these kind 
 people. I was not on the quarter-deck as yet, you see. 
 I was but a humble lad belonging to ordinary trades- 
 men. 
 
 By the way, I had forgotten to say that the two 
 clergymen, during their after-dinner talk, had emj)loyed 
 a part of it in examining me as to my little store of learn- 
 ing at school, and my future prospects. Of Latin I had 
 a smattering; French, owing to my birth, and mainly 
 to M. de la Motte's instruction and conversation, I could 
 speak better than either of my two examiners, and with 
 quite the good manner and conversation. I was well 
 advanced, too, in arithmetic and geometry; and Dam- 
 pier's Voyages were as much my delight as those of 
 Sinbad or my friends Robinson Crusoe and Man Fri- 
 day. I could pass a good examination in navigation 
 and seamanship, and could give an account of the difFer- 
 erent sailings, working-tides, double-altitudes, and so 
 forth. 
 
 "And you can manage a boat at sea, too?" says Dr. 
 Barnard, dryly. I blushed, I suppose. I could do that, 
 and could steer, reef, and pull an oar. At least I could 
 do so two years ago. 
 
 "Denny, my boy," says my good Doctor; "I think
 
 138 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 'tis time for thee to leave this school at any rate, and 
 that our friend Sir Peter must provide for thee." 
 
 However he may desire to improve in learning, no 
 boy, I fancy, is very sorry when a proposal is made to 
 him to leave school. I said that I should be too glad if 
 Sir Peter, my patron, would provide for me. With the 
 education I had, I ought to get on, the Doctor said, and 
 my grandfather he was sure would find the means for 
 allowing me to appear hke a gentleman. 
 
 To fit a boy for appearance on the quarter-deck, and 
 to enable him to rank with others, I had heard would 
 cost thirty or forty pounds a year at least. I asked, 
 did Dr. Barnard think my grandfather could afford 
 such a sum? 
 
 " I know not your grandfather's means," Dr. Barnard 
 answered, smihng. " He keeps his own counsel. But 
 I am very much mistaken, Denny, if he cannot afford 
 to make you a better allowance than many a fine gentle- 
 man can give his son. I believe him to be rich. Mind, I 
 have no precise reason for my belief; but I fancy, Mas- 
 ter Denis, your good grandpapa's fishing has been very 
 profitable to him." 
 
 How rich was he? I began to think of the treasures 
 in my favourite "Arabian Nights." Did Dr. Barnard 
 think grandfather was very rich? Well— the Doctor 
 could not tell. The notion in Winchelsea was that old 
 Mr. Peter was very well to do. At any rate I must go 
 back to him. It was impossible that I should stay with 
 the Rudge family after the insulting treatment I had 
 had from them. The Doctor said he would take me 
 home with him in his chaise, if I would pack my little 
 trunks; and with this talk we reached Rudge's shop, 
 which I entered not without a beating heart. There
 
 THE LAST OF MY SCHOOL-DAYS 139 
 
 was Rudge glaring at me from behind his desk, where 
 he was posting his books. The apprentice looked dag- 
 gers at me as he came up through a trap-door from the 
 cellar Avith a string of dip-candles; and my charming 
 Miss Susan was behind the counter tossing up her ugly 
 head. 
 
 "Ho! he's come back, have he?" says Miss Rudge. 
 *'As all the cupboards is locked in the parlour, you can 
 go in, and get your tea there, young man." 
 
 " I am going to take Denis home, Mr. Rudge," said 
 my kind Doctor. " He cannot remain with you, after 
 the charge which you made against him this morning." 
 
 "Of having our marked money in his box? Do you 
 go for to dare for to say we put it there?" cries JNIiss, 
 glaring now at me, now at Dr. Barnard. " Go to say 
 that! Please to saA^ that once. Dr. Barnard, before Mrs. 
 Barker and ]Mrs. Scales" (these Avere tAvo women Avho 
 happened to be in the shop purchasing goods). "Just 
 be so good for to say before these ladies, that we have 
 put the money in that boy's box, and Ave'll see Avhether 
 there is not justice in Hengland for a poor girl Avhom 
 you insult, because you are a doctor and a magistrate 
 indeed! Eh, if I was a man, I Avouldn't let some peo- 
 ple's gOAvns, and cassocks, and bands, remain long on 
 their backs — that I wouldn't. And some people 
 Avouldn't see a woman insulted if they Avasn't coAvards! " 
 As she said this, JNIiss Sukey looked at the cellar-trap, 
 above which the apprentice's head had appeared, but 
 the Doctor turned also towards it AA^th a glance so 
 threatening, that Bevil let the trap fall suddenly down, 
 not a little to my Doctor's amusement. 
 
 " Go and pack thy trunk, Denny. I Avill come back 
 for thee in half-an-hour. Mr. Rudge must see that after
 
 140 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 being so insulted as you have been, you never as a gen- 
 tleman can stay in this house." 
 
 "A pretty gentleman, indeed I" ejaculates Miss 
 Rudge. " Pray, how long since was barbers gentlemen, 
 I should like to know? Mrs. Scales mum, Mrs. Barker 
 mum, — did you ever have your hair dressed by a gentle- 
 man? If you want for to have it, you must go to Moun- 
 seer Duval, at Winchelsea, which one of the name was 
 hung, Mrs. Barker mum, for a thief and a robber, and 
 he won't be the last neither ! " 
 
 There was no use in bandying abuse with this woman. 
 " I will go and get my trunk, and be ready, sir," I said 
 to the Doctor; but his back was no sooner turned than 
 the raging virago opposite me burst out with a fury of 
 words, that I certainly can't remember after five-and- 
 forty years. I fancy I see now the little green eyes 
 gleaming hatred at me, the lean arms a-kimbo, the feet 
 stamping as she hisses out every imaginable imprecation 
 at my poor head. 
 
 " Will no man help me, and stand by and see that 
 barber's boy insult me?" she cried. "Bevil, I say — 
 Bevil! 'Elpme!" 
 
 I ran upstairs to my little room, and was not twenty 
 minutes in making up my packages. I had passed 
 years in that little room, and somehow grieved to leave 
 it. The odious people had injured me, and yet I would 
 have liked to part friends with them. I had passed de- 
 lightful nights there in the company of Robinson Cru- 
 soe, Mariner, and Monsieur Galland and his Contes 
 Arabes, and Hector of Troy, whose adventures and 
 lamentable death (out of Mr. Pope) I could recite by 
 heart; and I had had weary nights, too, with my school- 
 books, cramming that crabbed Latin grammar into my
 
 THE LAST OF MY SCHOOL-DAYS 141 
 
 puzzled brain. With arithmetic, logarithms, and math- 
 ematics I have said I was more familiar. I took a pretty 
 good place in our school with them, and ranked before 
 many boys of greater age. 
 
 And now my boxes being packed (my little library 
 being stowed away in that which contained my famous 
 pistol) , I brought them downstairs, with nobody to help 
 me, and had them in the passage ready against Dr. 
 Barnard's arrival. The passage is behind the back shop 
 at Rudge's — (dear me! how well I remember it!) — and 
 a door thence leads into a side-street. On the other side 
 of this passage is the kitchen, where had been the fight 
 which has been described already, and where we com- 
 monly took our meals. 
 
 I declare I went into that kitchen disposed to part 
 friends with all these people — to forgive Miss Sukey 
 her lies, and Bevil his cuffs, and all the past quarrels 
 between us. Old Rudge was by the fire, having his 
 supper ; Miss Sukey opposite to him. Bevil, as yet, was 
 minding the shop. 
 
 " I am come to shake hands before going away," I 
 said. 
 
 " You're a-going, are you? And pray, sir, wherehever 
 are you a-going of?" says Miss Sukey, over her tea, 
 
 *' I am going home with Dr. Barnard. I can't stop in 
 this house after you have accused me of stealing your 
 money." 
 
 " Stealing! Wasn't the money in your box, you little 
 beastly thief?" 
 
 " Oh, you young reprobate, I am surprised the bears 
 don't come in and eat you," groans old Rudge. " You 
 have shortened my life with your wickedness, that you 
 have; and if you don't bring your good grandfather's
 
 142 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 grey hairs with sorrow to the grave, I shall be surprised, 
 that I shall. You, who come of a pious family— I 
 tremble when I think of you, Denis Duval ! " 
 
 " Tremble! Faugh! the wicked little beast! he makes 
 me sick, he do! " cries Miss Sukey, with looks of genuine 
 loathing. 
 
 "Let him depart from among us!" cries Rudge. 
 
 "Never do I wish to see his ugly face again!" ex- 
 claims the gentle Susan. 
 
 " I am going as soon as Dr. Barnard's chaise comes," 
 I said. "My boxes are in the passage now, ready 
 packed." 
 
 "Ready packed, are they? Is there any more of our 
 money in them, you little miscreant? Pa, is your silver 
 tankard in the cupboard, and is the spoons safe? " 
 
 I think poor Sukey had been drinking to drive away 
 the mortifications of the morning in the court-house. 
 She became more excited and violent with every word 
 she spoke, and shrieked and clenched her fists at me like 
 a madwoman. 
 
 " Susanna, you have had false witness bore against 
 you, my child; and you are not the first of your name. 
 But be calm, be calm; it's our duty to be calm! " 
 
 "Eh!" (here she gives a grunt.) "Calm with that 
 sneak— that pig— that liar— that beast! Where's Ed- 
 ward Bevil? Why don't he come forward like a man, 
 and flog the young scoundrel's hfe out?" shrieks Su- 
 sanna. " Oh, with this here horsewhip, how I would like 
 to give it you! " (She clutched her father's whip from 
 the dresser, where it commonly hung on two hooks.) 
 "Oh, you— you villain! you have got your pistol, have 
 you? Shoot me, you little coward, I ain't afraid of you! 
 You have your pistol in your box, have you!" (I use-
 
 THE LAST OF MY SCHOOL-DAYS 143 
 
 lessly said as much in reply to this taunt.) " Stop! I 
 say, Pa, — that young thief isn't going away with them 
 boxes, and robbing the whole house as he may. Open 
 the boxes this instant! We'll see he's stole nothing! 
 Open them, I say!" 
 
 I said I would do nothing of the kind. IVIy blood 
 was boiling up at this brutal behaviour; and as she 
 dashed out of the room to seize one of my boxes, I put 
 myself before her, and sat down on it. 
 
 This was assuredly a bad position to take, for the 
 furious vixen began to strike me and lash at my face 
 with the riding-whip, and it was more than I could do to 
 wrench it from her. 
 
 Of course, at this act of defence on my part, JNIiss 
 Suke}' yelled for help, and called out, "Edward! Ned 
 Bevil! The coward is a-striking me! Help, Ned!" 
 At this, the shop door flies open, and Sukey's champion 
 is about to rush on me, but he breaks down over my other 
 box with a crash of his shins, and frightful execrations. 
 His nose is prone on the pavement; Miss Sukey is 
 wildly laying about her with her horsewhip (and I 
 think Bevil's jacket came in for most of the blows) ; we 
 are all higgledy-piggledy, plunging and scuffling in the 
 dark — when a carriage drives up, which I had not heard 
 in the noise of action, and as the hall door opened, I was 
 jDleased to think that Dr. Barnard had arrived, accord- 
 ing to his promise. 
 
 It was not the Doctor. The new comer wore a gown, 
 but not a cassock. Soon after my trial before the mag- 
 istrates was over, our neighbour, John Jephson, of 
 Winchelsea, mounted his cart and rode home from Rye 
 market. He straightway went to our house, and told 
 my mother of the strange scene which had just occurred,
 
 144 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 and of my accusation before the magistrates and ac- 
 quittal. She begged, she ordered Jephson to lend her 
 his cart. She seized whip and reins; she drove over to 
 Rye; and I don't envy Jephson's old grey mare that 
 journey with such a charioteer behind her. The door, 
 opening from the street, flung light into the passage ; and 
 behold, we three warriors were sprawling on the floor in 
 the higgledy-piggledy stage of the battle as my mother 
 entered ! 
 
 What a scene for a mother with a strong arm, a warm 
 heart, and a high temper! Madame Duval rushed in- 
 stantly at INIiss Susan, and tore her shrieking from my 
 body, which fair Susan was pummelling with the whip. 
 A part of Susan's cap and tufts of her red hair were 
 torn off by this maternal Amazon, and Susan was 
 hurled through the open door into the kitchen, where she 
 fell before her frightened father. I don't know how 
 many blows my parent inflicted upon this creature. 
 Mother might have slain her, but that the chaste Su- 
 sanna, screaming shrilly, rolled under the deal kitchen 
 table. 
 
 ]\Iadame Duval had wrenched away from this young 
 person the horsewhip with which Susan had been oper- 
 ating upon the shoulders of her only son, and snatched 
 the weapon as her fallen foe dropped. And now my 
 mamma, seeing old ]\Ir. Rudge sitting in a ghastly state 
 of terror in the corner, rushed at the grocer, and in one 
 minute, with butt and thong, inflicted a score of lashes 
 over his face, nose, and eyes, for which anybody who 
 chooses may pity him. "Ah, j^ou will call my boy a 
 thief, will you ? Ah, you will take my Denny before the 
 justices, will you? Prends moi 9a, gredin! Attrape, 
 lache! Nimmt noch ein paar Schliige, Spitzbube!"
 
 THE LAST OF MY SCHOOL-DAYS 145 
 
 cries out mother, in that polyglot language of English, 
 French, High-Dutch, which she always used when ex- 
 cited. My good mother could shave and dress gentle- 
 men's heads as well as any man ; and faith I am certain 
 that no man in all Europe got a better dressing than 
 Mr. Rudge on that evening. 
 
 Bless me! I have written near a page to describe a 
 battle which could not have lasted five minutes. 
 Mother's cart was drawn up at the side-street whilst she 
 was victoriously engaged within. Meanwhile, Dr. 
 Barnard's chaise had come to the front door of the shop, 
 and he strode through it, and found us conquerors in 
 possession of both fields. Since my last battle with 
 Bevil, we both knew that I was more than a match for 
 him. " In the king's name, I charge you drop your dag- 
 gers," as the man says in the play. Our wars were over 
 on the appearance of the man of peace. Mother left 
 off plying the horsewhip over Rudge ; Miss Sukey came 
 out from under the table ; Mr. Bevil rose, and slunk off 
 to wash his bleeding face ; and when the wretched Rudge 
 whimpered out that he would have the law for this as- 
 sault, the Doctor sternly said, " You were three to one 
 during part of the battle, three to two afterwards, 
 and after your testimony to-day, you perjured old mis- 
 creant, do you suppose any magistrate will believe 
 you?" 
 
 No. Nobody did believe them. A punishment fell 
 on these bad people. I don't know who gave the name, 
 but Rudge and his daughter were called Ananias and 
 Sapphira in Rye; and from that day the old man's af- 
 fairs seemed to turn to the bad. When our boys of 
 Pocock's met the grocer, his daughter, or his appren- 
 tice, the little miscreants would cry out, " Who put the
 
 146 DEXIS DUVAL 
 
 money in Denny's box?" "Who bore false witness 
 against his neighbour?" "Kiss the book, Sukey my 
 dear, and tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing 
 but the truth, do j^ou hear?" They had a dreadful Hfe, 
 that poor grocer's family. As for that rogue Tom Par- 
 rot, he comes into the shop one market day when the 
 the place was full, and asks for a penn'orth of sugar- 
 candy, in payment for which he offers a penny to old 
 Rudge sitting at his books behind his high desk. " It's 
 a good bit of money," says Tom (as bold as the brass 
 which he was tendering) . " It aint marked, Mr. Rudge, 
 like Denny Duval's money! " And, no doubt, at a sig- 
 nal from the young reprobate, a chorus of boys posted 
 outside began to sing, "Ananias, Ananias! He pre- 
 tends to be so pious! Ananias and Saphia " Well, 
 
 well, the Saj^hia of these young wags w^^s made to 
 rhyme incorrectly with a word beginning with L. Nor 
 was this the only punishment which befell the unhappy 
 Rudge : Mrs. Wing and several of his chief patrons took 
 away their custom from him and dealt henceforth with 
 the opposition grocer. Not long after my affair. Miss 
 Sukey married the toothless apprentice, who got a bad 
 bargain wdth her, sweetheart or wife. I shall have to tell 
 l^resently what a penalty they (and some others) had 
 to pay for their wickedness ; and of an act of contrition 
 on poor Miss Sukey 's part, whom, I am sure, I heartily 
 forgive. Then was cleared up that mystery (which I 
 could not understand, that Dr. Barnard could not, or 
 would not) of the persecutions directed against a humble 
 lad, who never, except in self-defence, did harm to any 
 mortal. 
 
 I shouldered the trunks, causes of the late lamentable 
 war, and put them into mother's cart, into which I was
 
 THE LAST OF MY SCHOOL-DAYS 147 
 
 about to mount, but the shrewd old lady would not let 
 me take a place beside her. " I can drive well enough. 
 Go thou in the chaise with the Doctor. He can talk to 
 thee better, my son, than an ignorant woman like me. 
 Neighbour Jephson told me how the good gentleman 
 stood by thee in the justice-court. If ever I or mine 
 can do anything to repay him, he may command me. 
 Houp, Schimmel! Fort! Shalt soon be to house!" 
 And with this she was off with my bag and baggage, 
 as the night was beginning to fall. 
 
 I went out of the Rudges' house, into which I have 
 never since set foot. I took my place in the chaise by 
 my kind Dr. Barnard. We passed through Winchelsea 
 gate, and dipped down into the marshy plain beyond, 
 with bright glimpses of the Channel shining beside us, 
 and the stars glittering overhead. We talked of the 
 affair of the day, of course — the affair most interesting, 
 that is, to me, who could think of nothing but magis- 
 trates, and committals, and acquittals. The Doctor re- 
 peated his firm conviction that there was a great smug- 
 gling conspiracy all along the coast and neighbourhood. 
 Master Rudge was a member of the fraternity (which, 
 indeed, I knew, having been out with his people once or 
 twice, as I have told, to my shame). "Perhaps there 
 were other people of my acquaintance who belonged to 
 the same society?" the Doctor said, dryly. "Gee up, 
 Daisy! There were other people of my acquaintance, 
 who were to be found at Winchelsea as well as at Rye. 
 Your precious one-eyed enemy is in it; so, I have no 
 doubt, is Monsieur le Chevalier de la INIotte; so is — 
 can you guess the name of any one besides, Denny? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," I said, sadly; I knew my own grandfather 
 was engaged in that traffic. " But if —if others are, I
 
 148 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 promise you, on my honour, I never will embark in it," 
 I added. 
 
 " 'Twill be more dangerous now than it has been. 
 There will be obstacles to crossing the Channel which 
 the contraband gentlemen have not known for some time 
 past. Have you not heard the news? " 
 
 " What news? " Indeed I had thought of none but my 
 own affairs. A post had come in that very evening from 
 London, bringing intelligence of no little importance 
 even to poor me, as it turned out. And the news was 
 that his Majesty the King, having been informed that a 
 treaty of amity and commerce had been signed between 
 the Court of France and certain persons employed by 
 his Majesty's revolted subjects in North America, "has 
 judged it necessary to send orders to his ambassador to 
 withdraw from the French Court, .... and relying 
 with the firmest confidence upon the zealous and affec- 
 tionate support of his faithful people, he is determined 
 to prepare to exert, if it should be necessary, all the 
 forces and resources of his kingdoms, which he trusts 
 will be adequate to repel every insult and attack, and 
 to maintain and uphold the power and reputation of this 
 country." 
 
 So as I was coming out of Rye court-house, thinking 
 of nothing but my enemies, and my trials, and my 
 triumphs, post-boys were galloping all over the land to 
 announce that we were at war with France. One of 
 them, as we made our way home, clattered j^ast us with 
 his twanging horn, crying his news of war with France. 
 As we wound along the plain, we could see the French 
 lights across the Channel. My life has lasted for fifty 
 years since then, and scarcely ever since, but for very 
 very brief intervals, has that baleful war-light ceased to 
 burn.
 
 THE LAST OF MY SCHOOL-DAYS 149 
 
 The messenger who bore this important news arrived 
 after we left Rye, but, riding at a much quicker pace 
 than that which our Doctor's nag practised, overtook 
 us ere we had reached our own town of Winchelsea. 
 All our town was alive with the news in half -an-hour ; 
 and in the market-place, the public-houses, and from 
 house to house, people assembled and talked. So we 
 were at war again with our neighbours across the Chan- 
 nel, as well as with our rebellious children in America; 
 and the rebellious children were having the better of the 
 parent at this time. We boys at Pocock's had fought 
 the war stoutly and with great elation at first. Over 
 our maps we had pursued the rebels, and beaten them in 
 repeated encounters. We routed them on Long Island. 
 We conquered them at Brandywine. We vanquished 
 them gloriously at Bunker's Hill. We marched trium- 
 phantly into Philadelphia with Howe. We were quite 
 bewildered when we had to surrender with General 
 Burgoyne at Saratoga; being, somehow, not accus- 
 tomed to hear of British armies surrendering, and Brit- 
 ish valour being beat. "We had a half -holiday for 
 Long Island," says Tom Parrot, sitting next to me in 
 school, " I suppose we shall be flogged all round for 
 Saratoga." As for those Frenchmen, we knew of their 
 treason for a long time past, and were gathering up 
 wrath against them. Protestant Frenchmen, it was 
 agreed, were of a different sort ; and I think the banished 
 Huguenots of France have not been unworthy subjects 
 of our new sovereign. 
 
 There was one dear little Frenchwoman in Winchel- 
 sea who I own was a sad rebel. When INIrs. Barnard, 
 talking about the war, turned round to Agnes and said, 
 "Agnes my child, on what side are you? " Mademoiselle
 
 150 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 de Barr blushed very red, and said, " I am a French 
 girl, and I am of the side of my country. Vive la 
 France! vive le Roi!" 
 
 "Oh, Agnes! oh, you perverted, ungrateful lit- 
 tle, little monster!" cries Mrs. Barnard, beginning to 
 weep. 
 
 But the Doctor, far from being angry, smiled and 
 looked pleased; and making Agnes a mock reverence, 
 he said, " Mademoiselle de Saverne, I think a little 
 Frenchwoman should be for France; and here is the 
 tray, and we won't fight until after supper." And as 
 he spoke that night the prayer appointed by his Church 
 for the time of war — prayed that we might be armed 
 with His defence who is the onlj^ giver of all victory — I 
 thought I never heard the good man's voice more touch- 
 ing and solemn. 
 
 When this daily and nightly ceremony was performed 
 at the Rectory, a certain little person who belonged to 
 the Roman Catholic faith used to sit aloof, her spiritual 
 instructors forbidding her to take part in our English 
 worship. When it was over, and the Doctor's house- 
 hold had withdrawn. Miss Agnes had a flushed, almost 
 angry face. 
 
 " But what am I to do, aunt Barnard? " said the little 
 rebel. " If I pray for you, I pray that my country may 
 be conquered, and that you may be saved and delivered 
 out of our hands." 
 
 "No, faith, my child, I think we will not call upon 
 thee for Amen," saj^s the Doctor, patting her cheek. 
 
 " I don't know why you should Avish to prevail over 
 my country," whimpers the little maid. " I am sure I 
 won't pray that any harm may happen to you, and aunt 
 Barnard, and Denny— never, never! " And in a passion
 
 THE LAST OF MY SCHOOL-DAYS 151 
 
 of tears she buried her head against the breast of the 
 good man, and we were all not a little moved. 
 
 Hand in hand we two young ones walked from the 
 Rectory to the Priory House, which was only too near. 
 I paused ere I rang at the bell, still holding her wistful 
 little hand in mine. 
 
 " Yo7i will never be my enemy, Denny, will you?" 
 she said, looking up. 
 
 " My dear," I faltered out, " I will love you for ever 
 and ever!" I thought of the infant whom I brought 
 home in my arms from the seashore, and once more my 
 dearest maiden was held in them, and my heart throbbed 
 with an exquisite bliss.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 I ENTER HIS M4JESTy's NAVY 
 
 I PROMISE you there was no doubt or hesitation 
 next Sunday regarding our good rector's opinions. 
 Ever since the war with America began, he had, to the 
 best of his power, exhorted his people to be loyal, and 
 testified to the authority of Csesar. " War," he taught, 
 " is not altogether an evil ; and ordained of Heaven, as 
 our illnesses and fevers doubtless are, for our good. It 
 teaches obedience and contentment under privations; 
 it fortifies courage; it tests loyalty; it gives occasion for 
 showing mercifulness of heart; moderation in victory; 
 endurance and cheerfulness under defeat. The brave 
 who do battle victoriously in their country's cause leave 
 a legacy of honour to their children. We English of 
 the present day are the better for Cre9y, and Agincourt, 
 and Blenheim. I do not grudge the Scots their day of 
 Bannockburn, nor the French their Fontenoy. Such 
 valour proves the manhood of nations. When we have 
 conquered the American rebellion, as I have no doubt 
 we shall do, I trust it will be found that these rebellious 
 children of ours have comported themselves in a man- 
 ner becoming our English race, that they have been 
 hardy and resolute, merciful and moderate. In that 
 Declaration of War against France, which has just 
 reached us, and which interests all England, and the 
 men of this coast especially, I have no more doubt in my 
 
 152
 
 I ENTER HIS MAJESTY'S NAVY 153 
 
 mind that the right is on our side, than I have that 
 Queen Ehzabeth had a right to resist the Spanish Ar- 
 mada. In an hour of almost equal peril, I pray we may 
 show the same watchfulness, constancy, and valour; 
 bracing ourselves to do the duty before us, and leaving 
 the issue to the Giver of all Victory." 
 
 Ere he left the pulpit, our good rector announced 
 that he would call a meeting for next market-day in our 
 town-hall — a meeting of gentry, farmers, and seafaring 
 men, to devise means for the defence of our coast and 
 harbours. The French might be upon us any day ; and 
 all our people were in a buzz of excitement. Volunteers 
 and Fencibles patrolling our shores, and fishermen's 
 glasses for ever on the look-out towards the opposite 
 coast. 
 
 We had a great meeting in the town-hall, and of the 
 speakers it was who should be most loyal to King and 
 country. Subscriptions for a Defence Fund were 
 straightway set afoot. It was determined the Cinque 
 Port towns should raise a regiment of Fencibles. In 
 Winchelsea alone the gentry and chief tradesmen agreed 
 to raise a troop of volunteer horse to patrol along the 
 shore and communicate with depots of the regular mili- 
 tary formed at Dover, Hastings, and Deal. The fish- 
 ermen were enrolled to serve as coast and look-out men. 
 From Margate to Folkestone the coast was watched and 
 patrolled: and privateers were equipped and sent to sea 
 from many of the ports along our line. On the French 
 shore we heard of similar warlike preparations. The 
 fishermen on either coast did not harm each other as yet, 
 though presently they too fell to blows : and I have sad 
 reason to know that a certain ancestor of mine did not 
 altogether leave off his relations with his French friends.
 
 154 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 However, at the meeting in the town-hall, grandfather 
 came forward with a subscription and a long speech. He 
 said that he and his co-religionists and countrymen of 
 France had now for near a century experienced British 
 hospitality and freedom; that when driven from home 
 by Papist persecution, they had found protection here, 
 and that now was the time for French Protestants to 
 show that they were grateful and faithful subjects of 
 King George. Grandfather's speech was very warmly 
 received ; that old man had lungs, and a knack of speak- 
 ing, which never failed him. He could spin out sen- 
 tences by the yard, as I knew, who had heard him ex- 
 pound for half hours together with that droning voice 
 which had long ceased (Heaven help me!) to carry con- 
 viction to the heart of grandfather's graceless grandson. 
 
 When he had done, Mr. George Weston, of the 
 Priory, spoke, and with a good spirit too. ( He and my 
 dear friend, Mr. Joe, were both present, and seated with 
 the gentlefolks and magistrates at the raised end of the 
 hall.) Mr. George said that as Mr. Duval had spoken 
 for the French Protestants, he, for his part, could vouch 
 for the loyalty of another body of men, the Roman 
 Catholics of England. In the hour of danger he trusted 
 that he and his brethren were as good subjects as any 
 Protestants in the realm. And as a trifling test of his 
 loyalty — though he believed his neighbour Duval was a 
 richer man than himself (grandfather shrieked a "No, 
 no!" and there was a roar of laughter in the hall) — he 
 offered as a contribution to a defence fund to lay down 
 two guineas for Mr. Duval's one! 
 
 " I v.'ill give my guinea, I am sure," says grandfather, 
 very meekly, " and may that poor man's mite be ac- 
 cepted and useful!"
 
 I ENTER HIS MAJESTY'S NAVY 155 
 
 "One guinea!" roars Weston; "I will give a hun- 
 dred guineas ! " 
 
 "And I another hundred," says his brother. " We will 
 show, as Roman Catholic gentry of England, that we 
 are not inferior in loyalty to our Protestant brethren." 
 
 " Put my fazer-in-law Peter Duval down for one 'on- 
 dred guinea!" calls out my mother, in her deep voice. 
 " Put me down for twenty-fife guinea, and my son Denis 
 for twenty-fife guinea! We have eaten of English 
 bread and we are grateful, and we sing with all our 
 hearts, God save King George!" 
 
 JNIother's speech was received with great applause. 
 Farmers, gentry, shopkeepers, rich and poor, crowded 
 forward to oifer their subscription. Before the meet- 
 ing broke up, a very handsome sum was promised for 
 the arming and equipment of the Winchelsea Fencibles; 
 and old Colonel Evans, who had been present at INIinden 
 and Fontenoy, and J'oung Mr. Barlow, who had lost a 
 leg at Brandywine, said that they would superintend the 
 drilling of the Winchelsea Fencibles, until such time as 
 his Majesty should send officers of his own to command 
 the corps. It was agreed that everybody spoke and 
 acted with public spirit. "Let the French land!" was 
 our cry. " The men of Rye, the men of Winchelsea, the 
 men of Hastings, will have a guard of honour to receive 
 them on the shore! " 
 
 That the French intended to try and land was an 
 opinion pretty general amongst us, especially when his 
 Majesty's proclamation came, announcing the great 
 naval and military armaments which the enemy was pre- 
 paring. We had certain co7nmunications with Bou- 
 logne, Calais, and Dunkirk still, and our fishing-boats 
 sometimes went as far as Ostend. Our informants
 
 156 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 brought us full news of all that was going on in those 
 ports; of the troojDs assembled there, and royal French 
 ships and privateers fitted out. I was not much sur- 
 prised one night to find our old Boulogne ally Bidois 
 smoking his pipe with grandfather in the kitchen, and 
 regaling himself with a glass of his own brandy, which 
 I know had not paid unto Csesar Caesar's due. The 
 pigeons on the hill were making their journeys still. 
 Once, when I went up to visit Farmer Perreau, I found 
 M. de la Motte and a companion of his sending off one 
 of these birds, and La Motte's friend said sulkily, in 
 German, "What does the little Spitzbuhe do here?" 
 "Versteht vielleicht Deutsch," murmured La Motte, 
 hurriedly, and turned round to me with a grin of wel- 
 come, and asked news of grandfather and my mother. 
 
 This ally of the Chevaher's was a Lieutenant Liitter- 
 loh, who had served in America in one of the Hessian 
 regiments on our side, and who was now pretty often 
 in Winchelsea, where he talked magnificently about war 
 and his own achievements, both on the Continent and in 
 our American provinces. He lived near Canterbury as 
 I heard. I guessed, of course, that he was one of the 
 " Mackerel " party, and engaged in smuggling, like La 
 Motte, the Westons, and my graceless old grandfather 
 and his ally, Mr. Budge, of Bye. I shall have presently 
 to tell how bitterly ]Monsieur de la Motte had afterwards 
 to rue his acquaintance with this German. 
 
 Knowing the Chevalier's intimacy with the gentlemen 
 connected with the Mackerel fishery, I had little cause 
 to be surprised at seeing him and the German captain 
 together ; though a circumstance now arose, which might 
 have induced me to suppose him engaged in practices yet 
 more lawless and dangerous than smuggling. I was
 
 I ENTER HIS MAJESTY'S NAVY 157 
 
 walking up to the hill— must I let shp the whole truth, 
 madame, in my memoirs ? Well, it never did or will hurt 
 anybody; and, as it only concerns you and me, may be 
 told without fear. I frequently, I say, walked up the hill 
 to look at these pigeons, for a certain young person was 
 a great lover of pigeons too, and occasionally would 
 come to see Farmer Perreau's columbarium. Did I love 
 the sight of this dear white dove more than any other? 
 Did it come sometimes fluttering to my heart? Ah! the 
 old blood throbs there with the mere recollection. I feel 
 —shall we say how many years younger, my dear? In 
 fine, those little walks to the pigeon-house are among 
 the sweetest of all our stores of memories. 
 
 I was coming away, then, once from this house of bill- 
 ing and cooing, when I chanced to espy an old school- 
 mate, Thomas Measom by name, who was exceedingly 
 proud of his new uniform as a private of our regiment 
 of Winchelsea Fencibles, was never tired of wearing it, 
 and always walked out with his firelock over his shoulder. 
 As I came up to Tom, he had just discharged his piece, 
 and hit his bird too. One of Farmer Perreau's pigeons 
 lay dead at Tom's feet— one of the carrier pigeons, and 
 the young fellow was rather scared at what he had done, 
 especially when he saw a little piece of paper tied under 
 the wing of the slain bird. 
 
 He could not read the message, which was written in 
 our German handwriting, and was only in three lines, 
 w^hich I was better able to decipher than Tom. I sup- 
 posed at first that the message had to do with the smug- 
 gling business, in which so many of our friends were en- 
 gaged, and Measom walked off rather hurriedly, being 
 by no means anxious to fall into the farmer's hands, who 
 would be but ill-pleased at having one of his birds killed.
 
 158 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 I put the paper in my pocket, not telling Tom what 
 I thought about the matter: but I did have a thought, 
 and determined to converse with my dear Doctor Bar- 
 nard regarding it. I asked to see him at the Rectory, 
 and there read to him the contents of the paper which 
 the poor messenger was bearing when Tom's ball 
 brought him down. 
 
 My good Doctor was not a little excited and pleased 
 when I interpreted the pigeon's message to him, and es- 
 pecially praised me for my reticence with Tom upon the 
 subject. " It may be a mare's nest we have discovered, 
 Denny, my boy," says the Doctor; " it may be a matter 
 of importance. I will see Colonel Evans on this subject 
 to-night." We went off to JNIr. Evans's lodgings: he 
 was the old officer who had fought under the Duke of 
 Cumberland, and was, like the Doctor, a justice of peace 
 for our county. I translated for the Colonel the paper, 
 which was to the following effect: — 
 
 [Left blank by Mr. Thackeray.] 
 
 Mr. Evans looked at a paper before him, containing 
 an authorised list of the troops at the various Cinque 
 Port stations, and found the poor pigeon's information 
 quite correct. "Was this the Chevaher's writing?" the 
 gentleman asked. No, I did not think it was M. de la 
 Motte's handwriting. Then I mentioned the other Ger- 
 man in whose company I had seen M. de la INIotte: the 
 Monsieur Liitterloh whom Mr. Evans said he knew quite 
 well. " If Liitterloh is engaged in the business," said 
 Mr. Evans, " we shall know more about it ; " and he 
 whispered something to Dr. Barnard. Meanwhile he 
 praised me exceedingly for my caution, enjoined me to
 
 I ENTER HIS MAJESTY'S NAVY 159 
 
 say nothing regarding the matter, and to tell my com- 
 rade to hold his tongue. 
 
 As for Tom Measom he was less cautious. Tom 
 talked about his adventures to one or two cronies; and 
 to his parents, who were tradesmen like my own. They 
 occupied a snug house in Winchelsea, with a garden and 
 a good paddock. One day their horse was found dead 
 in the stable. Another day their cow burst and died. 
 There used to be strange acts of revenge perpetrated in 
 those days ; and farmers, tradesmen, or gentry, who ren- 
 dered themselves obnoxious to certain parties, had often 
 to rue the enmity which they provoked. That my un- 
 happy old grandfather was, and remained in the smug- 
 glers' league, I fear is a fact which I can't deny or pal- 
 liate. He paid a heavy penalty to be sure, but my 
 narrative is not advanced far enough to allow of my 
 telling how the old man was visited for his sins. 
 
 There came to visit our Winchelsea magistrates Cap- 
 tain Pearson, of the " Serapis " frigate, then in the 
 Downs; and I remembered this gentleman, having seen 
 him at the house of my kind patron. Sir Peter Denis, in 
 London. Mr. Pearson also recollected me as the little 
 boy who had shot the highwayman; and was much in- 
 terested when he heard of the carrier pigeon, and the 
 news which he bore. It appeared that he, as well as 
 Colonel Evans, was acquainted with Mr. Liitterloh. 
 " You are a good lad," the Captain said ; " but we 
 know," said the Captain, " all the news those birds 
 carry." 
 
 All this time our whole coast was alarmed, and hourly 
 expectant of a French invasion. The French fleet was 
 said to outnumber ours in the Channel: the French 
 army, we knew, was enormously superior to our own.
 
 160 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 I can remember the terror and the excitement ; the panic 
 of some, the braggart behaviour of others ; and specially 
 I recall the way in which our church was cleared one 
 Sunday, by a rumour which ran through the pews, that 
 the French were actually landed. How the people 
 rushed away from the building, and some of them whom 
 I remember the loudest amongst the braggarts, and sing- 
 ing their "Come if you dare!" Mother and I in our 
 pew, and Captain Pearson in the rector's, were the only 
 people who sat out the sermon, of which Doctor Barnard 
 would not abridge a line, and which, I own, I thought 
 was extremely tantalizing and provoking. He gave the 
 blessing with more than ordinary slowness and solem- 
 nity; and had to open his own pulpit-door and stalk 
 down the steps without the accompaniment of his usual 
 escort, the clerk, who had skipped out of his desk, and 
 run away like the rest of the congregation. Doctor Bar- 
 nard had me home to dinner at the Rectory; my good 
 mother being much too shrewd to be jealous of this 
 kindness shown to me and not to her. When she waited 
 upon Mrs. Barnard with her basket of laces and per- 
 fumeries, mother stood as became her station as a trades- 
 woman. " For thee, my son, 'tis different," she said. " I 
 will have thee be a gentleman." And faith, I hope I 
 have done the best of my humble endeavour to fulfil the 
 good lady's wish. 
 
 The war, the probable descent of the French, and the 
 means of resisting the invasion, of course formed the 
 subject of the gentlemen's conversation; and though I 
 did not understand all that passed, I was made to com- 
 prehend subsequently, and may as well mention facts 
 here which only came to be explained to me later. The 
 pigeons took over certain information to France, in re-
 
 I ENTER HIS MAJESTY'S NAVY 161 
 
 turn for that which they brought. By these and other 
 messengers our Government was kept quite well in- 
 structed as to the designs and preparations of the enemy, 
 and I remember how it was stated that his INIajesty had 
 occult correspondents of his own in France, whose infor- 
 mation was of surprising accuracy. Master Liitterloh 
 dabbled in the information line. He had been a soldier 
 in America, a recruiting-crimp here, and I know not 
 what besides; but the information he gave was given 
 under the authority of his employers, to whom in return 
 he communicated the information he received from 
 France. The worthy gentleman was, in fact, a spy by 
 trade; and though he was not born to be hanged, came 
 by an awful payment for his treachery, as I shall have 
 to tell in due time. As for M. de la Motte, the gentle- 
 men were inclined to think that his occupation was smug- 
 gling, not treason, and in that business the Chevalier was 
 allied with scores, nay hundreds, of people round about 
 him. One I knew, my pious grandpapa : other two lived 
 at the Priory, and I could count many more even in our 
 small town, namely, all the Mackerel men to whom I had 
 been sent on the night of poor Madame de Saverne's 
 funeral. 
 
 Captain Pearson shook me by the hand very warmly 
 when I rose to go home, and I saw, by the way in which 
 the good Doctor regarded me, that he was meditating 
 some special kindness in my behalf. It came very soon, 
 and at a moment when I was plunged in the very dis- 
 malest depths of despair. My dear httle Agnes, though 
 a boarder at the house of those odious Westons, had leave 
 given to her to visit Mrs. Barnard; and that kind lady 
 never failed to give me some signal by which I knew that 
 my little sweetheart was at the Rectory. One day the
 
 162 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 message would be, " The rector wants back his volume 
 of the 'Arabian Nights,' and Denis had better bring it." 
 Another time, my dearest Mrs. Barnard would write on 
 a card, " You may come to tea, if you have done your 
 mathematics well," or, " You may have a French lesson," 
 and so forth — and there, sure enough, would be my sweet 
 little tutoress. How old, my dear, was Juliet when she 
 and young Capulet began their loves? My sweetheart 
 had not done playing with dolls when our little passion 
 began to bud: and the sweet talisman of innocence I 
 wore in my heart hath never left me through life, and 
 shielded me from many a temptation. 
 
 Shall I make a clean breast of it? We young hypo- 
 crites used to write each other little notes, and pop them 
 in certain cunning corners known to us two. Juliet used 
 to write in a great round hand in French; Romeo re- 
 plied, I dare say, with doubtful spelling. 
 
 We had devised sundry queer receptacles where our 
 letters lay j^oste restante. There was the China pot- 
 pourri jar on the Japan cabinet in the drawing-room. 
 There, into the midst of the roses and spices, two cunning 
 young people used to thrust their hands, and stir about 
 spice and rose-leaves, until they lighted upon a little bit 
 of folded paper more fragrant and precious than all 
 your flowers and cloves. Then in the hall we had a fa- 
 mous post-office, namely, the barrel of the great blun- 
 derbuss over the mantelpiece, from which hung a ticket 
 on which " loaded " was written, only I knew better, hav- 
 ing helped Martin, the Doctor's man, to clean the gun. 
 Then in the churchyard under the wing of the left 
 cherub on Sir Jasper Billing's tomb, there was a certain 
 hole in which we put little scraps of paper written in a 
 cipher devised by ourselves, and on these scraps of paper
 
 I ENTER HIS MAJESTY'S NAVY 1G3 
 
 we wrote : — well, can you guess what? We wrote the old 
 song which young people have sung ever since singing 
 began. We wrote "Amo, amas," &c., in our childish 
 handwriting. Ah ! thanks be to heaven, though the hands 
 tremble a little now, they write the words still ! My dear, 
 the last time I was in Winchelsea, I went and looked at 
 Sir Jasper's tomb, and at the hole under the cherub's 
 wing; there was only a little mould and moss there. 
 Mrs. Barnard found and read one or more of these let- 
 ters, as the dear lady told me afterwards, but there Avas 
 no harm in them ; and when the Doctor put on his grand 
 serieux (as to be sure he had a right to do) , and was for 
 giving the culprits a scolding, his wife reminded him of 
 a time when he was captain of Harrow School, and 
 found time to write other exercises than Greek and Latin 
 to a young lady who lived in the village. Of these mat- 
 ters, I say, she told me in later days; in all days, after 
 our acquaintance began, she was my truest friend and 
 protectress. 
 
 But this dearest and happiest season of my life (for 
 so I think it, though I am at this moment happy, most 
 happy, and thankful) was to come to an abrupt ending, 
 and poor Humpty Dumpty having climbed the wall of 
 bliss, was to have a great and sudden fall, which, for a 
 while, perfectly crushed and bewildered him. I have 
 said what harm came to my companion Tom IMeasom, 
 for meddling in Monsieur Liitterloh's affairs and talk- 
 ing of them. Now, there were two who knew Meinherr's 
 secret, Tom Measom, namely, and Denis Duval; and 
 though Denis held his tongue about the matter, except 
 in conversing with the rector and Captain Pearson, Liit- 
 terloh came to know that I had read and explained the 
 pigeon-despatch of which Measom had shot the bearer;
 
 164 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 and, indeed, it was Captain Pearson himself, with whom 
 the German had sundry private deahngs, who was Liit- 
 terloh's informer. Liitterloh's rage, and that of his ac- 
 compHce, against me, when they learned the unlucky 
 part I had had in the discovery, were still greater than 
 their wrath against Measom. The Chevalier de la 
 IMotte, who had once been neutral, and even kind to me, 
 was confirmed in a steady hatred against me, and held 
 me as an enemy whom he was determined to get out of 
 his way. And hence came that catastrophe which pre- 
 cipitated Humpy Dumpty Duval, Esq., off the wall 
 from which he was gazing at his beloved, as she disported 
 in her garden below. 
 
 One evening — shall I ever forget that evening? It 
 was Friday, [left blank by Mr. Thackeray] — after my little 
 maiden had been taking tea with Mrs. Barnard, I had 
 leave to escort her to her home at Mr. Weston's at the 
 Priory, which is not a hundred yards from the Rectory 
 door. All the evening the company had been talking 
 about battle and danger, and invasion, and the war 
 news from France and America; and my little maiden 
 sat silent, with her great eyes looking at one speaker and 
 another, and stitching at her sampler. At length the 
 clock tolled the hour of nine, when Miss Agnes must 
 return to her guardian. I had the honour to serve as her 
 escort, and would have wished the journey to be ten 
 times as long as that brief one between the two houses. 
 " Good night, Agnes! " " Good night, Denis! On Sun- 
 day I shall see you!" We whisper one little minute 
 under the stars; the little hand lingers in mine with a 
 soft pressure; we hear the servants' footsteps over the 
 marble floor within, and I am gone. Somehow, at night 
 and at morning, at lessons and play, I was always think- 
 ing about this little maid.
 
 I ENTER HIS MAJESTY'S NAVY 165 
 
 "I shall see you on Sunday," and this was Friday! 
 Even that interval seemed long to me. Little did either 
 of us know that a long separation was before us, and 
 what strange changes, dangers, adventures, I was to 
 undergo ere I again should press that dearest hand. 
 
 The gate closed on her, and I walked away by the 
 church-wall, and towards my own home. I was thinking 
 of that hapjDy, that unforgotten night of my childhood, 
 when I had been the means of rescuing the dearest little 
 maiden from an awful death ; how, since then, I had cher- 
 ished her with my love of love; and what a blessing she 
 had been to my young life. For many years she was its 
 only cheerer and companion. At home I had food and 
 shelter, and, from mother at least, kindness, but no so- 
 ciety; it was not until I became a familiar of the good 
 Doctor's roof that I knew friendship and kind com- 
 panionship. What gratitude ought I not to feel for a 
 boon so precious as there was conferred on me? Ah, I 
 vowed, I prayed, that I might make myself worthy of 
 such friends; and so was sauntering homewards, lost in 
 these happy thoughts, when— when something occurred 
 which at once decided the whole course of my after-life. 
 
 This something was a blow with a bludgeon across my 
 ear and temple which sent me to the ground utterly in- 
 sensible. I remember half-a-dozen men darkling in an 
 alley by which I had to pass, then a scuffle and an oath 
 or two, and a voice crying, "Give it him, curse him!" 
 and then I was down on the pavement as flat and lifeless 
 as the flags on which I lay. When I woke up, I was 
 almost blinded with blood ; I was in a covered cart with 
 a few more groaning wretches; and when I uttered a 
 moan, a brutal voice growled out with many oaths an 
 instant order to be silent, or my head should be broken 
 again. I woke up in a ghastly pain and perplexity^ but
 
 166 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 presently fainted once more. When I awoke again to 
 a half -consciousness I felt myself being lifted from the 
 cart and carried, and then flung into the bows of a boat, 
 where I supj)ose I was joined by the rest of the dismal 
 cart's company. Then some one came and washed my 
 bleeding head with salt-water (which made it throb and 
 ache very cruelly). Then the man, whispering, "I'm 
 a friend," bound my forehead tight with a handkerchief, 
 and the boat pulled out to a brig that was lying as near 
 to land as she could come, and the same man who had 
 struck and sworn at me would have stabbed me once more 
 as I reeled up the side, but that my friend interposed in 
 my behalf. It was Tom Hookham, to whose family I 
 had given the three guineas, and who assuredly saved my 
 life on that day, for the villain who attempted it after- 
 wards confessed that he intended to do me an injury. I 
 was thrust into the forepeak with three or four more 
 maimed and groaning wretches, and, the w^nd serving, 
 the lugger made for her destination, whatever that might 
 be. What a horrid night of fever and pain it was! I 
 remember I fancied I was carrying Agnes out of the 
 water; I called out her name repeatedly, as Tom Hook- 
 ham informed me, who came with a lantern and looked 
 at us poor wretches huddled in our shed. Tom brought 
 me more water, and in pain and fever I slept through 
 a wretched night. 
 
 In the morning our tender came up with a frigate that 
 was lying off a town, and I was carried up the ship's side 
 on Hookham's arm. The Captain's boat happened to 
 pull from shore at the very same time, and the Captain 
 and his friends, and our wretched party of pressed men 
 with their captors, thus stood face to face. My wonder 
 and delight were not a little aroused when I saw the
 
 I ENTER HIS MAJESTY'S NAVY 167 
 
 Captain was no other than my dear rector's friend, Cap- 
 tain Pearson. My face was bound up, and so pale and 
 bloody as to be scarcely recognizable. " So, my man," 
 he said, rather sternly, " you have been for fighting, have 
 you? This comes of resisting men employed on his Maj- 
 esty's service." 
 
 "I never resisted," I said; "I was struck from be- 
 hind. Captain Pearson." 
 
 The Captain looked at me with a haughty, surprised 
 air. Indeed, a more disreputable-looking lad he scarcely 
 could see. After a moment he said, " Wh}^ bless my 
 soul, is it you, my boy? Is it young Duval? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," I said ; and whether from emotion, or 
 fever, or loss of blood and weakness, I felt my brain 
 going again, and once more fainted and fell. 
 
 When I came to myself, I found myself in a berth in 
 the " Serapis," where there happened to be but one other 
 patient. I had had fever and delirium for a day, during 
 wdiich it appears I was constantly calling out, "Agnes, 
 Agnes!" and offering to shoot highwaymen. A very 
 kind surgeon's mate had charge of me, and showed me 
 much more attention than a poor wounded lad could have 
 had a right to expect in my wretched humiliating po- 
 sition. On the fifth day I was well again, though still 
 very weak and pale ; but not too weak to be unable to go 
 to the Captain when he sent for me to his cabin. My 
 friend the surgeon's mate showed me the way. 
 
 Captain Pearson was writing at his table, but sent 
 away his secretary, and when the latter was gone shook 
 hands with me very kindly, and talked unreservedly 
 about the strange accident which had brought me on 
 board his ship. His officer had information, he said, 
 " and I had information," the Captain went on to say,
 
 168 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 " that some very good seamen of what we called the 
 Mackerel party were to be taken at a public-house in 
 Winchelsea," and his officer netted a half-dozen of them 
 there, "who will be much better employed" (says Cap- 
 tain Pearson) "in serving the King in one of his Maj- 
 esty's vessels, than in cheating him on board their own. 
 You were a stray fish that was caught along with the rest. 
 I know your story. I have talked it over with our good 
 friends at the Rectory. For a young fellow, you have 
 managed to make yourself some queer enemies in your 
 native town; and you are best out of it. On the night 
 when I first saw you, I promised our friends to take you 
 as a first-class volunteer. In due time you will pass your 
 examination, and be rated as a midshipman. Stay — 
 your mother is in Deal. You can go ashore, and she 
 will fit you out. Here are letters for you. I wrote to 
 Dr. Barnard as soon as I found who you were." 
 
 With this, I took leave of my good patron and cap- 
 tain, and ran off to read my two letters. One, from Mrs. 
 Barnard and the Doctor conjointly, told how alarmed 
 they had been at my being lost, until Captain Pearson 
 wrote to say how I had been found. The letter from my 
 good mother informed me, in her rough way, how she 
 was waiting at the " Blue Anchor Inn " in Deal, and 
 would have come to me; but my new comrades would 
 laugh at a rough old woman coming off in a shore-boat 
 to look after her boy. It was better that I should go to 
 her at Deal, where I should be fitted out in a way becom- 
 ing an officer in his Majesty's service. To Deal accord- 
 ingly I went by the next boat; the good-natured sur- 
 geon's mate, who had attended me and taken a fancy to 
 me, lending me a clean shirt, and covering the wound on 
 my head neatly, so that it was scarcely seen under my
 
 Denis's Valet
 
 I ENTER HIS MAJESTY'S NAVY 169 
 
 black hair. "Le pauvre cher enfant! comme il est 
 pale! " How my mother's eyes kindled with kindness as 
 she saw me ! The good soul insisted on dressing my hair 
 with her own hands, and tied it in a smart queue with a 
 black ribbon. Then she took me off to a tailor in the 
 town, and provided me with an outfit a lord's son might 
 have brought on board. My uniforms were ready in a 
 very short time. Twenty-four hours after they were 
 ordered ISlr. Levy brought them to our inn, and I had 
 the pleasure of putting them on; and walked on the 
 Parade, with my hat cocked, my hanger by my side, and 
 mother on my arm. Though I was perfectly well 
 pleased with myself, I think she was the prouder of the 
 two. To one or two tradesmen and their wives, whom 
 she knew, she gave a most dignified nod of recognition 
 this day ; but passed on without speaking, as if she would 
 have them understand that they ought to keep their dis- 
 tance when she was in such fine company. " When I am 
 in the shop, I am in the shop, and my customers' very 
 humble servant," said she; " but when I am walking on 
 Deal Parade with thee, I am walking with a young gen- 
 tleman in his Majesty's navy. And Heaven has blessed 
 us of late, my child, and thou shalt have the means of 
 making as good a figure as any young officer in the 
 service." And she put such a great heavy purse of 
 guineas into my pocket, that I wondered at her bounty. 
 " Remember, my son," added she, " thou art a gentleman 
 now. Always respect yourself. Tradespeople are no 
 company for thee. For me 'tis diff'erent. I am but a 
 poor hairdresser and shopkeeper." We supped together 
 at the "Anchor," and talked about home, that was but 
 two days off, and yet so distant. She never once men- 
 tioned my little maiden to me, nor did I somehow dare
 
 170 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 to allude to her. Mother had prepared a nice bedroom 
 for me at the inn, to which she made me retire early, as 
 I was still weak and faint after my fever; and when I 
 was in my bed she came and knelt down by it, and with 
 tears rolling down her furrowed face, offered up a 
 prayer in her native German language, that He who had 
 been pleased to succour me from perils hitherto, would 
 guard me for the future, and watch over me in the voy- 
 age of life which was now about to begin. Now, as it is 
 drawing to its close, I look back at it with an immense 
 awe and thankfulness, for the strange dangers from 
 which I have escaped, the great blessings I have enjoyed. 
 
 I wrote a long letter to Mrs. Barnard, narrating my 
 adventures as cheerfully as I could, though, truth to say, 
 when I thought of home and a little Someone there, a 
 large tear or two blotted my paper, but I had reason to 
 be grateful for the kindness I had received, and was not 
 a little elated at being actually a gentleman, and in a 
 fair way to be an officer in his Majesty's navy. 
 
 As I was strutting on the Mall, on the second day of 
 my visit to Deal, what should I see but my dear Dr. Bar- 
 nard's well-known postchaise nearing us from the Dover 
 Road? The Doctor and his wife looked with a smiling 
 surprise at my altered appearance ; and as they stepped 
 out of their chaise at the inn, the good lady fairly put 
 her arms round me, and gave me a kiss. Mother, from 
 her room, saw the embrace, I suppose. " Thou hast 
 found good friends there, Denis, my son," she said, with 
 sadness in her deep voice. " 'Tis well. They can be- 
 friend thee better than I can. Now thou art well, I may 
 depart in peace. When thou art ill, the old mother will 
 come to thee, and will bless thee always, my son." She 
 insisted upon setting out on her return homewards that
 
 I ENTER HIS MAJESTY'S NAVY 171 
 
 afternoon. She had friends at Hythe, Folkestone, and 
 Dover (as I knew well), and would put up with one or 
 other of them. She had before packed my new chest 
 with wonderful neatness. Whatever her feelings might 
 be at our parting, she showed no signs of tears or sorrow, 
 but mounted her little chaise in the inn-yard, and, with- 
 out looking back, drove away on her solitary journey. 
 The landlord of the "Anchor" and his wife bade her 
 farewell, very cordially and respectfully. They asked 
 me, would I not step into the bar and take a glass of wine 
 or spirits? I have said that I never drank either; and 
 suspect that my mother furnished my host with some of 
 these stores out of those fishing-boats of which she was 
 owner. " If I had an only son, and such a good-looking 
 one," Mrs. Boniface was pleased to say (can I, after 
 such a fine compliment, be so ungrateful as to forget 
 her name?) — " If I had an only son, and could leave him 
 as well off as Mrs. Duval can leave you, 1 wouldn't send 
 him to sea in war-time, that I wouldn't." "And though 
 you don't drink any wine, some of your friends on board 
 may," my landlord added, " and they are always wel- 
 come at the ' Blue Anchor.' " This was not the first time 
 I had heard that my mother was rich. " If she be so," 
 I said to my host, " indeed it is more than I know." On 
 which he and his wife both commended me for my cau- 
 tion; adding with a knowing smile, "We know more 
 than we tell, Mr. Duval. Have you ever heard of Mr. 
 Weston? Have you ever heard of Monsieur de la 
 
 Motte? We know where Boulogne is, and Ost " 
 
 "Hush, wife!" here breaks in my landlord. "If the 
 Captain don't wish to talk, why should he ? There is the 
 bell ringing from the ' Benbow ' and your dinner going 
 up to the Doctor, Mr. Duval." It was indeed as he said,
 
 172 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 and I sat down in the company of my good friends, 
 bringing a fine appetite to their table. 
 
 The Doctor on his arrival had sent a messenger to his 
 friend, Captain Pearson, and whilst we were at our meal, 
 the Captain arrived in his own boat from the ship, and 
 insisted that Dr. and ^Irs. Barnard should take their 
 dessert in his cabin on board. This procured Mr. Denis 
 Duval the honour of an invitation, and I and my new 
 sea-chest were accommodated in the boat and taken to the 
 frigate. My box was consigned to the gunner's cabin, 
 where my hammock w^as now slung. After sitting a short 
 time at Mr. Pearson's table, a brother-midshipman gave 
 me a hint to withdraw, and I made the acquaintance of 
 my comrades, of whom there were about a dozen on board 
 the " Serapis." Though only a volunteer, I was taller 
 and older than many of the midshipmen. They knew 
 who I was, of course— the son of a shopkeeper at Win- 
 chelsea. Then, and afterwards, I had my share of rough 
 jokes, you may be sure; but I took them with good hu- 
 mour ; and I had to fight my way as I had learned to do 
 at school before. There is no need to put down here the 
 number of black eyes and bloody noses which I received 
 and delivered. I am sure I bore but little malice: and, 
 thank heaven, never wronged a man so much as to be 
 obliged to hate him afterwards. Certain men there were 
 who hated 7ne: but they are gone, and I am here, with a 
 pretty clear conscience, heaven be praised ; and little the 
 worse for their enmity. 
 
 The first lieutenant of our ship, Mr. Page, was related 
 to Mrs. Barnard, and this kind lady gave him such a 
 character of her very grateful, humble servant, and nar- 
 rated my adventures to him so pathetically, that Mr.
 
 I ENTER HIS MAJESTY'S NAVY 173 
 
 Page took me into his special favour, and interested some 
 of my messmates in my behalf. The story of the high- 
 wayman caused endless talk and jokes against me which 
 I took in good part, and established my footing among 
 my messmates by adopting the plan I had followed at 
 school, and taking an early opportunity to fight a well- 
 known bruiser amongst our company of midshipmen. 
 You must know they called me " Soapsuds," " Powder- 
 pufF," and like names, in consequence of my grand- 
 father's known trade of hairdresser ; and one of my com- 
 rades bantering me one day, cried, " I say. Soapsuds, 
 where was it you hit the highwayman? " " There! " said 
 I, and gave him a clean left-handed blow on his nose, 
 which must have caused him to see a hundred blue lights. 
 I know about five minutes afterwards he gave me just 
 such another blow ; and we fought it out and were good 
 friends ever after. What is this? Did I not vow as I 
 was writing the last page yesterday that I would not say 
 a word about my prowess at fisticuffs? You see we are 
 ever making promises to be good, and forgetting them. 
 I suppose other people can say as much. 
 
 Before leaving the ship my kind friends once more 
 desired to see me, and INIrs. Barnard, putting a finger to 
 her lip, took out from her pocket a little packet, which 
 she placed in my hand. I thought she was giving me 
 money, and felt somehow disappointed at being so 
 treated by her. But when she was gone to shore I 
 opened the parcel, and found a locket there, and a little 
 curl of glossy black hair. Can you guess whose? Along 
 with the locket was a letter in French, in a large girlish 
 hand, in which the writer said, that night and day she 
 prayed for her dear Denis. And where, think you, the
 
 174 DENIS DUVAL 
 
 locket is now? where it has been for forty-two years, and 
 where it will remain when a faithful heart that beats 
 under it hath ceased to throb. 
 
 At gunfire our friends took leave of the frigate, little 
 knowing the fate that was in store for many on board 
 her. In three weeks from that day what a change ! The 
 glorious misfortune which befell us is written in the an- 
 nals of our country. 
 
 On the very evening whilst Captain Pearson was en- 
 tertaining his friends from Winchelsea, he received 
 orders to sail for Hull, and place himself under the com- 
 mand of the Admiral there. From the Humber we 
 presently were despatched northward to Scarborough. 
 There had been not a little excitement along the whole 
 northern coast for some time past, in consequence of the 
 appearance of some American privateers, who had ran- 
 sacked a Scottish nobleman's castle, and levied contribu- 
 tions from a Cumberland seaport town. As we were 
 close in with Scarborough a boat came off with letters 
 from the magistrates of that place, announcing that this 
 squadron had actually been seen off the coast. The com- 
 modore of this wandering piratical expedition was 
 known to be a rebel Scotchman: who fought with a rope 
 round his neck to be sure. No doubt many of us young- 
 sters vapoured about the courage with which we would 
 engage him, and made certain, if we could only meet 
 with him, of seeing him hang from his own yard-arm. 
 It was Diis aliter visu7n, as we used to say at Pocock's ; 
 and it was we threw deuceace too. Traitor, if you will, 
 was Monsieur John Paul Jones, afterwards knight of 
 his Most Christian Majesty's Order of Merit; but a 
 braver traitor never wore sword. 
 
 We had been sent for in order to protect a fleet of
 
 I ENTER HIS MAJESTY'S NAVY 175 
 
 merchantmen that were bound to the Baltic, and were 
 to sail under the convoy of our ship and the " Countess 
 of Scarborough," commanded by Captain Piercy. And 
 thus it came about that after being twenty-five days in 
 his Majesty's service, I had the fortune to be present at 
 one of the most severe and desperate combats that has 
 been fought in our or any time. 
 
 I shall not attempt to tell that story of the battle of 
 the 23rd September, which ended in our glorious Cap- 
 tain striking his own colours to our superior and irre- 
 sistible enemy. Sir Richard has told the story of his dis- 
 aster in words nobler than any I could supply, who, 
 though indeed engaged in that fearful action in which 
 our flag went down before a renegade Briton and his 
 motley crew, saw but a very small portion of the battle 
 which ended so fatally for us. It did not commence till 
 nightfall. How well I remember the sound of the en- 
 emy's gun of which the shot crashed into our side in 
 reply to the challenge of our captain who hailed her! 
 Then came a broadside from us— the first I had ever 
 heard in battle. 
 
 *jfe jfe 4^ ^ 4ib *ik 
 
 #1^ *p ^|i 'T* i> '^1^
 
 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 
 
 • 
 
 THE readers of the Cornhill Magazine have now 
 read the last line written by William Makepeace 
 Thackeray The story breaks oiF as his life ended— full 
 of vigour, and blooming with new promise like the apple- 
 trees in this month of May : ^ the only difference be- 
 tween the work and the life is this, that the last chapters 
 of the one have their little pathetical gaps and breaks of 
 unfinished effort, the last chapters of the other were ful- 
 filled and complete. But the life may be left alone; 
 while as for the gaps and breaks in his last pages, 
 nothing that we can wTite is likely to add to their signifi- 
 cance. There they are; and the reader's mind has 
 already fallen into them, with sensations not to be im- 
 proved by the ordinary commentator. If Mr. Thack- 
 eray himself could do it, that would be another thing. 
 Preacher he called himself in some of the Roundabout 
 discourses in which his softer spirit is always to be heard, 
 but he never had a text after his own mind so much as 
 these last broken chapters would give him now. There 
 is the date of a certain Friday to be filled in, and Time is 
 no more. Is it very presumptuous to imagine the 
 Roundabout that Mr. Thackeray would write upon this 
 unfinished work of his, if he could come back to do it? 
 We do not think it is, or very difficult either. What Car- 
 
 ^ The last number of " Denis Duval " appeared in the Cornhill 
 Magazine of June, 1864. 
 
 176
 
 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 177 
 
 lyle calls the divine gift of speech was so largely his, 
 especially in his maturer years, that he made clear in 
 what he did say pretty much what he would say about 
 anything that engaged his thought; and we have 
 only to imagine a discourse " On the Two Women at 
 the Mill,"^ to read off upon our minds the sense of 
 what Mr. Thackeray alone could have found language 
 for. 
 
 Vain are these speculations — or are they vain? Not if 
 we try to think what he would think of his broken la- 
 bours, considering that one of these days our labours 
 must be broken too. Still, there is not much to be said 
 about it: and we pass on to the real business in hand, 
 which is to show as well as we may what " Denis Duval " 
 would have been had its author lived to complete his 
 work. Fragmentary as it is, the story must always be 
 of considerable importance, because it will stand as a 
 warning to imperfect critics never to be in haste to cry 
 of any intellect, "His vein is worked out: there is no- 
 thing left in him but the echoes of emptiness." The 
 decriers were never of any importance, yet there is more 
 than satisfaction, there is something like triumph in the 
 mind of every honest man of letters when he sees, and 
 knows everybody must see, how a genius which was 
 sometimes said to have been guilty of passing behind a 
 cloud toward the evening of his day, came out to shine 
 with new splendour before the day was done. " Denis 
 Duval" is unfinished, but it ends that question. The 
 fiery genius that blazed over the city in " Vanity Fair," 
 and passed on to a ripe afternoon in " Esmond," is not 
 a whit less great, it is only broader, more soft, more mel- 
 
 ^ " Two women shall be grinding at the mill, one shall be taken 
 
 and the other lett."
 
 178 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 
 
 low and kindly, as it sinks too suddenly in "Denis 
 Duval." 
 
 This is said to introduce the settlement of another too- 
 hasty notion which we believe to have been pretty gen- 
 erally accepted : namely, that Mr. Thackeray took little 
 pains in the construction of his works. The truth is, that 
 he very industriously did take pains. We find that out 
 when we inquire, for the benefit of the readers of his 
 Magazine, whether there is anything to tell of his de- 
 signs for "Denis Duval." The answer comes in the 
 form of many most careful notes, and memoranda of 
 inquiry into minute matters of detail to make the story 
 true. How many young novelists are there who haven t 
 much genius to fall back upon, who yet, if they desired 
 to set their hero down in Winchelsea a hundred years 
 ago for instance, would take the trouble to learn how 
 the town was built, and what gate led to Rye (if the 
 hero happened to have any deaHngs with that place), 
 and who were its local magnates, and how it was gov- 
 erned? And yet this is what Mr. Thackeray did, though 
 his investigation added not twenty lines to the story and 
 no "interest" whatever: it was simply so much consci- 
 entious effort to keep as near truth in feigning as he 
 could. That Winchelsea had three gates, " Newgate on 
 S.W., Landgate on N.E., Strandgate {leading to Rye) 
 on S.E. ; " that " the government was vested in a mayor 
 and twelve jurats, jointly;" that "it sends canopy 
 bearers on occasion of a coronation," &c. &c. &c., all is 
 duly entered in a note-book with reference to authorities. 
 And so about the refugees at Rye, and the French Re- 
 formed church there; nothing is written that history 
 cannot vouch for. The neat and orderly way in which 
 the notes are set down is also remarkable. Each has its 
 heading, as thus:
 
 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 179 
 
 " Refugees at Rye. — At Rye Is a small settlement of French 
 refugees, who are for the most part fishermen, and have a min- 
 ister of their own. 
 
 " French Reformed Church. — Wherever there is a sufficient 
 number of faithful there is a church. The pastor is admitted 
 to his office by the provincial synod, or the colloquy, provided it 
 be composed of seven pastors at least. Pastors are seconded in 
 their duties by laymen, who take the title of Ancients, El- 
 ders, and Deacons precentors. The union of Pastors, Deacons, 
 and Elders forms a consistory." 
 
 Of course there is no considerable merit in care like 
 this, but it is a merit which the author of " Denis Duval " 
 is not popularly credited with, and therefore it may as 
 well be set down to him. Besides, it may serve as an ex- 
 ample to fledgeling geniuses of what he thought neces- 
 sary to the perfection of his work. 
 
 But the chief interest of these notes and memoranda 
 lies in the outlook they give us upon the conduct of the 
 story. It is not desirable to print them all; indeed, to 
 do so would be to copy a long list of mere references to 
 books, magazines, and journals, where such byway bits of 
 illustration are to be found as lit Mr. Thackeray's mind 
 to so vivid an insight into manners and character. Still, 
 we are anxious to give the reader as complete an idea of 
 the story as we can. 
 
 First, here is a characteristic letter, in which Mr. 
 Thackeray sketches his plot for the information of his 
 publisher: — 
 
 "My dear S 
 
 " I WAS born in the year 1764, at Winchelsea, where my father 
 was a grocer and clerk of the church. Everybody in the place 
 was a good deal connected with smuggling. 
 
 " There used to come to our house a very noble French gen-
 
 180 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 
 
 tlcman, called the Count de la Motte, and with him a Ger- 
 man, the Baron de Lutterloh. My father used to take pack- 
 ages to Ostend and Calais for these two gentlemen, and perhaps 
 I went to Paris once and saw the French queen. 
 
 " The squire of our town was Squire Weston of the Priory, 
 who, with his brother, kept one of the genteelest houses in the 
 country. He was churchwarden of our church, and much re- 
 spected. Yes, but if you read the Annual Register of 1781, 
 you will find that on the 13th July the sheriffs attended at the 
 Tower of London to receive custody of a De la Motte, a pris- 
 oner charged with high treason. The fact is, this Alsatian 
 nobleman being in difficulties in his own country (where he 
 had commanded the Regiment Soubise), came to London, and 
 under pretence of sending prints to France and Ostend, sup- 
 plied the French Ministers with accounts of the movements of 
 the English fleets and troops. His go-between was Liitterloh, 
 a Brunswicker, who had been a crimping-agent, then a servant, 
 who was a spy of France and Mr. Franklin, and who turned 
 king's evidence on La Motte, and hanged him. 
 
 " This Liitterloh, who had been a crimping-agent for Ger- 
 man troops during the American war, then a servant in London 
 during the Gordon riots, then an agent for a spy, then a spy 
 over a spy, I suspect to have been a consummate scoundrel, and 
 doubly odious from speaking English with a German accent. 
 
 " What if he wanted to marry that charming girl, who 
 lived with Mr. Weston at Winchelsea ? Ha ! I see a mystery 
 here. 
 
 " What if this scoundrel, going to receive his pay from the 
 English Admiral, with whom he was in communication at Ports- 
 mouth, happened to go on board the ' Royal George ' the day 
 she went down.'* 
 
 " As for George and Joseph Weston, of the Priory, I am 
 sorry to say they were rascals too. They were tried for robbing 
 the Bristol mail in 1780; and being acquitted for want of evi- 
 dence, were tried immediately after on another indictment for 
 forgery — Joseph was acquitted, but George was capitally con-
 
 NOTES OX DENIS DUVAL 181 
 
 victed. But this did not help poor Joseph. Before their trials, 
 they and some others broke out of Newgate, and Joseph fired 
 at, and wounded, a porter who tried to stop him, on Snow Hill. 
 For this he was tried and found guilty on the Black Act, and 
 hung along with his brother. 
 
 " Now, if I was an innocent participator in De la Motte'? 
 treasons, and the Westons' forgeries and robberies, what pretty 
 scrapes I must have been in ! 
 
 " I married the young woman, whom the brutal Liitterloli 
 would have had for himself, and lived happy ever after." 
 
 Here, it will be seen, the general idea is very roughly 
 sketched, and the sketch was not in all its parts carried 
 out. Another letter, never sent to its destination, gives 
 a somewhat later account of Denis,— 
 
 " My grandfather's name was Duval ; he was a barber and 
 perruquier by trade, and elder of the French Protestant Church 
 at Winchelsea. I was sent to board with his correspondent, a 
 Methodist grocer, at Rye. 
 
 " These two kept a fishing-boat, but the fish they caught was 
 many and many a barrel of Nantz brandy, which we landed — 
 never mind where — at a place to us well known. In the inno- 
 cence of my heart, I — a child — got leave to go out fishing. We 
 used to go out at night and meet ships from the French coast. 
 " I learned to scuttle a marlinspike, 
 reef a lee-scupper, 
 keelhaul a bowsprit 
 as well as the best of them. How well I remember the jabbering 
 of the Frenchmen the first night as they handed the kegs over 
 to us! One night we were fired into by his Majesty's revenue 
 cutter ' Lynx.' I asked what those balls were fizzing in the 
 water, &c. 
 
 " I wouldn't go on with the smuggling ; being converted by 
 Mr. Wesley, who came to preach to us at Rye — but that is 
 neither here nor there. , t ."
 
 182 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 
 
 In these letters neither " my mother," nor the Count 
 de Saverne and his unhappy wife appear; while Agnes 
 exists only as " that charming girl." Count de la Motte, 
 the Baron de Liitterloh, and the Westons, seem to have 
 figured foremost in the author's mind : they are historical 
 characters. In the first letter, we are referred to the 
 Annual Register for the story of De la Motte and Liit- 
 terloh: and this is what we read there, — 
 
 " January 5, 1781. — A gentleman was taken into custody 
 for treasonable practices, named Henry Francis de la Motte, 
 which he bore with the title of baron annexed to it. He has 
 resided in Bond Street, at a Mr. Otiey's, a woollen draper, for 
 some time. 
 
 " When he was going upstairs at the Secretary of State's 
 office, in Cleveland Row, he dropped several papers on the stair- 
 case, which were immediately discovered by the messenger, and 
 carried in with him to Lord Hillsborough. After his exami- 
 nation, he was committed a close prisoner for high treason to the 
 Tower. The papers taken from him are reported to be of the 
 highest importance. Among them are particular lists of every 
 ship of force in any of our yards and docks, &c. &c. 
 
 " In consequence of the above papers being found, Henry 
 Liitterloh, Esq., of Wickham, near Portsmouth, was afterwards 
 apprehended and brought to town. The messengers found Mr. 
 Liitterloh ready booted to go a hunting. When he understood 
 their business, he did not discover the least embarrassment, but 
 delivered his keys with the utmost readiness Mr. Liit- 
 terloh is a German, and had lately taken a house at Wickham, 
 within a few miles of Portsmouth; and as he kept a pack of 
 hounds, and was considered as a good companion, he was well 
 received by the gentlemen in the neighbourhood. 
 
 "July 14, 1781. — Mr. Liitterloh's testimony was of so serious 
 a nature, that the court seemed in a state of astonishment during 
 the whole of his long examination. He said that he embarked
 
 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 183 
 
 in a plot with the prisoner in the year 1778, to furnish the 
 French court with secret intclhgence of the Navy; for which, 
 at first, he received only eight guineas a month; the importance 
 of his information appeared, however, so clear to the prisoner, 
 that he shortly after allowed him fifty guineas a month, besides 
 many valuable gifts ; that, upon any emergency, he came post 
 to toAvn to M. de la Motte, but common occurrences relative to 
 their treaty, he sent by the post. He identified the papers 
 found in his garden, and the seals, he said, were M. de la 
 Motte's, and well known in France. He had been to Paris by 
 direction of the prisoner, and was closeted with Monsieur Sar- 
 tine, the French Minister. He had formed a plan for capturing 
 Governor Johnstone's squadron, for which he demanded 8,000 
 guineas, and a third share of the ships, to be divided amongst 
 the prisoner, himself, and his friend in a certain office, but the 
 French court would not agree to yielding more than an eighth 
 share of the squadron. After agreeing to enable the French 
 to take the commodore, he went to Sir Hugh Palliser, and 
 offered a plan to take the French, and to defeat his original 
 project with which he had furnished the French court. 
 
 " The trial lasted for thirteen hours, when the jury, after a 
 short deliberation, pronounced the prisoner guilty, when sen- 
 tence was immediately passed upon him; the prisoner received 
 the awful doom (he was condemned to be hanged, drawn, and 
 quartered), with great composure, but inveighed against Mr. 
 
 Liitterloh in warm terms His behaviour throughout the 
 
 whole of this trying scene exhibited a combination of manliness, 
 steadiness, and presence of mind. He appeared at the same 
 time polite, condescending, and unaffected, and, we presume, 
 could never have stood so firm and collected at so awful a mo- 
 ment, if, when he felt himself fully convicted as a traitor to the 
 State which gave him protection, he had not, however mis- 
 takenly, felt a conscious innocence within his own breast that he 
 had devoted his life to the service of his country.
 
 184 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 
 
 " M. de la Motte was about five feet ten inches in height, fifty 
 years of age, and of a comely countenance ; his deportment was 
 exceedingly genteel, and his eye was expressive of strong pene- 
 tration. He wore a white cloth coat, and a linen waistcoat 
 worked in tambour." — Annual Register, vol. xxiv. p. 184. 
 
 It is not improbable that from this narrative of a trial 
 for high treason in 1781 the whole story radiated. These 
 are the very men whom we have seen in Thackeray's 
 pages; and it is a fine test of his insight and power to 
 compare them as they lie embalmed in the Annual Reg- 
 ister, and as they breathe again in " Denis Duval." The 
 part they were to have played in the story is already in- 
 telligible, all but the way in which they were to have con- 
 fused the lives of Denis and his love. " 'At least, Duval,' 
 De la Motte said to me when I shook hands with him and 
 with all my heart forgave him, ' mad and reckless as I 
 have been and fatal to all whom I loved, I have never 
 allowed the child to want, and have supported her in com- 
 fort when I myself was almost without a meal.' " What 
 was the injury which Denis forgave with all his heart? 
 Fatal to all whom he loved, there are evidences that De 
 la Motte was to have urged Liitterloh's pretensions to 
 Agnes: whose story at this period we find inscribed in 
 the note-book in one word — " Henriette Iphigenia." 
 For Agnes was christened Henriette originally, and 
 Denis was called Blaise.^ 
 
 ^ Among the notes there is a little chronological table of events as they 
 occur— "Blaise, born 1763. 
 
 Henriette de Barr was born in 1766-7. 
 
 Her father went to Corsica, '68. 
 
 Mother fled, '68. 
 
 Father killed at B., '69. 
 
 Mother died, '70. 
 
 Blaise turned out, '79. 
 
 Henriette lipiyEvia, '81. 
 
 La Motte's catastrophe, '83. 
 
 Rodney's action, '82."
 
 NOTES OX DENIS DUVAL 185 
 
 As for M. Liitterloh, " that consummate scoundrel, 
 and doubly odious from speaking English with a Ger- 
 man accent " — having hanged De la Motte, while con- 
 fessing that he had made a solemn engagement with him 
 never to betray each other, and then immediately laying a 
 wager that De la Motte would be hanged, having broken 
 open a secretaire, and distinguished himself in various 
 other ways — he seems to have gone to Winchelsea, where 
 it was easy for him to threaten or cajole the Westons 
 into trying to force Agnes into his arms. She was living 
 with these people, and we know how they discounte- 
 nanced her faithful affection for Denis. Overwrought 
 by the importunities of Liitterloh and the Westons, she 
 escaped to Dr. Barnard for protection; and soon unex- 
 pected help arrived. The De Viomesnils, her mother's 
 relations, became suddenly convinced of the innocence 
 of the Countess. Perhaps (and when we say perhaps, 
 we repeat such hints of his plans as Mr. Thackeray ut- 
 tered in conversation at his fireside) they knew of cer- 
 tain heritages to which Agnes would be entitled were her 
 mother absolved: at any rate, they had reasons of their 
 own for claiming her at this opportune moment — as they 
 did. Agnes takes Dr. Barnard's advice and goes off to 
 these prosperous relations, who, having neglected her so 
 long, desire her so much. Perhaps Denis was thinking 
 of the sad hour when he came home, long years after- 
 ward, to find his sweetheart gone, when he wrote: — " O 
 Agnes, Agnes ! how the years roll away ! What strange 
 events have befallen us ; what passionate griefs have we 
 had to suffer : what a merciful heaven has protected us, 
 since that day when your father knelt over the little cot, 
 in which his child lay sleeping! " 
 
 At the time she goes home to France, Denis is far aw^ay
 
 186 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 
 
 fighting on board the "Arethusa," under his old captain, 
 Sir Richard Pearson, who commanded the " Serapis " in 
 the action with Paul Jones. Denis was wounded early in 
 this fight, in which Pearson had to strike his own colours, 
 almost every man on board being killed or hurt. Of 
 Pearson's career, which Denis must have followed in 
 after days, there is more than one memorandum in Mr. 
 Thackeray's note-book:— 
 
 
 Serapis,' R. Pearson. Beatson's Memoirs. 
 Gentleman's Magazine, 49, p. 484. Account of action with 
 Paul Jones, 1779. 
 " Gentleman's Magazine, 502, p. 84. Pearson knighted, 
 
 1780. 
 " Commanded the 'Arethusa ' off Ushant, ( * Field of Mars,' 
 1781, in Kempenfeldt's action. [ art. Ushant." 
 
 And then follows the question,— 
 
 " Qy. How did Pearson get away from Paul Jones? " 
 
 But before that is answered we will quote the " story 
 of the disaster " as Sir Richard tells it, " in words nobler 
 than any I could supply: " and, indeed, Mr. Thackeray 
 seems to have thought much of the letter to the Ad- 
 miralty Office, and to have found Pearson's character 
 
 in it. 
 
 After some preliminary fighting— 
 
 " We dropt alongside of each other, head and stern, when the 
 fluke of our spare anchor hooking his quarter, we became so close, 
 fore and aft, that the muzzles of our guns touched each other's 
 sides. In this position we engaged from half-past eight till half- 
 past ten ; during which time, from the great quantity and vari- 
 ety of combustible matter which they threw in upon our decks.
 
 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 187 
 
 chains, and, in short, every part of the ship, we were on fire 
 no less than ten or twelve times in different parts of the ship, 
 and it was with the greatest difficulty and exertion imaginable 
 at times, that we were able to get it extinguished. At the same 
 time the largest of the two frigates kept sailing round us the 
 Avhole action and raking us fore and aft, by which means she 
 killed or wounded almost every man on the quarter and main 
 decks. 
 
 " About half-past nine, a cartridge of powder was set on fire, 
 which, running from cartridge to cartridge all the way aft, 
 blew up the whole of the people and officers that were quartered 
 abaft the mainmast At ten o'clock they called for quar- 
 ter from the ship alongside ; hearing this, I called for the board- 
 ers and ordered them to board her, which they did; but the 
 moment they were on board her, they discovered a superior num- 
 ber laying under cover with pikes in their hands ready to 
 receive them; our people retreated instantly into our own ship, 
 and returned to their guns till past ten, when the frigate coming 
 across our stern and pouring her broadside into us again, 
 without our being able to bring a gun to bear on her, I found 
 it in vain, and, in short, impracticable, from the situation we 
 were in, to stand out any longer with the least prospect of suc- 
 cess. I therefore struck. Our mainmast at the same time went 
 by the board. . . . 
 
 " I am extremely sorry for the misfortune that has hap- 
 pened—that of losing his Majesty's ship I had the honour to 
 command ; but at the same time, I flatter myself with the hopes 
 that their lordships will be convinced that she has not been given 
 away, but that on the contrary every exertion has been used to 
 defend her." 
 
 The " Serapis " and the " Countess of Scarborough," 
 after drifting about in the North Sea, were brought into 
 the Texel by Paul Jones ; when Sir Joseph Yorke, our 
 ambassador at the Hague, memoriahzed their High
 
 188 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 
 
 Mightinesses the States-General of the Low Countries, 
 requesting that these prizes might be given up. Their 
 High Mightinesses refused to interfere. 
 
 Of course the fate of the " Serapis " was Denis's fate; 
 and the question also is, how did lie get away from Paul 
 Jones? A note written immediately after the query sug- 
 gests a hair-breadth escape for him after a double im- 
 prisonment. 
 
 " Some sailors are lately arrived from Amsterdam on board 
 the ' Lsetitia,' Captain March. They were taken out of the hold 
 of a Dutch East Indiaman by the captain of the ' Kingston ' pri- 
 vateer, who, having lost some of his people, gained some infor- 
 mation of their fate from a music-girl, and had spirit enough 
 to board the ship and search her. The poor wretches were all 
 chained down in the hold, and but for this would have been 
 carried to perpetual day ery.''^— Gentleman's Magazine, 50, 
 p. 101. 
 
 Do we see how truth and fiction were to have been 
 married here? Suppose that Denis Duval, escaping 
 from one imprisonment in Holland, fell into the snares 
 of Dutch East Indiamen, or was kidnapped with the 
 men of the " Kingston " privateer? Denis chained down 
 in the hold, thinking one moment of Agnes and the 
 garden wall, which alone was too much to separate them, 
 and at the next moment of how he was now to be car- 
 ried to perpetual slavery, beyond hope. And then the 
 music-girl; and the cheer of the "Kingston's" men 
 as they burst into the hold and set the prisoners free. It 
 is easy to imagine what those chapters would have been 
 
 like. 
 
 At liberty, Denis was still kept at sea, where he did 
 not rise to the heroic in a day, but progressed through
 
 NOTES OX DENIS DUVAL 189 
 
 all the commonplace duties of a young seaman's life, 
 which we find noted down accordingly;— 
 
 " He must serve two years on board before he can be rated 
 midshipman. Such volunteers are mostly put under the care 
 of the gunner, who caters for them ; and are permitted to walk 
 the quarter-deck and wear the uniform from the beginning. 
 When fifteen and rated midshipmen, they form a mess with the 
 mates. \Vlien examined for their commissions they are expected 
 to know everything relative to navigation and seamanship, are 
 strictly examined in the different sailings, working tides, days' 
 works, and double-altitudes — and are expected to give some ac- 
 count of the different methods of finding the longitudes by a 
 time-keeper and the lunar observations. In practical seaman- 
 ship they must show how to conduct a ship from one place to 
 another under every disadvantage of wind, tide, &c. After 
 this, the candidate obtains a certificate from the captain, and 
 his commission when he can get it." 
 
 Another note describes a personage whose acquain- 
 tance we have missed : — 
 
 " A seaman of the old school, whose hand was more familiar 
 with the tar-brush than with Hadley's quadrant, who had peeped 
 into the mysteries of navigation as laid down by J. Hamilton 
 Moore, and who acquired an idea of the rattletraps and rigging 
 of a ship through the famous illustrations which adorn the 
 pages of Darcy Lever." 
 
 Denis was a seaman in stirring times. " The year of 
 which we treat," says the Annual Register for 1779, 
 " presented the most awful appearance of public affairs 
 which perhaps this country had beheld for many ages ; " 
 and Duval had part in more than one of the startling 
 events which succeeded each other so rapidly in the wars
 
 190 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 
 
 with France and America and Spain. He was destined 
 to come into contact with Major Andre, whose fate ex- 
 cited extraordinary sympathy at the time: Washington 
 is said to have shed tears when he signed his death-war- 
 rant. It was on the 2nd of October, 1780, that this 
 young officer was executed. A year later, and Denis was 
 to witness the trial and execution of one whom he knew 
 better and was more deeply interested in, De la Motte. 
 The courage and nobleness with which he met his fate 
 moved the sympathy of Duval, whom he had injured, 
 as well as of most of those who saw him die. Denis has 
 written concerning him: — " Except my kind namesake, 
 the captain and admiral, this was the first gentleman I 
 ever met in intimacy, a gentleman with many a stain, — 
 nay, crime to reproach him, but not all lost, I hope and 
 pray. I own to having a kindly feeling towards that 
 fatal man." 
 
 Liitterloh's time had not yet come; but besides that 
 we find him disposed of with the " Royal George " in 
 the first-quoted letter, an entry in the note-book unites 
 the fate of the bad man with that of the good ship.^ 
 
 Meanwhile, the memorandum " Rodney's action, 
 1782," indicates that Duval was to take part in our vic- 
 tory over the French fleet commanded by the Count de 
 Grasse, who was himself captured with the "Ville de 
 Paris " and four other ships. " De Grasse with his suite 
 landed on Southsea Common, Portsmouth. They were 
 conducted in carriages to the ' George,' where a most 
 sumptuous dinner had been procured for the Count and 
 his suite, by Vice-Admiral Sir Peter Parkes, who en- 
 
 * Contemporary accounts of the foundering of tlie " Royal George " rep- 
 resent her crowded with people from the shore. We have seen how Liitter- 
 loh was among these, having come on board to receive the price of his 
 treason.
 
 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 101 
 
 tertained him and his officers at his own expense." Here 
 also was something for Denis to see; and in this same 
 autumn came on the trial of the two Westons, when 
 Denis was to be the means — unconsciously — of bringing 
 his old enemy, Joseph Weston, to punishment. There 
 are two notes to this effect. 
 
 " 1782-3. Jo. Weston, always savage against Blaise, fires 
 on him in Cheapside. 
 
 " The Black Act is 9 George II. c. 22. The preamble says: 
 — ' Whereas several ill-designing and disorderly persons have 
 associated themselves under the name of Blacks, and entered into 
 confederacies to support and assist one another in stealing and 
 destroying deer, robbing warrens and fish-ponds' .... It 
 then goes on to enact that ' if any person or persons shall wil- 
 fully or maliciously shoot at any person in any dwelling-house 
 or other place, he shall suffer death as in cases of felony with- 
 out benefit of the clergy.' " 
 
 A Joseph Weston was actually found guilty under 
 the Black Act, of firing at and wounding a man on 
 Snow Hill, and was hanged with his brother. Mr. 
 Thackeray's note-book refers him to " The Westons in 
 ' Session Papers,' 1782, pp. 463, 470, 473," to the Ge7i- 
 tlemans Magazine, 1782, to *' Genuine Memoirs of 
 George and Joseph Weston, 1782," and Notes and 
 Queries, Series I. vol. x.^ 
 
 The next notes (in order of time) concern a certain 
 very disinterested action of Duval's: — 
 
 * These notes also appear in the same connection: — 
 
 " Horsestealers. One Saunders was committed to Oxford gaol for horse- 
 stealing, who appears to have belonged to a gang, part of whom stole horses 
 in the north counties, and the other part in the south, and about the midland 
 counties they used to meet and exchange.— Gentleman's Magazine, 39, 165. 
 
 "1783. Capital Convictions.— At the Spring Assizes, 1783, 119 prisoners 
 received sentence of Death."
 
 192 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 
 
 "Deal Riots, 1783. 
 " Deal. — Here has been a great scene of confusion, by a 
 party of Colonel Douglas's Light Dragoons, sixty in number, 
 who entered the town in the dead of the night in aid to the 
 excise officers, in order to break open the stores and make seiz- 
 ures: but the smugglers, who are never unprepared, having 
 taken the alarm, mustered together, and a most desperate battle 
 ensued." 
 
 Now old Duval, the perruquier, as we know, belonged 
 to the great Mackerel party, or smuggling conspiracy, 
 which extended all along the coast; and frequent allu- 
 sion has been made to his secret stores, and to the profits 
 of his so-called fishing expeditions. Remembering what 
 has been written of this gentleman, we can easily imagine 
 the falsehoods, tears, lying asseverations of poverty and 
 innocence which old Duval must have uttered on the ter- 
 rible night when the excise officers visited him. But his 
 exclamations were to no purpose, for it is a fact that 
 when Denis saw what was going on, he burst out with the 
 truth, and though he knew it was his own inheritance he 
 was giving up, he led the officers right away to the hoards 
 they were seeking. 
 
 His conduct on this occasion Denis has already re- 
 ferred to where he says: — "There were matters con- 
 nected with this story regarding which I could not speak. 
 . . . Now they are secrets no more. That old society of 
 smugglers is dissolved long ago : nay, I shall have to tell 
 presently how I helped myself to break it up." And 
 therewith all old Duval's earnings, all Denis's fortune 
 that was to be, vanished ; but of course Denis prospered 
 in his profession, and had no need of unlawful gains. ^ 
 
 But very sad times intervened between Denis and 
 
 ' Notices of Sussex smuggling (says the note-book) are to be found in 
 vol. X. of " Sussex Archaeological Collections," 69, 9-t. Reference is also 
 made to the Gentleman's Magazine, vol, viii, pp. 29:2, 172,
 
 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 193 
 
 prosperity. He was to be taken prisoner by the French, 
 and to fret many long years away in one of their ar- 
 senals. At last the Revolution broke out, and he may 
 have been given up, or — thanks to his foreign tongue 
 and extraction — found means to escape. Perhaps he 
 went in search of Agnes, whom we know he never for- 
 got, and whose great relations were now in trouble ; for 
 the Revolution which freed him was terrible to " aristo- 
 crats." 
 
 This is nearly all the record we have of this part of 
 Denis's life, and of the life which Agnes led while she 
 was away from him. But perhaps it was at this time 
 that Duval saw Marie Antoinette ; ^ perhaps he found 
 Agnes, and helped to get her away: or had Agnes al- 
 ready escaped to England, and was it in the old familiar 
 haunts — Farmer Perreau's Columharknn, where the 
 pigeons were that Agnes loved; the Rectory garden 
 basking in the autumn evening; the old wall and the 
 pear-tree behind it; the plain from whence they could 
 see the French lights across the Channel ; the little twin- 
 kling window in a gable of the Priory-house, where the 
 light used to be popped out at nine o'clock — that Denis 
 and Agnes first met after their long separation? 
 
 However that may have been, we come presently upon 
 a note of " a tailor contracts to supply three superfine 
 suits for 11/. lis. (Gazetteer and Daily Advertiser) ;" 
 and also of a villa at Beckenham, with " four parlours, 
 
 ^ The following memoranda appear in the note-book: — 
 
 " Marie Antoinette was born on the 2nd November, 1755, and her saint's 
 day is the Fetk des Morts. 
 
 " In the Corsican expedition the Legion de Lorraine was under the Baron 
 de Viomesnil. He emigrated at the commencement of the Revolution, took 
 an active part in the army of Cond^, and in the emigration, returned with 
 Louis XVIIL, followed him to Gand, and was made marshal and peer of 
 France after '15. 
 
 " Another Vi. went with Rochambeau to America in 1780."
 
 194 NOTES ON DENIS DUVAL 
 
 eight bed-rooms, stables, two acres of garden, and four- 
 teen acres of meadow, let for 70l. a year," which may 
 have been the house the young people first lived in after 
 they were married. Later, they moved to Fareport, 
 where, as we read, the admiral is weighed along with his 
 own pig. But he cannot have given up the service for 
 many years after his marriage, for he writes: — " T'other 
 day when we took over the King of France to Calais 
 (H.R.H. the Duke of Clarence being in command), I 
 must needs have a postchaise from Dover to look at that 
 old window in the Priory-house at Winchelsea. I went 
 through the old wars, despairs, tragedies. I sighed as 
 vehemently after forty years as though the infandi do- 
 lores were fresh upon me, as though I were the school- 
 boy trudging back to his task, and taking a last look at 
 his dearest joy." 
 
 "And who, pray, was Agnes?" he writes elsewhere. 
 " To-day her name is Agnes Duval, and she sits at her 
 work-table hard by. The lot of my life has been changed 
 by knowing her— to win such a prize in life's lottery has 
 been given but to very few. What I have done — of any 
 worth— has been done by trying to deserve her." 
 
 . . . ^^ Monsieur mon fils/'— (this is to his boy) — " if 
 ever you marry, and have a son, I hope the little chap 
 will have an honest man for a grandfather, and that you 
 will be able to say, ' I loved him,' when the daisies cover 
 me." Once more of Agnes he writes: — " When my ink 
 is run out, and my little tale is written, and yonder 
 church that is ringing to seven-o'clock prayers shall toll 
 for a certain D. D., you will please, good neighbours, to 
 remember that I never loved any but yonder lady, and 
 keep a place by Darby for Joan when her turn shall 
 
 arrive."
 
 LOVEL THE WIDOWER
 
 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 
 
 '^HO shall be the hero of this 
 tale? Not I who write 
 it. I am but the Chorus 
 of the Play. I make 
 remarks on the conduct 
 of the characters: I 
 narrate their simple 
 story. There is love and 
 marriage in it: there is 
 grief and disappoint- 
 ment: the scene is in the 
 parlour, and the region 
 beneath the parlour. 
 No: it may be the par- 
 lour and kitchen, in this 
 instance, are on the same 
 level. There is no high life, unless, to be sure, you 
 call a baronet's widow a lady in high life; and some 
 ladies may be, while some certainly are not. I don't 
 think there's a villain in the whole performance. There 
 is an abominable selfish old woman, certainly; an old 
 highway robber; an old sponger on other people's kind- 
 ness; an old haunter of Bath and Cheltenham board- 
 
 197
 
 198 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 ing-houses (about which how can I know anything, 
 never having been in a boarding-house at Bath or Chel- 
 tenham in my life?) ; an old swindler of tradesmen, 
 tj^rant of servants, bully of the poor — who, to be sure, 
 might do duty for a villain, but she considers herself as 
 virtuous a woman as ever was born. The heroine is not 
 faultless (ah! that will be a great relief to some folks, 
 for many writers' good women are, you know, so very 
 insipid) . The principal personage you may very likely 
 think to be no better than a muff. But is many a 
 respectable man of our acquaintance much better? and 
 do muffs know that they are what they are, or, knowing 
 it, are they unhappy? Do girls decline to marry one 
 if he is rich? Do we refuse to dine with one? I listened 
 to one at Church last Sunday, with all the women crying 
 and sobbing; and, oh, dear me! how finely he preached! 
 Don't we give him great credit for wisdom and elo- 
 quence in the House of Commons? Don't we give him 
 important commands in the army? Can you, or can you 
 not, point out one who has been made a peer? Doesn't 
 your wife call one in the moment any of the children are 
 ill? Don't we read his dear poems, or even novels? 
 Yes; perhaps even this one is read and written by — 
 Well ? Quid rides ? Do you mean that I am painting 
 a portrait which hangs before me every morning in the 
 looking-glass when I am shaving? Apres? Do you 
 suppose that I suppose that I have not infirmities like 
 my neighbours ? Am I weak? It is notorious to all my 
 friends there is a certain dish I can't resist: no, not if I 
 have already eaten twice too much at dinner. So, dear 
 sir, or madam, have you your weakness— ?/OMr irre- 
 sistible dish of temptation? (or if you don't know it, 
 your friends do) . No, dear friend, the chances are that
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 199 
 
 you and I are not people of the highest intellect, of the 
 largest fortune, of the most ancient family, of the most 
 consummate virtue, of the most faultless beauty in face 
 and figure. We are no heroes nor angels; neither are 
 we fiends from abodes unmentionable, black assassins, 
 treacherous lagos, familiar with stabbing and poison — 
 murder our amusement, daggers our playthings, arsenic 
 our daily bread, lies our conversation, and forgery our 
 common handwi'iting. No, we are not monsters of 
 crime, or angels walking the earth— at least I know one 
 of us who isn't, as can be shown any day at home if the 
 knife won't cut or the mutton comes up raw. But we 
 are not altogether brutal and unkind, and a few folks 
 like us. Our poetry is not as good as Alfred Tenny- 
 son's, but we can turn a couplet for Miss Fanny's al- 
 bum: our jokes are not always first-rate, but Mary and 
 her mother smile very kindly when papa tells his story 
 or makes his pun. We have many weaknesses, but we 
 are not ruffians of crime. No more was my friend 
 Lovel. On the contrary, he was as harmless and kindly 
 a fellow as ever lived when I first knew him. At pres- 
 ent, with his changed position, he is, perhaps, rather fine 
 (and certainly I am not asked to his best dinner-parties 
 as I used to be, where you hardly see a commoner — 
 but stay ! I am advancing matters ) . At the time when 
 this story begins, I say, Lovel had his faults — which of 
 us has not? He had buried his wife, having notoriously 
 been henpecked by her. How many men and brethren 
 are like him! He had a good fortune— I wish I had as 
 much — though I dare say many people are ten times as 
 rich. He was a good-looking fellow enough; though 
 that depends, ladies, upon whether you like a fair man 
 or a dark one. He had a country house, but it was only
 
 200 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 at Putne3\ In fact, he was in business in the city, and 
 being a hospitable man, and having three or four spare 
 bedrooms, some of his friends were always welcome at 
 Shrublands, especially after Mrs. Lovel's death, who 
 liked me pretty well at the period of her early mar- 
 riage with my friend, but got to dislike me at last and to 
 show me the cold shoulder. That is a joint I never could 
 like (though I have known fellows who persist in dining 
 off it year after year, who cling hold of it, and refuse 
 to be separated from it) . I say, when Lovel's wife began 
 to show me that she was tired of my company, I made 
 myself scarce: used to pretend to be engaged when 
 Fred faintly asked me to Shrublands ; to accept his meek 
 apologies, proposals to dine e7i garfon at Greenwich, the 
 club, and so forth; and never visit upon him my wrath 
 at his wife's indifference — for, after all, he had been my 
 friend at many a pinch: he never stinted at " Harts's " 
 or " Lovegrove's," and always made a point of having 
 the wine I liked, never mind what the price was. As 
 for his wife, there was, assuredly, no love lost between 
 us — I thought her a lean, scraggy, lackadaisical, egotis- 
 tical, consequential, insipid creature: and as for his 
 mother-in-law, M^ho stayed at Fred's as long and as 
 often as her daughter would endure her, has any one 
 who ever knew that notorious old Lady Baker at Bath, 
 at Cheltenham, at Brighton, — wherever trumps and 
 frumps were found together; wherever scandal was 
 cackled; wherever fly-blown reputations were assem- 
 bled, and dowagers with damaged titles trod over each 
 other for the pas; — who, I say, ever had a good w^ord 
 for that old woman ? What party was not bored where 
 she appeared? What tradesman was not done with 
 whom she dealt? I wish with all my heart I was about 
 to narrate a story with a good mother-in-law for a char-
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 201 
 
 acter; but then you know, my dear madam, all good 
 women in novels are insipid. This woman certainly was 
 not. She was not only not insipid, but exceedingly bad- 
 tasted. She had a foul, loud tongue, a stupid head, a 
 bad temper, an immense pride and arrogance, an ex- 
 travagant son, and very little money. Can I say much 
 more of a woman than this? Alia! my good Lady 
 Baker! I was a 7iiaiivais sujet, was I? — I was leading 
 Fred into smoking, drinking, and low bachelor habits, 
 was I? I, his old friend, who have borrowed money 
 from him any time these twenty years, was not fit com- 
 pany for you and your precious daughter? Indeed! 
 I i^aid the money I borrowed from him like a man; 
 but did you ever pay him, I should like to know? When 
 Mrs. Lovel was in the first column of The Times, then 
 Fred and I used to go off to Greenwich and Blackwall, 
 as I said ; then his kind old heart was allowed to feel for 
 his friend; then we could have the other bottle of claret 
 without the appearance of Bedford and the coffee, 
 which in JNIrs. L.'s time used to be sent in to us before 
 we could ring for a second bottle, although she and 
 Lady Baker had had three glasses each out of the first. 
 Three full glasses each, I give you my word! No, 
 madam, it was your turn to bully me once — now it is 
 mine and I use it. No, you old catamaran, though you 
 pretend you never read novels, some of your confounded 
 good-natured friends will let you know of this one. 
 Here you are, do you hear? Here you shall be shown 
 up. And so I intend to show up other women and other 
 men who have offended me. Is one to be subject to 
 slights and scorn, and not have revenge? Kindnesses 
 are easily forgotten; but injuries! — what worthy man 
 does not keep those in mind? 
 
 Before entering upon the present narrative, may I
 
 202 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 take leave to inform a candid public that, though it is 
 all true, there is not a word of truth in it; that though 
 Lovel is alive and prosperous, and you very likely have 
 met him, yet I defy you to point him out ; that his wife 
 (for he is Lovel the Widower no more) is not the lady 
 you imagine her to be, when you say (as you will per- 
 sist in doing), " Oh, that character is intended for Mrs. 
 Thingamy, or was notoriously drawn from Lady So- 
 and-So." No. You are utterly mistaken. Why, even 
 the advertising-puffers have almost given up that stale 
 stratagem of announcing "Revelations from High 
 Life.— The beau monde will be startled at recognizing 
 the portraits of some of its brilliant leaders in Miss 
 Wiggins's forthcoming roman de societe/' Or, "We 
 suspect a certain ducal house will be puzzled to guess 
 how the pitiless author of 'Mayfair Mysteries' has 
 become acquainted with (and exposed with a fearless 
 hand) certain family secrets which were thought only 
 to be known to a few of the very highest members of 
 the aristocracy." No, I say; these silly baits to catch an 
 unsuspecting public shall not be our arts. If you choose 
 to occupy yourself with trying to ascertain if a certain 
 cap fits one amongst ever so many thousand heads, you 
 may possibly pop it on the right one : but the cap-maker 
 will perish before he tells you; unless, of course, he has 
 some private pique to avenge, or malice to wreak, upon 
 some individual who can't by any possibility hit again; 
 —then, indeed, he will come boldly forward and seize 
 upon his victim— (a bishop, say, or a woman without 
 coarse, quarrelsome male relatives, will be best) —and 
 clap on him, or her, such a cap, with such ears, that all 
 the world shall laugh at the poor wretch, shuddering, 
 and blushing beet-root red, and whimpering deserved
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 203 
 
 tears of rage and vexation at being made the common 
 butt of society. Besides, I dine at Lovel's still ; his com- 
 pany and cuisine are amongst the best in London. If 
 they suspected I was taking them oiF, he and his wife 
 would leave off inviting me. Would any man of a gen- 
 erous disposition lose such a valued friend for a joke, 
 or be so foolish as to show him up in a story? All per- 
 sons with a decent knowledge of the world will at once 
 banish the thought, as not merely base, but absurd. I 
 am invited to his house one day next week : vous concevez 
 I can't mention the very day, for then he would find 
 me out — and of course there would be no more cards for 
 his old friend. He would not like appearing, as it must 
 be owned he does in this memoir, as a man of not very 
 strong mind. He believes himself to be a most deter- 
 mined, resolute person. He is quick in speech, wears 
 a fierce beard, speaks with asperity to his servants (who 
 liken him to a— to that before-named sable or ermine 
 contrivance, in which ladies insert their hands in winter) , 
 and takes his wife to task so smartly, that I believe she 
 believes he believes he is the master of the house. " Eliz- 
 abeth, my love, he must mean A, or B, or D," I 
 fancy I hear Lovel say; and she says, "Yes; oh! it is 
 certainly D— his very image! " " D to a T," says Lovel 
 (who is a neat wit). She may know that I mean 
 to depict her husband in the above unpretending lines: 
 but she will never let me know of her knowledge except 
 by a little extra courtesy; except (may I make this 
 pleasing exception?) by a few more invitations; except 
 by a look of those unfathomable eyes (gracious good- 
 ness ! to think she wore spectacles ever so long, and put 
 a lid over them as it were!) , into which, when you gaze 
 sometimes, you may gaze so deep, and deep, and deep.
 
 204 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 that I defy you to plumb half-way down into their 
 mystery. 
 
 When I was a young man, I had lodgings in Beak 
 Street, Regent Street (I no more have lived in Beak 
 Street than in Belgrave Square : but I choose to say so, 
 and no gentleman will be so rude as to contradict an- 
 other) —I had lodgings, I say, in Beak Street, Regent 
 Street. Mrs. Prior was the landlady's name. She had 
 seen better days— landladies frequently have. Her 
 husband— he could not be called the landlord, for Mrs. 
 P. was manager of the place — had been, in happier 
 times, captain or lieutenant in the militia; then of Diss, 
 in Norfolk, of no profession; then of Norwich Castle, 
 a prisoner for debt; then of Southampton Buildings, 
 London, law-writer; then of the Bom-Retiro Ca9a- 
 dores, in the service of H.M. the Queen of Portugal, 
 lieutenant and paymaster; then of Melina Place, St. 
 George's Fields, &c. — I forbear to give the particulars 
 of an existence which a legal biographer has traced 
 step by step, and which has more than once been the 
 subject of judicial investigation by certain commission- 
 ers in Lincoln's-Inn Fields. Well, Prior, at this time, 
 swimming out of a hundred shipwrecks, had clambered 
 on to a lighter, as it were, and was clerk to a coal-mer- 
 chant, by the riverside. " You conceive, sir," he would 
 say, " my employment is only temj)orary — the fortune 
 of war, the fortune of war!" He smattered words in 
 not a few foreign languages. His person was profusely 
 scented with tobacco. Bearded individuals, padding the 
 muddy hoof in the neighbouring Regent Street, would 
 call sometimes of an evening, and ask for " the captain." 
 He was known at many neighbouring billiard-tables, 
 and, I imagine, not respected. You will not see enough
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 205 
 
 of Captain Prior to be very weary of him and his coarse 
 swagger, to be disgusted by his repeated requests for 
 small money-loans, or to deplore his loss, which you will 
 please to suppose has happened before the curtain of 
 our present drama draws up. I think two people in 
 the world were sorry for him: his wife, who still loved 
 the memory of the handsome young man who had 
 wooed and won her; his daughter Elizabeth, whom for 
 the last few months of his life, and up to his fatal illness, 
 he every evening conducted to what he called her 
 " academy." You are right. Elizabeth is the principal 
 character in this story. When I knew her, a thin, 
 freckled girl of fifteen, with a lean frock, and hair of a 
 reddish hue, she used to borrow my books, and play on 
 the First Floor's piano, when he was from home — 
 Slumley his name was. He was editor of the Stvell, a 
 newspaper then published ; author of a great number of 
 popular songs, a friend of several music-selling houses; 
 and it was by Mr. Slumley's interest that Elizabeth was 
 received as a pupil at what the family called " the acad- 
 emy." 
 
 Captain Prior then used to conduct his girl to the 
 Academy, but she often had to conduct him home again. 
 Having to wait about the premises for two, or three, or 
 five hours sometimes, whilst Elizabeth was doing her les- 
 sons, he would naturally desire to shelter himself from 
 the cold at some neighbouring house of entertainment. 
 Every Friday, a prize of a golden medal, nay, I believe 
 sometimes of twenty-five silver medals, was awarded 
 to Miss Bellenden and other young ladies for their 
 good conduct and assiduity at this academy. Miss Bel- 
 lenden gave her gold medal to her mother, onty keep- 
 ing five shillings for herself, with which the poor
 
 206 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 child bought gloves, shoes, and her humble articles of 
 millinery. 
 
 Once or twice the Captain succeeded in intercepting 
 that piece of gold, and I dare say treated some of his 
 whiskered friends, the clinking trampers of the Quad- 
 rant pavement. He was a free-handed fellow when he 
 had anybody's money in his pocket. It was owing to 
 differences regarding the settlement of accounts that he 
 quarrelled with the coal-merchant, his very last em- 
 ployer. Bessy, after yielding once or twice to his im- 
 portunity, and trying to believe his solemn promises of 
 repayment, had strength of mind to refuse her father 
 the pound which he would have taken. Her five shillings 
 — her poor little slender pocket-money, the representa- 
 tive of her charities and kindnesses to the little brothers 
 and sisters, of her little toilette ornaments, nay neces- 
 sities ; of those well-mended gloves, of those oft-darned 
 stockings, of those poor boots, which had to walk many 
 a weary mile after midnight ; of those little knicknacks, 
 in the shape of brooch or bracelet, with which the poor 
 child adorned her homely robe or sleeve — her poor five 
 shillings, out of which Mary sometimes found a pair of 
 shoes, or Tommy a flannel- jacket, and little Bill a coach 
 and horse — this wretched sum, this mite, which Bessy ad- 
 ministered among so many poor — I very much fear her 
 father sometimes confiscated. I charged the child with 
 the fact, and she could not deny me. I vowed a tremen- 
 dous vow, that if ever I heard of her giving Prior money 
 again, I would quit the lodgings, and never give those 
 children lollipop, nor pegtop, nor sixpence ; nor the pun- 
 gent marmalade, nor the biting gingerbread-nut, nor the 
 theatre-characters, nor the paint-box to illuminate the 
 same; iior the discarded clothes, which became smaller
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 207 
 
 clothes upon the persons of Httle Tommy and little 
 Bill, for whom Mrs. Prior, and Bessy, and the little 
 maid, cut, clipped, altered, ironed, darned, mangled, 
 with the greatest ingenuity. I say, considering what 
 had passed between me and the Priors — considering 
 those money transactions, and those clothes, and my 
 kindness to the children— it was rather hard that my 
 jam-pots were poached, and my brandy-bottles leaked. 
 And then to frighten her brother with the story 
 of the inexorable creditor — oh, Mrs. Prior! — oh, fie, 
 Mrs. P. ! 
 
 So Bessy went to her school in a shabby shawl, a faded 
 bonnet, and a poor little lean dress flounced with the mud 
 and dust of all weathers, whereas there were some other 
 young ladies, fellow-pupils of her, who laid out their 
 gold medals to much greater advantage. Miss Dela- 
 mere, with her eighteen shillings a week (calling them 
 ^'silver medals''^ was only my wit, you see), had twenty 
 new bonnets, silk and satin dresses for all seasons, feath- 
 ers in abundance, swansdown muffs and tippets, lovely 
 pocket-handkerchiefs and trinkets, and many and many 
 a half-crown mould of jelly, bottle of sherry, blanket, 
 or what not, for a poor fellow-pupil in distress ; and as 
 for Miss Montanville, who had exactly the same sal — 
 well, who had a scholarship of exactly the same value, 
 viz. about fifty pounds yearly — she kept an elegant little 
 cottage in the Regent's Park, a brougham with a horse 
 all over brass harness, and a groom with a prodigious 
 gold lace hat-band, who was treated with frightful con- 
 tumely at the neighbouring cabstand; an aunt or a 
 mother, I don't know which (I hope it was only an aunt) , 
 always comfortably dressed, and who looked after Mon- 
 tanville : and she herself had bracelets, brooches, and vel-
 
 208 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 vet pelisses of the very richest description. But then 
 Miss Montanville was a good economist. She was never 
 known to help a poor friend in distress, or give a fainting 
 brother and sister a crust or a glass of wine. She allowed 
 ten shillings a week to her father, whose name was Bos- 
 kinson, said to be a clerk to a chapel in Paddington; but 
 she would never see him— no, not when he was in hos- 
 pital, where he was so ill; and though she certainly lent 
 Miss Wilder thirteen pounds, she had Wilder arrested 
 upon her promissory note for twenty-four, and sold up 
 every stick of Wilder's furniture, so that the whole acad- 
 emy cried shame! Well, an accident occurred to Miss 
 Montanville, for which those may be sorry who choose. 
 On the evening of the 26th of December, Eighteen hun- 
 dred and something, when the conductors of the academy 
 were giving their grand annual Christmas Pant— I 
 should say examination of the academy pupils before 
 their numerous friends— INIontanville, who happened to 
 be present, not in her brougham this time, but in an 
 aerial chariot of splendour drawn by doves, fell off a 
 rainbow, and through the roof of the Revolving Shrine 
 of the Amaranthine Queen, thereby very nearly damag- 
 ing Bellenden, who was occupying the shrine, attired in 
 a light-blue spangled dress, waving a wand, and uttering 
 some idiotic verses composed for her by the Professor of 
 Literature attached to the academy. As for INIontan- 
 ville, let her go shrieking down that trap-door, break her 
 leg, be taken home, and never more be character of ours. 
 She never could speak. Her voice was as hoarse as a 
 fishwoman's. Can that immense stout old box-keeper at 
 
 the theatre, who limps up to ladies on the first tier, 
 
 and offers that horrible footstool, which everybody stum- 
 bles over, and makes a clumsy curtsey, and looks so
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 209 
 
 knowing and hard, as if she recognized an acquaintance 
 in the splendid lady who enters the box — can that old 
 female be the once brilliant Emily Montanville? I am 
 told there are no lady box-keepers in the English thea- 
 tres. This, I submit, is a proof of my consummate care 
 and artifice in rescuing from a prurient curiosity the in- 
 dividual personages from whom the characters of the 
 present story are taken. Montanville is not a box- 
 opener. She may, under another name, keep a trinket- 
 shop in the Burlington Arcade, for what you know; but 
 this secret no torture shall induce me to divulge. Life 
 has its rises and its downfalls, and you have had yours, 
 you hobbling old creature. Montanville, indeed! Go 
 thy ways! Here is a shilling for thee. (Thank you, 
 sir.) Take away that confounded footstool, and never 
 let us see thee more! 
 
 Now the fairy Amarantha was like a certain dear 
 young lady of whom we have read in early youth. Up 
 to twelve o'clock, attired in sparkling raiment, she leads 
 the dance with the prince (Gradini, known as Grady in 
 his days of banishment at the T. R. Dublin). At sup- 
 per, she takes her place by the prince's royal father (who 
 is alive now, and still reigns occasionally, so that we will 
 not mention his revered name). She makes believe to 
 drink from the gilded pasteboard, and to eat of the 
 mighty pudding. She smiles as the good old irascible 
 monarch knocks the prime minister and the cooks about : 
 she blazes in splendour: she beams with a thousand jew- 
 els, in comparison with which the Koh-i-noor is a 
 wretched lustreless little pebble: she disappears in a 
 chariot, such as a Lord INIayor never rode in: — and at 
 midnight, who is that young woman tripping homeward 
 through the wet streets in a battered bonnet, a cotton
 
 210 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 shawl, and a lean frock fringed with the dreary winter 
 flounces ? 
 
 Our Cinderella is up early in the morning: she does 
 no little portion of the house-work: she dresses her sis- 
 ters and brothers: she prepares papa's breakfast. On 
 days when she has not to go to morning lessons at her 
 academy, she helps with the dinner. Heaven help us! 
 She has often brought mine when I have dined at home, 
 and owns to having made that famous mutton-broth 
 when I had a cold. Foreigners come to the house— pro- 
 fessional gentlemen— to see Slumley on the first floor; 
 exiled captains of Spain and Portugal, companions of 
 the warrior her father. It is surprising how she has 
 learned their accents, and has picked up French, and 
 Italian too. And she played the piano in Mr. Slumley's 
 room sometimes, as I have said ; but refrained from that 
 presently, and from visiting him altogether. I suspect 
 he was not a man of principle. His Paper used to make 
 direful attacks upon individual reputations; and you 
 would find theatre and opera people most curiously 
 praised and assaulted in the Swell. I recollect meeting 
 him, several years after, in the lobby of the opera, in a 
 very noisy frame of mind, when he heard a certain lady's 
 carriage called, and cried out with exceeding strong lan- 
 guage, which need not be accurately reported, " Look at 
 that woman ! Confound her ! I made her, sir ! Got her 
 an engagement when the family was starving, sir! Did 
 you see her, sir? She wouldn't even look at me!" Nor 
 indeed was Mr. S. at that moment a very agreeable 
 object to behold. 
 
 Then I remembered that there had been some quarrel 
 with this man, when we lodged in Beak Street together. 
 If difficulty there was, it was solved amhulando. He
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 211 
 
 quitted the lodgings, leaving an excellent and costly 
 piano as security for a heavy bill which he owed to Mrs. 
 Prior, and the instrument was presently fetched away 
 by the music-sellers, its owners. But regarding Mr. 
 
 S 's valuable biography, let us speak very gently. 
 
 You see it is " an insult to literature " to say that there 
 are disreputable and dishonest persons who write in 
 newspapers. 
 
 Nothing, dear friend, escapes your penetration: if a 
 joke is made in your company, you are down upon it 
 instanter, and your smile rewards the wag who amuses 
 you : so you knew at once, whilst I was talking of Eliz- 
 abeth and her academy, that a theatre was meant, where 
 the poor child danced for a guinea or five-and-twenty 
 shillings per week. Nay, she must have had not a little 
 skill and merit to advance to the quarter of a hundred; 
 for she was not pretty at this time, only a rough, tawny- 
 haired filly of a girl, with great eyes. Dolphin, the man- 
 ager, did not think much of her, and she passed before 
 him in his regiment of Sea-nymphs, or Bayaderes, or 
 Fairies, or Mazurka maidens (with their fluttering 
 lances and little scarlet slyboots!) scarcely more noticed 
 than private Jones standing under arms in his company 
 when his Royal Highness the Field-Marshal gallops by. 
 There were no dramatic triumphs for Miss Bellenden: 
 no bouquets were flung at her feet : no cunning Mephis- 
 topheles — the emissary of some philandering Faustus 
 outside — corrupted her duenna, or brought her caskets 
 of diamonds. Had there been any such admirer for Bel- 
 lenden, Dolphin would not only not have been shocked, 
 but he would very likely have raised her salary. As it was, 
 though himself, I fear, a person of loose morals, he re- 
 spected better things. " That Bellenden's a good hhon-
 
 212 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 est gurl," he said to the present writer: "works hard: 
 gives her money to her family: father a shy old cove. 
 Very good family I hear they are! " and he passes on to 
 some other of the innumerable subjects which engage a 
 manager. 
 
 Now, why should a poor lodging-house keeper make 
 such a mighty secret of having a daughter earning an 
 honest guinea by dancing at a theatre? Why persist in 
 calling the theatre an academy? Why did JNIrs. Prior 
 speak of it as such, to me who knew what the truth was, 
 and to whom Elizabeth herself made no mystery of her 
 calling ? 
 
 There are actions and events in its life over which de- 
 cent Poverty often chooses to cast a veil that is not un- 
 becoming wear. We can all, if w^e are minded, peer 
 through this poor flimsy screen : often there is no shame 
 behind it:— only empty platters, poor scraps, and other 
 threadbare evidence of want and cold. And who is called 
 on to show his rags to the public, and cry out his hunger 
 in the street? At this time (her character has developed 
 itself not so amiably since), Mrs. Prior was outwardly 
 respectable; and yet, as I have said, my groceries were 
 consumed with remarkable rapidity; my wine and 
 brandy-bottles were all leaky, until they were excluded 
 from air under a patent lock;— my Morel's rasjiberry 
 jam, of which I was passionately fond, if exposed on the 
 table for a few hours, was always eaten by the cat, or that 
 wonderful little wretch of a maid-of -all-work, so active, 
 yet so patient, so kind, so dirty, so obliging. Was it the 
 maid who took those groceries? I have seen the " Gazza 
 Ladra," and know that poor little maids are sometimes 
 wrongfully accused; and besides, in my particular case, 
 I own I don't care who the culprit was. At the year's
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 213 
 
 end, a single man is not much poorer for this house-tax 
 which he pays. One Sunday evening, being confined 
 with a cold, and partaking of that mutton-broth which 
 Ehzabeth made so well, and which she brought me, I en- 
 treated her to bring from the cupboard, of which I gave 
 her the key, a certain brandv-bottle. She saw mv face 
 when I looked at her : there was no mistaking its agony. 
 There was scarce any brandy left: it had all leaked 
 away : and it was Sunday, and no good brandy was to be 
 bought that evening. 
 
 Elizabeth, I say, saw my grief. She put down the 
 bottle, and she cried: she tried to prevent herself from 
 doing so at first, but she fairly burst into tears. 
 
 " ]My dear — dear child," says I, seizing her hand, " you 
 don't suppose I fancy you — " 
 
 " No — no ! " she says, drawing the large hand over her 
 eyes. " No — no! but I saw it when you and Mr. War- 
 rington last 'ad some. Oh! do have a patting lock!" 
 
 "A patent lock, my dear!" I remarked. "How odd 
 that you, who have learned to pronounce Italian and 
 French words so well, should make such strange slips in 
 English! Your mother speaks well enough." 
 
 " She was born a lady. She was not sent to be a mil- 
 liner's girl, as I w^as, and then among those noisy girls 
 at that — oh! that jjlace!" cries Bessj^ in a sort of des- 
 peration, clenching her hand. 
 
 Here the bells of St. Beak's began to ring quite 
 cheerily for evening service. I heard " Elizabeth! " cried 
 out from the lower regions by Mrs. Prior's cracked 
 voice. And the maiden went her way to church, which 
 she and her mother never missed of a Sunday; and I 
 dare say I slept just as well without the brandy-and- 
 water.
 
 214 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 Slumley being gone, Mrs. Prior came to me rather 
 wistfully one day, and wanted to know whether I would 
 object to Madame Bentivoglio, the opera-singer, having 
 the first floor? This was too much, indeed! How was 
 my work to go on with that woman practising all day 
 and roaring underneath me? But, after sending away 
 so good a customer, I could not refuse to lend the Priors 
 a little more money; and Prior insisted upon treating 
 me to a new stamp, and making out a new and handsome 
 bill for an amount nearly twice as great as the last: 
 which he had no doubt under heaven, and which he 
 pledged his honour as an officer and a gentleman, that he 
 would meet. Let me see: That was how many years 
 ago? — Thirteen, fourteen, twenty? Never mind. My 
 fair Elizabeth, I think if you saw your poor old father's 
 signature now, you would pay it. I came upon it lately 
 in an old box I haven't opened these fifteen years, along 
 with some letters written— never mind by whom— and 
 an old glove that I used to set an absurd value by; and 
 that emerald-green tabinet waistcoat which kind old Mrs. 
 Macmanus gave me, and which I wore at the L— d 
 L— t— nt's ball, Ph-n-x Park, Dublin, once, when I 
 danced with her there! Lord! — Lord! It would no more 
 meet round my waist now than round Daniel Lambert's. 
 How we outgrow things ! 
 
 But as I never presented this united bill of 43Z. odd 
 (the first portion of 23Z.^ &c. was advanced by me in 
 order to pay an execution out of the house) —as I never 
 expected to have it paid any more than I did to be Lord 
 Mayor of London,— I say it was a little hard that Mrs. 
 Prior should write off to her brother (she writes a capital 
 letter) , blessing Providence that had given him a noble 
 income, promising him the benefit of her prayers, in
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 215 
 
 order that he should long live to enjoy his large salary, 
 and informing him that an obdurate creditor, who shall 
 be nameless (meaning me), who had Captain Prior in 
 his power (as if, being in possession of that dingy scrawl, 
 I should have known what to do with it) , who held Mr, 
 Prior's acceptance for 43Z. 14*. '^d. due on the 3rd July 
 (my bill), would infallibly bring their family to ruin, 
 unless a part of the money was paid up. When I went 
 up to my old college, and called on Sargent, at Boniface 
 Lodge, he treated me as civilly as if I had been an under- 
 graduate ; scarcely s j)oke to me in hall, where, of course, 
 I dined at the Fellows' table ; and only asked me to one 
 of Mrs. Sargent's confounded tea-parties during the 
 whole time of my stay. Now it was by this man's en- 
 treaty that I went to lodge at Prior's; he talked to me 
 after dinner one day, he hummed, he ha'd, he blushed, 
 he prated in his pompous way, about an unfortunate 
 sister in London— fatal early marriage— husband. Cap- 
 tain Prior, Knight of the Swan with Tmo Necks of Por- 
 tugal, most distinguished officer, but imprudent specu- 
 lator—advantageous lodgings in the centre of London, 
 quiet, though near the Clubs— if I was ill (I am a con- 
 firmed invalid), Mrs. Prior, his sister, would nurse me 
 like a mother. So, in a word, I went to Prior's : I took 
 the rooms: I was attracted by some children: Amelia 
 Jane (that little dirty maid before mentioned) dragging 
 a go-cart, containing a little dirty pair ; another march- 
 ing by them, carrying a fourth well nigh as big as him- 
 self. These little folks, having threaded the mighty 
 flood of Regent Street, debouched into the quiet creek 
 of Beak Street, just as I happened to follow them. And 
 the door at which the small caravan halted,— the very 
 door I was in search of,— was opened by Ehzabeth, then
 
 216 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 only just emerging from childhood, with tawny hair 
 falling into her solemn eyes. 
 
 The aspect of these little people, which would have de- 
 terred many, happened to attract me. I am a lonely 
 man. I may have been ill-treated by some one once, 
 but that is neither here nor there. If I had had children 
 of my own, I think I should have been good to them. 
 I thought Prior a dreadful vulgar wretch, and his wife 
 a scheming, greedy little woman. But the children 
 amused me: and I took the rooms, liking to hear over- 
 head in the morning the patter of their little feet. The 
 person I mean has several; — husband, judge in the West 
 Indies. Allans ! now you know how I came to live at 
 Mrs. Prior's. 
 
 Though I am now a steady, a confirmed old bachelor 
 (I shall call myself Mr. Batchelor, if you please, in this 
 story; and there is some one far — far away who knows 
 why I will NEVER take another title) , I was a gay young 
 fellow enough once. I was not above the pleasures of 
 youth : in fact, I learned quadrilles on purpose to dance 
 with her that long vacation when I went to read with my 
 young friend. Lord Viscount Poldoody at Dub — psha! 
 Be still, thou foolish heart ! Perhaps I misspent my time 
 as an undergraduate. Perhaps I read too many novels, 
 occupied myself too much with " elegant literature " 
 (that used to be our phrase) , and spoke too often at the 
 Union, where I had a considerable reputation. But 
 those fine words got me no college prizes: I missed my 
 fellowship: was rather in disgrace with my relations af- 
 terwards, but had a small independence of my own, 
 which I eked out by taking a few puj^ils for little-goes 
 and the common degree. At length, a relation dying, 
 and leaving me a further small income, I left the univer- 
 sity, and came to reside in London.
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 217 
 
 Now in my third year at college, there came to St. 
 Boniface a young gentleman, who was one of the few 
 gentlemen-pensioners of our society. His popularity 
 speedily was great. A kindly and simple j^outh, he 
 would have been liked, I dare say, even though he had 
 been no richer than the rest of us ; but this is certain, that 
 flattery, worldliness, mammon-worship, are vices as well 
 known to young as to old boys ; and a rich lad at school 
 or college has his followers, tuft-hunters, led-captains, 
 little courts, just as much as any elderly millionaire of 
 Pall INlall, who gazes round his club to see whom he shall 
 take home to dinner, while humble trencher-men wait 
 anxiously, thinking— Ah! will he take me this time? or 
 will he ask that abominable sneak and toady Henchman 
 again? Well— well! this is an old story about parasites 
 and flatterers. My dear good sir, I am not for a moment 
 going to say that you ever were one ; and I dare say it 
 was very base and mean of us to like a man chiefly on 
 account of his money. " I know"— Fred Lovel used to 
 say — " I know fellows come to my rooms because I have 
 a large allowance, and plenty of my poor old governor's 
 wine, and give good dinners: I am not deceived; but, 
 at least, it is pleasanter to come to me and have good 
 dinners, and good wine, than to go to Jack Highson's 
 dreary tea and turnout, or to Ned Roper's abominable 
 Oxbridge port." And so I admit at once that Lovel's 
 parties were more agreeable than most men's in the col- 
 lege. Perhaps the goodness of the fare, by pleasing the 
 guests, made them more pleasant. A dinner in hall, and 
 a pewter plate is all very well, and I can say grace before 
 it with all my heart ; but a dinner with fish from London, 
 game, and two or three nice little entrees, is better— and 
 there was no better cook in the universitj^ than ours at 
 St. Boniface, and ah me! there were appetites then.
 
 218 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 and digestions which rendered the good dinner doubly 
 good. 
 
 Between me and young Lovel a friendship sprang up, 
 which, I trust, even the pubHcation of this story will not 
 diminish. There is a period, immediately after the tak- 
 ing of his bachelor's degree, when many a university- 
 man finds himself embarrassed. The tradesmen rather 
 rudely press for a settlement of their accounts. Those 
 prints we ordered calidi juventd; those shirt-studs and 
 pins which the jewellers would persist in thrusting into 
 our artless bosoms; those fine coats we would insist on 
 having for our books, as well as ourselves ; all these have 
 to be paid for by the graduate. And my father, who 
 was then alive, refusing to meet these demands, under 
 the— I own — just plea, that my allowance had been am- 
 ple, and that my half-sisters ought not to be mulcted of 
 their slender portions in consequence of my extrava- 
 gance, I should have been subject to very serious incon- 
 venience — nay, possibly, to personal incarceration — had 
 not Lovel, at the risk of rustication, rushed up to Lon- 
 don to his mother (who then had esjjecial reasons for 
 being very gracious with her son), obtained a supply of 
 money from her, and brought it to me at Mr. Shackell's 
 horrible hotel, where I was lodged. He had tears in his 
 kind eyes ; he grasped my hand a hundred and hundred 
 times as he flung the notes into my lap ; and the record- 
 ing tutor (Sargent was only tutor then) , who was going 
 to bring him up before the master for breach of disci- 
 pline, dashed away a drop from his own lid, when, with 
 a moving eloquence, I told what had happened, and 
 blotted out the transaction with some particular old 1811 
 Port, of which we freely partook in his private rooms 
 that evening. By laborious instalments, I had the hap-
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 219 
 
 piness to pay Lovel back. I took pupils, as I said; I 
 engaged in literary pursuits : I became connected with a 
 literary periodical, and, I am ashamed to say, I imposed 
 myself upon the public as a good classical scholar. I was 
 not thought the less learned, when, my relative dying, I 
 found myself in possession of a small independency ; and 
 my " Translations from the Greek," my " Poems by 
 Beta," and my articles in the paper of which I was part 
 proprietor for several years, have had their little success 
 in their day. 
 
 Indeed at Oxbridge, if I did not obtain university 
 honours, at least I showed literary tastes. I got the prize 
 essay one year at Boniface, and plead guilty to having 
 written essays, poems, and a tragedy. My college 
 friends had a joke at my expense (a very small joke 
 serves to amuse those port-wine-bibbing fogies, and 
 keeps them laughing for ever so long a time) —they are 
 welcome, I say, to make merry at my charges— in respect 
 of a certain bargain which I made on coming to London, 
 and in which, had I been Moses Primrose purchasing 
 green spectacles, I could scarcely have been more taken 
 in. 31y Jenkinson was an old college acquaintance, 
 whom I was idiot enough to imagine a respectable man : 
 the fellow had a very smooth tongue, and sleek, sancti- 
 fied exterior. He was rather a popular preacher, and 
 used to cry a good deal in the pulpit. He, and a queer 
 wine-merchant and bill-discounter, Sherrick by name, 
 had somehow got possession of that neat little literary 
 paper, the Museum, which, perhaps, you remember ; and 
 this eligible literary property my friend Honeyman, 
 with his wheedling tongue, induced me to purchase. I 
 bear no malice : the fellow is in India now, where I trust 
 he pays his butcher and baker. He was in dreadful
 
 220 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 straits for money when he sold me the Museum. He 
 began crying when I told him some short time after- 
 wards that he was a swindler, and from behind his 
 pocket-handkerchief sobbed a prayer that I should one 
 day think better of him; whereas my remarks to the 
 same effect produced an exactly contrary impression 
 upon his accomplice, Sherrick, who burst out laughing 
 in my face, and said, " The more fool you." Mr. Sher- 
 rick was right. He was a fool, without mistake, who had 
 any money-dealing with him; and poor Honeyman was 
 right, too; I don't think so badly of him as I did. A 
 fellow so hardly pinched for money could not resist the 
 temptation of extracting it from such a greenhorn. I 
 dare say I gave myself airs as editor of that confounded 
 Museum, and proposed to educate the public taste, to 
 diffuse morality and sound literature throughout the 
 nation, and to pocket a liberal salary in return for my 
 services. I dare say I printed my own sonnets, my own 
 tragedy, my own verses (to a Being who shall be 
 nameless, but whose conduct has caused a faithful heart 
 to bleed not a little). I dare say I wrote satirical arti- 
 cles, in which I piqued myself upon the fineness of my 
 wit, and criticisms, got up for the nonce out of encyclo- 
 paedias and biographical dictionaries; so that I would 
 be actually astounded at my own knowledge. I dare 
 say I made a gaby of myself to the world: praj'-, my 
 good friend, hast thou never done likewise? If thou hast 
 never been a fool, be sure thou wilt never be a wise man. 
 I think it was my brilliant confrere on the first floor 
 (he had pecuniary transactions with Sherrick, and visited 
 two or three of her Majesty's metropolitan prisons at 
 that gentleman's suit) who first showed me how griev- 
 ously I had been cheated in the newspaper matter.
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 221 
 
 Slumley wrote for a paper printed at our office. The 
 same boy often brought proofs to both of us — a Httle 
 bit of a puny bright-eyed chap, who looked scarce twelve 
 years old, when he was sixteen; who in wit was a man, 
 when in stature he was a child, — like many other chil- 
 dren of the poor. 
 
 This little Dick Bedford used to sit many hours asleep 
 on my landing-place or Slumley's, whilst we were pre- 
 paring our invaluable compositions within our respective 
 
 apartments. S was a good-natured reprobate, and 
 
 gave the child of his meat and his drink. I used to like 
 to help the little man from my breakfast, and see him 
 enjoy the meal. As he sat, with his bag on his knees, 
 his head sunk in sleep, his little high-lows scarce reaching 
 the floor, Dick made a touching little picture. The 
 whole house was fond of him. The tipsy captain nodded 
 him a welcome as he swaggered downstairs, stock, and 
 coat, and waistcoat in hand, to his worship's toilette in 
 the back kitchen. The children and Dick were good 
 friends; and Elizabeth patronized him, and talked with 
 him now and again, in her grave way. You know Clancy 
 the composer? — know him better, perhaps, under his 
 name of Friedrich Donner? Donner used to write music 
 to Slumley's words, or vice versa; and would come now 
 and again to Beak Street, where he and his poet would 
 try their joint work at the piano. At the sound of that 
 music, little Dick's eyes used to kindle. " Oh, it's 
 prime! " said the young enthusiast. And I will say, that 
 good-natured miscreant of a Slumley not only gave the 
 child pence, but tickets for the play, concerts, and so 
 forth. Dick had a neat little suit of clothes at home ; his 
 mother made him a very nice little waistcoat out of my 
 undergraduate's gown, and he and she, a decent woman,
 
 222 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 when in their best raiment, looked respectable enough 
 for any theatre-pit in England. 
 
 Amongst other places of public amusement which he 
 attended, jNIr. Dick frequented the academy where Miss 
 Bellenden danced, and whence poor Elizabeth Prior 
 issued forth after midnight in her shabby frock. And 
 once, the Captain, Elizabeth's father and protector, be- 
 ing unable to walk very accurately, and noisy and inco- 
 herent in his speech, so that the attention of Messieurs 
 of the police was directed towards him, Dick came up, 
 placed Elizabeth and her father in a cab, paid the fare 
 with his own money, and brought the whole party home 
 in triumph, himself sitting on the box of the vehicle. I 
 chanced to be coming home myself (from one of Mrs. 
 Wateringham's elegant tea soirees, in Dorset Square), 
 and reached my door just at the arrival of Dick and his 
 caravan. "Here, cabby!" says Dick, handing out the 
 fare, and looking with his brightest eyes. It is pleas- 
 anter to look at that beaming little face, than at the Cap- 
 tain yonder, reeling into his house, supported bj^ his 
 daughter. Dick cried, Elizabeth told me, when, a week 
 afterwards, she wanted to pay him back his shilling ; and 
 she said he was a strange child, that he was. 
 
 I revert to my friend Lovel. I was coaching Lovel 
 for his degree (which, between ourselves, I think he 
 never would have attained), when he suddenly an- 
 nounced to me, from Weymouth, where he was passing 
 the vacation, his intention to quit the university, and to 
 travel abroad. "Events have happened, dear friend," 
 he wrote, " which will make my mother's home miserable 
 to me (I httle knew when I went to town about your 
 business, what caused her wonderful complaisance to 
 me). She would have broken my heart, Charles" (my
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 223 
 
 Christian name is Charles) , " but its wounds have found 
 a consoler! " 
 
 Now, in this httle chapter, there are some Httle mys- 
 teries propounded, upon which, were I not above anj^ 
 such artifice, I might easily leave the reader to ponder 
 for a month. 
 
 1. Why did Mrs. Prior, at the lodgings, persist in 
 calling the theatre at which her daughter danced the 
 academy ? 
 
 2. What were the special reasons why Mrs. Lovel 
 should be very gracious with her son, and give him 150/. 
 as soon as he asked for the money? 
 
 3. Why was Fred Lovel's heart nearly broken? And 
 
 4. Who was his consoler? 
 
 I answer these at once, and without the slightest at- 
 tempt at delay or circumlocution. 1. Mrs. Prior, who 
 had repeatedly received money from her brother, John 
 Erasmus Sargent, D.D., Master of St. Boniface Col- 
 lege, knew perfectly well that if the Master (whom she 
 already pestered out of his life) heard that she had sent 
 a niece of his on the stage, he would never give her an- 
 other shilling. 
 
 2. The reason why Emma, widow of the late Adol- 
 phus Loeffel, of Whitechapel Road, sugar-baker, was 
 so particularly gracious to her son, Adolphus Frederick 
 Lovel, Esq., of St. Boniface College, Oxbridge, and 
 principal partner in the house of LoefFel aforesaid, an 
 infant, was that she, Emma, was about to contract a sec- 
 ond marriage with the Rev. Samuel Bonnington. 
 
 3. Fred Lovel's heart was so very much broken by this 
 intelligence, that he gave himself airs of Hamlet, dressed 
 in black, wore his long fair hair over his eyes, and ex- 
 hibited a hundred signs of grief and desperation: until—
 
 224 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 4. Louisa (widow of the late Sir Pophain Baker, of 
 Bakerstown, co. Kilkenny, Baronet,) induced Mr. Lovel 
 to take a trip on the Rhine with her and Cecilia, fourth 
 and only unmarried daughter of the aforesaid Sir Pop- 
 ham Baker, deceased. 
 
 My opinion of Cecilia I have candidly given in a pre- 
 vious page. I adhere to that opinion. I shall not repeat 
 it. The subject is disagreeable to me, as the woman her- 
 self was in life. What Fred found in her to admire I 
 cannot tell: lucky for us all that tastes, men, women, 
 vary. You will never see her alive in this history. That 
 is her picture, painted by the late Mr. Gandish. She 
 stands fingering that harp with which she has often 
 driven me half mad with her " Tara's Halls " and her 
 " Poor Marianne." She used to bully Fred so, and be 
 so rude to his guests, that in order to pacify her, he would 
 meanly say, "Do, my love, let us have a little music!" 
 and thrumpty — thrumpty, off would go her gloves, and 
 " Tara's Halls " would begin. " The harp that once" 
 indeed! the accursed catgut scarce knew any other 
 music, and " once " was a hundred times at least in my 
 hearing. Then came the period when I was treated to 
 the cold joint which I have mentioned; and, not liking 
 it, I gave up going to Shrublands. 
 
 So, too, did my Lady Baker, but not of her own free 
 will, mind you. She did not quit the premises because 
 her reception was too cold, but because the house was 
 made a great deal too hot for her. I remember Fred 
 coming to me in high spirits, and describing to me, with 
 no little humour, a great battle between Cecilia and Lady 
 Baker, and her ladyship's defeat and flight. She fled, 
 however, only as far as Putney village, where she formed 
 again, as it were, and fortified herself in a lodging.
 
 I am Referred to Cecilia
 
 THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET 225 
 
 Next day she made a desperate and feeble attack, pre- 
 senting herself at Shrublands lodge-gate, and threaten- 
 ing that she and sorrow would sit down before it; and 
 that all the world should know how a daughter treated 
 her mother. But the gate was locked, and Barnet, the 
 gardener, appeared behind it, saying, " Since you are 
 come, my lady, perhaps you will pay my missis the f our- 
 and-twenty shillings you borrowed of her." And he 
 grinned at her through the bars, until she fled before 
 him, cowering. Lovel paid the little forgotten account ; 
 the best four-and-twenty shillings he had ever laid out, 
 he said. 
 
 Eight years passed away; during the last four of 
 which I scarce saw my old friend, except at clubs and 
 taverns, where we met privity, and renewed, not old 
 warmth and hilarity, but old kindness. One winter, he 
 took his family abroad; Cecilia's health was delicate, 
 Lovel told me, and the doctor had advised that she should 
 spend a winter in the south. He did not stay with them : 
 he had pressing affairs at home; he had embarked in 
 many businesses besides the paternal sugar-bakery ; was 
 concerned in companies, a director of a joint-stock bank, 
 a man in whose fire were many irons. A faithful gov- 
 erness was with the children; a faithful man and maid 
 were in attendance on the invalid; and Lovel, adoring 
 his wife, as he certainly did, yet supported her absence 
 with great equanimity. 
 
 In the spring I was not a little scared to read amongst 
 the deaths in the newspaper: — "At Naples, of scarlet 
 fever, on the 25th ult., Cecilia, wife of Frederick Lovel, 
 Esq., and daughter of the late Sir Popham Baker, 
 Bart." I knew what my friend's grief would be. He 
 had hurried abroad at the news of her illness ; he did not
 
 226 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 reach Naples in time to receive the last words of his poor 
 Cecilia. 
 
 Some months after the catastrophe, I had a note from 
 Shrublands. Lovel wrote quite in the old affectionate 
 tone. He begged his dear old friend to go to him, and 
 console him in his solitude. Would I come to dinner that 
 evening ? 
 
 Of course I went off to him straightway. I found 
 him in deep sables in the drawing-room with his children, 
 and I confess I was not astonished to see my Lady Baker 
 once more in that room. 
 
 " You seem surprised to see me here, Mr. Batchelor? " 
 says her ladyship, with that grace and good-breeding 
 which she generally exhibited ; for if she accepted bene- 
 fits, she took care to insult those from whom she received 
 them. 
 
 " Indeed, no," said I, looking at Lovel, who piteously 
 hung down his head. He had his little Cissy at his knee: 
 he was sitting under the portrait of the defunct musician, 
 whose harp, now muffled in leather, stood dimly in the 
 corner of the room. 
 
 " I am here not at my own wish, but from a feeling of 
 duty towards that— departed — angel!" says Lady 
 Baker, pointing to the picture. 
 
 " I am sure when mamma was here, you were always 
 quarrelling," says little Popham, with a scowl. 
 
 " This is the way those innocent children have been 
 taught to regard me," cries grandmamma. 
 
 " Silence, Pop," says papa, " and don't be a rude boy." 
 
 "Isn't Pop a rude boy?" echoes Cissy. 
 
 " Silence, Pop," continues papa, " or you must go up 
 to Miss Prior."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IN WHICH MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 
 
 F course we all know who 
 ' was, the Miss Prior of 
 Shrublands, whom papa 
 and grandmamma 
 called to the unruly 
 children. Years had 
 passed since I had 
 shaken the Beak 
 Street dust off my 
 feet. The brass plate 
 of ' ' Prior ' ' was re- 
 moved from the 
 once familiar door, 
 and screwed, for 
 what I can tell, 
 on to the late rep- 
 robate owner's cof- 
 fin. A little erup- 
 tion of mushroom- 
 formed brass knobs 
 I saw on the door- 
 post when I passed by it last week, and Cafe des Am- 
 BASSADEURS was thercon inscribed, with three fly-blown 
 blue teacups, a couple of coffee-pots of the well-known 
 Britannia metal, and two freckled copies of the Inde- 
 
 227
 
 228 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 pendance Beige hanging over the window-bhnd. Were 
 those their Excellencies the Ambassadors at the door, 
 smoking cheroots? Pool and BilHards were written on 
 their countenances, their hats, their elbows. They may 
 have been ambassadors down on their luck, as the phrase 
 is. They were in disgrace, no doubt, at the court of her 
 imperial majesty Queen Fortune. Men as shabby have 
 retrieved their disgraces ere now, washed their cloudy 
 faces, strapped their dingy waistcoats with cordons, and 
 stepped into fine carriages from quarters not a whit 
 more reputable than the "Cafe des Ambassadeurs." 
 If I lived in the Leicester Square neighbourhood, and 
 kept a cafe, I would always treat foreigners with re- 
 spect. They may be billiard-markers now, or doing a 
 little shady police business; but why should they not 
 afterwards be generals and great officers of state? Sup- 
 pose that gentleman is at present a barber, with his tongs 
 and stick of fixature for the moustaches, how do you 
 know he has not his epaulettes and his baton de marcchal 
 in the same pouch? I see engraven on the second-floor 
 bell, on vay rooms, " Plugwell." Who can Plug well 
 be, whose feet now warm at the fire where I sat many 
 a long evening? And this gentleman with the fur col- 
 lar, the straggling beard, the frank and engaging leer, 
 the somewhat husky voice, who is calling out on the 
 doorstep, " Step in, and 'ave it done. Your correct 
 likeness, only one shilling"— is he an ambassador too? 
 Ah, no: he is only the charge-d' affaires of a photog- 
 rapher who lives upstairs : no doubt where the little ones 
 used to be. Bless me! Photograpliy was an infant, 
 and in the nursery, too, when we lived in Beak Street. 
 
 Shall I own that, for old time's sake, I went upstairs, 
 and " 'ad it done"— that correct likeness, price one shil-
 
 MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 229 
 
 ling? Would Some One (I have said, I think, that the 
 party in question is well married in a distant island) 
 like to have the thing, I wonder, and be reminded of a 
 man whom she knew in life's prime, with brown curly 
 locks, as she looked on the effigy of this elderly gentle- 
 man, with a forehead as bare as a billiard-ball? 
 
 As I went up and down that darkling stair, the ghosts 
 of the Prior children peeped out from the banisters ; the 
 little faces smiled in the twilight: it may be wounds (of 
 the heart) throbbed and bled again, —oh, how freshly 
 and keenly! How infernally I have suffered behind 
 that door in that room — I mean that one where Plugwell 
 now lives. Confound Plugwell! I wonder what that 
 woman thinks of me as she sees me shaking my fist at the 
 door? Do you think me mad, madam? I don't care if 
 you do. Do you think when I spoke anon of the ghosts 
 of Prior's children, I mean that any of them are dead? 
 None are, that I know of. A great hulking Bluecoat 
 boy, with fluffy whiskers, spoke to me not long since, in 
 an awful bass voice, and announced his name as " Gus 
 Prior." And "How's Elizabeth?" he added, nodding 
 his bullet head. Elizabeth, indeed, you great vulgar 
 boy! Elizabeth, — and, by the way, how long we have 
 been keeping her waiting ! 
 
 You see, as I beheld her, a heap of memories struck 
 upon me, and I could not help chattering; when of 
 course — and you are perfectly right, only you might 
 just as well have left the observation alone: for I knew 
 quite well what you were going to say — when I had 
 much better have held my tongue. Elizabeth means a 
 history to me. She came to me at a critical period of my 
 life. Bleeding and wounded from the conduct of that 
 other individual (by her present name of Mrs. O'D— her
 
 230 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 present O'D -ous name— I say, I will never— never call 
 her) — desperately wounded and miserable on my re- 
 turn from a neighbouring capital, I went back to my 
 lodgings in Beak Street, and there there grew up a 
 strange intimacy between me and my landlady's young 
 daughter. I told her my story— indeed, I believe I 
 told anybody who would listen. She seemed to compas- 
 sionate me. She would come wistfully into my rooms, 
 bringing me my gruel and things ( I could scarcely bear 
 to eat for a while after— after that affair to which I may 
 have alluded before) —she used to come to me, and she 
 used to pity me, and I used to tell her all, and to tell her 
 over and over again. Days and days have I passed tear- 
 ing my heart out in that second-floor room which an- 
 swers to the name of Plugwell now. Afternoon after 
 afternoon have I spent there, and poured out my story 
 of love and wrong to Elizabeth, showed her that waist- 
 coat I told you of —that glove (her hand wasn't so very 
 small either) —her letters, those two or three vacuous, 
 meaningless letters, with " My dear sir— Mamma hopes 
 you will come to tea;" or, "If dear Mr. Batchelor 
 should be riding in the Phoenix Park near the Long 
 Milestone, about 2, my sister and I will be in the car, 
 and," &c. ; or, "Oh, you kind man! the tickets" (she 
 called it tickuts—hy heaven! she did) "were too wel- 
 come, and the houquays too lovely" (this word, I saw, 
 had been operated on with a penknife. I found no 
 faults, not even in her spelling— then) ; or— never mind 
 what more. But more of this puling, of this humbug, of 
 this had spelling, of this infernal jilting, swindhng, 
 heartless hypocrisy ( all her mother's doing, I own ; for 
 until he got his place, my rival was not so well received 
 as I was) —more of this rubbish, I say, I showed Eliza- 
 beth, and she pitied me I
 
 MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 231 
 
 She used to come to me day after day, and I used to 
 talk to her. She used not to say much. Perhaps she did 
 not hsten; but I did not care for that. On— and on— 
 and on I would go with my prate about my passion, my 
 wrongs, and despair; and untiring as my complaints 
 were, still more constant was my little hearer's compas- 
 sion. Mamma's shrill voice would come to put an end to 
 our conversation, and she would rise up with an " Oh, 
 bother!" and go away: but the next day the good girl 
 was sure to come to me again, when we would have an- 
 other repetition of our tragedy. 
 
 I dare say you are beginning to suppose (what, after 
 all, is a very common case, and certainly no conjuror is 
 wanted to make the guess) that out of all this crying and 
 sentimentality, which a soft-hearted old fool of a man 
 poured out to a young girl — out of all this whimpering 
 and pity, something which is said to be akin to pity might 
 arise. But in this, my good madam, you are utterly 
 wrong. Some people have the small-pox twice; I do 
 not. In my case, if a heart is broke, it's broke: if a 
 flower is withered, it's withered. If I choose to put my 
 grief in a ridiculous light, why not ? why do you suppose 
 I am going to make a tragedy of such an old used-up, 
 battered, stale, vulgar, trivial every-day subject as a jilt 
 who plays with a man's passion, and laughs at him, and 
 leaves him? Tragedy indeed! Oh, yes! poison— black- 
 edged note-paper — Waterloo Bridge — one more unfor- 
 tunate, and so forth! No: if she goes, let her go!— 5? 
 celeres quatit pennas, I pufF the what-d'ye-call-it away! 
 But I'll have no tragedy, mind you. 
 
 Well, it must be confessed that a man desperately in 
 love (as I fear I must own I then was, and a good deal 
 cut up by Glorvina's conduct) is a most selfish being: 
 whilst women are so soft and unselfish that they can for-
 
 232 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 get or disguise their own sorrows for a while, whilst they 
 minister to a friend in affliction. I did not see, though I 
 talked with her daily, on my return from that accursed 
 Dublin, that my little Elizabeth was pale and distraite, 
 and sad, and silent. She would sit quite dumb whilst I 
 chattered, her hands between her knees, or draw one of 
 them over her eyes. She would say, "Oh, yes! Poor 
 fellow — poor fellow I" now and again, as giving a mel- 
 ancholy confirmation of my dismal stories; but mostly 
 she remained quiet, her head drooping towards the 
 ground, a hand to her chin, her feet to the fender. 
 
 I was one day harping on the usual string. I was 
 telling Elizabeth how, after presents had been accepted, 
 after letters had passed between us (if her scrawl could 
 be called letters, if my impassioned song could be so 
 construed ) , after everything but the actual word had 
 passed our lips — I was telling Elizabeth how, on one ac- 
 cursed day, Glorvina's mother greeted me on my arrival 
 in ]M-rr-n Square, by saying, " Dear, dear Mr. Batche- 
 lor, we look on you quite as one of the family! Con- 
 gratulate me — congratulate my child! Dear Tom has 
 got his appointment as Recorder of Tobago ; and it is to 
 be a match between him and his cousin Glory." 
 
 "His cousin What!" I shriek with a maniac laugh. 
 
 " My poor Glorvina ! Sure the children have been 
 fond of each other ever since they could speak. I knew 
 your kind heart would be the first to rejoice in their hap- 
 piness." 
 
 And so, say I — ending the story — I, who thought 
 myself loved, was left without a pang of pity: I, who 
 could mention a hundred reasons why I thought Glor- 
 vina well disposed to me, was told she regarded me as an 
 uncle! Were her letters such as nieces write ? Who ever
 
 MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 233 
 
 heard of an uncle walking round Merrion Square for 
 hours of a rainy night, and looking up to a bedroom win- 
 dow, because his niece, forsooth, was behind it? I had 
 set my whole heart on the cast, and this was the return 
 I got for it. For months she cajoles me — her eyes fol- 
 low me, her cursed smiles welcome and fascinate me, 
 and at a moment, at the beck of another — she laughs at 
 me and leaves me! 
 
 At this, my little pale Elizabeth, still hanging down, 
 cries, "Oh, the villain! the villain!" and sobs so that 
 you might have thought her little heart would break. 
 
 " Nay," said I, " my dear, Mr. O'Dowd is no villain. 
 His uncle, Sir Hector, was as gallant an old officer as 
 any in the service. Plis aunt was a Molloy, of Molloys-. 
 town, and they are of excellent family, though, I believe, 
 of embarrassed circumstances; and young Tom — " 
 
 ''Tom?" cries Elizabeth, with a pale, bewildered 
 look. "His name wasn't Tom, dear Mr. Batchelor; his 
 name was Woo-ivoo-illiam! " and the tears begin again. 
 
 Ah, my child! my child! my poor young creature! 
 and you, too, have felt the infernal stroke. You, too, 
 have passed the tossing nights of pain — have heard the 
 dreary hours toll — have looked at the cheerless sunrise 
 with your blank sleepless eyes— have woke out of 
 dreams, mayhap, in which the beloved one was smiling 
 on you, whispering love-words — oh! how sweet and 
 fondly remembered! What!— your heart has been 
 robbed, too, and your treasury is rifled and empty! — 
 poor girl! And I looked in that sad face, and saw no 
 grief there! You could do your little sweet endeavour 
 to soothe my wounded heart, and I never saw yours was 
 bleeding! Did you suffer more than I did, my poor 
 little maid? I hope not. Are you so young, and is all
 
 234 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 the flower of life blighted for you? the cup without sa- 
 vour, the sun blotted, or almost invisible over your head ? 
 The truth came on me all at once: I felt ashamed that 
 my own selfish grief should have made me blind to hers. 
 
 ^"What!" said I, "my poor child? Was it . . . ?" 
 and I pointed with my finger downwards. 
 
 She nodded her poor head. 
 
 I knew it was the lodger who had taken the first floor 
 shortly after Slumley's departure. He was an officer 
 in the Bombay Army. He had had the lodgings for 
 three months. He had sailed for India shortly before I 
 returned home from Dublin. 
 
 Elizabeth is waiting all this time— shall she come in? 
 ^No, not yet. I have still a little more to say about the 
 Priors. 
 
 You understand that she was no longer Miss Prior of 
 Beak Street, and that mansion, even at the time of which 
 I write, had been long handed over to other tenants. 
 The Captain dead, his widow with many tears pressed 
 me to remain with her, and I did, never having been able 
 to resist that kind of appeal. Her statements regarding 
 her affairs were not strictly correct. — Are not women 
 sometimes incorrect about money matters? A landlord 
 (not unjustly indignant) quickly handed over the man- 
 sion in Beak Street to other tenants. The Queen's taxes 
 swooped down on poor Mrs. Prior's scanty furniture — 
 on hers? — on mine likewise: on my neatly-bound college 
 books, emblazoned with the effigy of Bonifacius, our 
 patron, and of Bishop Budgeon, our founder; on my 
 elegant Raphael IMorghen prints, purchased in under- 
 graduate days— (ye Powers! what did make us boys go 
 tick for fifteen-guinea proofs of Raphael, Dying Stags, 
 Duke of Wellington Banquets, and the like?) ; my har-
 
 MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 235 
 
 monium, at which some one has warbled songs of my 
 composition — {I mean the words, artfully describing my 
 passion, my hopes, or my despair) ; on my rich set of 
 Bohemian glass, bought on the Zeil, Frankfort O. INI.; 
 on my picture of my father, the late Captain Batchelor 
 (Hoppner), R. N., in white ducks, and a telescope, 
 pointing, of course, to a tempest, in the midst of which 
 was a naval engagement; on my poor mother's minia- 
 ture, by old Adam Buck, in pencil and pink, with no 
 waist to speak of at all; my tea and cream pots (bul- 
 lion), with a hundred such fond knicknacks as decorate 
 the chamber of a lonely man. I found all these house- 
 hold treasures in possession of the myrmidons of the law, 
 and had to pay the Priors' taxes with this hand, before I 
 could be redintegrated in my own property. Mrs. Prior 
 could only pay me back with a widow's tears and bless- 
 ings (Prior having quitted a world where he had 
 long ceased to be of use or ornament) . The tears and 
 blessings, I say, she offered me freely, and they were 
 all very wxll. But why go on tampering with the tea- 
 box, madam? Why put your finger — your finger? — 
 your whole paw — in the jam-pot? And it is a horrible 
 fact that the wine and spirit bottles were just as leaky 
 after Prior's decease as they had been during his dis- 
 reputable lifetime. One afternoon, having a sudden oc- 
 casion to return to my lodgings, I found my wretched 
 landlady in the very act of marauding sherry. She gave 
 an hysterical laugh, and then burst into tears. She de- 
 clared that since her poor Prior's death she hardly knew 
 what she said or did. She may have been incoherent; 
 she was; but she certainly spoke truth on this occasion. 
 I am speaking lightly — flippantly, if you please — 
 about this old INIrs. Prior, with her hard, eager smile, her
 
 236 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 wizened face, her frowning look, her cruel voice; and 
 yet, goodness knows, I could, if I liked, be serious as a 
 sermonizer. Why, this woman had once red cheeks, and 
 was well-looking enough, and told few lies, and stole no 
 sherry, and felt the tender passions of the heart, and I 
 dare say kissed the weak old beneficed clergyman her 
 father very fondly and remorsefully that night when she 
 took leave of him to skip round to the back garden-gate 
 and run away with Mr. Prior. Maternal instinct she 
 had, for she nursed her young as best she could from her 
 lean breast, and went about hungrily, robbing and pil- 
 fering for them. On Sundays she furbished up that 
 threadbare black silk gown and bonnet, ironed the collar, 
 and clung desperately to church. She had a feeble pen- 
 cil-drawing of the vicarage in Dorsetshire, and silhou- 
 ettes of her father and mother, which were hung up in 
 the lodgings wherever she went. She migrated much: 
 wherever she went she fastened on the gown of the cler- 
 gyman of the parish ; spoke of her dear father the vicar, 
 of her wealthy and gifted brother the Master of Boni- 
 face, with a reticence which implied that Dr. Sargent 
 might do more for his poor sister and her family, if he 
 would. She plumed herself (oh I those poor moulting 
 old plumes!) upon belonging to the clergy; had read a 
 good deal of good sound old-fashioned theology in early 
 life, and wrote a noble hand, in which she had been used 
 to copy her father's sermons. She used to put cases of 
 conscience, to present her humble duty to the Rev. Mr. 
 Green, and ask explanation of such and such a passage 
 of his admirable sermon, and bring the subject round so 
 as to be reminded of certain quotations of Hooker, Bev- 
 eridge, Jeremy Taylor. I think she had an old common- 
 place book with a score of these extracts, and she worked
 
 MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 237 
 
 them in very amusingly and dexterously into her con- 
 versation. Green would be interested: perhaps pretty 
 young ]\Irs. Green would call, secretly rather shocked at 
 the coldness of old Dr. Brown, the rector, about ]Mrs. 
 Prior. Between Green and Mrs. Prior money transac- 
 tions would ensue: Mrs. Green's visits would cease: 
 Mrs. Prior was an expensive woman to know. I remem- 
 ber Pye of Maudlin, just before he "went over," was 
 perpetually in Mrs. Prior's back parlour with little 
 books, pictures, medals, &c. &c. — you know. They 
 called poor Jack a Jesuit at Oxbridge; but one year at 
 Rome I met him (with a half-crown shaved out of his 
 head, and a hat as big as Don Basilio's) ; and he said, 
 "My dear Batchelor, do you know that person at your 
 lodgings? I think she was an artful creature ! She bor- 
 rowed fourteen pounds of me, and I forget how much 
 of — seven, I think — of Barfoot, of Corpus, just — just 
 before we were received. And I believe she absolutely 
 got another loan from Pummel, to be able to get out of 
 the hands of us Jesuits. Are you going to hear the Car- 
 dinal? Do — do go and hear him — everybody does: it's 
 the most fashionable thing in Rome." And from this I 
 opine that there are slyboots in other communions besides 
 that of Rome. 
 
 Now ISIamma Prior had not been unaware of the love- 
 passages between her daughter and the fugitive Bombay 
 captain. Like Ehzabeth, she called Captain Walking- 
 ham " villain " readily enough ; but, if I know woman's 
 nature in the least (and I don't), the old schemer had 
 thrown her daughter only too frequently in the officer's 
 way, had done no small portion of the flirting herself, 
 had allowed poor Bessy to receive presents from Captain 
 Walkingham, and had been the manager and directress
 
 238 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 of much of the mischief which ensued. You see, in this 
 humble class of life, unprincipled mothers will coax and 
 wheedle and cajole gentlemen whom they suppose to be 
 eligible, in order to procure an establishment for their 
 darling children ! What the Prioress did was done from 
 the best motives of course. " Never — never did the mon- 
 ster see Bessy without me, or one or two of her brothers 
 and sisters, and Jack and dear Ellen are as sharp chil- 
 dren as any in England! " protested the indignant Mrs. 
 Prior to me; "and if one of my boys had been grown 
 up, Walkingham never would have dared to act as he did 
 — the unprincipled wretch! My poor husband would 
 have punished the villain as he deserved ; but what could 
 he do in his shattered state of health? Oh! you men, — 
 you men, IVIr. Batchelor! how unjmncijjled you are! " 
 
 " Why, my good Mrs. Prior," said I, " you let Eliza- 
 beth come to my room often enough." 
 
 " To have the conversation of her uncle's friend, of an 
 educated man, of a man so much older than herself ! Of 
 course, dear sir ! Would not a mother wish every advan- 
 tage for her child? and whom could I trust, if not you, 
 who have ever been such a friend to me and mine? " asks 
 Mrs. Prior, wiping her dry eyes with the corner of her 
 handkerchief, as she stands by my fire, my monthly bills 
 in hand, — written in her neat old-fashioned writing, and 
 calculated with that prodigal liberality which she always 
 exercised in compiling the little accounts between us. 
 "Why, bless me!" says my cousin, little Mrs. Skinner, 
 coming to see me once when I was unwell, and examin- 
 ing one of the just-mentioned documents,— " bless me! 
 Charles, you consume more tea than all my family, 
 though we are seven in the parlour, and as much sugar 
 and butter,— well, it's no wonder you are bilious!"
 
 MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 239 
 
 "But then, my dear, I like my tea so very strong," 
 said I ; " and you take yours uncommonly mild. I have 
 remarked it at your parties." 
 
 " It's a shame that a man should be robbed so," cried 
 Mrs. S. 
 
 "How kind it is of you to cry thieves. Flora!" I 
 reply. 
 
 " It's my duty, Charles! " exclaims my cousin. "And 
 I should like to know who that great, tall, gawky, red- 
 haired girl in the passage is ! " 
 
 Ah me! the name of the only woman who ever had 
 possession of this heart was not Elizabeth ; though I own 
 I did think at one time that my little schemer of a land- 
 lady would not have objected if I had proposed to make 
 Miss Prior Mrs. Batchelor. And it is not only the poor 
 and needy who have this mania, but the rich, too. In the 
 very highest circles, as I am informed by the best au- 
 thorities, this match-making goes on. All woman — wo- 
 man! — ah wedded wife! — ah fond mother of fair daugh- 
 ters ! how strange thy passion is to add to thy titles that 
 of mother-in-law! I am told, when you have got the 
 title, it is often but a bitterness and a disappointment. 
 Very likely the son-in-law is rude to you, the coarse, un- 
 grateful brute! and very possibly the daughter rebels, 
 the thankless serpent ! And yet you will go on scheming : 
 and having met only with disappointment from Louisa 
 and her husband, you will try and get one for Jemima, 
 and Maria, and down even to little Toddles coming out 
 of the nursery in her red shoes ! When you see her with 
 little Tommy, your neighbour's child, fighting over the 
 same Noah's ark, or clambering on the same rocking- 
 horse, I make no doubt, in your fond silly head, you are 
 thinking, " Will those little people meet some twenty
 
 240 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 years hence?" And you give Tommy a very large piece 
 of cake, and have a fine present for him on the Christmas 
 tree — you know you do, though he is but a rude, noisy 
 child, and has already beaten Toddles, and taken her doll 
 away from her, and made her cry. I remember, when 
 I myself was suiFering from the conduct of a young 
 woman in — in a capital which is distinguished bj'' a 
 viceregal court— and from her heartlessness, as well 
 as that of her relative, who I once thought would be 
 my mother-in-law — shrieking out to a friend who hap- 
 pened to be spouting some lines from Tennyson's 
 "Ulysses:" — "By George! Warrington, I have no 
 doubt that when the young sirens set their green 
 caps at the old Greek captain and his crew, waving and 
 beckoning him with their white arms and glancing smiles, 
 and wheedling him with their sweetest pipes — I make no 
 doubt, sir, that the mother sirens were behind the rocks 
 ( with their dyed fronts and cheeks painted, so as to resist 
 water), and calling out — 'Now, Halcyone, my child, 
 that air from the Piratal Now, Glaukopis, dear, look 
 well at that old gentleman at the helm! Bathykolpos, 
 love, there's a young sailor on the maintop, who will tum- 
 ble right down into your lap if you beckon him ! ' And 
 so on — and so on." And I laughed a wild shriek of de- 
 spair. For I, too, have been on the dangerous island, 
 and come away thence, mad, furious, wanting a strait- 
 waistcoat. 
 
 And so, when a white-armed siren, named Glorvina, 
 was bedevilling 7ne with her all too tempting ogling and 
 singing, I did not see at the time, but now I know, that 
 her artful mother was egging that artful child on. 
 
 How, when the Captain died, bailiffs and executions 
 took possession of his premises, I have told in a previous
 
 MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 241 
 
 page, nor do I care to enlarge much upon the odious 
 theme. I think the baihiFs were on the premises before 
 Prior's exit : but he did not know of their presence. If 
 I had to buy them out, 'twas no great matter : only I say 
 it teas hard of Mrs. Prior to represent me in the char- 
 acter of Shylock to the Master of Boniface. Well — 
 well! I suppose there are other gentlemen besides Mr. 
 Charles Batchelor who have been misrepresented in this 
 life. Sargent and I made up matters afterwards, and 
 Miss Bessy was the cause of our coming together again. 
 " Upon my word, my dear Batchelor," says he one 
 Christmas, when I went up to the old college, " I did not 
 know how much my — ahem! — my family was obliged to 
 you! My — ahem! — niece. Miss Prior, has informed me 
 of various acts of — ahem! — generosity which you showed 
 to my poor sister, and her still more wretched husband. 
 You got my second — ahem! — nephew — pardon me if I 
 forget his Christian name — into the what-d'you-call'em 
 Bluecoat School ; you have been, on various occasions, of 
 considerable pecuniary service to my sister's family. A 
 man need not take high university honours to have a 
 good — ahem! — heart; and, upon my word, Batchelor, I 
 and my — ahem! — wife are sincerely obliged to you! " 
 
 " I tell you what, Master," said I, " there is a point 
 upon which you ought really to be obliged to me, and 
 in which I have been the means of putting money into 
 your pocket too." 
 
 " I confess I fail to comprehend you," says the Mas- 
 ter, with his grandest air. 
 
 " I have got you and Mrs. Sargent a very good gov- 
 erness for your children, at the very smallest remunera- 
 tion," say I. 
 
 "Do you know the charges that unhappy sister of
 
 212 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 mine and her family have put me to ah'eady? " says the 
 Master, turning as red as his hood. 
 
 " They have formed the frequent subject of your cou' 
 versation," I replied. " You have had Bessy as a gov- 
 erness ..." 
 
 "A nursery governess— she has learned Latin, and a 
 great deal more since she has been in my house ! " cries 
 the Master. 
 
 "A nursery governess at the wages of a housemaid," 
 I continued, as bold as Corinthian brass. 
 
 "Does my niece, does my— ahem!— children's gov- 
 erness, complain of my treatment in my college? " cries 
 the Master. 
 
 " My dear Master," I asked, " you don't suppose I 
 would have listened to her complaints, or, at any rate, 
 have repeated them, until now ? " 
 
 "And why now, Batchelor, I should like to know?" 
 says the Master, pacing up and down his study in a 
 fume, under the portraits of Holy Bonifacius, Bishop 
 Budgeon, and all the defunct bigwigs of the college. 
 And why now, Batchelor, I should like to know?" 
 says he. 
 
 "Because — though after staying with you for three 
 years, and having improved herself greatlj% as every 
 woman must in your society, my dear Master, Miss Prior 
 is worth at least fifty guineas a year more than you give 
 her— I would not have had her speak until she had found 
 a better place." 
 
 " You mean to say she prQposes to go away ? " 
 
 "A wealthy friend of mine, who was a member of our 
 college by the way, wants a nursery governess, and I 
 have recommended Miss Prior to him, at seventy guineas 
 a year."
 
 MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 243 
 
 "And pray who's the member of my college who will 
 give my niece seventy guineas? " asks the ^Master, 
 fiercely. 
 
 " You remember Lovel, the gentleman-pensioner? " 
 
 " The sugar-baking man— the man who took you out 
 of ja . . ? " 
 
 " One good turn deserves another," says I, hastily. 
 " I have done as much for some of your family, Sar- 
 gent!" 
 
 The red Master, who had been rustling up and down 
 his study in his gown and bands, stopped in his walk as 
 if I had struck him. He looked at me. He turned red- 
 der than ever. He drew his hand over his eyes. 
 " Batchelor," says he, " I ask your pardon. It was I who 
 forgot myself— may heaven forgive me!— forgot how 
 good you have been to my family, to my— ahem!— /i2^^7^i- 
 ble family, and— and how devoutly thankful I ought to 
 be for the protection which they have found in you." 
 His voice quite fell as he spoke : and of course any little 
 wrath which I might have felt was disarmed before his 
 contrition. We parted the best friends. He not only 
 shook hands with me at the study-door, but he actually 
 followed me to the hall-door, and shook hands at his 
 lodge-porch, sub Jove, in the quadrangle. Huckles, the 
 tutor (Highlow Huckles we used to call him in our 
 time), and Botts (Trumperian professor), who hap- 
 pened to be passing through the court at the time, stood 
 aghast as they witnessed the phenomenon. 
 
 " I say, Batchelor," asks Huckles, " have you been 
 made a marquis by any chance? " 
 
 " Why a marquis, Huckles? " I ask. 
 
 " Sargent never comes to his lodge-door with any man 
 under a marquis," says Huckles, in a low whisper.
 
 2U LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 " Or a pretty woman," says that Botts (he will have 
 his joke). " Batchelor, my elderly Th-esias, are you 
 turned into a lovely young lady pai' hasard?" 
 
 " Get along, you absurd Trumperian professor! " say 
 I. But the circumstance was the talk not only in Com- 
 potation Room that evening over our wine, but of the 
 whole college. And further, events happened which 
 made each man look at his neighbour with wonder. For 
 that whole term Sargent did not ask our nobleman Lord 
 Sackville (Lord Wigmore's son) to the lodge. (Lord 
 W.'s father, you know, Duff, was baker to the college.) 
 For that whole term he was rude but twice to Perks, the 
 junior tutor, and then only in a very mild way: and what 
 is more, he gave his niece a present of a gown, of his 
 blessing, of a kiss, and a high character, when she went 
 away; — and promised to put one of her young brothers 
 to school — which promise, I need not say, he faithfully 
 kept: for he has good principles, Sargent has. He is 
 rude : he is ill-bred : he is bumptious beyond almost any 
 man I ever knew : he is spoiled not a little by prosperity ; 
 — but he is magnanimous: he can own that he has been 
 in the wrong ; and oh me ! what a quantity of Greek he 
 knows ! 
 
 Although my late friend the Captain never seemed to 
 do aught but spend the family money, his disreputable 
 presence somehow acted for good in the household. 
 *' My dear husband kept our family together," Mrs. 
 Prior said, shaking her lean head under her meagre 
 widow's cap. " Heaven knows how I shall provide for 
 these lambs now he is gone." Indeed, it was not until 
 after the death of that tipsy shepherd that the wolves of 
 the law came down upon the lambs — myself included, 
 who have passed the age of lambhood and mint sauce a
 
 MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 245 
 
 long time. They came down upon our fold in Beak 
 Street, I say, and ravaged it. What was I to do? Could 
 I leave that widoAv and children in their distress? I was 
 not ignorant of misfortune, and knew how to succour 
 the miserable. Nay, I think, the little excitement atten- 
 dant upon the seizure of my goods, &c., the insolent vul- 
 garity of the low persons in possession — with one of 
 whom I was very near coming to a personal encounter — 
 and other incidents which occurred in the bereft house- 
 hold, served to rouse me, and dissipate some of the lan- 
 guor and misery under which I was suffering in conse- 
 quence of JNIiss Mulligan's conduct to me. I know I 
 took the late Captain to his final abode. My good 
 friends the printers of the Museu7ii took one of his boys 
 into their counting-house. A blue coat and a pair of 
 yellow stockings were procured for Augustus ; and see- 
 ing the Master's children walking about in Boniface 
 gardens with a glum-looking old wretch of a nurse, I be- 
 thought me of proposing to him to take his niece Miss 
 Prior — and, heaven be good to me! never said one word 
 to her uncle about Miss Bellenden and the Academy. I 
 dare say I drew a number of long bows about her. I 
 managed about the bad grammar pretty well, by lament- 
 ing that Elizabeth's poor mother had been forced to al- 
 low the girl to keep company with ill-educated people: 
 and added, that she could not fail to mend her English 
 in the house of one of the most distinguished scholars in 
 Europe, and one of the best-bred women. I did say so, 
 upon my word, looking that half-bred, stuck-up Mrs. 
 Sargent gravely in the face ; and I humbly trust, if that 
 bouncer has been registered against me, the Recording 
 Angel will be pleased to consider that the motive was 
 good, though the statement was unjustifiable. But I
 
 246 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 don't think it was the comphment: I think it was the 
 temptation of getting a governess for next to nothing 
 that operated upon Madam Sargent. And so Bessy 
 went to her aunt, partook of the bread of dependence, 
 and drank of the cup of humihation, and ate the pie of 
 humihty, and brought up her odious httle cousins to the 
 best of her small power, and bowed the head of hypocrisy 
 before the don her uncle, and the pompous little upstart 
 her aunt. She the best-bred woman in England, in- 
 deed! She, the little vain skinflint! 
 
 Bessy's mother was not a little loth to part with the 
 fifty pounds a year which the child brought home from 
 the Academy; but her departure thence was inevitable. 
 Some quarrel had taken place there, about which the girl 
 did not care to talk. Some rudeness had been offered 
 to Miss Bellenden, to which Miss Prior was determined 
 not to submit : or was it that she wanted to go away from 
 the scenes of her own misery, and to try and forget that 
 Indian captain? Come, fellow-sufferer! Come, child of 
 misfortune, come hither! Here is an old bachelor who 
 will weep with thee tear for tear ! 
 
 I protest here is Miss Prior coming into the room at 
 last. A pale face, a tawny head of hair combed back, 
 under a black cap : a pair of blue spectacles, as I live ! a 
 tight mourning dress, buttoned up to her white throat; 
 a head hung meekly down: such is Miss Prior. She 
 takes my hand when I offer it. She drops me a demure 
 little curtsey, and answers my many questions with hum- 
 ble monosyllabic replies. She appeals constantly to 
 Lady Baker for instruction, or for confirmation of her 
 statements. What! have six years of slavery so changed 
 the frank daring young girl whom I remember in Beak 
 Street? She is taller and stouter than she was. She is
 
 MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 247 
 
 awkward and high-shouldered, but surely she has a very 
 fine figure. 
 
 " Will Miss Cissy and INIaster Popham have their teas 
 here or in the schoolroom? " asks Bedford, the butler, of 
 his master. INIiss Prior looks appealingly to Lady 
 Baker. 
 
 " In the sch — " Lady Baker is beginning. 
 
 " Here — here ! " bawl out the children. " Much better 
 fun down here: and you'll send us out some fruit and 
 things from dinner, papa ! " cries Cissy. 
 
 " It's time to dress for dinner," says her ladyship. 
 
 " Has the first bell rung? " asks Lovel. 
 
 " Yes, the first bell has rung, and grandmamma must 
 go, for it always takes her a precious long time to dress 
 for dinner!" cries Pop. And, indeed, on looking at 
 Lady Baker, the connoisseur might perceive that her 
 ladyship was a highly composite person, whose charms 
 required very much care and arrangement. There are 
 some cracked old houses where the painters and plumbers 
 and puttyers are always at work. 
 
 "Have the goodness to ring the bell!" she says, in a 
 majestic manner, to jVIiss Prior, though I think Lady 
 Baker herself was nearest. 
 
 I sprang towards the bell myself, and my hand meets 
 Elizabeth's there, who was obeying her ladyship's sum- 
 mons, and who retreats, making me the demurest curt- 
 sey. At the summons, enter Bedford the butler (he was 
 an old friend of mine too) and young Buttons, the page 
 under that butler. 
 
 Lady Baker points to a heap of articles on a table, and 
 says to Bedford: " If you please, Bedford, tell my man 
 to give those things to Pincott, my maid, to be taken to 
 my room."
 
 248 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 " Shall not I take them up, dear Lady Baker? " says 
 Miss Prior. 
 
 But Bedford, looking at his subordinate, says: 
 " Thomas! tell Bulkeley, her ladyship's man, to take her 
 ladyship's things, and give them to her ladyship's maid." 
 There was a tone of sarcasm, even of parody, in Mon- 
 sieur Bedford's voice; but his manner was profoundly 
 grave and respectful. Drawing up her person, and mak- 
 ing a motion, I don't know whether of politeness or de- 
 fiance, exit Lady Baker, followed by page, bearing 
 bandboxes, shawls, paper parcels, parasols— I know not 
 what. Dear Popham stands on his head as grand- 
 mamma leaves the room. "Don't be vulgar!" cries lit- 
 tle Cissy (the dear child is always acting as a little 
 Mentor to her brother) . " I shall, if I hke," says Pop; 
 and he makes faces at her. 
 
 "You know your room. Batch?" asks the master of 
 the house. 
 
 " Mr. Batchelor's old room — always has the blue 
 room," says Bedford, looking very kindly at me. 
 
 " Give us," cries Lovel, " a bottle of that Sau — " 
 
 "— terne Mr. Batchelor used to like. Chateau 
 Yquem. All right!" says Mr. Bedford. "How will 
 you have the turbot done you brought down?— Dutch 
 sauce?— Make lobster into salad? Mr. Bonnington likes 
 lobster-salad," says Bedford. Pop is winding up the 
 butler's back at this time. It is evident Mr. Bedford is 
 a privileged person in the family. As he had entered it 
 on my nomination several years ago, and had been ever 
 since the faithful valet, butler, and major-domo of 
 Lovel, Bedford and I were always good friends when we 
 met. 
 
 " By the way, Bedford, why wasn't the barouche sent
 
 MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 249 
 
 for me to the bridge? " cries Lovel. " I had to walk all 
 the way home, with a bat and stumps for Pop, with the 
 basket of fish, and that bandbox with my lady's—" 
 
 "He-he!" grins Bedford. 
 
 " ' He— he! ' Confound you, why do you stand grin- 
 ning there? Why didn't I have the carriage, I say?" 
 bawls the master of the house. 
 
 ''You know, sir," saj^s Bedford. ''She had the car- 
 riage." And he indicated the door through which Lady 
 Baker had just retreated. 
 
 "Then why didn't I have the phaeton?" asks Bed- 
 ford's master. 
 
 " Your Ma and Mr. Bonnington had the phaeton." 
 
 "And why shouldn't they, pray? Mr. Bonnington is 
 lame: I'm at my business all day. I should like to know 
 why they shouldnt have the phaeton?" says Lovel, ap- 
 peahng to me. As we had been sitting talking together 
 previous to Miss Prior's appearance, Lady Baker had 
 said to Lovel, " Your mother and JNIr. Bonnington are 
 coming to dinner of course, Frederick? " and Lovel had 
 said, " Of course they are," with a peevish bluster, 
 w^hereof I now began to understand the meaning. The 
 fact was, these two women were fighting for the posses- 
 sion of this child ; but who was the Solomon to say which 
 should have him? Not I. Nenni. I put my oar in no 
 man's boat. Give me an easy life, my dear friends, and 
 row me gently over. 
 
 " You had better go and dress," says Bedford sternly, 
 looking at his master; " the first bell has rung this quar- 
 ter of an hour. Will you have some '34? " 
 
 Lovel started up; he looked at the clock. " You are 
 all ready, Batch, I see. I hope you are going to stay 
 some time, ain't you?" And he disappeared to array
 
 250 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 himself in his sables and starch. I was thus alone with 
 ]Miss Prior and her young charges, who resumed 
 straightway their infantine gambols and quarrels. 
 
 " JNIy dear Bessy! " I cry, holding out both hands, " I 
 am heartily glad to — " 
 
 " Ne m'appelez que de mon nom paternel devant tout 
 ce monde s'il vous plait, mon cher ami, mon bon protec- 
 teur!" she says, hastily, in very good French, folding 
 her hands and making a curtsey. 
 
 " Oui, oui, oui! Parlez-vous Fran9ais? J'aime, tu 
 aimes, il aime ! " cries out dear Master Popham. " What 
 are you talking about? Here's the phaeton!" and the 
 young innocent dashes through the open window on to 
 the lawn, whither he is followed by his sister, and where 
 we see the carriage containing Mr. and Mrs. Bonnington 
 rolling over the smooth walk. 
 
 Bessy advances towards me, and gives me readily 
 enough now the hand she had refused anon. 
 
 " I never thought you would have refused it, Bessy," 
 said I. 
 
 "Refuse it to the best friend I ever had!" she savs, 
 pressing my hand. "Ah, dear Mr. Batchelor, what an 
 ungrateful wretch I should be, if I did! " 
 
 "Let me see your eyes. Why do wear spectacles? 
 You never wore them in Beak Street," I say. You see 
 I was very fond of the child. She had wound herself 
 around me in a thousand fond ways. Owing to a certain 
 Person's conduct my heart may be a ruin — a Persepolis, 
 sir— a perfect Tadmor. But what then? May not a 
 traveller rest under its shattered columns? May not an 
 Arab maid repose there till the morning dawns and the 
 caravan passes on? Yes, my heart is a Palmyra, and 
 once a Queen inhabited me (O Zenobia! Zenobia! to
 
 Besay'a Spectacles
 
 MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 251 
 
 think thou should'st have been led away captive by 
 an O'D— !) Now, I am alone, alone in the solitary 
 wilderness. Nevertheless, if a stranger comes to me 
 I have a spring for his weary feet, I will give him the 
 shelter of my shade. Rest thy cheek awhile, young 
 maiden, on my marble— then go thy ways and leave 
 me. 
 
 This I thought, or something to this effect, as in reply 
 to my remark, " Let me see your eyes," Bessy took off 
 her spectacles, and I took them up and looked at her. 
 Why didn't I say to her, " My dear brave Ehzabeth! as 
 I look in your face, I see you have had an awful deal of 
 suffering. Your eyes are inscrutably sad. We who are 
 initiated, know the members of our Community of Sor- 
 row. We have both been wrecked in different ships, and 
 been cast on this shore. Let us go hand-in-hand, and 
 find a cave and a shelter somewhere together?" I say, 
 why didn't I say this to her? She would have come, I 
 feel sure she would. We would have been semi- 
 attached as it were. We would have locked up that 
 room in either heart where the skeleton was, and said no- 
 thing about it, and pulled down the party-wall and taken 
 our mild tea in the garden. I live in Pump Court now. 
 It would have been better than this dingy loneliness and 
 a snuffy laundress who bullies me. But for Bessy? 
 Well— well, perhaps better for her too. 
 
 I remember these thoughts rushing through my mind 
 whilst I held the spectacles. What a number of other 
 things too ? I remember two canaries making a tremen- 
 dous concert in their cage. I remember the voices of the 
 two children quarrelling on the lawn, the sound of the 
 carriage-wheels grinding over the gravel; and then of 
 a little old familiar cracked voice in mv ear, with a " La,
 
 252 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 Mr. Batchelor! are you here? " And a sly face looks up 
 at me from under an old bonnet. 
 
 " It is mamma," says Bessy. 
 
 "And I'm come to tea with Elizabeth and the dear 
 children ; and while you are at dinner, dear Mr. Batch- 
 elor, thankful— thankful for all mercies ! And, dear me ! 
 here is Mrs. Bonnington, I do declare! Dear madam, 
 how well you look — not twenty, I declare! And dear 
 Mr. Bonnington! Oh, sir! let me — let me, I must press 
 your hand. What a sermon last Sunday! All Putney 
 was in tears!" 
 
 And the little woman, flinging out her lean arms, 
 seizes portly ]Mr. Bonnington's fat hand : as he and kind 
 Mrs. Bonnington enter at the open casement. The little 
 woman seems inclined to do the honours of the house. 
 "And won't you go upstairs, and put on your cap? Dear 
 me, what a lovely ribbon ! How blue does become Mrs. 
 Bonnington! I always say so to Elizabeth," she cries, 
 peeping into a little packet which Mrs. Bonnington bears 
 in her hand. After exchanging friendly words and 
 greetings with me, that lady retires to put the lovely cap 
 on, followed by her little jackal of an aide-de-camp. 
 The portly clergyman surveys his pleased person in the 
 spacious mirror. " Your things are in your old room — 
 like to go in, and brush up a bit? " whispers Bedford to 
 me. I am obliged to go, you see, though, for my part, I 
 had thought, until Bedford spoke, that the ride on the 
 top of the Putney omnibus had left me without any need 
 of brushing; having aired my clothes, and given my 
 young cheek a fresh and agreeable bloom. 
 
 My old room, as Bedford calls it, was that snug apart- 
 ment communicating by double doors with the drawing-
 
 MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT THE DOOR 253 
 
 room, and whence you can walk on to the lawn out of 
 the windows. 
 
 " Here's your books, here's your writing-paper," says 
 Bedford, leading the way into the chamber. " Does sore 
 eyes good to see you down here again, sir. You may 
 smoke now. Clarence Baker smokes when he comes. 
 Go and get some of that wine you like for dinner." And 
 the good fellow's eyes beam kindness upon me as he nods 
 his head, and departs to superintend the duties of his 
 table. Of course you understand that this Bedford was 
 my young printer's boy of former days. What a queer 
 fellow! I had not only been kind to him, but he was 
 grateful.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 
 
 "^J HE room to which 
 Bedford conduct- 
 ed me I hold to 
 be the very pleas- 
 antest chamber in 
 all the mansion 
 of Shrublands. 
 To lie on that 
 comfortable, cool 
 bachelor's bed 
 there, and see the 
 birds hopping 
 about on the 
 lawn ; to peep out 
 of the French 
 window at early 
 morning, inhale 
 the sweet air, 
 mark the dewy bloom on the grass, listen to the little 
 warblers performing their chorus, step forth in your 
 dressing-gown and slippers, pick a strawberry from 
 the bed, or an apricot in its season; blow one, two, 
 three, just half-a-dozen puffs of a cigarette; hear the 
 venerable towers of Putney toll the hour of six (three 
 hours from breakfast, by consequence), and pop back 
 
 254
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 255 
 
 into bed again with a favourite novel, or review, to set 
 you oiF (you see I am not malicious, or I could easily 
 insert here the name of some twaddler against whom I 
 have a grudgekin) : to pop back into bed again, I say, 
 with a book which sets you oif into that dear, invaluable 
 second sleep, by which health, spirits, appetite are so pro- 
 digiously improved:— all these I hold to be most cheer- 
 ful and harmless pleasures, and have partaken of them 
 often at Shrublands with a grateful heart. That heart 
 may have had its griefs, but is yet susceptible of 
 enjoyment and consolation. That bosom may have been 
 lacerated, but is not therefore and henceforward a 
 stranger to comfort. After a certain affair in Dublin 
 — nay, very soon after, three months after — I recollect 
 remarking to myself: " Well, thank my stars, I still have 
 a relish for '34 claret." Once at Shrublands I heard 
 steps pacing overhead at night, and the feeble but con- 
 tinued wail of an infant. I wakened from my sleep, was 
 sulky, but turned and slept again. Biddlecombe the bar- 
 rister I knew was the occupant of the upper chamber. 
 He came down the next morning looking wretchedly 
 yellow about the cheeks, and livid round the eyes. His 
 teething infant had kept him on the march all night, and 
 Mrs. Biddlecombe, I am told, scolds him frightfully be- 
 sides. He munched a shred of toast, and was off by the 
 omnibus to chambers. I chipped a second egg; I may 
 have tried one or two other nice little things on the table 
 ( Strasbourg pate I know I never can resist, and am con- 
 vinced it is perfectly wholesome) . I could see my own 
 sweet face in the mirror opposite, and my gills were as 
 rosy as any broiled salmon. "Well— well!" I thought, 
 as the barrister disappeared on the roof of the coach, " he 
 has domus and placens uxor— hut is she placens? Pla-
 
 256 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 cetne to walk about all night with a roaring baby? Is it 
 pleasing to go to bed after a long hard day's work, and 
 have your wife nagnagging you because she has not 
 been invited to the Lady Chancelloress's soiree, or what 
 not? Suppose the Glorvina whom you loved so had been 
 yours? Her eyebrows looked as if they could scowl, her 
 eyes as if they could flash with anger. Remember what 
 a slap she gave the little knife-boy for upsetting the but- 
 ter-boat over her tabinet. Suppose jmrvulus aula, a 
 little Batchelor your son, who had the toothache all night 
 in your bedroom?" These thoughts passed rapidly 
 through my mind as I helped myself to the comfortable 
 meal before me. "I say, what a lot of muffins you're 
 eating!" cried innocent Master Lovel. Now the mar- 
 ried, the wealthy, the prosperous Biddlecombe only took 
 his wretched scrap of dry toast. "Aha!" you say, 
 " this man is consohng himself after his misfortune." O 
 churl! and do you grudge me consolation? "Thank 
 you, dear Miss Prior. Another cup, and plenty of 
 cream, if you please." Of course, Lady Baker was not 
 at table when I said, " Dear Miss Prior," at breakfast. 
 Before her ladyship I was as mum as a mouse. Ehza- 
 beth found occasion to whisper to me during the day, 
 in her demure way : " This is a very rare occasion. Lady 
 
 B never allows me to breakfast alone with Mr. 
 
 Lovel, but has taken her extra nap, I suppose, because 
 you and Mr. and Mrs. Biddlecombe were here." 
 
 Now it may be that one of the double doors of the 
 room which I inhabited was occasionally open, and that 
 Mr. Batchelor's eyes and ears are uncommonly quick, 
 and note a number of things which less observant per- 
 sons would never regard or discover; but out of this 
 room, which I occupied for some few days, now and sub-
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 257 
 
 sequently, I looked forth as from a little ambush upon 
 the proceedings of the house, and got a queer little in- 
 sight into the history and characters of the personages 
 round about me. The two grandmothers of Lovel's chil- 
 dren were domineering over that easy gentleman, as 
 women — not grandmothers merely, but sisters, wives, 
 aunts, daughters, when the chance is given them — will 
 domineer. All! Glorvina, what a grey mare you might 
 have become had you chosen Mr. Batchelor for your con- 
 sort ! ( But this I only remark with a parenthetic sigh. ) 
 The two children had taken each the side of a grand- 
 mamma, and whilst Master Pop was declared by his ma- 
 ternal grandmother to be a Baker all over, and taught 
 to despise sugar-baking and trade, little Cecilia was Mrs. 
 Bonnington's favourite, repeated Watts's hymns with 
 fervent precocity; declared that she would marry none 
 but a clergyman; preached infantine sermons to her 
 brother and maid about worldliness; and somewhat 
 wearied me, if the truth must be told, by the intense self- 
 respect with which she regarded her own virtues. The 
 old ladies had that love for each other, which one may 
 imagine that their relative positions would engender. 
 Over the bleeding and helpless bodies of Lovel and his 
 worthy and kind stepfather, ]Mr. Bonnington, they skir- 
 mished, and fired shots at each other. Lady B 
 
 would give hints about second marriages, and second 
 families, and so forth, which of course made Mrs. Bon- 
 nington wince. Mrs. B had the better of Lady 
 
 Baker, in consequence of the latter's notorious pecuniary 
 irregularities. She had never had recourse to her son's 
 purse, she could thank heaven. She was not afraid of 
 meeting any tradesman in Putney or London: she had 
 never been ordered out of the house in the late Cecilia's
 
 258 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 lifetime: she could go to Boulogne and enjoy the fresh 
 air there. This was the terrific whip she had over Baker. 
 Lady B , I regret to say, in consequence of the fail- 
 ure of remittances, had been locked up in prison, just at 
 a time when she was in a state of violent quarrel with her 
 late daughter, and good Mr. Bonnington had helped her 
 out of durance. How did I know this? Bedford, 
 Lovel's factotum, told me : and how the old ladies were 
 fighting like two cats. 
 
 There was one point on which the two ladies agreed. 
 A very wealthy widower, young still, good-looking, and 
 good-tempered, we know can sometimes find a dear wo- 
 man to console his loneliness, and protect his motherless 
 children. From the neighbouring Heath, from Wim- 
 bledon, Roehampton, Barnes, Mortlake, Richmond, 
 Esher, Walton, Windsor, nay, Reading, Bath, Exeter, 
 and Penzance itself, or from any other quarter of Brit- 
 ain, over which your fancy may please to travel, families 
 would have come ready with dear young girls to take 
 charge of that man's future happiness; but it is a fact 
 that these two dragons kept all women off from their 
 ward. An unmarried woman, with decent good looks, 
 was scarce ever allowed to enter Shrublands gate. If 
 such an one appeared, Lovel's two mothers sallied out, 
 and crunched her hapless bones. Once or twice he dared 
 to dine with his neighbours, but the ladies led him such 
 a life that the poor creature gave up the practice, and 
 faintly announced his preference for home. " My dear 
 Batch," says he, " what do I care for the dinners of the 
 people round about? Plas any one of them got a better 
 cook or better wine than mine? When I come home from 
 business, it is an intolerable nuisance to have to dress and 
 go out seven or eight miles to cold entrees, and loaded
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 259 
 
 claret, and sweet port. I can't stand it, sir. I wont 
 stand it " (and he stamps his foot in a resolute manner) . 
 " Give me an easy life, a wine-merchant I can trust, and 
 my own friends, by my own fireside. Shall we have 
 some more? We can manage another bottle between us 
 three, Mr. Bonnington? " 
 
 "Well," says Mr. Bonnington, winking at the ruby 
 goblet, " I am sure I have no objection, Frederick, to 
 another bo — " 
 
 " Coffee is served, sir," cries Bedford, entering. 
 
 " Well — well, perhaps we have had enough," says 
 worthy Bonnington. 
 
 " We have had enough; we all drink too much," says 
 Lovel, briskly. " Come in to coffee." 
 
 We go to the drawing-room. Fred and I, and the two 
 ladies, sit down to a rubber, whilst Miss Prior plays a 
 piece of Beethoven to a slight warbling accompaniment 
 from Mr. Bonnington's handsome nose, who has fallen 
 asleep over the newspaper. During our play, Bessy 
 glides out of the room— a grey shadow. Bonnington 
 wakens up when the tray is brought in. Lady Baker 
 likes that good old custom : it was always the fashion at 
 the Castle, and she takes a good glass of negus too ; and 
 so do we all; and the conversation is pretty merry, and 
 Fred Lovel hopes I shall sleep better to-night, and is 
 very facetious about poor Biddlecombe, and the way in 
 which that eminent Q.C. is henpecked by his wafe. 
 
 From my bachelor's room, then, on the ground-floor; 
 or from my solitary walks in the garden, whence I could 
 oversee many things in the house; or from Bedford's 
 communications to me, which were very friendly, cu- 
 rious, and unreserved; or from my own observation, 
 which I promise you can see as far into the millstones of
 
 260 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 life as most folks', I grew to find the mj^steries of Shrub- 
 lands no longer mysterious to me; and, like another 
 Diable Boiteucc, had the roofs of a prett}^ number of the 
 Shrublands rooms taken off for me. 
 
 For instance, on that very first day of my stay, whilst 
 the family were attiring themselves for dinner, I chanced 
 to find two secret cupboards of the house unlocked, and 
 the contents unveiled to me. Pinhorn, the children's 
 maid, a giddy little flirting thing in a pink ribbon, 
 brought some articles of the toilette into my worship's 
 apartment, and as she retired did not shut the door be- 
 hind her. I might have thought that pert little head had 
 never been made to ache by any care ; but ah ! black care 
 sits behind the horseman as Horace remarks, and not 
 onty behind the horseman, but behind the footman ; and 
 not only on the footman, but on the buxom shoulders of 
 the lady's-maid. So with Pinhorn. You surely have re- 
 marked respecting domestic servants that they address 
 you in a tone utterly affected and unnatural— adopting, 
 when they are amongst each other, voices and gestures 
 entirely different to those which their employers see and 
 hear. Now, this little Pinhorn, in her occasional inter- 
 course with your humble servant, had a brisk, quick, flut- 
 tering toss of the head, and a frisky manner, no doubt 
 capable of charming some persons. As for me, ancil- 
 lary allurements have, I own, had but small temptations. 
 If Venus brought me a bedroom candle and a jug of hot 
 water, I should give her sixpence, and no more. Having, 
 you see, given my all to one wom — Psha! never mind 
 that old story. — Well, I dare say this little creature may 
 have been a flirt, but I took no more notice of her than 
 if she had been a coal-scuttle. 
 
 Now, suppose she was a flirt. Suppose, under a mask
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 261 
 
 of levity, she hid a profound sorrow. Do you suppose 
 she was the first woman who ever has done so? Do you 
 suppose because she had fifteen pounds a year, her tea, 
 sugar, and beer, and told fibs to her masters and mis- 
 tresses, she had not a heart? She went out of the room, 
 absolutely coaxing and leering at me as she departed, 
 with a great counterpane over her arm; but in the next 
 apartment I heard her voice quite changed, and another 
 changed voice too— though not so much altered — inter- 
 rogating her. JMy friend Dick Bedford's voice, in ad- 
 dressing those whom Fortune had pleased to make his 
 superiors, was gruiF and brief. He seemed to be anxious 
 to deliver himself of his speech to you as quickly as pos- 
 sible; and his tone always seemed to hint, "There — 
 there is my message, and I have delivered it; but you 
 know perfectly well that I am as good as you." And 
 so he was, and so I always admitted: so even the trem- 
 bling, believing, flustering, suspicious Ladj'^ Baker her- 
 self admitted, when she came into communication with 
 this man. I have thought of this little Dick as of Swift 
 at Sheen hard by, with Sir William Temple: or Spar- 
 tacus when he was as yet the servant of the fortunate 
 Roman gentleman who owned him. Now if Dick was 
 intelligent, obedient, useful, only not rebellious, with 
 his superiors, I should fancy that amongst his equals he 
 was by no means pleasant company, and that most of 
 them hated him for his arrogance, his honesty, and his 
 scorn of them all. 
 
 But women do not always hate a man for scorning and 
 despising them. Women do not revolt at the rudeness 
 and arrogance of us their natural superiors. Women, if 
 properly trained, come down to heel at the master's bid- 
 ding, and lick the hand that has been often raised to hit
 
 262 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 them. I do not say the brave little Dick Bedford ever 
 raised an actual hand to this poor serving-girl, but his 
 tongue whipped her, his behaviour trampled on her, and 
 she cried, and came to him whenever he lifted a finger. 
 Psha! Don't tell me. If you want a quiet, contented, 
 orderly home, and things comfortable about you, that is 
 the way you must manage your women. 
 
 Well, Bedford happens to be in the next room. It is 
 the morning-room at Shrublands. You enter the dining- 
 room from it, and they are in the habit of laying out the 
 dessert there, before taking it in for dinner. Bedford is 
 laying out his dessert as Pinhorn enters from my cham- 
 ber, and he begins upon her with a sarcastic sort of grunt, 
 and a " Ho! suppose you've been making up to B., have 
 you? " 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Bedford, you know very well who it is I 
 cares for! " she says, with a sigh. 
 
 "Bother!" Mr. B. remarks. 
 
 " Well, Richard, then! " (here she weeps.) 
 
 "Leave go my 'and!— leave go my a-hand, I say!" 
 (What could she have been doing to cause this excla- 
 mation?) 
 
 " Oh, Richard, it's not your 'and I want— it's your 
 ah-ah-art, Richard!" 
 
 " Mary Pinhorn," exclaims the other, " what's the use 
 of going on with this game? You know we couldn't be 
 a-happy together — you know your ideers ain't no good, 
 Mary. It ain't your fault. I don't blame you for it, 
 my dear. Some people are born clever, some are born 
 tall: I ain't tall." 
 
 " Oh, you're tall enough for me, Richard! " 
 
 Here Richard again found occasion to cry out: 
 ''Don't, I say! Suppose Baker was to come in and find
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 263 
 
 you squeezing of my hand in this way ? I say, some peo- 
 ple are born with big brains, INIiss Pinhorn, and some 
 with big figures. Look at that ass, Bulkelej^ Lady B.'s 
 man ! He is as big as a Life-guardsman, and he has no 
 more education, nor no more ideas, than the beef he 
 feeds on." 
 
 "La! Richard, whathever do you mean?" 
 
 "Pooh! How should you know what I mean? Lay 
 them books straight. Put the volumes together, stupid ! 
 and the papers, and get the table ready for nursery tea, 
 and don't go on there mopping your eyes, and making a 
 fool of yourself, Mary Pinhorn! " 
 
 "Oh, your heart is a stone — a stone— a stone!" cries 
 Mary, in a burst of tears. "And I wish it was hung 
 round my neck, and I was at the bottom of the well, and 
 — there's the hupstairs bell!" with which signal I sup- 
 pose Mary disappeared, for I only heard a sort of grunt 
 from Mr. Bedford ; then the clatter of a dish or two, the 
 wheeling of chairs and furniture, and then came a brief 
 silence, which lasted until the entry of Dick's subordi- 
 nate. Buttons, who laid the table for the children's and 
 Miss Prior's tea. 
 
 So here was an old story told over again. Here was 
 love unrequited, and a little passionate heart wounded 
 and unhappy. My poor little Mary ! As I am a sinner, 
 I will give thee a crown when I go away, and not a 
 couple of shillings, as my wont has been. Five shillings 
 will not console thee much, but they will console thee a 
 little. Thou wilt not imagine that I bribe thee with any 
 privy thought of evil? Away! Ich Jiahe genossen das 
 irdische GUI ck— ich habe—gelieht! 
 
 At this juncture I suppose Mrs. Prior must have en- 
 tered the apartment, for though I could not hear her
 
 264 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 noiseless step, her little cracked voice came pretty clearly 
 to me with a " Good afternoon, Mr. Bedford! Oh, dear 
 me! what a many — many years we have been ac- 
 quainted. To think of the pretty little printer's boy who 
 used to come to Mr. Batchelor, and see you grown such 
 a fine man! " 
 
 Bedford.—" Howl I'm only five foot four." 
 
 3Irs. P. — " But such a fine figure, Bedford! You are 
 — now indeed you are! Well, you are strong and I am 
 weak. You are well, and I am weary and faint." 
 
 Bedford. — " The tea's a-cqming directly, Mrs. Prior." 
 
 3I?'s. P. — " Could you give me a glass of water first — 
 and perhaps a little sherry in it, please. Oh, thank you. 
 How good it is! How it revives a poor old wretch! — 
 and your cough, Bedford? How is your cough? I have 
 brought you some lozenges for it — some of Sir Henry 
 Halford's own prescribing for my dear husband, and — " 
 
 Bedford (abruptly). — "I must go — never mind the 
 cough now, Mrs. P." 
 
 3Irs. Prior. — "What's here? almonds and raisins, 
 macaroons, preserved apricots, biscuits for dessert — and 
 — la bless the man! how you sta — artled me! " 
 
 Bedford. — "Don't! Mrs. Prior: I beg and implore 
 of you, keep your 'ands out of the dessert. I can't stand 
 it. I Tiuist tell the governor if this game goes on." 
 
 3Irs. P. — "Ah! Mr. Bedford, it is for my poor— poor 
 child at home: the doctor recommended her apricots. 
 Ay, indeed, dear Bedford; he did, for her poor chest!" 
 
 Bedford. — "And I'm blest if you haven't been at the 
 sherry -bottle again! Oh, Mrs. P., you drive me wild — 
 you do. I can't see Lovel put upon in this waj^ You 
 loiow it's only last week I whopped the boy for stealing 
 the sherry, and 'twas you done it."
 
 Where the Sugar Goes
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 265 
 
 Mrs. Prior (passionately).— "For a sick child, Bed- 
 ford. What won't a mother do for her sick child? " 
 
 Bedford. — "Your children's always sick. You're al- 
 ways taking things for 'em. I tell you, by the laws, I 
 won't and mustn't stand it, Mrs. P." 
 
 3Irs. Prior (with much spirit).— "Go and tell your 
 master, Bedford ! Go and tell tales of me, sir. Go and 
 have me dismissed out of this house. Go and have my 
 daughter dismissed out of this house, and her poor mo- 
 ther brought to disgrace." 
 
 Bedford.— ''Mrs. Prior— Mrs. Prior! you have been 
 a-taking the sherry. A glass I don't mind: but you've 
 been a-bringing that bottle again." 
 
 3Irs. P. (whimpering).— "It's for Charlotte, Bed- 
 ford ! my poor delicate angel of a Shatty ! she's ordered 
 it, indeed she is!" 
 
 Bedford. — '' Confound your Shatty! I can't stand it, 
 I mustn't, and won't, Mrs. P. ! " 
 
 Here a noise and clatter of other persons arriving in- 
 terrupted the conversation between Lovel's major-domo 
 and the mother of the children's governess, and I pres- 
 ently heard Master Pop's voice saying, " You're going 
 to tea with us, Mrs. Prior? " 
 
 Mis. P. — " Your kind dear grandmammas have asked 
 me, dear Master Popham." 
 
 Pop. — " But you'd like to go to dinner best, wouldn't 
 you? I dare say you have doosid bad dinners at your 
 house. Haven't you, Mrs. Prior? " 
 
 Cissy. — "Don't say doosid. It's a naughty word, 
 Popham!" 
 
 Pop. — "I will say doosid. Doo-oo-oosid ! There! 
 And I'll say worse words too, if I please, and you hold 
 your tongue. What's there for tea? jam for tea? straw-
 
 266 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 berries for tea? muffins for tea? That's it: strawberries 
 and muffins for tea. And we'll go in to dessert besides : 
 that's prime. I say, Miss Prior?" 
 
 Miss Prior. — "What do you say, Popliam?" 
 
 Pop. — " Shouldn't you like to go in to dessert? — 
 there's lots of good things there, — and have wine. Only 
 when grandmamma tells her story about — about my 
 grandfather and King George the what-d'ye-call-'im: 
 King George the Fourth — " 
 
 Cis. — "Ascended the throne, 1820; died at Windsor, 
 1830." 
 
 Po^. — "Bother Windsor! Well, when she tells that 
 story, I can tell you that ain't very good fun." 
 
 Cis. — "And it's rude of you to speak in that way of 
 your grandmamma, Pop!" 
 
 Pop. — "And you'll hold your tongue, INIiss! And I 
 shall speak as I like. And I'm a man, and I don't want 
 any of your stuff and nonsense. I say, Mary, give us 
 the marmalade ! " 
 
 Cis. — " You have had plenty to eat, and boys oughtn't 
 to have so much." 
 
 Pop. — " Boys may have what they like. Boys can eat 
 twice as much as women. There, I don't want any more. 
 Anybody may have the rest." 
 
 Mrs. Prior. — "What nice marmalade! I know some 
 children, my dears, who — " 
 
 Miss P. (imploringly) . — " Mamma, I beseech you — " 
 
 Mrs. P. — "I know three dear children who very — 
 very seldom have nice marmalade and delicious cake." 
 
 Pop. — " I know whom you mean: you mean Augus- 
 tus, and Frederick, and Fanny — your children? Well, 
 they shall have marmalade and cake." 
 
 Cis. — " Oh, yes, I will give them all mine."
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 267 
 
 Pop. (who speaks, I think, as if his mouth was full). 
 — "I won't give 'em mine: but they can have another 
 pot, you know. You have always got a basket with you; 
 you know you have, ]Mrs. Prior. You had it the day you 
 took the cold fowl." 
 
 Mrs. P. — " For the poor blind black man! Oh, how 
 thankful he was to his dear young benefactors ! He is a 
 man and a brother, and to help him was most kind of 
 you, dear Master Popham! " 
 
 Pop. — '' That black beggar my brother? He ain't my 
 brother." 
 
 Mrs. P. — " No, dears, you have both the most lovely 
 complexions in the world." 
 
 Pop. — "Bother complexions! I say, Mary, another 
 pot of marmalade." 
 
 Mary. — " I don't know. Master Pop — " 
 
 Pop.—'' I will have it, I say. If you don't, I'll smash 
 everything, I will." 
 
 Cis. — " Oh, you naughty, rude boy!" 
 
 Pop. — "Hold your tongue, stupid! I will have it, I 
 say." 
 
 Mrs. P. — " Do humour him, Mary, please. And I'm 
 sure my dear children at home will be better for it." 
 
 Pop. — " There's your basket. Now put this cake in, and 
 this bit of butter, and this sugar on the top of the butter. 
 Hurray! hurray! Oh, what jolly fun! Here's some 
 cake— no, I think I'll keep that; and, Mrs. Prior, tell 
 Gus, and Fanny, and Fred, I sent it to 'em, and they 
 shall never want for anything as long as Frederick Pop- 
 ham Baker Lovel, Esquire, can give it them. Did Gus 
 like my grey great-coat that I didn't want?" 
 
 Miss P. — "You did not give him your new great- 
 coat?"
 
 268 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 Pop.— ''It was beastly ugly, and I did give it him; 
 and I'll give him this if I choose. And don't you speak 
 to me; I'm going to school, and I ain't going to have no 
 governesses soon." 
 
 3Irs. Prior.— ''Ah, dear child! what a nice coat it is; 
 and how well my poor boy looks in it! " 
 
 Miss Pnor.— "Mother, mother! I implore you— 
 mother— ! " 
 
 Mr. Lovel enters.— " So the children at high tea! 
 How d'ye do, Mrs. Prior? I think we shall be able to 
 manage that little matter for your second boy, Mrs. 
 Prior." 
 
 Mrs. Prior.— " Heaven bless you,— bless you, my 
 dear, kind benefactor! Don't prevent me, Elizabeth: I 
 must kiss his hand. There! " 
 
 And here the second bell rings, and I enter the morn- 
 ing-room, and can see Mrs. Prior's great basket popped 
 cunningly under the table-cloth. Her basket?— her 
 porte-maiiteau, her porte-bouteille, her porte-gdteau, her 
 porte-pantalo7i, her porte-butin in general. Thus I 
 could see that every day Mrs. Prior visited Shrublands 
 she gleaned greedily of the harvest. Well, Boaz was 
 rich, and this ruthless Ruth was hungry and poor. 
 
 At the welcome summons of the second bell, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bonnington also made their appearance ; the latter 
 in the new cap which Mrs. Prior had admired, and which 
 she saluted with a nod of smiling recognition: "Dear 
 madam, it is lovely— I told you it was," whispers Mrs. 
 P., and the wearer of the blue ribbons turned her bonny, 
 good-natured face towards the looking-glass, and I hope 
 saw no reason to doubt ^Irs. Prior's sincerity. As for 
 Bonnington, I could perceive that he had been taking a 
 little nap before dinner,— a practice by which the appe-
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 269 
 
 tite is improved, I think, and the intellect prepared for 
 the bland prandial conversation. 
 
 " Have the children been quite good?" asks papa, of 
 the governess. 
 
 " There are worse children, sir," says Miss Prior, 
 meekly. 
 
 "JNIake haste and have your dinner; we are coming 
 in to dessert!" cries Pop. 
 
 " You would not have us go to dine without your 
 grandmother?" papa asks. Dine without Lady Baker, 
 indeed ! I should have liked to see him go to dinner with- 
 out Lady Baker. 
 
 Pending her ladyship's arrival, papa and Mr. Ben- 
 nington walk to the open window, and gaze on the lawn 
 and the towers of Putney rising over the wall. 
 
 "Ah, my good Mrs. Prior," cries Mrs. Bonnington, 
 " those grandchildren of mine are sadly spoiled." 
 
 " Not by you, dear madam," says Mrs. Prior, with a 
 look of commiseration. " Your dear children at home 
 are, I am sure, perfect models of goodness. Is Master 
 Edward well, ma'am? and Master Robert, and Master 
 Richard, and dear funny little Master William? Ah, 
 what blessings those children are to you! If a certain 
 wilful little nephew of theirs took after them ! " 
 
 "The little naughty wretch!" cried Mrs. Bonning- 
 ton; " do you know, Prior, my grandson Frederick— (I 
 don't know why they call him Popham in this house, or 
 why he should be ashamed of his father's name) —do you 
 know that Popham spilt the ink over my dear husband's 
 bands, which he keeps in his great dictionary, and fought 
 with my Richard, who is three years older than Popham, 
 and actually beat his own uncle! " 
 
 "Gracious goodness!" I cried; "you don't mean to
 
 270 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 say, ma'am, that Pop has been laying violent hands upon 
 his venerable relative?" I feel ever so gentle a pull at 
 my coat. Was it Miss Prior who warned me not to in- 
 dulge in the sarcastic method with good Mrs. Bon- 
 nington ? 
 
 " I don't know why you call my poor child a venerable 
 relative," JNIrs. B. remarks. " I know that Popham was 
 very rude to him : and then Robert came to his brother, 
 and that graceless little Popham took a stick, and my 
 husband came out, and do you know Popham Lovel 
 actually kicked Mr. Bonnington on the shins, and butted 
 him like a little naughty ram ; and if you think such con- 
 duct is a subject for ridicule— I dont, Mr. Batchelor." 
 
 "My dear— dear lady!" I cried, seizing her hand; 
 for she was going to cry, and in woman's eye the unan- 
 swerable tear always raises a deuce of a commotion in 
 my mind. " I would not for the world say a word that 
 should willingly vex you; and as for Popham, I give 
 you my honour, I think nothing would do that child so 
 much good as a good whipping." 
 
 "He is spoiled, madam; we know by whom" says 
 Mrs. Prior. "Dear Lady Baker! how that red does 
 become your ladyship." In fact, Lady B. sailed in at 
 this juncture, arrayed in ribbons of scarlet; with many 
 brooches, bangles, and other gimcracks ornamenting her 
 plenteous person. And now her ladyship having arrived, 
 Bedford announced that dinner was served, and Lovel 
 gave his mother-in-law an arm, whilst I oiFered mine to 
 Mrs. Bonnington to lead her to the adjoining dining- 
 room. And the pacable kind soul speedily made peace 
 with me. And we ate and drank of Lovel's best. And 
 Lady Baker told us her celebrated anecdote of George 
 the Fourth's compliment to her late dear husband. Sir
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 271 
 
 Popham, when his iVIajesty visited Ireland. Mrs. Prior 
 and her basket were gone when we repaired to the draw- 
 ing-room : having been hunting all day, the hungry mo- 
 ther had returned with her prey to her wide-mouthed 
 birdikins. Elizabeth looked very pale and handsome, 
 reading at her lamp. And whist and the little tray fin- 
 ished the second day at Shrublands. 
 
 I paced the moonlit walk alone when the family had 
 gone to rest; and smoked my cigar under the tranquil 
 stars. I had been some thirty hours in the house, and 
 what a queer little drama was unfolding itself before me ! 
 What struggles and passions were going on here — what 
 certamina and motus aniviorum! Here was Lovel, this 
 willing horse; and what a crowd of relations, what a 
 heap of luggage had the honest fellow to carry! How 
 that little jNIrs. Prior w^as working, and scheming, and 
 tacking, and flattering, and fawning, and plundering, to 
 be sure ! And that serene Elizabeth, with Avhat consum- 
 mate skill, art, and prudence, had she to act, to keep her 
 place with two such rivals reigning over her. And 
 Elizabeth not only kept her place, but she actually was 
 liked by those two women! Why, Elizabeth Prior, my 
 wonder and respect for thee increase with every hour 
 during which I contemplate thy character! How is it 
 that you live with those lionesses, and are not torn to 
 pieces? What sops of flattery do you cast to them to 
 appease tHem? Perhaps I do not think my Elizabeth 
 brings up her two children very well, and, indeed, have 
 seldom become acquainted with young people more 
 odious. But is the fault hers, or is it Fortune's spite? 
 How, with these two grandmothers spoiling the children 
 alternately, can the governess do better than she does? 
 How has she managed to lull their natural jealousy? I
 
 272 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 will work out that intricate problem, that I will, ere 
 many days are over. And there are other mysteries 
 which I perceive. There is poor Mary breaking her 
 heart for the butler. That butler, why does he connive 
 at the rogueries of Mrs. Prior? Ha! herein lies a mys- 
 tery too; and I vow I will penetrate it ere long. So 
 saying, I fling away the butt-end of the fragrant com- 
 panion of my solitude, and enter into my room by the 
 open French window just as Bedford walks in at the 
 door. I had heard the voice of that worthy domestic 
 warbling a grave melody from his pantry window as I 
 paced the lawn. When the family goes to rest, Bedford 
 passes a couple of hours in study in his pantry, perusing 
 the newspapers and the new works, and forming his 
 opinion on books and politics. Indeed I have reason to 
 believe that the letters in the Putney Herald and Mort- 
 lake Monitor, signed "A Voice from the Basement," 
 were Mr. Bedford's composition. 
 
 " Come to see all safe for the night, sir, and the win- 
 dows closed before you turn in," Mr. Dick remarks. 
 " Best not leave 'em open, even if you are asleep inside — 
 catch cold — many bad people about. Remember Brom- 
 ley murder!— Enter at French windows— you cry out 
 — cut your throat — and there's a fine paragraph for 
 papers next morning ! " 
 
 "What a good voice you have, Bedford," I say; "I 
 heard you warbling just now— a famous bass, on my 
 word!" 
 
 "Always fond of music — sing when I'm cleaning my 
 plate — learned in Old Beak Street. She used to teach 
 me," and he points towards the upper floors. 
 
 "What a little chap you were then! — when you came 
 for my proofs for the Museum" I remark.
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 273 
 
 "I ain't a very big one now, sir; but it ain't the big 
 ones that do the best work," remarks the butler. 
 
 " I remember Miss Prior saying that you were as old 
 as she was." 
 
 "Hm! and I scarce came up to her — eh — elbow." 
 (Bedford had constantly to do battle with the aspirates. 
 He conquered them, but you could see there was a 
 struggle. ) 
 
 "And it was Miss Prior taught you to sing?" I say, 
 looking him full in the face. 
 
 He dropped his eyes — he could not bear my scrutiny. 
 I knew the whole story now. 
 
 "When Mrs. Lovel died at Naples, Miss Prior 
 brought liome the children, and you acted as courier to 
 the whole party? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," says Bedford. " We had the carriage, 
 and of course poor Mrs. L. was sent home by sea, and 
 I brought home the young ones, and — and the rest of the 
 family. I could say, Avanti ! avanti ! to the Italian pos- 
 tilions, and ask for des chevaux when we crossed the 
 HaljDS— the Alps,— I beg your pardon, sir." 
 
 "And you used to see the party to their rooms at the 
 inns, and call them up in the morning, and you had a 
 blunderbuss in the rumble to shoot the robbers? " 
 
 " Yes," says Bedford. 
 
 " And it was a pleasant time? " 
 
 " Yes," says Bedford, groaning and hanging down 
 his miserable head. " Oh, yes, it was a ^^leasant time." 
 
 He turned away; he stamped his foot; he gave a sort 
 of imprecation ; he pretended to look at some books, and 
 dust them with a napkin which he carried. I saw the 
 matter at once. "Poor Dick!" says I. 
 
 " It's the old— old story," says Dick. " It's you and
 
 274 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 the Hirish girl over again, sir. I'm only a servant, I 
 know; but I'm a — . Confomid it! " And here he stuck 
 his fists into his eyes. 
 
 "And this is the reason you allow old Mrs. Prior to 
 steal the sherry and the sugar? " I ask. 
 
 "How do you know that? — you remember how she 
 prigged in Beak Street? " asks Bedford, fiercely. 
 
 " I overheard you and her just before dinner," I said. 
 
 " You had better go and tell Lovel— have me turned 
 out of the house. That's the best thing that can be 
 done," cries Bedford again, fiercely, stamping his feet. 
 
 "It is alwaj^s my custom to do as much mischief as I 
 possibly can, Dick Bedford," I say, with fine irony. 
 
 He seizes my hand. " No, you're a trump — every- 
 body knows that; beg pardon, sir; but you see I'm so — 
 so — dash! — miserable, that I hardly know whether I'm 
 walking on my head or my heels." 
 
 " You haven't succeeded in touching her heart, then, 
 my poor Dick? " I said. 
 
 Dick shook his head. " She has no heart," he said. " If 
 she ever had any, that fellar in India took it away with 
 him. She don't care for anybody alive. She likes me 
 as well as any one. I think she appreciates me, you 
 see, sir; she can't 'elp it — I'm blest if she can. She 
 knows I am a better man than most of the chans that 
 come down here, — I am, if I wasn't a servant. If I were 
 only an apothecary — like that grinning jackass who 
 comes here from Barnes in his gig, and wants to marry 
 her — she'd have me. She keeps him on, and encour- 
 ages him — she can do that cleverly enough. And the 
 old dragon fancies she is fond of him. Psha! Why 
 am I making a fool of myself? — I am only a servant. 
 Mary's good enough for me ; she'll have me fast enough.
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 275 
 
 I beg your pardon, sir; I am making a fool of myself; 
 I ain't the first, sir. Good-night, sir; hope you'll sleep 
 well." And Dick departs to his pantry and his private 
 cares, and I think, " Here is another victim who is writh- 
 ing under the merciless arrows of the universal torturer." 
 
 " He is a very singular person," Miss Prior remarked 
 to me, as, next day, I happened to be walking on Put- 
 ney Heath by her side, while her young charges trotted 
 on and quarrelled in the distance. " I wonder where the 
 world will stop next, dear Mr. Batchelor, and how far 
 the march of intellect will proceed! Any one so free, 
 and easy, and cool, as this jMr. Bedford I never saw. 
 When we were abroad with poor JNIrs. Lovel, he picked 
 up French and Italian in quite a surprising way. He 
 takes books down from the library now: the most ab- 
 struse works— works that / couldn't pretend to read, 
 I'm sure. Mr. Bonnington says he has taught himself 
 history, and Horace in Latin, and algebra, and I don't 
 know what besides. He talked to the servants and 
 tradespeople at Naples much better than I could, I 
 assure you." And Elizabeth tosses up her head heaven- 
 wards, as if she would ask of j^onder skies how such a 
 man could possibly be as good as herself. 
 
 She stepped along the Heath— slim, stately, healthy, 
 tall — her firm, neat foot treading swiftly over the grass. 
 She wore her blue spectacles, but I think she could have 
 looked at the sun without the glasses and without winc- 
 ing. That sun was playing with her tawny, wavy ring- 
 lets, and scattering gold-dust over them. 
 
 " It is wonderful," said I, admiring her, " how these 
 people give themselves airs, and try to imitate their bet- 
 ters ! " 
 
 " Most extraordinary! " says Bessy. She had not one
 
 276 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 particle of humour in all her composition. I think Dick 
 Bedford was right; and she had no heart. Well, she 
 had famous lungs, health, appetite, and with these one 
 may get through life not uncomfortably. 
 
 "You and Saint Cecilia got on pretty well, Bessy?" 
 I ask. 
 
 "Saint who?" 
 
 " The late Mrs. L." 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Lovel: — yes. What an odd person you 
 are! I did not understand whom you meant," says Eliz- 
 abeth the downright. 
 
 " jSTot a good temper, I should think? She and Fred 
 fought?" 
 
 " i?^ never fought." 
 
 " I think a little bird has told me that she was not 
 averse to the admiration of our sex?" 
 
 " I don't speak ill of my friends, Mr. Batchelor," re- 
 plies Elizabeth the prudent. 
 
 " You must have difficult work with the two old ladies 
 at Shrublands?" 
 
 Bessy shrugs her shoulders. "A little management 
 is necessary in all families," she says. " The ladies are 
 naturally a little jealous one of the other; but they are 
 both of them not unkind to me in the main; and I have 
 to bear no more than other women in my situation. It 
 was not all pleasure at St. Boniface, Mr. Batchelor, 
 with my uncle and aunt. I suppose all governesses 
 have their difficulties; and I must get over mine as best 
 I can, and be thankful for the liberal salary which 
 your kindness procured for me, and which enables 
 me to help my poor mother and my brothers and 
 sisters." 
 
 " I suppose you give all your money to her? 
 
 >>
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 277 
 
 "Nearly all. They must have it; poor mamma has 
 so many mouths to feed." 
 
 "And notre petit coeur, Bessy? " I ask, looking in her 
 fresh face. " Have we replaced the Indian officer? " 
 
 Another shrug of the shoulders. " I suppose we all 
 get over those follies, Mr. Batchelor. I remember 
 somebody else was in a sad way too," — and she looks 
 askance at the victim of Glorvina. '' Mij folly is dead 
 and buried long ago. I have to work so hard for 
 mamma, and my brothers and sisters, that I have no 
 time for such nonsense." 
 
 Here a gentleman in a natty gig, with a high-trotting 
 horse, came spanking towards us over the common, and 
 with my profound knowledge of human nature, I saw 
 at once that the servant by the driver's side was a little 
 doctor's bo5% and the gentleman himself was a neat and 
 trim general practitioner. 
 
 He stared at me grimly, as he made a bow to 
 ]Miss Bessy. I saw jealousy and suspicion in his 
 aspect. 
 
 " Thank you, dear Mr. Drencher," says Bessy, " for 
 your kindness to mamma and our children. You are 
 going to call at Shrublands? Lady Baker was indis- 
 posed this morning. She says when she can't have Dr. 
 Piper, there's nobody like you." And this artful one 
 smiles blandly on Mr. Drencher. 
 
 " I have got the workhouse, and a case at Roehamp- 
 ton, and I shall be at Shrublands about two. Miss Prior," 
 says that young Doctor, whom Bedford had called a 
 grinning jackass. He laid an eager emphasis on the 
 two. Go to! I know what two and two mean as well 
 as most people, INIr. Drencher! Glances of rage he 
 shot at me from out his gig. The serpents of that mis-
 
 278 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 erable iEsciilapius unwound themselves from his rod, 
 and were gnawing at his swollen heart ! 
 
 "He has a good practice, Mr. Drencher?" I ask, sly 
 rogue as I am. 
 
 " He is very good to mamma and our children. His 
 practice with tliein does not profit him much," says 
 Bessy. 
 
 "And I suppose our walk will be over before two 
 o'clock?" remarks that slyboots who is walking with 
 Miss Prior. 
 
 " I hope so. Why, it is our dinner-time ; and this 
 walk on the Heath does make one so hungry! " cries the 
 
 governess. 
 
 " Bessy Prior," I said, " it is my belief that you no 
 more want spectacles than a cat in the twilight." To 
 which she replied, that I was such a strange, odd man, 
 she really could not understand me. 
 
 We were back at Shrublands at two. Of course we 
 must not keep the children's dinner waiting: and of 
 course Mr. Drencher drove up at five minutes past two, 
 with his gig-horse all in a lather. I, who knew the 
 secrets of the house, was amused to see the furious 
 glances w^hich Bedford darted from the sideboard, or 
 as he served the Doctor with cutlets. Drencher, for his 
 part, scowled at me. I, for my part, was easy, witt}^ 
 pleasant, and I trust profoundly wicked and malicious. 
 I bragged about my aristocratic friends to Lady Baker. 
 I trumped her old-world stories about George the 
 Fourth at Dublin with the latest dandified intelligence 
 I had learned at the club. That the young Doctor 
 should be dazzled and disgusted was, I own, my wash; 
 and I enjoyed his rage as I saw him choking with jeal- 
 ousy over his victuals.
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 279 
 
 But why was Lady Baker sulky with me? How 
 came it, my fashionable stories had no effect upon that 
 polite matron? Yesterday at dinner she had been gra- 
 cious enough: and turning her back upon those poor 
 simple Bonningtons, who knew nothing of the beau 
 monde at all, had condescended to address herself spe- 
 cially to me several times with an " I need not tell you, 
 Mr. Batchelor, that the Duchess of Dorsetshire's maiden 
 name was De Bobus;" or, "You know very well that 
 the etiquette at the Lord Lieutenant's balls, at Dublin 
 Castle, is for the wives of baronets to " — &c. &c. 
 
 Now whence, I say, did it arise that Lady Baker, 
 who had been kind and familiar with me on Sunday, 
 should on Monday turn me a shoulder as cold as that 
 lamb which I offered to carve for the family, and which 
 remained from j'^esterday's quarter? I had thought of 
 staying but two days at Shrublands. I generally am 
 bored at country-houses. I was going away on the 
 ISIonday morning, but Lovel, when he and I and the 
 children and Miss Prior breakfasted together before he 
 went to business, pressecl me to stay so heartily and 
 sincerely that I agreed, gladly enough, to remain. I 
 could finish a scene or two of my tragedy at my leisure ; 
 besides, there were one or two little comedies going on 
 in the house which inspired me with no little curiosity. 
 
 Lady Baker growled at me, then, during lunch-time. 
 She addressed herself in whispers and hints to Mr. 
 Drencher. She had in her own man Bulkele}^ and bul- 
 lied him. She desired to know whether she was to have 
 the barouche or not: and when informed that it was 
 at her ladyship's service, said it was a great deal too 
 cold for the open carriage, and that she would have the 
 brougham. When she was told that Mr. and Mrs. Bon-
 
 280 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 nington had impounded the brougham, she said she had 
 no idea of people taking other people's carriages: and 
 when Mr. Bedford remarked that her ladyship had her 
 choice that morning, and had chosen the barouche she 
 said, " I didn't speak to you, sir; and I will thank you 
 not to address me until you are spoken to! " She made 
 the place so hot that I began to wish I had quitted it. 
 
 "And pray, Miss Prior, where is Captain Baker to 
 sleep," she asked, " now that the ground-floor room is 
 engaged?" 
 
 Miss Prior meekly said, " Captain Baker would have 
 the pink room." 
 
 " The room on my landing-place, without double 
 doors ? Impossible ! Clarence is always smoking. Clar- 
 ence will fill the whole house with his smoke. He shall 
 not sleep in the pink room. I expected the ground- 
 floor room for him, which — a — this gentleman persists 
 in not vacating." And the dear creature looked me full 
 in the face. 
 
 " This gentleman smokes, too, and is so comfortable 
 where he is, that he proposes to remain there," I say, 
 with a bland smile. 
 
 "Haspic of plovers' eggs, sir," says Bedford, hand- 
 ing a dish over my back. And he actually gave me a 
 little dig, and growled, "Go it — give it her!" 
 
 " There is a capital inn on the Heath," I continue, 
 peeling one of my opal favourites. " If Captain Baker 
 must smoke, he may have a room there." 
 
 " Sir! my son does not live at inns," cries Lady Baker. 
 
 "Oh, grandma! don't he though? And wasn't there 
 a row at the ' Star and Garter; ' and didn't Pa pay uncle 
 Clarence's bill there, though? " 
 
 "Silence, Popham! Little boys should be seen and
 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY 281 
 
 not heard," says Cissy. " Shouldn't little boys be seen 
 and not heard, Miss Prior?" 
 
 " They shouldn't insult their grandmothers. O my 
 Cecilia— my Cecilia!" cries Lady Baker, lifting her 
 hand. 
 
 " You shan't hit me! I say, you shan't hit me! " roars 
 Pop, starting back, and beginning to square at his en- 
 raged ancestress. The scene was growing painful. 
 And there was that rascal of a Bedford choking with 
 suppressed laughter at the sideboard. Bulkeley, her 
 ladyship's man, stood calm as fate; but young Buttons 
 burst out in a guffaw; on which, I assure you, Lady 
 Baker looked as savage as Lady Macbeth. 
 
 "Am I to be insulted by my daughter's servants?" 
 cries Lady Baker. " I will leave the house this instant." 
 
 "At what hour will your ladyship have the barouche? " 
 says Bedford, with perfect gravity. 
 
 If Mr. Drencher had whipped out a lancet and bled 
 
 Lady B on the spot, he would have done her good. 
 
 I shall draw the curtain over this sad— this humiliating 
 scene. Drop, little curtain ! on this absurd little act.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 
 
 HE being for whom 
 my friend Dick Bed 
 ford seemed to 
 have a special con- 
 V tempt and aver- 
 sion, was Mr. 
 Bulkeley, the 
 tall footman 
 in attendance 
 upon Lovel's 
 dear mother- 
 in-law. One 
 of the causes 
 of Bedford's 
 wrath the worthy fellow explained to me. In the ser- 
 vants' hall, Bulkeley was in the habit of speaking in 
 disrespectful and satirical terms of his mistress, enlarg- 
 ing upon her many foibles, and describing her pecun- 
 iary difficulties to the many habitues of that second 
 social circle at Shrublands. The hold which Mr. Bulk- 
 eley had over his lady lay in a long unsettled account of 
 wages, which her ladyship M'as quite disinclined to dis- 
 charge. And, in spite of this insolvency, the footman 
 must have found his profit in the place, for he con-
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 283 
 
 tinued to hold it from year to year, and to fatten on his 
 earnings, such as they were. My lady's dignity did not 
 allow her to travel without this huge personage in her 
 train; and a great comfort it must have been to her, to 
 reflect that in all the country-houses which she visited 
 
 (and she would go wherever she could force an invita- 
 tion), her attendant freely explained himself regard- 
 ing her peculiarities, and made his brother servants 
 aware of his mistress's embarrassed condition. And yet 
 the M'oman, whom I suppose no soul alive respected 
 
 (unless, haply, she herself had a hankering delusion that 
 she was a respectable woman) , thought that her position 
 in life forbade her to move abroad without a maid, and 
 this hulking incumbrance in plush; and never was seen 
 anywhere, in watering-place, country-house, hotel, un- 
 less she was so attended. 
 
 Between Bedford and Bulkeley, then, there was feud 
 and mutual hatred. Bedford chafed the big man by 
 constant sneers and sarcasms, which penetrated the 
 other's dull hide, and caused him frequently to assert 
 that he would punch Dick's ugly head oif . The house- 
 keeper had frequently to interpose, and fling her ma- 
 tronly arms between these men of war; and perhaps 
 Bedford was forced to be still at times, for Bulkeley 
 was nine inches taller than himself, and was perpetually 
 bragging of his skill and feats as a bruiser. This sultan 
 may also have wished to fling his pocket-handkerchief to 
 Miss Mary Pinhorn, who, though she loved Bedford's 
 wit and cleverness, might also be not insensible to the 
 magnificent chest, calves, whiskers, of ]Mr. Bulkeley. 
 On this delicate subject, however, I can't speak. The 
 men hated each other. You have, no doubt, remarked 
 in j^our experience of life, that when men do hate each
 
 284 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 other, about a woman, or some other cause, the real 
 reason is never assigned. You say, " The conduct of 
 such and such a man to his grandmother — his behaviour 
 in selhng that horse to Benson — his manner of brushing 
 his hair down the middle " — or what you will, " makes 
 him so offensive to me that I can't endure him." His 
 verses, therefore, are mediocre; his speeches in Parlia- 
 ment are utter failures; his practice at the bar is dwin- 
 dling every year; his powers (always small) are utterly 
 leaving him, and he is repeating his confounded jokes 
 until they quite nauseate. Why, only about myself, 
 and within these three days, I read a nice little article 
 — written in sorrow, you know, not in anger — by our 
 eminent confrere Wiggins, deploring the decay of &c. 
 &c. And Wiggins's little article which was not found 
 suitable for a certain Magazine? — Allons done! The 
 drunkard says the pickled salmon gave him the head- 
 ache; the man who hates us gives a reason, but not the 
 reason. Bedford was angry with Bulkeley for abusing 
 his mistress at the servants' table? Yes. But for what 
 else besides? I don't care — nor possibly does your wor- 
 ship, the exalted reader, for these low vulgar kitchen 
 quarrels. 
 
 Out of that ground-floor room, then, I would not 
 move in spite of the utmost efforts of my Lady Baker's 
 broad shoulder to push me out; and with many grins 
 that evening, Bedford complimented me on my gal- 
 lantry in routing the enemy at luncheon. I think he 
 may possibly have told his master, for Lovel looked 
 very much alarmed and uneasy when we greeted each 
 other on his return from the city, but became more com- 
 posed when Lady Baker appeared at the second dinner- 
 bell, without a trace on her fine countenance of that
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 285 
 
 storm which had caused all her waves to heave with 
 such commotion at noon. How finely some people, by 
 the way, can hang up quarrels — or pop them into a 
 drawer — as they do their work, when dinner is an- 
 nounced, and take them out again at a convenient sea- 
 son! Baker was mild, gentle, a thought sad and senti- 
 mental — tenderly interested about her dear son and 
 daughter, in Ireland, whom she must go and see — quite 
 easy in hand, in a word, and to the immense relief of all 
 of us. She kissed Lovel on retiring, and prayed bless- 
 ings on her Frederick. She pointed to the picture: 
 nothing could be more melancholy or more gracious. 
 
 "She go!" says Mr. Bedford to me at night— "not 
 she. She knows when she's well off; was obliged to turn 
 out of Bakerstown before she came here: that brute 
 Bulkeley told me so. She's always quarrelling with her 
 son and his wife. Angels don't grow everywhere as they 
 do at Putney, Mr. B. ! You gave it her well to-day at 
 lunch, you did though ! " During my stay at Shrub- 
 lands, Mr. Bedford paid me a regular evening visit in 
 my room, set the carte du pays before me, and in his 
 curt way acquainted me with the characters of the in- 
 mates of the house, and the incidents occurring therein. 
 
 Captain Clarence Baker did not come to Shrublands 
 on the day when his anxious mother wished to clear out 
 my nest (and expel the amiable bird in it) for her son's 
 benefit. I believe an important fight, which was to 
 come off in the Essex Marshes, and which was postponed 
 in consequence of the interposition of the county mag- 
 istrates, was the occasion, or at any rate the pretext, of 
 the Captain's delay. *' He likes seeing fights better 
 than going to 'em, the Captain does," my major-domo 
 remarked. " His regiment was ordered to India, and
 
 286 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 he sold out : climate don't agree with his precious health. 
 The Captain ain't been here ever so long, not since poor 
 ]Mrs. L.'s time, before IMiss P. came here: Captain 
 Clarence and his sister had a tremendous quarrel to- 
 gether. He was up to all sorts of pranks, the Captain 
 was. Not a good lot, by any means,, I should say, ISIr. 
 Batchelor." And here Bedford begins to laugh. "Did 
 you ever read, sir, a farce called ' Raising the Wind ? ' 
 There's plenty of Jeremy Diddlers now, Captain Jer- 
 emy Diddlers and Lady Jeremy Diddlers too. Have 
 you such a thing as half-a-crown about you? If you 
 have, don't invest it in some folk's pockets — that's all. 
 Beg your pardon, sir, if I am bothering you with 
 talking." 
 
 As long as I was at Shrublands, and ready to partake 
 of breakfast with my kind host and his children and 
 their governess. Lady Baker had her own breakfast 
 taken to her room. But when there were no visitors 
 in the house, she would come groaning out of her bed- 
 room to be present at the morning meal; and not un- 
 commonly would give the little company anecdotes of 
 the departed saint, under whose invocation, as it were, 
 we were assembled, and whose simpering effigy looked 
 down upon us, over her harp, and from the wall. The 
 eyes of the portrait followed you about, as portraits' 
 eyes so painted will; and those glances, as it seemed to 
 me, still domineered over Lovel, and made him quail as 
 they had done in life. Yonder, in the corner, was 
 Cecilia's harp, witli its leathern cover. I likened the 
 skin to that drum which the dying Zisca ordered should 
 be made out of his hide, to be beaten before the hosts 
 of his people and inspire terror. Vous concevez, I did 
 not say to Lovel at breakfast, as I sat before the ghostly
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 287 
 
 musical instrument, " My dear fellow, that skin of Cor- 
 dovan leather belonging to your defunct Cecilia's harp 
 is like the hide which," &c. ; but I confess, at first, I used 
 to have a sort of crawly sensation, as of a sickly genteel 
 ghost flitting about the place, in an exceedingly peevish 
 humour, trying to scold and command, and finding her 
 defunct voice couldn't be heard— trying to re-illumine 
 her extinguished leers and faded smiles and ogles, and 
 finding no one admired or took note. In the grey of 
 the gloaming, in the twilight corner where stands the 
 shrouded companion of song — what is that white figure 
 flickering round the silent harp? Once, as we were 
 assembled in the room at afternoon tea, a bird, en- 
 tering at the open window, perched on the instrument. 
 Popham dashed at it. Lovel was deep in conversa- 
 tion upon the wine-duties with a Member of Parlia- 
 ment he had brought down to dinner. Lady Baker, 
 who was, if I may use the expression, "jawung," 
 as usual, and telling one of her tremendous stories about 
 the Lord Lieutenant to Mr. Bonnington, took no note of 
 the incident. Elizabeth did not seem to remark it : what 
 was a bird on a harp to her, but a sparrow perched on a 
 bit of leather-casing! All the ghosts in Putney church- 
 yard might rattle all their bones, and would not frighten 
 that stout spirit! 
 
 I was amused at a precaution which Bedford took, 
 and somewhat alarmed at the distrust towards Lady 
 Baker which he exhibited, when, one day on my return 
 from town — whither I had made an excursion of four 
 or five hours — I found my bedroom door locked, and 
 Dick arrived with the key. " He's wrote to say he's 
 coming this evening, and if he had come when you was 
 away, Lady B. was capable of turning your things out,
 
 288 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 and putting his in, and taking her oath she believed 
 you was going to leave. The long-bows Lady B. do 
 pull are perfectly awful, Mr. B.! So it was long-bow 
 to long-bow, Mr. Batchelor; and I said you had took 
 the key in your pocket, not wishing to have your papers 
 disturbed. She tried the lawn window, but I had bolted 
 that, and the Captain will have the pink room, after all, 
 and must smoke up the chimney. I should have liked 
 to see him, or you, or any one do it in poor Mrs. L.'s 
 time — I just should!" 
 
 During my visit to London, I had chanced to meet 
 my friend Captain Fitzb — die, who belongs to a dozen 
 clubs, and knows something of every man in London. 
 "Know anything of Clarence Baker?" "Of course I 
 do," says Fitz; "and if you want any renseignement, 
 my dear fellow, I have the honour to inform you that a 
 blacker little sheep does not trot the London pave. 
 Wherever that ingenious officer's name is spoken — at 
 Tattersall's, at his clubs, in his late regiments, in men's 
 society, in ladies' society, in that expanding and most 
 agreeable circle which you may call no society at all — a 
 chorus of maledictions rises up at the mention of Baker. 
 Know anything of Clarence Baker I My dear fellow, 
 enough to make your hair turn white, unless ( as I some- 
 times fondly imagine) nature has already performed 
 that process, when of course I can't pretend to act upon 
 mere hair-dye." (The whiskers of the individual who 
 addressed me, innocent, stared me in the face as he spoke, 
 and were dyed of the most unblushing purple.) " Clar- 
 ence Baker, sir, is a young man who would have been 
 invaluable in Sparta as a warning against drunkenness 
 and an exemplar of it. He has helped the regimental 
 surgeon to some most interesting experiments in deli-
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 289 
 
 rium tremens. He is known, and not in the least trusted, 
 in every billiard-room in Brighton, Canterbury, York, 
 Sheffield— on every pavement which has rung with the 
 clink of dragoon boot-heels. By a wise system of re- 
 voking at whist he has lost games which have caused 
 not only his partners, but his opponents and the whole 
 club, to admire him and to distrust him : long before and 
 since he was of age, he has written his eminent name to 
 bills which have been dishonoured, and has nobly pleaded 
 his minority as a reason for declining to pay. From 
 the garrison towns where he has been quartered, he has 
 carried away not only the hearts of the milhners, but 
 their gloves, haberdashery, and perfumery. He has 
 had controversies with Cornet Green, regarding horse 
 transactions; disputed turf accounts with Lieutenant 
 Brown; and betting and backgammon differences with 
 Captain Black. From all I have heard he is the worthy 
 son of his admirable mother. And I bet you even on the 
 four events, if you stay three days in a country-house 
 with him— which appears to be your present happy idea 
 —that he will quarrel with you, insult you, and apolo- 
 gize ; that he will intoxicate himself more than once ; that 
 he will offer to play cards with you, and not pay on 
 losing (if he wins, I perhaps need not state what his 
 conduct will be) ; and that he will try to borrow money 
 from you, and most likely from your servant, before 
 he goes away." So saying, the sententious Fitz strutted 
 up the steps of one of his many club-haunts in Pall 
 Mall, and left me forewarned, and I trust forearmed, 
 against Captain Clarence and all his works. 
 
 The adversary, when at length I came in sight of him, 
 did not seem very formidable. I beheld a weakly little 
 man with Chinese eyes, and pretty little feet and hands.
 
 290 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 whose pallid countenance told of Finishes and Casinos. 
 His little chest and fingers were decorated with many 
 jewels. A perfume of tobacco hung round him. His 
 little moustache was twisted with an elaborate gummy 
 curl. I perceived that the little hand which twirled the 
 moustache shook woefully: and from the little chest 
 there came a cough surprisingly loud and dismal. 
 
 He was lying on a sofa as I entered, and the children 
 of the house were playing round him. " If you are our 
 uncle, why didn't you come to see us oftener?" asks 
 Popham. 
 
 " How should I know that you were such uncom- 
 monly nice children?" asks the Captain. 
 
 " We're not nice to you," saj^s Popham. " Why do 
 you cough so? Mamma used to cough. And why does 
 your hand shake so?" 
 
 "My hand shakes because I am ill: and I cough be- 
 cause I'm ill. Your mother died of it, and I dare say 
 I shall too." 
 
 " I hope you'll be good, and repent before you die, 
 uncle, and I will lend you some nice books," says Cecilia. 
 
 "Oh, bother books!" cries Pop. 
 
 "And I hope you II be good, Popham," and " You 
 hold your tongue, miss," and " I shall," and " I shan't," 
 and "You're another," and "I'll tell Miss Prior,"— 
 "Go and tell, telltale,"-" Boo "-" Boo "-" Boo "- 
 " Boo " — and I don't know what more exclamations 
 came tumultuously and rapidly from these dear chil- 
 dren, as their uncle lay before them, a handkerchief 
 to his mouth, his little feet high raised on the sofa 
 cushions. 
 
 Captain Baker turned a little eye towards me, as I en- 
 tered the room, but did not change his easy and elegant
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 291 
 
 posture. When I came near to the sofa where he re- 
 posed, he was good enough to call out : 
 
 "Glass of sherry!" 
 
 "It's Mr. Batchelor; it isn't Bedford, uncle," saj^s 
 Cissy. 
 
 " ]Mr. Batchelor ain't got any sherry in his pocket : 
 —have you, Mr. Batchelor? You ain't like old Mrs. 
 Prior, always pocketing things, are you?" cries Pop, 
 and falls a-laughing at the ludicrous idea of my being 
 mistaken for Bedford. 
 
 "Beg your pardon. How should I know, you 
 know?" drawls the invalid on the sofa. "Everybody's 
 the same now, you see." 
 
 "Sir!" says I, and "sir" was all I could say. The 
 fact is, I could have replied with something remarkably 
 neat and cutting, which would have transfixed the 
 languid little jackanapes who dared to mistake me for 
 a footman ; but, you see, I only thought of my repartee 
 some eight hours afterwards when I was lying in bed, 
 and I am sorry to own that a great number of my best 
 bonmots have been made in that way. So, as I had not 
 the pungent remark ready when wanted, I can't say I 
 said it to Captain Baker, but I dare say I turned very 
 red, and said, " Sir! " and — and in fact that was all. 
 
 "You were goin' to say somethin'?" asked the Cap- 
 tain, affably. 
 
 "You know my friend Mr. Fitzboodle, I believe?" 
 
 said I ; the fact is, I really did not know what to say. 
 
 " Some mistake — think not." 
 
 " He is a member of the ' Flag Club,' " I remarked, 
 
 looking my young fellow hard in the face. 
 
 " I ain't. There's a set of cads in that club that will 
 
 say anything."
 
 292 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 " You may not know him, sir, but he seemed to know 
 you very well. Are we to have any tea, children?" I 
 say, flinging myself down on an easy chair, taking up a 
 magazine, and adopting an easy attitude, though I dare 
 say my face was as red as a turkey-cock's, and I was 
 boiling over with rage. 
 
 As we had a very good breakfast and a profuse 
 luncheon at Shrublands, of course we could not support 
 nature till dinner-time without a five-o'clock tea; and 
 this was the meal for which I pretended to ask. Bed- 
 ford, with his silver kettle, and his buttony satellite, 
 presently brought in this refection, and of course the 
 children bawled out to him— 
 
 "Bedford— Bedford! uncle mistook Mr. Batchelor 
 for you." 
 
 " I could not be mistaken for a more honest man. 
 Pop," said I. And the bearer of the tea-urn gave me a 
 look of gratitude and kindness which, I own, went far 
 to restore my ruffled equanimity. 
 
 " Since you are the butler, will you get me a glass of 
 sherrj^ and a biscuit? " says the Captain. And Bedford, 
 retiring, returned presently with the wine. 
 
 The young gentleman's hand shook so, that, in order 
 to drink his wine, he had to surprise it, as it were, and 
 seize it with his mouth, when a shake brought the glass 
 near his lips. He drained the wine, and held out his 
 hand for another glass. The hand was steadier now. 
 
 "You the man who was here before?" asks the Cap- 
 tain. 
 
 "Six years ago, when you were here, sir," says the 
 butler. 
 
 " What! I ain't changed, I suppose?" 
 
 " Yes, you are, sir."
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 293 
 
 " Then, how the dooce do you remember me?" 
 
 " You forgot to pay me some money you borrowed 
 of me, one pound five, sir," says Bedford, whose eyes 
 slyly turned in my direction. 
 
 And here, according to her wont at this meal, the 
 dark-robed Miss Prior entered the room. She was com- 
 ing forward with her ordinarily erect attitude and firm 
 step, but paused in her walk an instant, and when she 
 came to us, I thought, looked remarkably pale. She 
 made a slight curtsey, and it must be confessed that 
 Captain Baker rose up from his sofa for a moment when 
 she appeared. She then sat down, with her back towards 
 him, turning towards herself the table and its tea ap- 
 paratus. 
 
 At this board my Lady Baker found us assembled 
 when she returned from her afternoon drive. She flew 
 to her darling reprobate of a son. She took his hand, 
 she smoothed back his hair from his damp forehead. 
 "My darling child," cries this fond mother, "what a 
 pulse you have got! " 
 
 " I suppose, because I've been drinking," says the 
 prodigal. 
 
 "Why didn't you come out driving with me? The 
 afternoon was lovely!" 
 
 "To pay visits at Richmond? Not as I knows on, 
 ma'am," says the invalid. " Conversation with elderly 
 ladies about poodles, Bible societies, that kind of thing? 
 It must be a doosid lovely afternoon that would make 
 me like that sort of game." And here comes a fit of 
 coughing, over which mamma ejaculates her sympathy. 
 
 "Kick — kick — killin' myself!" gasps out the Cap- 
 tain; "know I am. No man can lead my life, and stand 
 it. Dyin' by inches! Dyin' by whole yards, by Jo —
 
 294 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 ho— hove, I am!" Indeed, he was as bad in health as 
 in morals, this graceless Captain. 
 
 " That man of Lovel's seems a d insolent beg- 
 gar," he presently and ingenuously remarks. 
 
 " Oh, uncle, you mustn't say those words! " cries niece 
 Cissv. 
 
 " He's a man, and may say what he likes, and so will 
 I, when I'm a man. Yes, and I'll say it now, too, if I 
 like," cries JNIaster Popham. 
 
 "Not to give me pain, Popham? Will you?" asks 
 the governess. 
 
 On which the boy says— "Well, who wants to hurt 
 you. Miss Prior?" 
 
 And our colloquy ends by the arrival of the man of 
 the house from the citJ^ 
 
 What I have admired in some dear women is their 
 capacity for quarrelling and for reconciliation. As I 
 saw Lady Baker hanging round her son's neck, and 
 fondling his scanty ringlets, I remembered the awful 
 stories with which in former days she used to entertain 
 us regarding this reprobate. Her heart was pin- 
 cushioned with his filial crimes. Under her chestnut 
 front her ladyship's real head of hair was grey, in con- 
 sequence of his iniquities. His precocious appetite had 
 devoured the greater part of her jointure. He had 
 treated her many dangerous illnesses with indifference: 
 had been the worst son, the worst brother, the most 
 ill-conducted school-boy, the most immoral young 
 man — the terror of households, the Lovelace of garrison 
 towns, the perverter of young officers; in fact, Lady 
 Baker did not know how she supported existence at 
 all under the agony occasioned by his crimes, and it 
 was only from the possession of a more than ordinarily
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 295 
 
 strong sense of religion that she was enabled to bear her 
 burden. 
 
 The Captain himself explained these alternating ma- 
 ternal caresses and quarrels in his easy way. 
 
 " Saw how the old lady kissed and fondled me? " says 
 he to his brother-in-law. "Quite refreshin', ain't it? 
 Hang me, I thought she was goin' to send me a bit of 
 sweetbread off her own plate. Came up to my room 
 last night, wanted to tuck me up in bed, and abused 
 mv brother to me for an hour. You see, when I'm in 
 favour, she always abuses Baker; when he's in favour 
 she abuses me to him. And my sister-in-law, didn't she 
 give it my sister-in-law! Oh! I'll trouble you! And 
 poor Cecilia — why, hang me, INIr. Batchelor, she used to 
 go on — this bottle's corked, I'm hanged if it isn't — to 
 go on about Cecilia, and call her . . . Hullo!" 
 
 Here he was interrupted by our host, who said 
 sternly — 
 
 "AVill you please to forget those quarrels, or not 
 mention them here? Will you have more wine, Bat- 
 chelor?" 
 
 And Lovel rises, and haughtily stalks out of the room. 
 To do Lovel justice, he had a great contempt and dis- 
 like for his young brother-in-law, which, with his best 
 magnanimity, he could not at all times conceal. 
 
 So our host stalks towards the drawing-room, leaving 
 Captain Clarence sipping wine. 
 
 " Don't go, too," says the Captain. " He's a con- 
 founded rum fellow, my brother-in-law is. He's a 
 confounded ill-conditioned fellow, too. They always 
 are, you know, these tradesmen fellows, these half-bred 
 'uns. I used to tell my sister so ; but she would have him, 
 because he had such lots of money, you know. And she
 
 296 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 threw over a f ellar she was very fond of ; and I told her 
 she'd regret it. I told Lady B. she'd regret it. It was 
 all Lady B.'s doing. She made Cissy throw the f ellar 
 over. He was a bad match, certainly, Tom Mountain 
 was; and not a clever fellow, you know, or that sort of 
 thing; but, at any rate, he was a gentleman, and better 
 than a confounded sugar-baking beggar out RatclifF 
 Highway." 
 
 " You seem to find that claret very good," I remark, 
 speaking, I may say, Socratically, to my young friend, 
 who had been swallowing bumper after bumper. 
 
 "Claret good! Yes, doosid good!" 
 
 "Well, you see our confounded sugar-baker gives 
 you his best." 
 
 " And why shouldn't he, hang him? Why, the fellow 
 chokes with money. What does it matter to him how 
 much he spends? You're a poor man, I dare say. You 
 don't look as if you were over-flush of money. WeU, 
 if you stood a good dinner, it would be all right — I mean 
 it would show— you understand me, you know. But a 
 sugar-baker with ten thousand a year, what does it mat- 
 ter to him, bottle of claret more— less? " 
 
 " Let us go in to the ladies," I say. 
 
 "Go in to mother! I don't want to go in to my 
 mother," cries out the artless youth. "And I don't 
 want to go in to the sugar-baker, hang him ! and I don't 
 want to go in to the children ; and I'd rather have a glass 
 of brandy-and-water with you, old boy. Here you! 
 What's your name? Bedford! I owe you five-and- 
 twenty shillings, do I, old Bedford? Give us a glass 
 of Schnaps, and I'll pay you! Look here, Batchelor. 
 I hate that sugar-baker. Two years ago, I drew a bill 
 on him, and he wouldn't pay it — perhaps he would have
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 297 
 
 paid it, but my sister wouldn't let him. And, I say, 
 shall we go and have a cigar in your room? My 
 mother's been abusing you to me like fun this morning. 
 She abuses everybody. She used to abuse Cissy. Cissy 
 used to abuse her — used to fight like two cats . . . ." 
 
 And if I narrate this conversation, dear Spartan 
 youth ! if I show thee this Helot maundering in his cups, 
 it is that from his odious example thou may'st learn to 
 be moderate in the use of thine own. Has the enemy 
 who has entered thy mouth ever stolen away thy brains? 
 Has wine ever caused thee to blab secrets; to utter 
 egotisms and follies? Beware of it. Has it ever been 
 thy friend at the end of the hard day's work, the cheery 
 companion of thy companions, the promoter of har- 
 mony, kindness, harmless social pleasure? Be thankful 
 for it. Three years since, when the comet was blazing 
 in the autumnal sky, I stood on the chateau-steps of a 
 great claret proprietor. " Boirai-je de ton vin, O 
 comete?" I said, addressing the luminary with the flam- 
 ing tail. " Shall those generous bunches which you 
 ripen yield their juices for me morituro?" It was a 
 solemn thought. All! my dear brethren! who knows 
 the Order of the Fates? When shall we pass the 
 Gloomy Gates? Which of us goes, which of us waits 
 to drink those famous Fifty -eights? A sermon, upon 
 my word! And pray why not a little homily on an 
 autumn eve over a purple cluster? ... If that 
 rickety boy had only drunk claret, I warrant you his 
 tongue would not have babbled, his hand would not have 
 shaken, his wretched little brain and body would not 
 have reeled with fever. 
 
 " 'Gad," said he next day to me, " cut again last 
 night. Have an idea that I abused Level. When I
 
 298 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 have a little wine on board, always speak my mind, 
 don't you know? Last time I was here in my poor sis- 
 ter's time, said somethin' to her, don't quite know what 
 it was, somethin' confoundedly true and unpleasant I 
 dare say. I think it was about a fellow she used to go 
 on with before she married the sugar-baker. And I got 
 orders to quit, by Jove, sir— neck and crop, sir, and no 
 mistake! And we gave it one another over the stairs. 
 Oh, my! we did pitch in!— And that was the last time 
 I ever saw Cecilia— give you my word. A doosid un- 
 forgiving woman my poor sister was, and between you 
 and me, Batchelor, as great a flirt as ever threw a fellar 
 over. You should have heard her and my Lady B. go 
 on, that's all! — Well, mamma, are you going out for a 
 drive in the coachy-poachy?— Not as I knows on, thank 
 you, as I before had the honour to observe. Mr. Batch- 
 elor and me are going to play a little game at billiards." 
 We did, and I won; and, from that day to this, have 
 never been paid my little winnings. 
 
 On the day after the doughty captain's arrival, INIiss 
 Prior, in whose face I had remarked a great expression 
 of gloom and care, neither made her appearance at 
 breakfast nor at the children's dinner. "Miss Prior 
 was a little unwell," Lady Baker said, with an air of 
 most perfect satisfaction. " Mr. Drencher will come to 
 see her this afternoon, and prescribe for her, I dare say," 
 adds her ladyship, nodding and winking a roguish eye 
 at me. I was at a loss to understand what was the point 
 of humour which amused Lady B., until she herself 
 explained it. 
 
 " My good sir," she said, " I think Miss Prior is not 
 at all averse to being ill." And the nods recommenced. 
 
 "As how?" I ask.
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 299 
 
 To being ill, or at least to calling in the medical 
 
 man." 
 
 "Attachment between governess and Sawbones I 
 make bold for to presume?" says the Captain. 
 
 " Precisely, Clarence — a very fitting match. I saw 
 the affair, even before Miss Prior owned it — that is to 
 say, she has not denied it. She says she can't afford 
 to marry, that she has children enough at home in her 
 brothers and sisters. She is a well-principled young 
 woman, and does credit, Mr. Batchelor, to your recom- 
 mendation, and the education she has received from her 
 uncle, the Master of St. Boniface." 
 
 "Cissy to school; Pop to Eton; and Miss What-d'- 
 you-call to grind the pestle in Sawbones' back-shop: I 
 see! " says Captain Clarence. " He seems a low, vulgar 
 blackguard, that Sawbones." 
 
 "Of course, my love, what can you expect from that 
 sort of person?" asks mamma, whose own father was a 
 small attorney in a small Irish town. 
 
 " I wish I had his confounded good health," cries 
 Clarence, coughing. 
 
 "My poor darling!" says mamma. 
 
 I said nothing. And so Elizabeth was engaged to 
 that great, broad-shouldered, red-whiskered young sur- 
 geon with the huge appetite and the dubious h's ! Well, 
 why not? What was it to me? Why shouldn't she marry 
 him? Was he not an honest man, and a fitting match 
 for her? Yes. Very good. Only if I do love a bird 
 or flower to glad me with its dark blue eye, it is the first 
 to fade away. If I have a partiality for a young gazelle 
 it is the first to — psha! What have I to do with this 
 namby-pamby? Can the heart that has truly loved ever 
 forget, and doesn't it as truly love on to the — stuff!
 
 300 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 I am past the age of such follies. I might have made 
 a woman happy: I think I should. But the fugacious 
 years have lapsed, my Posthumus! My waist is now 
 a good bit wider than my chest, and it is decreed that 
 I shall be alone ! 
 
 My tone, then, when next I saw Elizabeth, was sor- 
 rowful — not angry. Drencher, the young doctor, came 
 punctually enough, you may be sure, to look after his 
 patient. Little Pinhorn, the children's maid, led the 
 young practitioner smiling towards the schoolroom 
 regions. His creaking highlows sprang swiftly up the 
 stairs. I happened to be in the hall, and surveyed him 
 with a grim pleasure. " Now he is in the schoolroom," 
 I thought. " Now he is taking her hand — it is very 
 white — and feeling her pulse. And so on, and so on. 
 Surely, surely Pinhorn remains in the room?" I am 
 sitting on a hall-table as I muse plaintively on these 
 things, and gaze up the stairs by which the Hakeem 
 (great carroty-whiskered cad!) has passed into the 
 sacred precincts of the harem. As I gaze up the stair, 
 another door opens into the hall; a scowling face peeps 
 through that door, and looks up the stair, too. 'Tis 
 Bedford, who has slid out of his pantry, and watches the 
 doctor. And thou, too, my poor Bedford! Oh! the 
 whole world throbs with vain heart-pangs, and tosses 
 and heaves with longing, unfulfilled desires ! All night, 
 and all over the world, bitter tears are dropping as reg- 
 ular as the dew, and cruel memories are haunting the 
 pillow. Close my hot eyes, kind Sleep! Do not visit 
 it, dear delusive images out of the Past! Often your 
 figure shimmers through my dreams, Glorvina. Not as 
 you are now, the stout mother of many children — you 
 always had an alarming likeness to your own mother.
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 301 
 
 Glorvina— but as you were— slim, black-haired, blue- 
 eyed — when your carnation lips warbled the " Vale of 
 Avoca" or the "Angel's Whisper." "What!" I say 
 then, looking up the stair, " am I absolutely growing 
 jealous of yon apothecary? — O fool!" And at this 
 juncture, out peers Bedford's face from the pantry, and 
 I see he is jealous too. I tie my shoe as I sit on the table ; 
 I don't affect to notice Bedford in the least (who, in 
 fact, pops his own head back again as soon as he sees 
 mine). I take my wideawake from the peg, set it on 
 one side my head, and strut whistling out of the hall- 
 door. I stretch over Putney Heath, and my spirit 
 resumes its tranquillity. 
 
 I sometimes keep a little journal of my proceedings, 
 and on referring to its pages, the scene rises before me 
 pretty clearly to which the brief notes allude. On this 
 day I find noted: "^Friday, July 14. — B. came down 
 to-day. Seems to require a great deal of attendance 
 from Dr.— Row between dowagers after dinner." " B.," 
 I need not remark, is Bessj^ " Dr.," of course, you 
 know. " Row between dowagers " means a battle royal 
 between Mrs. Bonnington and Lady Baker, such as not 
 unfrequently raged under the kindly Lovel's roof. 
 
 Lady Baker's gigantic menial Bulkeley condescended 
 to wait at the family dinner at Shrublands, when per- 
 force he had to put himself under Mr. Bedford's orders. 
 Bedford would gladly have dispensed with the London 
 footman, over whose calves, he said, he and his boy were 
 always tumbling; but Lady Baker's dignity would not 
 allow her to part from her own man; and her good- 
 natured son-in-law allowed her, and indeed almost all 
 other persons, to have their own way. I have reason to 
 fear Mr. Bulkeley's morals were loose. Mrs. Bonning-
 
 302 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 ton had a special horror of him; his behaviour in the 
 village public-houses, where his powder and plush were 
 for ever visible — his freedom of conduct and conversa- 
 tion before the good lady's nurse and parlour-maids — 
 provoked her anger and suspicion. JNIore than once, 
 she whispered to me her loathing of this flour-be- 
 sprinkled monster; and, as much as such a gentle crea- 
 ture could, she show^ed her dislike to him by her beha- 
 viour. The flunkey's solemn equanimity was not to be 
 disturbed by any such feeble indications of displeasure. 
 From his powdered height, he looked down upon Mrs. 
 Bonnington, and her esteem or her dislike was beneath 
 him. 
 
 Now on this Friday night the 14th, Captain Clarence 
 had gone to pass the day in town, and our Bessy made 
 her appearance again, the doctor's prescriptions having, 
 I suppose, agreed with her. Mr. Bulkeley, who was 
 handing coffee to the ladies, chose to ofl*er none to Miss 
 Prior, and I was amused when I saw Bedford's heel 
 scrunch down on the flunkey's right foot, as he pointed 
 towards the governess. The oaths which Bulkeley had 
 to devour in silence must have been frightful. To do 
 the gallant fellow justice, I think he would have died 
 rather than speak before company in a drawing-room. 
 He limped up and offered the refreshment to the young 
 lady, who bowed and declined it. 
 
 " Frederick," Mrs. Bonnington begins, when the 
 coffee-ceremony is over, "now the servants are gone, I 
 must scold you about the waste at your table, my dear. 
 What was the need of opening that great bottle of 
 champagne? Lady Baker only takes two glasses. Mr. 
 Batchelor doesn't touch it." (No, thank you, my dear 
 Mrs. Bonnington: too old a stager.) "Why not have 
 a little bottle instead of that great, large, immense one?
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 303 
 
 Bedford is a teetotaller. I suppose it is that London 
 footman who likes it" 
 
 " My dear mother, I haven't really ascertained his 
 tastes," says Lovel. 
 
 "Then why not tell Bedford to open a pint, dear?" 
 pursues mamma. 
 
 "Oh, Bedford — Bedford, we must not mention him^ 
 Mrs. Bonnington!" cries Lady Baker. "Bedford is 
 faultless. Bedford has the keys of everything. Bed- 
 ford is not to be controlled in anything. Bedford is to 
 be at liberty to be rude to my servant." 
 
 " Bedford was admirably kind in his attendance on 
 your daughter. Lady Baker," says Lovel, his brow 
 darkening: "and as for your man, I should think he 
 was big enough to protect himself from any rudeness 
 of poor Dick!" The good fellow had been angry for 
 one moment, at the next he was all for peace and 
 conciliation. 
 
 Lady Baker puts on her superfine air. With that 
 air she had often awe-stricken good, simple Mrs. Bon- 
 nington; and she loved to use it whenever city folks or 
 humble people were present. You see she thought her- 
 self your superior and mine, as de par le monde there 
 are many artless Lady Bakers who do. " My dear 
 Frederick!" says Lady B. then, putting on her best 
 Mayf air manner, " excuse me for saying, but you don't 
 know the — the class of servant to which Bulkeley be- 
 longs. I had him as a great favour from Lord Tod- 
 dleby's. That — that class of servant is not generally 
 accustomed to go out single." 
 
 " Unless they are two behind a carriage-perch they 
 pine away, I suppose," remarks Mr. Lovel, " as one 
 love-bird does without his mate." 
 
 " No doubt— no doubt," says Lady B., who does not
 
 304 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 in the least understand him; "I only say you are not 
 accustomed here— in this kind of estahlishment, you 
 understand — to that class of — " 
 
 But here Mrs. Bonnington could contain her wrath 
 no more. "Lady Baker!" cries that injured mother, 
 "is my son's estabhshment not good enough for any 
 powdered wretch in England? Is the house of a Brit- 
 ish merchant — " 
 
 "My dear creature— my dear creature!" interposes 
 her ladyship, " it is the house of a British merchant, and 
 a most comfortable house too." 
 
 " Yes, as you find it" remarks mamma. 
 
 " Yes, as I find it, when I come to take care of that 
 dejyarted angel's children, Mrs. Bonnington! "— (Lady 
 B. here indicates the Cecihan effigy)— "of that dear 
 seraph's orphans, Mrs. Bonnington! You cannot. 
 You have other duties— other children— a husband, 
 whom you have left at home in delicate health, and 
 who-" 
 
 "Lady Baker!" exclaims Mrs. Bonnington, "no one 
 shall say I don't take care of my dear husband!" 
 
 "My dear Lady Baker!— my dear— dear mother!" 
 cries Lovel, eplore, and whimpers aside to me, " They 
 spar in this way every night, when we're alone. It's 
 too bad, ain't it. Batch?" 
 
 " I say you do take care of Mr. Bonnington," Baker 
 blandly resumes (she has hit Mrs. Bonnington on the 
 raw place, and smilingly proceeds to thong again) : " I 
 say you do take care of your husband, my dear creature, 
 and that is why you can't attend to Frederick! And 
 as he is of a very easy temper,— except sometimes with 
 his poor Cecilia's mother,— he allows all his tradesmen 
 to cheat him ; all his servants to cheat him ; Bedford to
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 305 
 
 be rude to everybody ; and if to me, why not to my ser- 
 vant Bulkeley, with whom Lord Toddleby's groom of 
 the chambers gave me the very highest character?" 
 
 Mrs. Bonnington in a great flurry broke in by saying 
 she was surprised to hear that noblemen had grooms in 
 their chambers: and she thought they were much better 
 in the stables : and when they dined with Captain Huff, 
 you know, Frederick, Ms man always brought such a 
 dreadful smell of the stable in with him, that — Here 
 she paused. Baker's eye was on her; and that dowager 
 was grinning a cruel triumph. 
 
 "He! — he! You mistake, my good Mrs. Bonning- 
 ton!" says her ladyship. " Your poor mother mistakes, 
 my dear Frederick. You have lived in a quiet and most 
 respectable sphere, but not, you understand, not — " 
 
 "Not what, pray. Lady Baker? We have lived in 
 this neighbourhood twenty years: in my late husband's 
 time, when we saw a great deal of company, and this 
 dear Frederick was a boy at Westminster School. And 
 we have paid for everything we have had for twenty 
 years ; and we have not owed a penny to any tradesman. 
 And we may not have had powdered footmen, six feet 
 high, impertinent beasts, who were rude to all the maids 
 in the place. Don't — I will speak, Frederick! But 
 servants who loved us, and who were paid their wages, 
 and who — o — ho — ho — ho!" 
 
 Wipe your eyes, dear friends! out with all your 
 pocket-handkerchiefs. I protest I cannot bear to see 
 a woman in distress. Of course Fred Lovel runs to 
 console his dear old mother, and vows Lady Baker 
 meant no harm. 
 
 "Meant harm! My dear Frederick, what harm can 
 I mean? I only said your poor mother did not seem
 
 306 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 to know what a groom of the chambers was! How 
 should she?" 
 
 "Come— come," says Frederick, "enough of this! 
 Miss Prior, will j^ou be so kind as to give us a little 
 music?" 
 
 Miss Prior was playing Beethoven at the piano, very 
 solemnly and finely, when our Black Sheep returned to 
 this quiet fold, and, I am sorry to say, in a very riotous 
 condition. The brilliancy of his eye, the purple flush on 
 his nose, the unsteady gait, and uncertain tone of voice, 
 told tales of Captain Clarence, who stumbled over more 
 than one chair before he found a seat near me. 
 
 "Quite right, old boy," says he, winking at me. 
 " Cut again— dooshid good fellosh. Better than being 
 along with you shtoopid-old-fogish." And he began to 
 warble wild " Fol-de-rol-lolls " in an insane accompani- 
 ment to the music. 
 
 " By heavens, this is too bad! " growls Lovel. " Lady 
 Baker, let your big man carry your son to bed. Thank 
 you. Miss Prior!" 
 
 At a final yell, which the unlucky young scapegrace 
 gave, Ehzabeth stopped, and rose from the piano, look- 
 ing very pale. She made her curtsey, and was depart- 
 ing, when the wretched young captain sprang up, 
 looked at her, and sank back on the sofa with another 
 wild laugh. Bessy fled away scared, and white as a 
 sheet. 
 
 " Take the brute to bed! " roars the master of the 
 house, in great wrath. And scapegrace was conducted 
 to his apartment, whither he went laughing wildly, and 
 calling out, "Come on, old sh-sh-shugar-baker!" 
 
 The morning after this fine exhibition. Captain Clar- 
 ence Baker's mamma announced to us that her poor
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 307 
 
 dear suffering boy was too ill to come to breakfast, and 
 I believe be prescribed for himself devilled drmnstick 
 and soda-water, of which he partook in his bedroom. 
 Lovel, seldom angry, was violently wroth with his 
 brother-in-law ; and, almost always polite, was at break- 
 fast scarcely civil to Lady Baker. I am bound to say 
 that female abused her position. She appealed to 
 Cecilia's picture a great deal too much during the course 
 of breakfast. She hinted, she sighed, she waggled her 
 head at me, and spoke about " that angel " in the most 
 tragic manner. Angel is all very well: but j^our angel 
 brought in a tout propos; your departed blessing called 
 out of her grave ever so many times a day ; when grand- 
 mamma wants to cany a point of her own; when the 
 children are naughty, or noisy; when papa betrays a 
 flickering inclination to dine at his club, or to bring home 
 a bachelor friend or two to Shrublands; — I saj^ your 
 angel ahvays dragged in by the wings into the conver- 
 sation loses her effect. No man's heart put on wider 
 crape than Lovel's at Cecilia's loss. Considering the 
 circumstances, his grief was most creditable to him: but 
 at breakfast, at lunch, about Bulkeley the footman, 
 about the barouche or the phaeton, or any trumpery 
 domestic perplexity, to have a Dcus inter sit was too 
 much. And I observed, with some inward satisfaction, 
 that when Baker uttered her pompous funereal phrases, 
 rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, and appealed to that 
 quarter, the children ate their jam and quarrelled and 
 kicked their little shins under the table, Lovel read his 
 paper and looked at his watch to see if it was omnibus 
 time ; and Bessy made the tea, quite undisturbed hy the 
 old lady's tragical prattle. 
 
 When Baker described her son's fearful cough and
 
 308 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 dreadfully feverish state, I said, " Surely, Lady Baker, 
 Mr. Drencher had better be sent for;" and I suppose 
 I uttered the disgusting dissyllable Drencher with a fine 
 sarcastic accent; for once, just once, Bessy's grey eyes 
 rose through the spectacles and met mine with a glance 
 of unutterable sadness, then calmly settled down on to 
 the slop-basin again, or the urn, in which her pale fea- 
 tures, of course, were odiously distorted. 
 
 " You will not bring anybody home to dinner, Fred- 
 erick, in my poor boy's state? " asks Lady B. 
 
 "He may stay in his bedroom I suppose," replies 
 Lovel. 
 
 "He is Cecilia's brother, Frederick!" cries the lady. 
 " Conf — " Lovel was beginning. What was he about 
 to say? 
 
 " If you are going to confound your angel in heaven, 
 I have nothing to say, sir! " cries the mother of Clarence. 
 
 "Parbleu, madame!" cried Lovel, in French; "if he 
 were not my wife's brother, do you think I would let 
 him stay here?" 
 
 "Parly Fran9ais? Oui, oui, oui!" cries Pop. "I 
 know what Pa means!" 
 
 "And so do I know. And I shall lend uncle Clar- 
 ence some books which Mr. Bonnington gave me, 
 and-" 
 
 "Hold your tongue all!" shouts Lovel, with a stamp 
 of his foot. 
 
 " You will, perhaps, have the great kindness to allow 
 me the use of your carriage— or, at least, to wait here 
 until my poor suffering boy can be moved, Mr. Lovel?" 
 says Lady B., with the airs of a martyr. 
 
 Lovel rang the bell. " The carriage for Lady Baker 
 —at her ladyship's hour, Bedford: and the cart for her
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 309 
 
 luggage. Her ladyship and Captain Baker are going 
 away." 
 
 " I have lost one child, INIr. Lovel, whom some people 
 seem to forget. I am not going to murder another! 
 I will not leave this house, sir, unless you drive me from 
 it hy force, until the medical man has seen my boy!" 
 And here she and sorrow sat down again. She was 
 always giving warning. She was always fitting the 
 halter and traversing the cart, was Lady B., but she 
 for ever declined to drop the handkerchief and have 
 the business over. I saw by a little shrug in Bessy's 
 shoulders, what the governess's views were of the 
 matter: and, in a word. Lady B. no more went away 
 on this day, than she had done on forty previous days 
 when she announced her intention of going. She would 
 accept benefits, you see, but then she insulted her bene- 
 factors, and so squared accounts. 
 
 That great healthy, florid, scarlet-whiskered medical 
 wretch came at about twelve, saw JNIr. Baker and pre- 
 scribed for him : and of course he must have a few words 
 with Miss Prior, and inquire into the state of her health. 
 Just as on the previous occasion, I happened to be in the 
 hall when Drencher went upstairs; Bedford happened 
 to be looking out of his pantry-door ; I burst into a yell 
 of laughter when I saw Dick's livid face — the sight 
 somehow suited my savage soul. 
 
 No sooner was Medicus gone than Bessy, grave and 
 pale, in bonnet and spectacles, came sliding downstairs. 
 I do not mean down the banister, which was Pop's 
 favourite method of descent; but slim, tall, noiseless, 
 in a nunlike calm, she swept down the steps. Of course, 
 I followed her. And there was Master Bedford's nose 
 peeping through the pantry-door at us, as we went out
 
 310 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 with, the children. Pray, what business of his was it to 
 be always watching anybody who walked with Miss 
 Prior ? 
 
 " So, Bessy," I said, "what report does Mr.— hem!— 
 Mr. Drencher — give of the interesting invalid?" 
 
 " Oh, the most horrid ! He says that Captain Baker 
 has several times had a dreadful disease brought on by 
 drinking, and that he is mad when he has it. He has 
 delusions, sees demons, when he is in this state — wants 
 to be watched." 
 
 "Drencher tells you everything?" 
 
 She says meekly: " He attends us when we are ill." 
 
 I remark, with fine irony: "He attends the whole 
 family: he is always coming to Shrublands! " 
 
 " He comes very often," Miss Prior says gravely. 
 
 "And do you mean to say, Bessy," I cry, madly cut- 
 ting off two or three heads of yellow broom with my 
 stick — " do you mean to say a fellow like that, who drops 
 his h's about the room, is a welcome visitor? " 
 
 " I should be very ungrateful if he were not welcome, 
 Mr. Batchelor," says Miss Prior. "And call me by my 
 surname, please — and he has taken care of all my family 
 — and — " 
 
 "And, of course, of course, of course. Miss Prior!" 
 say I, brutally; " and this is the way the world wags; and 
 this is the way we are ill, and are cured; and we are 
 grateful to the doctor that cures us! " 
 
 She nods her grave head. " You used to be kinder to 
 me once, Mr. Batchelor, in old days — in your — in my 
 time of trouble ! Yes, my dear, that is a beautiful bit of 
 broom! Oh, what a fine butterfly! " (Cecilia scours the 
 plain after the butterfly.) "You used to be kinder to 
 me once — when we were both unhappy." 
 
 " I was unhappy," I say, " but I survived. I was ill,
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 311 
 
 but I am now pretty well, thank you. I was jilted by a 
 false, heartless woman. Do you suppose there are no 
 other heartless women in the world? " And I am confi- 
 dent, if Bessy's breast had not been steel, the daggers 
 which darted out from my eyes would have bored fright- 
 ful stabs in it. 
 
 But she shook her head, and looked at me so sadly that 
 my eye-daggers tumbled down to the ground at once; 
 for you see, though I am a jealous Turk, I am a very 
 easily appeased jealous Turk; and if I had been Blue- 
 beard, and my wife, just as I was going to decapitate 
 her, had lifted up her head from the block and cried a 
 little, I should have dropped my scimitar, and said, 
 " Come, come, Fatima, never mind for the present about 
 that key and closet business, and I'll chop j^our head off 
 some other mornin 2;." I say Bessv disarmed me. Pooh! 
 I say, women will make a fool of me to the end. All ! ye 
 gracious Fates! Cut my thread of life ere it grow too 
 long. Suppose I were to live till seventy, and some little 
 wretch of a woman were to set her cap at me? She 
 would catch me — I know she would. All the males of 
 our family have been spoony and soft, to a degree per- 
 fectly ludicrous and despicable to contemplate— Well, 
 Bessy Prior, putting a hand out, looked at me, and 
 said — 
 
 " You are the oldest and best friend I have ever had, 
 Mr. Batchelor — the only friend." 
 
 "Am I, Elizabeth? " I gasp, with a beating heart. 
 
 " Cissy is running back with a butterfly." ( Our hands 
 unlock.) " Don't you see the difficulties of my position? 
 Don't you know that ladies are often jealous of govern- 
 esses; and that unless — unless they imagined I was — I 
 was favourable to Mr. Drencher, who is very good and 
 kind— the ladies of Shrublands might not Hke my re-
 
 312 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 maining alone in the house with— with— you under- 
 stand?" A moment the eyes look over the spectacles: 
 at the next, the meek bonnet bows down towards the 
 ground. 
 
 I wonder did she hear the bump— bumping of my 
 heart! O heart!— O wounded heart! did I ever think 
 thou wouldst bump— bump again? "Egl— Egl— iza- 
 beth," I say, choking with emotion, " do, do, do you— te 
 — tell me— you don't— don't— don't — lo— love that 
 apothecary?" 
 
 She shrugs her shoulder— her charming shoulder. 
 
 "And if," I hotly continue, " if a gentleman— if a 
 man of mature age certainly, but who has a kind heart 
 and four hundred a year of his own— were to say to you, 
 ' Elizabeth ! will you bid the flowers of a blighted life to 
 bloom again?— Elizabeth! will you soothe a wounded 
 heart?'-" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Batchelor!" she sighed, and then added 
 quickly, " Please, don't take my hand. Here's Pop." 
 
 And that dear child (bless him!) came up at the mo- 
 ment, saying, " Oh, Miss Prior, look here! I've got such 
 a jolly big toadstool ! " And next came Cissy, with a con- 
 founded butterfly. O Richard the Third! Haven't you 
 been maligned because you smothered two little nui- 
 sances in a Tower? What is to prove to me that you 
 did not serve the little brutes right, and that you weren't 
 a most humane man? Darling Cissy coming up, then, 
 in her dear, charming way, says, " You shan't take Mr. 
 Batchelor's hand, you shall take my hand!" And she 
 tosses up her little head, and walks with the instructress 
 of her youth. 
 
 "Ces enfans ne comprennent guere le Fran^ais," 
 says Miss Prior, speaking very rapidly.
 
 Bessy's Reflections
 
 A BLACK SHEEP 313 
 
 "Apres louche?" I whisper. The fact is, I was so 
 agitated I hardly knew what the French for lunch was. 
 And then our conversation dropped : and the beating of 
 my own heart was all the sound I heard. 
 
 Lunch came. I couldn't eat a bit: I should have 
 choked. Bessy ate plentj^ and drank a glass of beer. 
 It was her dinner, to be sure. Young Blacksheep did 
 not appear. We did not miss him. When Lady Baker 
 began to tell her story of George IV. at Slane Castle, 
 I went into my own room. I took a book. Books? Psha! 
 I went into the garden. I took out a cigar. But no, I 
 would not smoke it. Perhaps she— many people don't 
 like smoking. 
 
 I went into the garden. " Come into the garden, 
 Maud." I sat by a large lilac-bush. I w^aited. Per- 
 haps she w^ould come? The morning-room windows 
 w^ere wide open on the lawn. Will she never come ? Ah ! 
 what is that tall form advancing? gliding— gliding into 
 the chamber like a beauteous ghost? "Who most does 
 like an angel show, you may be sure 'tis she." She 
 comes up to the glass. She lays her spectacles down on 
 the mantelpiece. She puts a slim white hand over her 
 auburn hair and looks into the mirror. EHzabeth, Ehz- 
 abeth! I come! 
 
 As I came up, I saw a horrid Httle grinning, de- 
 bauched face surge over the back of a great armchair 
 and look towards Elizabeth. It was Captain Black- 
 sheep, of course. He laid his elbows over the chair. He 
 looked keenly and with a diabolical smile at the uncon- 
 scious girl; and just as I reached the window, he cried 
 out, ''Bessy Bellenden, by Jove!" 
 
 Elizabeth turned round, gave a little cry, and— 
 but what happened I shall tell in the ensuing chapter.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IN WHICH I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT 
 
 when I heard 
 Baker call out 
 Bessy Bellenden, 
 and adjure Jove, 
 he had run for- 
 ward and seized 
 Elizabeth by the 
 waist, or offered 
 her other personal 
 indignity, I too 
 should have run 
 forward on my 
 side and engaged 
 
 ■■^^^&^.S3^^^^^K'^' him. Though I 
 am a stout elderly man, short in stature and in wind, I 
 know I am a match for that rickety little captain on his 
 high-heeled boots. A match for him? I believe Miss 
 Bessy would have been a match for both of us. Her 
 white arm was as hard and polished as ivory. Had 
 she held it straight pointed against the rush of the dra- 
 goon, he would have fallen backwards before his in- 
 tended prey: I have no doubt he would. It was the 
 hen, in this case, was stronger than the libertine fox, 
 and au hesoin would have pecked the little marauding 
 
 314
 
 I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT 315 
 
 vermin's eyes out. Had, I say, Partlet been weak, and 
 Reynard strong, I would have come forward: I cer- 
 tainly would. Had he been a wolf now, instead of a 
 fox, I am certain I should have run in upon him, grap- 
 pled with him, torn his heart and tongue out of his 
 black throat, and trampled the lawless brute to death. 
 
 Well, I didn't do any such thing. I was just going 
 to run in, — and I didn't. I was just going to rush to 
 Bessy's side to clasp her (I have no doubt) to my heart: 
 to beard the whiskered champion who was before her, 
 and perhaps say, "Cheer thee— cheer thee, my perse- 
 cuted maiden, my beauteous love— my Rebecca! Come 
 on. Sir Brian de Bois Guilbert, thou dastard Templar! 
 It is I, Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe." (By the way, though 
 the fellow was not a TeiniAar, he was a Lincoln s-Inn 
 man, having passed twice through the Insolvent Court 
 there with infinite discredit.) But I made no heroic 
 speeches. There was no need for Rebecca to jump out 
 of window and risk her lovely neck. How could she, 
 in fact, the French window being flush with the ground- 
 floor? And I give you my honour, just as I was crying 
 my war-cry, couching my lance, and rushing a la re- 
 cousse upon Sir Baker, a sudden thought made me drop 
 my (figurative) point: a sudden idea made me rein in 
 my galloping (metaphorical) steed and spare Baker 
 for that time. 
 
 Suppose I had gone in? But for that sudden pre- 
 caution, there might have been a Mrs. Batchelor. I 
 might have been a bullied father of ten children. ( Eliz- 
 abeth has a fine high temper of her own.) What is four 
 hundred and twenty a year, with a wife and perhaps 
 half-a-dozen children? Should I have been a whit the 
 happier? Would Elizabeth? Ah! no. And yet I feel
 
 316 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 a certain sort of shame, even now, when I think that I 
 didn't go in. Not that I was in a fright, as some people 
 choose to hint. I swear I was not. But the reason why 
 I did not charge was this — 
 
 Nay, I did charge part of the way, and then, I own, 
 stopped. It was an error in judgment. It wasn't a 
 want of courage. Lord George Sackville was a brave 
 man, and as cool as a cucumber under fire. Well, he 
 didn't charge at the battle of Minden, and Prince Fer- 
 dinand made the deuce and all of a disturbance, as we 
 know. Byng was a brave man, — and I ask, wasn't it 
 a confounded shame executing him? So with respect to 
 myself. Here is my statement. I make it openly. I 
 don't care. I am accused of seeing a woman insulted, 
 and not going to her rescue. I am not guilty, I say. 
 That is, there were reasons which caused me not to at- 
 tack. Even putting aside the superior strength of Eliz- 
 abeth herself to the enemy, — I vow there were cogent 
 and honourable reasons why I did not charge home. 
 
 You see I happened to be behind a blue lilac-bush (and 
 was turning a rhyme — heaven help us! — in which death 
 was only to part me and Elizabeth) when I saw Baker's 
 face surge over the chair-back. I rush forward as he 
 cries " by Jove." Had Miss Prior cried out on her part, 
 the strength of twenty Heenans, I know, would have 
 nerved this arm; but all she did was to turn pale, and 
 say, " Oh, mercy ! Captain Baker! Do pity me!" 
 
 "What! jou remember me, Bessy Bellenden, do 
 you?" asks the Captain, advancing. 
 
 "Oh, not that name! please, not that name!" cries 
 Bessy. 
 
 " I thought I knew you yesterday," says Baker. 
 " Only, gad, you see, I had so much claret on board, I
 
 Bedford to the Rescue
 
 I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT 317 
 
 did not much know what was what. And oh! Bessy, 
 I have got such a spHtter of a headache." 
 
 "Oh! please— please, my name is Miss Prior. Pray! 
 pray, sir, don't — " 
 
 "You've got handsomer— doosid deal handsomer. 
 Know you now well, your spectacles off. You come 
 in here — teach my nephew and niece, humbug my sis- 
 ter, make love to the sh— Oh! you uncommon sly 
 little toad!" 
 
 " Captain Baker! I beg— I implore you," says Bessy, 
 or something of the sort: for the white hands assumed 
 an attitude of supplication. 
 
 " Pooh! don't gammon me!" says the rickety Captain 
 (or words to that effect) , and seizes those two firm white 
 hands in his moist, trembling palms. 
 
 Now do you understand why I paused? When the 
 dandy came grinning forward, with looks and gestures 
 of familiar recognition: when the pale Elizabeth im- 
 plored him to spare her: — a keen arrow of jealousy shot 
 whizzing through my heart, and caused me well-nigh 
 to fall backwards as I ran forwards. I bumped up 
 against a bronze group in the garden. The group rep- 
 resented a lion stung by a serpent. I was a lion stung 
 by a serpent too. Even Baker could have knocked me 
 down. Fiends and anguish! he had known her before. 
 The Academy, the life she had led, the wretched old 
 tipsy ineffective guardian of a father — all these ante- 
 cedents in poor Bessy's history passed through my mind. 
 And I had offered my heart and troth to this woman! 
 Now, my dear sir, I appeal to you. What would you 
 have done? Would you have liked to have such a 
 sudden suspicion thrown over the being of your affec- 
 tion? "Oh! spare me — spare me!" I heard her say, in
 
 318 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 clear — too clear — pathetic tones. And then there came 
 rather a shrill "All!" and then the lion M^as up in my 
 breast again; and I give you my honour, just as I was 
 going to step forward — to step? — to rush forward from 
 behind the urn where I had stood for a moment with 
 thumping heart, Bessy's "Ah!" or little cry was fol- 
 lowed by a whachj, which I heard as clear as anything 
 I ever heard in my life;— and I saw the little Captain 
 spin back, topple over a chair heels up, and in this 
 posture heard him begin to scream and curse in shrill 
 tones. . . . 
 
 Not for long, for as the Captain and the chair 
 tumble down, a door springs open; — a man rushes in, 
 who pounces like a panther upon the prostrate Cap- 
 tain, pitches into his nose and eyes, and chokes his 
 bad language by sending a fist down his naughty 
 throat. 
 
 "Oh! thank you, Bedford! — please, leave him, Bed- 
 ford! that's enough. There, don't hurt him any more! " 
 says Bessy, laughing — laughing, upon my word. 
 
 "Ah! will you? " says Bedford. " Lie still, you httle 
 beggar, or I'll knock your head off. Look here. Miss 
 Prior!— Elizabeth— dear — dear Elizabeth! I love you 
 with all mj^ heart, and soul, and strength — I do." 
 
 "O Bedford! Bedford!" warbles Elizabeth. 
 
 "I do! I can't help it. I must say it! Ever since 
 Rome, I do. Lie still, you drunken little beast ! It's no 
 use. But I adore you, O Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" And 
 there was Dick, who was always following Miss P. 
 about, and poking his head into keyholes to spy her, 
 actually making love to her over the prostrate body of 
 the Captain. 
 
 Now, what was I to do? Wasn't I in a most con-
 
 I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT 319 
 
 foundedly awkward situation? A lady had been at- 
 tacked—a lady ^.— the lady, and I hadn't rescued her. 
 Her insolent enemy was overthrown, and I hadn't done 
 it. A champion, three inches shorter than myself, had 
 come in, and dealt the blow. I was in such a rage of 
 mortification, that I should have liked to thrash the Cap- 
 tain and Bedford too. The first I know I could have 
 matched: the second was a tough little hero. And it 
 was he who rescued the damsel, whilst I stood by! In 
 a strait so odious, sudden, and humiliating, what should 
 I, what could I, what did I do? 
 
 Behind the lion and snake there is a brick wall and 
 marble balustrade, built for no particular reason, but 
 flanking three steps and a grassy terrace, which then 
 rises up on a level to the house-windows. Beyond the 
 balustrade is a shrubbery of more lilacs and so forth, 
 by which you can walk round into another path, which 
 also leads up to the house. So as I had not charged— 
 ah! woe is me!— as the battle was over, I— I just went 
 round that shrubbery into the other path, and so entered 
 the house, arriving like Fortinbras in " Hamlet," M^hen 
 everybody is dead and sprawling, you know, and the 
 whole business is done. 
 
 And was there to be no end to my shame, or to Bed- 
 ford's laurels ? In that brief interval, whilst I was walk- 
 ing round the bypath (just to give myself a pretext for 
 entering coolly into the premises), this fortunate fel- 
 low had absolutely engaged another and larger cham- 
 pion. This was no other than Bulkeley, my Lady B.'s 
 first-class attendant. When the Captain fell, amidst 
 his screams and curses, he called for Bulkeley: and that 
 individual made his appearance, with a little Scotch cap 
 perched on his powdered head.
 
 320 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 "Hullo! what's the row year?" says Goliath, enter- 
 ing. 
 
 "Kill that blackguard! Hang him, kill him!" 
 screams Captain Blacksheep, rising with bleeding nose. 
 
 "I say, what's the row year?" asks the grenadier. 
 
 "Off with your cap, sir, before a lady!" calls out 
 Bedford. 
 
 "Hoff with my cap! you be bio — " 
 
 But he said no more, for little Bedford jumped some 
 two feet from the ground, and knocked the cap oif , so 
 that a cloud of ambrosial powder filled the room with 
 violet odours. The immense frame of the giant shook 
 at this insult: "I will be the death on you, you little 
 beggar!" he grunted out; and was advancing to de- 
 stroy Dick, just as I entered in the cloud which his head 
 had raised. 
 
 "I'll knock the brains as well as the powder out of 
 your ugly head!" says Bedford, springing at the poker. 
 At which juncture I entered. 
 
 "What— what is this disturbance?" I say, advancing 
 with an air of mingled surprise and resolution. 
 
 "You git out of the way till I knock his 'ead off!" 
 roars Bulkeley. 
 
 " Take up your cap, sir, and leave the room," I say, 
 still with the same elegant firmness. 
 
 "Put down that there poker, you coward!" bellows 
 the monster on board wages. 
 
 "Miss Prior!" I say (like a dignified hypocrite, as I 
 own I was), "I hope no one has offered you a rude- 
 ness?" And I glare round, first at the knight of the 
 bleeding nose, and then at his squire. 
 
 Miss Prior's face, as she replied to me, wore a look of 
 awful scorn.
 
 I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT 321 
 
 " Thank you, sir," she said, turning her head over her 
 shoulder, and looking at me with her grey eyes. " Thank 
 you, Richard Bedford! God bless you! I shall ever 
 be thankful to you, wherever I am." And the stately 
 figure swept out of the room. 
 
 She had seen me behind that confounded statue, then, 
 and I had not come to her! O torments and racks! O 
 scorpions, fiends and pitchforks! The face of Bedford, 
 too (flashing with knightly gratitude anon as she spoke 
 kind words to him and passed on) , wore a look of scorn 
 as he turned towards me, and then stood, his nostrils dis- 
 tended, and breathing somewhat hard, glaring at his 
 enemies, and still grasping his mace of battle. 
 
 When Elizabeth w^as gone, there was a pause of a 
 moment, and then Blacksheep, taking his bleeding cam- 
 bric from his nose, shrieks out, "Kill him, I say! A 
 fellow that dares to hit one in my condition, and when 
 I'm down! Bulkeley, you great hulking jackass! kill 
 him, I say!" 
 
 " Jest let him put that there poker down, that's hall," 
 growls Bulkeley. 
 
 " You're afraid, you great cowardly beast ! You shall 
 go, Mr. What-d'ye-call-'im— Mr. Bedford— you shall 
 have the sack, sir, as sure as your name is what it is! I'll 
 tell my brother-in-law everything; and as for that wo- 
 man—" 
 
 " If you say a word against her, I'll cane you wher- 
 ever I see you. Captain Baker!" I cry out. 
 
 "Who spoke to you?" says the Captain, falling back 
 and scowling at me. 
 
 "Who hever told you to put your foot in?" says the 
 squire. 
 
 I was in such a rage, and so eager to find an object
 
 322 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 on which I might wreak my fury, that I confess I 
 plunged at this Bulkeley. I gave him two most violent 
 blows on the waistcoat, which caused him to double up 
 with such frightful contortions, that Bedford burst out 
 laughing; and even the Captain with the damaged eye 
 and nose began to laugh too. Then, taking a lesson 
 from Dick, as there was a fine shining dagger on the 
 table, used for the cutting open of reviews and maga- 
 zines, I seized and brandished this weapon, and I dare 
 say would have sheathed it in the giant's bloated corpus, 
 had he made any movement towards me. But he only 
 called out, " hi'll be the death on you, you cowards! hl'll 
 be the death of both on you! " and snatching up his cap 
 from the carpet, walked out of the room. 
 
 "Glad you did that, though," says Baker, nodding 
 his head. " Think I'd best pack up." 
 
 And now the Devil of Rage which had been swelling 
 within me gave place to a worse devil— the Devil of 
 Jealousy— and I turned on the Captain, who was also 
 just about to slink away: — 
 
 " Stop! " I cried out— I screamed out, I may say. 
 
 "Who spoke to j^ou, I should like to know? and who 
 the dooce dares to speak to me in that sort of way? " says 
 Clarence Baker, with a plentiful garnish of expletives, 
 which need not be here inserted. But he stopped, never- 
 theless, and turned slouching round. 
 
 " You spoke just now of Miss Prior? " I said. " Have 
 you anything against her? " 
 
 "What's that to you?" he asked. 
 
 " I am her oldest friend. I introduced her into this 
 family. Dare you say a word against her?" 
 
 "Well, who the dooce has?" 
 
 " You knew her before? "
 
 I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT 323 
 
 " Yes, I did, then." 
 
 "When she went by the name of Bellenden?" 
 
 "Of course I did. And what's that to you?" he 
 screams out. 
 
 " I this day asked her to be my wife, sir! That's what 
 it is to me ! " I repHed, with severe dignity. 
 
 Mr. Clarence began to whistle. "Oh! if that's it — 
 of course not!" he says. 
 
 The jealous demon writhed within me and rent me. 
 
 "You mean that there is something, then?" I asked, 
 glaring at the young reprobate. 
 
 " No, I don't," says he, looking very much frightened. 
 " No, there is nothin'. Upon my sacred honour, there 
 isn't, that I know." (I was looking uncommonly fierce 
 at this time, and, I must own, would rather have quar- 
 relled with somebody than not.) "No, there is nothin' 
 that I know. Ever so many years ago, you see, I used 
 to go with Tom Papillion, Turkington, and two or three 
 fellows, to that theatre. Dolphin had it. And we used 
 to go behind the scenes — and — and I own I had a row 
 with her. And I was in the wrong. There now, I own 
 I was. And she left the theatre. And she behaved 
 quite right. And I M^as very sorry. And I believe she 
 is as good a woman as ever stept now. And the father 
 was a disreputable old man, but most honourable — I 
 know he was. And there was a fellow in the Bombay 
 service — a fellow by the name of Walker or Walking- 
 ham — j'-es, Walkingham; and I used to meet him at the 
 * Cave of Harmony,' j^ou know ; and he told me that she 
 was as right as right could be. And he was doosidly 
 cut up about leaving her. And he would have married 
 her, I dessay, only for his father the General, who 
 wouldn't stand it. And he was ready to hang himself
 
 324 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 when he went away. He used to drink awfully, and 
 then he used to swear about her; and we used to chaff 
 him, you know. Low, vulgarish sort of man, he was; 
 and a very passionate fellow. And if you're goin' to 
 marry her, you know — of course, I ask your pardon, 
 and that; and upon the honour of a gentleman I know 
 nothin' against her. And I wish you joy and all that 
 sort of thing. I do now, really now ! " And so saying, 
 the mean, mischievous little monkey sneaked away, and 
 clambered up to his own perch in his own bedroom. 
 
 Worthy Mrs. Bonnington, with a couple of her young 
 ones, made her appearance at this juncture. She had 
 a key, which gave her a free pass through the garden 
 door, and brought her children for an afternoon's play 
 and fighting with their little nephew and niece. De- 
 cidedly, Bessy did not bring up her young folks well. 
 Was it that their grandmothers spoiled thenj, and undid 
 the governess's work? Were those young people odious 
 (as they often were) by nature, or rendered so by the 
 neglect of their guardians? If Bessy had loved her 
 charges more, would they not have been better? Had 
 she a kind, loving, maternal heart? Ha! This thought 
 — this jealous doubt — smote my bosom: and were she 
 mine, and the mother of many possible little Batchelors, 
 would she be kind to them? Would they be wilful, and 
 selfish, and abominable little wretches, in a word, like 
 these children? Nay — nay! Say that Elizabeth has 
 but a cold heart; we cannot be all perfection. But, per 
 contra, you must admit that, cold as she is, she does her 
 duty. How good she has been to her own brothers and 
 sisters: how cheerfully she has given away her savings 
 to them: how admirably she has behaved to her mother, 
 hiding the iniquities of that disreputable old schemer,
 
 I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT 325 
 
 and covering her improprieties with decent filial screens 
 and pretexts. Her mother? Ah! grands dieux! You 
 want to marry, Charles Batchelor, and you will have that 
 greedy pauper for a mother-in-law ; that fluffy Bluecoat 
 boy, those hobnailed taw-players, top-spinners, toffee- 
 eaters, those underbred girls, for your brothers and sis- 
 ters-in-law ! They will be quartered upon you. You are 
 so absurdly weak and good-natured— you know you are 
 — that you will never be able to resist. Those boys will 
 grow up: they will go out as clerks or shop-boys: get 
 into debt, and expect you to pay their bills: want to be 
 articled to attorneys and so forth, and call upon you for 
 the premium. Their mother will never be out of your 
 house. She will ferret about in your drawers and ward- 
 robes, filch your haberdashery, and cast greedy eyes on 
 the very shirts and coats on your back, and calculate 
 when she can get them for her boys. Those vulgar 
 young miscreants will never fail to come and dine with 
 you on a Sunday. They will bring their young linen- 
 draper or articled friends. They will draw bills on you, 
 or give their own to money-lenders, and unless you take 
 up those bills they will consider you a callous, avaricious 
 brute, and the heartless author of their ruin. The girls 
 will come and practise on your wife's piano. They won't 
 come to you on Sundays only; they will always be stay- 
 ing in the house. They will always be preventing a 
 tete-a-tete between your wife and you. As they grow 
 old, they will want her to take them out to tea-parties, 
 and to give such entertainments, where they will intro- 
 duce their odious young men. They will expect you to 
 commit meannesses, in order to get theatre tickets for 
 them from the newspaper editors of your acquaintance. 
 You will have to sit in the back seat : to pay the cab to
 
 326 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 and from the play: to see glances and bows of recog- 
 nition passing between them and dubious bucks in the 
 lobbies: and to lend the girls your wife's gloves, scarfs, 
 ornaments, smelling-bottles, and handkerchiefs, which 
 of course they will never return. If Elizabeth is ailing 
 from any circumstance, they will get a footing in your 
 house, and she will be jealous of them. The ladies of 
 your own family will quarrel with them of course; and 
 very likely your mother-in-law will tell them a piece of 
 her mind. And you bring this dreary certainty upon 
 you, because, forsooth, you fall in love with a fine figure, 
 a pair of grey eyes, and a head of auburn (not to say 
 red) hair! O Charles Batchelor! in what a galley hast 
 thou seated thyself, and what a family is crowded in 
 thy boat! 
 
 All these thoughts are passing in my mind, as good 
 Mrs. Bonnington is prattling to me— I protest I don't 
 know about what. I think I caught some faint sen- 
 tences about the Patagonian mission, the National 
 schools, and Mr. Bonnington's lumbago; but I can't say 
 for certain. I was busy with my own thoughts. I had 
 asked the awful question— I was not answered. Bessy 
 had even gone awaj^ in a huif about my want of gal- 
 lantry, but I was easy on that score. As for Mr. 
 Drencher, she had told me her sentiments regarding 
 him; " and though I am considerably older, yet," thought 
 I, " I need not be afraid of that rival. But when she 
 says yes? Oh, dear! oh, dear! Yes means Elizabeth— 
 certainly, a brave young woman— but it means Mrs. 
 Prior, and Gus, and Amelia Jane, and the whole of that 
 dismal family." No wonder, with these dark thoughts 
 crowding my mind, Mrs. Bonnington found me absent; 
 and, as a comment upon some absurd reply of mine,
 
 I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT 327 
 
 said, " La! Mr. Batchelor, you must be crossed in love! " 
 Crossed in love! It might be as well for some folks if 
 they ti^ere crossed in love. At my age, and having loved 
 madly, as I did, that party in Dublin, a man doesn't take 
 the second fit by any means so strongly. Well! well! 
 the die was cast, and I was there to bide the hazard. 
 What can be the matter? I look pale and unwell, and 
 had better see ^Ir. D. ? Thank you, my dear Mrs. Bon- 
 nington. I had a violent— a violent toothache last 
 night— yes, toothache; and was kept awake, thank you. 
 And there's nothing like having it out? and Mr. D. draws 
 them beautifully, and has taken out six of your chil- 
 dren's? It's better now; I dare say it will be better still, 
 soon. I retire to my chamber: I take a book— can't 
 read one word of it. I resume my tragedy. Tragedy? 
 Bosh! 
 
 I suppose Mr. Drencher thought his yesterday's pa- 
 tient would be better for a little more advice and medi- 
 cine, for he must pay a second visit to Shrublands on 
 this day, just after the row with the Captain had taken 
 place, and walked up to the upper regions, as his cus- 
 tom was. Very likely he found INIr. Clarence bathing 
 his nose there, and prescribed for the injured organ. 
 Certainly he knocked at the door of Miss Prior's school- 
 room (the fellow was always finding a pretext for en- 
 tering that apartment), and Master Bedford comes to 
 me, with a wobegone, livid countenance, and a "Ha! 
 ha! young Sawbones is up with her!" 
 
 " So, my poor Dick," I say, " I heard your confession 
 as I was myself running in to rescue Miss P. from that 
 villain." 
 
 "My blood was hup," groans Dick,— "up, I beg 
 your pardon. When I saw that young rascal lay a hand
 
 328 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 on her I could not help flying at him. I would have 
 hit him if he had been my own father. And I could not 
 help saying what was on my mind. It would come out ; 
 I knew it would some day. I might as well wish for 
 the moon as hope to get her. She thinks herself superior 
 to me, and perhaps she is mistaken. But it's no use; 
 she don't care for me ; she don't care for anybody. Now 
 the words are out, in course I mustn't stay here." 
 
 " You may get another place easily enough with your 
 character, Bedford ! " 
 
 But he shook his head. " I'm not disposed to black 
 nobody else's boots no more. I have another place. I 
 have saved a bit of money. My poor old mother is gone, 
 whom you used to be so kind to, Mr. B. I'm alone now. 
 Confound that Sawbones, will he never come away? I'll 
 tell you about my plans some day, sir, and I know you'll 
 be so good as to help me." And away goes Dick, look- 
 ing the picture of woe and despair. 
 
 Presently, from the upper rooms. Sawbones descends. 
 I happened to be standing in the hall, you see, talking to 
 Dick. Mr. Drencher scowls at me fiercely, and I sup- 
 pose I return him haught}^ glance for glance. He hated 
 me : I him : I liked him to hate me. 
 
 "How is your patient, Mr. — a — Drencher?" I ask. 
 
 " Trifling contusion of the nose — brown paper and 
 vinegar," says the doctor. 
 
 " Great j)owers! did the villain strike her on the nose? " 
 I cry, in terror. 
 
 ''Her — whom?" says he. 
 
 "Oh — ah — yes — indeed; it's nothing," I say, smiling. 
 The fact is I had forgotten about Baker in my natural 
 anxiety for Elizabeth. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by laughing, sir? " says
 
 I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT 329 
 
 the red-haired practitioner. " But if you mean chaff, 
 Mr. Batchelor, let me tell j^ou I don't want chaff, and 
 I won't have chaff! " and herewith, exit Sawbones, look- 
 ing black doses at me. 
 
 Jealous of me, think I, as I sink down in a chair in 
 the morning-room, where the combat had just taken 
 place. And so thou, too, art fever-caught, my poor 
 physician! What a fascination this girl has! Here's 
 the butler: here's the medical man: here am I: here is 
 the Captain has been smitten — smitten on the nose. 
 Has the gardener been smitten too, and is the page 
 gnawing the buttons off for jealousy, and is Mons. 
 Bulkeley equally in love with her? I take up a review, 
 and think over this, as I glance through its pages. 
 
 As I am lounging and reading, Mons. Bulkeley him- 
 self makes his appearance, bearing in cloaks and pack- 
 ages belonging to his lady. " Have the goodness to 
 take that cap off," I say, coolly. 
 
 " You 'ave the goodness to remember that if hever I 
 see you bout o' this 'ouse I'll punch your hugly 'ead off," 
 says the monstrous menial. But I poise my paper- 
 cutter, and he retires growling. 
 
 From despondency I pass to hope; and the prospect 
 of marriage, which before appeared so dark to me, 
 assumes a gayer hue. I have four hundred a year, and 
 that house in Devonshire Street, Bloomsbury Square, 
 of which the upper part will be quite big enough for us. 
 If we have children, there is Queen Square for them to 
 walk and play in. Several genteel families I know, 
 who still live in the neighbourhood, will come and see 
 my wife, and we shall have a comfortable, cosy little 
 society, suited to our small means. The tradesmen in 
 Lamb's Conduit Street are excellent, and the music at
 
 330 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 the Foundling always charming. I shall give up one 
 of my clubs. The other is within an easy walk. 
 
 No: my wife's relations will not plague me. Bessy 
 is a most sensible, determined woman, and as cool a 
 hand as I know. She will only see Mrs. Prior at 
 proper (and, I trust, distant) intervals. Her brothers 
 and sisters will learn to know their places, and not ob- 
 trude upon me or the company which I keep. My 
 friends, who are educated people and gentlemen, will 
 not object to visit me because I live over a shop (my 
 ground-floor and spacious back premises in Devonshire 
 Street are let to a German toy-warehouse) . I shall add 
 a hundred or two at least to my income by my literary 
 labour; and Bessy, who has practised frugality all her 
 life, and been a good daughter and a good sister, I 
 know will prove a good wife, and, please heaven ! a good 
 mother. Why, four hundred a year, j^lus two hundred, 
 is a nice little income. And my old college friend, Wig- 
 more, who is just on the Bench? He will, he must get 
 me a place — say three hundred a year. With nine 
 hundred a year we can do quite well. 
 
 Love is full of elations and despondencies. The 
 future, over which such a black cloud of doubt lowered 
 a few minutes since, blushed a sweet rose-colour now. 
 I saw myself happy, beloved, with a competence, and 
 imagined myself reposing in the delightful garden of 
 Red Lion Square on some summer evening, and half- 
 a-dozen little Batchelors frisking over the flower-be- 
 spangled grass there. 
 
 After our little colloquy, Mrs. Bonnington, not find- 
 ing much pleasure in my sulky society, had gone to Miss 
 Prior's room with her young folks, and as the door of 
 the morning-room opened now and again, I could hear
 
 I AM STUXG BY A SERPENT 331 
 
 the dear young ones scuttling about the passages, where 
 they were playing at horses, and fighting, and so forth. 
 After a while good ]\Irs. B. came down from the school- 
 room. "Whatever has happened, Mr. Batchelor?" she 
 said to me, in her passage through the morning-room. 
 " j\Iiss Prior is very pale and absent. You are veiy 
 pale and absent. Have you been courting her, you 
 naughty man, and trying to supplant Mr. Drencher? 
 There now, you turn as red as my ribbon! Ah! Bessy 
 is a good girl, and so fond of my dear children. ' Ah, 
 dear JNIrs. Bonnington,' she says to me — but of course 
 you won't tell Lady B.: it would make Lady B. per- 
 fectly furious. 'Ah!' says Miss P. to me, 'I wish, 
 ma'am, that my little charges were like their dear little 
 uncles and aunts — so exquisitely brought up!' Pop 
 again wished to beat his uncle. I wish — I wish Fred- 
 erick would send that child to school! Miss P. owns 
 that he is too much for her. Come, children, it is time 
 to go to dinner." And, with more of this prattle, the 
 good lady summons her young ones, who descend from 
 the schoolroom wnth their nephew and niece. 
 
 Following nephew and niece, comes demure Miss 
 Prior, to whom I fling a knowing glance, which says, 
 plain as eyes can speak — Do, Elizabeth, come and talk 
 for a little to your faithful Batchelor! She gives a 
 sidelong look of intelligence, leaves a parasol and a pair 
 of gloves on a table, accompanies Mrs. Bonnington and 
 the young ones into the garden, sees the clergyman's 
 wife and children disappear through the garden gate, 
 and her own youthful charges engaged in the straw- 
 berry-beds; and, of course, returns to the morning- 
 room for her parasol and gloves, which she had for- 
 gotten. There is a calmness about that woman— an
 
 332 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 easy, dauntless dexterity, which frightens me— ma 
 parole d'honneur. In that white breast is there a white 
 marble stone in place of the ordinary cordial apparatus? 
 Under the white velvet glove of that cool hand are there 
 bones of cold steel? 
 
 "So, Drencher has again been here, Elizabeth?" I 
 say. 
 
 She shrugs her shoulders. " To see that wretched 
 Captain Baker. The horrid little man will die! He 
 was not actually sober just now when he — when I — 
 when you saw him. How I wish you had come sooner 
 — to prevent that horrible, tipsy, disreputable quarrel. 
 It makes me very, very thoughtful, Mr. Batchelor. He 
 will speak to his mother— to Mr. Lovel. I shall have 
 to go away. I know I must." 
 
 "And don't you know where you can find a home, 
 Elizabeth? Have the words I spoke this morning been 
 so soon forgotten?" 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Batchelor! you spoke in a heat. You 
 could not think seriously of a poor girl like me, so 
 friendless and poor, with so many family ties. Pop is 
 looking this way, please. To a man bred like you, what 
 can I be?" 
 
 "You may make the rest of my life happy, Eliza- 
 beth!" I cry. "We are friends of such old— old date, 
 that you know what my disposition is." 
 
 " Oh! indeed," says she, " it is certain that there never 
 was a sweeter disposition or a more gentle creature." 
 (Somehow I thought she said the words "gentle crea- 
 ture " with rather a sarcastic tone of voice.) " But con- 
 sider your habits, dear sir. I remember how in Beak 
 Street you used to be always giving, and, in spite of 
 your income, always poor. You love ease and elegance ;
 
 I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT 333 
 
 and having, I dare say, not too much for yourself now, 
 would you encumber yourself with — with me and the 
 expenses of a household? I shall always regard you, 
 esteem you, love you as the best friend I ever had, and 
 — void venir la mere du vaurien." 
 
 Enter Lady Baker. " Do I interrupt a tete-a-tete, 
 pray?" she asks. 
 
 " My benefactor has known me since I was a child, 
 and befriended me since then," says Elizabeth, with 
 simple kindness beaming in her look. "We were just 
 speaking— I was just— ah!— telling him that my uncle 
 has invited me most kindly to St. Boniface, whenever 
 I can be spared; and if you and the family go to the 
 Isle of Wight this autumn, perhaps you will intercede 
 with Mr. Lovel, and let me have a little holiday. Mary 
 will take every charge of the children, and I do so long 
 to see my dear aunt and cousins! And I was begging 
 Mr. Batchelor to use his interest with you, and to entreat 
 you to use your interest to get me leave. That was 
 what our talk was about." 
 
 The deuce it was ! I couldn't say No, of course ; but 
 I protest I had no idea until that moment that our con- 
 versation had been about aunt and uncle at St. Boniface. 
 Again came the horrible suspicion, the dreadful doubt— 
 the chill as of a cold serpent crawling down my back 
 —which had made me pause, and gasp, and turn pale, 
 anon when Bessy and Captain Clarence were holding 
 colloquy together. What has happened in this woman's 
 life? Do I know all about her, or anything; or only 
 just as much as she chooses? O Batch— Batch! I sus- 
 pect you are no better than an old gaby ! 
 
 " And Mr. Drencher has just been here and seen j^our 
 son," Bessy continues, softly ; " and he begs and entreats
 
 334, LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 your ladyship to order Captain Baker to be more pru- 
 dent. IMr. D. says Captain Baker is shortening his 
 life, indeed he is, by his carelessness." 
 
 There is Mr. Lovel coming from the city, and the 
 children are running to their papa! And Miss Prior 
 makes her patroness a meek curtsey, and demurely slides 
 away from the room. With a sick heart I say to my- 
 self, " She has been — yes — humbugging is the word — 
 humbugging Lady B. Elizabeth! Elizabeth! can it be 
 possible thou art humbugging 7?ie too?" 
 
 Before Lovel enters, Bedford rapidly flits through 
 the room. He looks as pale as a ghost. His face is 
 awfully gloomy. 
 
 " Here's the governor come," Dick whispers to me. 
 " It must all come hout now — out, I beg your pardon. 
 So she's caught you, has she? I thought she would." 
 And he grins a ghastly grin. 
 
 "What do you mean?" I ask, and I dare say turn 
 rather red. 
 
 " I know all about it. I'll speak to you to-night, sir. 
 Confound her! confound her!" and he doubles his 
 knuckles into his eyes, and rushes out of the room over 
 Buttons entering with the afternoon tea. 
 
 " What on earth's the matter, and why are j^ou knock- 
 ing the things about?" Lovel asks at dinner of his but- 
 ler, who, indeed, acted as one distraught. A savage 
 gloom was depicted on Bedford's usually melancholy 
 countenance, and the blunders in his service were many. 
 With his brother-in-law Lovel did not exchange many 
 words. Clarence was not yet forgiven for his escapade 
 two days previous. And when Lady Baker cried, 
 "Mercy, child! what have you done to yourself?" and 
 the Captain replied, " Knocked my face against a dark
 
 I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT 335 
 
 door — made m}'' nose bleed," Lovel did not look up or 
 express a word of sympathy. " If the fellow knocked 
 his worthless head off, I should not be sorry," the 
 widower murmured to me. Indeed, the tone of the 
 Captain's voice, his ton, and his manners in general, 
 were specially odious to Mr. Lovel, who could put up 
 with the tyranny of women, but revolted against the 
 vulgarity and assumption of certain men. 
 
 As yet nothing had been said about the morning's 
 quarrel. Here we were all sitting with a sword hang- 
 ing over our heads, smiling and chatting, and talking 
 cookery, politics, the weather, and what not. Bessy 
 was perfectly cool and dignified at tea. Danger or 
 doubt did not seem to aiFect her. If she had been 
 ordered for execution at the end of the evening she 
 would have made the tea, played her Beethoven, an- 
 swered questions in her usual voice, and glided about 
 from one to another with her usual dignified calm, until 
 the hour of decapitation came, when she would have 
 made her curtsey, and gone out and had the amputation 
 performed quite quietly and neatly. I admired her, I 
 was frightened before her. The cold snake crept more 
 than ever down my back as I meditated on her. I made 
 such awful blunders at whist that even good Mrs. Bon- 
 nington lost her temper with her fourteen shillings. 
 Miss Prior would have played her hand out, and never 
 made a fault, you may be sure. She retired at her ac- 
 customed hour. Mrs. Bonnington had her glass of 
 negus, and withdrew too. Lovel keeping his eyes 
 sternly on the Captain, that officer could only get a little 
 sherry and seltzer, and went to bed sober. Lady Baker 
 folded Lovel in her arms, a process to which my poor 
 friend very humbly submitted. Everybody went to
 
 336 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 bed, and no tales were told of the morning's doings. 
 There was a respite, and no execution could take place 
 till to-morrow at any rate. Put on thy nightcap, Da- 
 mocles, and slumber for to-night at least. Thy slum- 
 bers will not be cut short by the awful Chopper of Fate. 
 
 Perhaps you may ask what need had I to be alarmed? 
 Nothing could happen to me. I was not going to lose 
 a governess's place. Well, if I must tell the truth, I 
 had not acted with entire candour in the matter of 
 Bessy's appointment. In recommending her to Lovel 
 and the late Mrs. L., I had answered for her probity, 
 and so forth, with all my might. I had described the 
 respectability of her family, her father's campaigns, her 
 grandfather's (old Dr. Sargent's) celebrated sermons; 
 and had enlarged with the utmost eloquence upon the 
 learning and high character of her uncle, the Master of 
 Boniface, and the deserved regard he bore his niece. 
 But that part of Bessy's biography which related to the 
 Academy I own I had not touched upon. A quoi hon? 
 Would every gentleman or lady like to have everything 
 told about him or her? I had kept the Academy dark 
 then; and so had brave Dick Bedford the butler; and 
 should that miscreant Captain reveal the secret, I knew 
 there would be an awful commotion in the building. I 
 should have to incur Lovel's not unjust reproaches for 
 suijpressio veri, and the anger of those two viragines, 
 the grandmothers of Lovel's children. I was more 
 afraid of the women than of him, though conscience 
 whispered me that I had not acted quite rightly by my 
 friend. 
 
 When, then, the bed-candles were lighted, and every 
 one said good-night, "Oh! Captain Baker," say I, 
 gaily, and putting on a confoundedly hypocritical grin.
 
 I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT 337 
 
 *'if you will come into my room, I will give you that 
 book." 
 
 "What book?" says Baker. 
 
 *' The book we were talking of this morning." 
 
 " Hang me, if I know what you mean," says he. And 
 luckily for me, Lovel, giving a shrug of disgust, and a 
 good-night to me, stalked out of the room, bed-candle 
 in hand. No doubt, he thought his wretch of a brother- 
 in-law did not w^ell remember after dinner what he had 
 done or said in the morning. 
 
 As I now had the Blacksheep to myself, I said calmly, 
 " You are quite right. There was no talk about a book 
 at all. Captain Baker. But I wished to see you alone, 
 and impress upon you my earnest wish that everything 
 which occurred this morning — mind, everything — should 
 be considered as strictly private, and should be con- 
 fided to no person whatever — you understand? — to no 
 person." 
 
 " Confound me," Baker breaks out, " if I understand 
 what you mean by your books and your ' strictly pri- 
 vate.' I shall speak what I choose— hang me!" 
 
 " In that case, sir," I said, " will you have the good- 
 ness to send a friend of yours to my friend Captain 
 Fitzboodle? I must consider the matter as personal 
 between ourselves. You insulted — and, as I find now, 
 for the second time — a lady whose relations to me you 
 know. You have given neither to her, nor to me, the 
 apology to which we are both entitled. You refuse 
 even to promise to be silent regarding a painful scene 
 which was occasioned by your own brutal and cowardly 
 behaviour ; and you must abide by the consequences, sir ! 
 you must abide by the consequences!" And I glared 
 at him over my flat candlestick.
 
 338 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 "Curse me! — and hang me! — and," &c. &c. &c. he 
 says, " if I know what all this is about. What the dooce 
 do you talk to 7ne about books, and about silence, and 
 apologies, and sending Captain Fitzboodle to me? I 
 don't want to see Captain Fitzboodle — great fat brute! 
 I know him perfectly well." 
 
 "Hush!" say I, "here's Bedford." In fact, Dick 
 appeared at this juncture, to close the house and put the 
 lamps out. 
 
 But Captain Clarence only spoke or screamed louder. 
 "What do I care about who hears me? That fellow 
 insulted me already to-day, and I'd have pitched his life 
 out of him, only I was down, and I'm so confounded 
 weak and nervous, and just out of my fever— and— 
 and hang it all! what are you driving at, Mr. What's- 
 your-name?" And the wretched little creature cries 
 almost as he speaks. 
 
 " Once for all, will you agree that the affair about 
 which we spoke shall go no further?" I say, as stern as 
 Draco. 
 
 " I shan't say anythin' about it. I wish you'd leave 
 me alone, you fellows, and not come botherin'. I wash 
 I could get a glass of brandy-and-water up in my bed- 
 room. I tell you I can't sleep without it," whimpers the 
 wretch. 
 
 " Sorry I laid hands on you, sir," says Bedford, sadly. 
 " It wasn't worth the while. Go to bed, and I'll get you 
 something warm." 
 
 " Will you, though ? I couldn't sleep without it. Do 
 now— do now! and I won't say anythin'— I won't now 
 —on the honour of a gentleman, I won't. Good-night, 
 Mr. What-d'ye-call." And Bedford leads the helot 
 to his chamber.
 
 I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT 339 
 
 " I've got him in bed; and I've given him a dose; and 
 I put some laudanum in it. He ain't been out. He 
 has not had much to-day," says Bedford, coming back 
 to my room, with his face ominously pale. 
 
 " You have given him laudanum? " I ask. 
 
 "Sawbones gave him some yesterday, — told me to 
 give him a little — forty drops," growls Bedford. 
 
 Then the gloomy major-domo puts a hand into each 
 waistcoat pocket, and looks at me. " You want to fight 
 for her, do you, sir? Calling out, and that sort of 
 game? Phoo!" — and he laughs scornfully. 
 
 " The little miscreant is too despicable, I own," say 
 I, " and it's absurd for a peaceable fellow like me to talk 
 about powder and shot at this time of day. But what 
 could I do?" 
 
 " I say it's she ain't worth it," says Bedford, lifting 
 up both clenched fists out of the waistcoat pockets. 
 
 " What do you mean, Dick? " I ask. 
 
 *' She's humbugging you,— she's humbugging me,— 
 she's humbugging everybody," roars Dick. " Look 
 here, sir!" and out of one of the clenched fists he flings 
 a paper down on the table. 
 
 "What is it?" I ask. It's her handwriting. I see 
 the neat trim lines on the paper. 
 
 " It's not to you; nor yet to me," says Bedford. 
 
 "Then how dare you read it, sir?" I ask, all of a 
 tremble. 
 
 " It's to him. It's to Sawbones," hisses out Bedford. 
 " Sawbones dropt it as he was getting into his gig; and 
 I read it. I ain't going to make no bones about whether 
 it's wrote to me or not. She tells him how you asked 
 her to marry you. (Ha!) That's how I came to know 
 it. And do you know what she calls you, and what he
 
 340 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 calls you,— that castor-hoil beast? And do you know 
 what she says of you? That you hadn't pluck to stand 
 by her to-day. There,— it's all down under her hand 
 and seal. You may read it, or not, if you like. And 
 if poppy or mandragora will medicine you to sleep 
 afterwards, I just recommend you to take it. I shall 
 go and get a drop out of the Captain's bottle— I shall." 
 
 And he leaves me, and the fatal paper on the table. 
 
 Now, suppose you had been in my case— would you, 
 or would you not, have read the paper? Suppose there 
 is some news— bad news— about the woman you love, 
 will you, or will you not, hear it? Was Othello a rogue 
 because he let lago speak to him? There was the paper. 
 It lay there glimmering under the light, with all the 
 house quiet.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 CECILIA S SUCCESSOR 
 
 RA ONSIEUR ET HON- 
 ORE LECTEUR! 
 
 I see, as perfectly 
 as if you were sit- 
 ting opposite to me, 
 the scorn depicted on 
 your noble counte- 
 nance when you read 
 my confession that 
 I, Charles Batche- 
 lor, Esquire, did bur- 
 glariously enter the 
 premises of Edward 
 Drencher, Esquire, 
 M.R.C.S.I. (phew! 
 the odious pestle- 
 grinder, I never could 
 bear him!) and break open, and read a certain let- 
 ter, his property. I may have been wrong, but I 
 am candid. I tell my misdeeds; some fellows hold 
 their tongues. Besides, my good man, consider the 
 temptation, and the horrid insight into the paper 
 which Bedford's report had already given me. Would 
 you like to be told that the girl of your heart 
 was playing fast and loose with it, had none of her own, 
 
 341
 
 342 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 or had given hers to another? I don't want to make a 
 Mrs. Robin Gray of any woman, and merely because 
 " her mither presses her sair " to marry against her will. 
 " If Miss Prior," thought I, " prefers this lint-scraper 
 to me, ought I to baulk her? He is younger, and 
 stronger, certainly, than myself. Some people may 
 consider him handsome. (By the way, what a remark- 
 able thing it is about many women, that, in affairs of 
 the heart, they don't seem to care or understand whether 
 a man is a gentleman or not. ) It may be it is my supe- 
 rior fortune and social station which may induce Eliza- 
 beth to waver in her choice between me and my bleeding, 
 bolusing, tooth-drawing rival. If so, and I am only 
 taken from mercenary considerations, what a pretty 
 chance of subsequent happiness do either of us stand! 
 Take the vaccinator, girl, if thou preferrest him! I 
 know what it is to be crossed in love already. It's hard, 
 but I can bear it! I ought to know, I must know, I 
 will know what is in that paper ! " So saying, as I pace 
 round and round the table where the letter lies flickering 
 white under the midnight taper, I stretch out my hand 
 — I seize the paper — I — well, I own it — there— yes— I 
 took it, and I read it. 
 
 Or rather, I may say, I read that part of it which the 
 bleeder and blisterer had flung down. It was but a 
 fragment of a letter— a fragment— oh! how bitter to 
 swallow! A lump of Epsom salt could not have been 
 more disgusting. It appeared (from Bedford's state- 
 ment) that ^sculapius, on getting into his gig, had 
 allowed this scrap of paper to whisk out of his pocket — 
 the rest he read, no doubt, under the eyes of the writer. 
 Very likely, during the perusal, he had taken and 
 squeezed the false hand which wrote the lines. Very
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 343 
 
 likely the first part of the precious document contained 
 compliments to him— from the horrible context I judge 
 so— compliments to that vendor of leeches and band- 
 ages, into whose heart I dare say I wished ten thousand 
 lancets might be stuck, as I perused the False One's 
 wheedling address to him! So ran the document. How 
 well every word of it was engraven on \ny anguished 
 heart! If page three, which I suppose was about the 
 bit of the letter which I got, was as it was— what must 
 pages one and two have been? The dreadful document 
 began, then, thus: — 
 
 " — dear hair in the locket, which I shall ever wear 
 for the sake of him who gave it"— (dear hair! indeed— 
 disarustinff carrots! She should have been ashamed to 
 call it " dear hair ") — " for the sake of him who gave it, 
 and whose had temper I shall pardon, because I think 
 in spite of his faults he is a little fond of his poor Lizzie ! 
 Ah, Edward! how could you go on so the last time 
 about poor ^Ir. B.l Can you imagine that I can ever 
 have more than a filial regard for the kind old gentle- 
 man? " (II etait question de moi, ma parole d'honneur. 
 I was the kind old gentleman!) "I have known him 
 since my childhood. He M^as intimate in our family in 
 earlier and happier days; made our house his home; 
 and, I must say, was most kind to all of us children. If 
 he has vanities, you naughty boy, is he the only one of 
 his sex who is vain? Can you fancy that such an old 
 creature (an old muff, as you call him, you wicked, 
 satirical man!) could ever make an impression on my 
 heart? No, sir! " (Aha! so I was an old muff, was I?) 
 " Though I don't wish to make you vain too, or that 
 other people should laugh at you, as you do at poor 
 dear Mr. B., I think, sir, you need but look in your
 
 344 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 glass to see that j^ou need not be afraid of such a rival 
 as that. You fancy he is attentive to me? If you 
 looked only a little angrily at him, he would fly back 
 to London. To-day, when your Jiorrid little patient did 
 presume to ofl'er to take my hand, when I boxed his 
 little wicked ears and sent him spinning to the end of 
 the room— poor Mr. Batch was so frightened that he 
 did not dare to come into the room, and I saw him peep- 
 ing behind a statue on the lawn, and he would not come 
 in until the servants arrived. Poor man! We cannot 
 all of us have courage like a certain Edward, who I 
 know is as hold as a lion. Now, sir, you must not be 
 quarrelling with that wretched little captain for being 
 rude. I have shown him that I can very well take care 
 of myself. I knew the odious thing the first moment I 
 set eyes on him, though he had forgotten me. Years 
 ago I met him, and I remember he was equally rude and 
 tips-'' 
 
 Here the letter was torn. Beyond " tips " it did not 
 go. But that was enough, wasn't it? To this woman 
 I had offered a gentle and manly, I may say a kind and 
 tender heart — I had offered four hundred a year in 
 funded property, besides my house in Devonshire Street, 
 Bloomsbury — and she preferred Edward, forsooth, at 
 the sign of the Gallipot: and may ten thousand pestles 
 smash my brains! 
 
 You may fancy what a night I had after reading that 
 scrap. I promise you I did not sleep much. I heard 
 the hours toll as I kept vigil. I lay amidst shattered 
 capitals, broken shafts of the tumbled palace which I 
 had built in imagination— oh! how bright and stately! 
 I sat amongst the ruins of my own happiness, sur- 
 rounded by the murdered corpses of innocent-visioned
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 345 
 
 domestic joys. Tick— tock! ]Moment after moment I 
 heard on the clock the chnking footsteps of wakeful 
 grief. I fell into a doze towards morning, and dreamed 
 that I was dancing with Glorvina, when I woke with a 
 start, finding Bedford arrived with my shaving-water, 
 and opening the shutters. When he saw my haggard 
 face he wagged his head. 
 
 " You have read it, I see, sir," says he. 
 
 " Yes, Dick," groaned I, out of bed, " I have swal- 
 lowed it." And I laughed I may say a fiendish laugh. 
 " And now I have taken it, not poppy nor mandragora, 
 nor all the drowsy syrups in his shop (hang him) will 
 be able to medicine me to sleep for some time to come ! " 
 
 " She has no heart, sir. I don't think she cares for 
 t'other chap much," groans the gloomy butler. " She 
 can't, after having known us'' — and my companion in 
 grief, laying down my hot-water jug, retreats. 
 
 I did not cut any part of myself with my razor. I 
 shaved quite calmly. I went to the family at breakfast. 
 My impression is I was sarcastic and witty. I smiled 
 most kindly at Miss Prior when she came in. Nobody 
 could have seen from my outward behaviour that any- 
 thing was wrong within. I was an apple. Could you 
 inspect the worm at my core? No, no. Somebody, I 
 think old Baker, complimented me on my good looks. 
 I was a smiling lake. Could you see on my placid sur- 
 face, amongst my sheeny water-lilies, that a corpse was 
 lying under my cool depths? "A bit of devilled 
 chicken?" "No, thank you. By the way, Lovel, I 
 think I must go to town to-day." " You'll come back 
 todinner, of course?" "Well-no." "Oh, stuff! You 
 promised me to-day and to-morrow. Robinson, Brown, 
 and Jones are coming to-morrow, and you must be here
 
 346 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 to meet them." Thus we prattle on. I answer, I 
 smile, I say, " Yes, if you please, another cup," or, " Be 
 so good as to hand the muffins," or what not. But I am 
 dead. I feel as if I am under ground, and buried. 
 Life, and tea, and clatter, and muffins are going on, of 
 course; and daisies spring, and the sun shines on the 
 grass whilst I am under it. All, dear me! it's very 
 cruel: it's very, very lonely: it's very odd! I don't be- 
 long to the world any more. I have done with it. I am 
 shelved away. But my spirit returns and flitters 
 through the world, which it has no longer anything to 
 do with: and my ghost, as it were, comes and smiles at 
 my own tombstone. Here lies Charles Batchelor, the 
 Unloved One. Oh! alone, alone, alone! Why, Fate! 
 didst thou ordain that I should be companionless ? Tell 
 me where the Wandering Jew is, that I may go and sit 
 with him. Is there any place at a lighthouse vacant? 
 Who knows where is the Island of Juan Fernandez? 
 Engage me a ship and take me there at once. Mr. R. 
 Crusoe, I think ? My dear Robinson, have the kindness 
 to hand me over your goatskin cap, breeches, and um- 
 brella. Go home, and leave me here. Would you 
 know who is the solitariest man on earth? That man 
 am I. Was that cutlet which I ate at breakfast anon, 
 was that lamb which frisked on the mead last week {be- 
 yond yon wall where the unconscious cucumber lay bask- 
 ing which was to form his sauce ) — I say, was that lamb 
 made so tender, that I might eat him? And my heart, 
 then ? Poor heart ! wert thou so softly constituted only 
 that women might stab thee? So I am a Muff, am I? 
 And she will always wear a lock of his " dear hair," will 
 she? Ha! ha! The men on the omnibus looked askance 
 as they saw me laugh. They thought it was from Han-
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 347 
 
 well, not Putney, I was escaping. Escape? Who can 
 escape? I went into London. I went to the clubs. 
 Jawkins, of course, was there; and my impression is 
 that he talked as usual. I took another omnibus, and 
 went back to Putney. " I will go back and revisit my 
 grave," I thought. It is said that ghosts loiter about 
 their former haunts a good deal when they are fii'st dead ; 
 flit wistfully among their old friends and companions, 
 and, I dare say, expect to hear a plenty of conversation 
 and friendly tearful remark about themselves. But 
 suppose they return, and find nobody talking of them 
 at all? Or suppose, Hamlet (Pere, and Royal Dane) 
 comes back and finds Claudius and Gertrude very com- 
 fortable over a piece of cold meat, or what not? Is the 
 late gentleman's present position as a ghost a very 
 pleasant one? Crow, Cocks! Quick, Sundawn! Open, 
 Trap-door! Allans : it's best to pop underground 
 again. So I am a Muff, am I? What a curious thing 
 that walk up the hill to the house was! What a dif- 
 ferent place Shrublands was yesterday to what it is to- 
 day! Has the sun lost its light, and the flowers their 
 bloom, and the joke its sparkle, and the dish its savour? 
 Why, bless my soul! what is Lizzy herself — only an 
 ordinary woman — freckled certainly — incorrigibly dull, 
 and without a scintillation of humour : and you mean to 
 say, Charles Batchelor, that your heart once beat about 
 that woman? Under the intercepted letter of that cold 
 assassin, my heart had fallen down dead, irretrievably 
 dead. I remember, ajwopos of the occasion of my first 
 death, that perpetrated by Glorvina — on my second visit 
 to Dublin — with what a strange sensation I walked 
 under some trees in the Phoenix Park beneath which it 
 had been my custom to meet my False One Number I.
 
 348 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 There were the trees— there were the birds singing— 
 there was the bench on which we used to sit— the same, 
 but how different! The trees had a different foHage, 
 exquisite amaranthine; the birds sang a song para- 
 disiacal; the bench was a bank of roses and fresh 
 flowers, which young Love twined in fragrant chap- 
 lets around the statue of Glorvina. Roses and fresh 
 flowers? Rheumatisms and flannel-waistcoats, you 
 silly old man! Foliage and Song? O namby- 
 pamby driveller! A statue?— a doll, thou twaddling 
 old dullard!— a doll with carmine cheeks, and a heart 
 stuffed with bran— I say, on the night preceding 
 that ride to and from Putney, I had undergone 
 death— in that omnibus I had been carried over to 
 t'other side of the Stygian shore. I returned but as a 
 passionless ghost, remembering my hfe-days, but not 
 feeling any more. Love was dead, Elizabeth! Why, 
 the doctor came, and partook freely of lunch, and I was 
 not angry. Yesterday I called him names, and hated 
 him, and was jealous of him. To-day I felt no rival- 
 ship ; and no envy at his success ; and no desire to sup- 
 plant him. No— I swear— not the slightest wish to 
 make Elizabeth mine if she would. I might have cared 
 for her yesterday— yesterday I had a heart. Psha! my 
 good sir or madam. You sit by me at dinner. Perhaps 
 you are handsome, and use your eyes. Ogle away. 
 Don't baulk yourself, pray. But if you fancy I care a 
 three-penny-piece about you— or for your eyes— or for 
 your bonny brown hair— or for your sentimental re- 
 marks, sidelong warbled— or for your praise to (not of) 
 my face— or for your satire behind my back— ah me!— 
 how mistaken you are! Peine perdue, ma chere dame! 
 The digestive organs are still in good working order- 
 but the heart? Caret,
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 349 
 
 I was perfectly civil to Mr. Drencher, and, indeed, 
 wonder to think how in my irritation I had allowed my- 
 self to apply (mentally) any sort of disagreeable 
 phrases to a most excellent and deserving and good- 
 looking young man, who is beloved by the poor, and has 
 won the just confidence of an extensive circle of patients. 
 I made no sort of remark to Miss Prior, except about 
 the weather and the flowers in the garden. I was bland, 
 easy, rather pleasant, not too high-spirited, you under- 
 stand.— No: I vow you could not have seen a nerve 
 wince, or the slightest alteration in my demeanour. I 
 helped the two old dowagers; I listened to their twad- 
 dle; I gaily wiped up with my napkin three-quarters 
 of a glass of sherry which Popham flung over my 
 trousers. I would defy you to know that I had gone 
 through the ticklish operation of an excision of the heart 
 a few hours previously. Heart— pooh! I saw Miss 
 Prior's lip quiver. Without a word between us, she 
 knew perfectly well that all was over as regarded her 
 late humble servant. She winced once or twice. While 
 Drencher was busy with his plate, the grey eyes cast 
 towards me inter jectional looks of puzzled entreaty. 
 She, I say, winced; and I give you my word I did not 
 care a fig whether she was sorry, or pleased, or happy, 
 or going to be hung. And I can't give a better proof 
 of my utter indifference about the matter, than the fact 
 that I wrote two or three copies of verses descriptive of 
 my despair. They appeared, you may perhaps remem- 
 ber, in one of the annuals of those days, and were gen- 
 erally attributed to one of the most sentimental of our 
 young poets. I remember the reviews said they were 
 " replete with emotion," " full of passionate and earnest 
 feeling," and so forth. Feeling, indeed!— ha! ha! 
 "Passionate outbursts of a grief -stricken heart!"—
 
 350 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 Passionate scrapings of a fiddlestick, my good friend. 
 " Lonely " of course rhymes with " only," and " gushes " 
 with " blushes," and " despair " with " hair," and so on. 
 Despair is perfectly compatible with a good dinner, I 
 promise you. Hair is false: hearts are false. Grapes 
 may be sour, but claret is good, my masters. Do you 
 suppose I am going to ciy my eyes out, because Chloe's 
 are turned upon Strephon? If you find any whimper- 
 ing in mine, may they never wink at a bee's-wing again. 
 
 When the Doctor rose presently, saying he would go 
 and see the gardener's child, who was ill, and casting 
 longing looks at Miss Prior, I assure you I did not feel 
 a tittle of jealousy, though Miss Bessy actually followed 
 Mr. Drencher into the lawn, under the pretext of calling 
 back Miss Cissy, who had run thither without her 
 bonnet. 
 
 "Now, Lady Baker, which was right? you or I?" 
 asks bonny Mrs. Bonnington, wagging her head towards 
 the lawn where this couple of innocents were disporting. 
 
 " You thought there was an aiFair between Miss 
 Prior and the medical gentleman," I say, smiling. " It 
 was no secret, Mrs. Bonnington." 
 
 " Yes, but there were others who were a little smitten 
 in that quarter, too," says Lady Baker; and she in turn 
 wags her old head towards me. 
 
 "You mean me?" I answer, as innocent as a new- 
 born babe. " I am a burnt child. Lady Baker; I have 
 been at the fire, and am already thoroughly done, thank 
 you. One of your charming sex jilted me some j^ears 
 ago; and once is quite enough, I am much obliged to 
 you." 
 
 This I said, not because it was true ; in fact, it was the 
 reverse of truth; but if I choose to lie about my own
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 351 
 
 affairs, pray, why not? And though a strictly tnith- 
 telHng man generally, when I do lie, I promise you I do 
 it boldly and well. 
 
 "If, as I gather from Mrs. Bonnington, Mr. 
 Drencher and JNIiss Prior like each other, I wish my old 
 friend joy. I wish iSIr. Drencher joy with all mj^ heart. 
 The match seems to me excellent. He is a deserving, 
 a clever, and a handsome young fellow ; and I am sure, 
 ladies, you can bear witness to her goodness, after all 
 you have known of her." 
 
 "My dear Batchelor," says Mrs. Bonnington, still 
 smiling and winking, " I don't believe one single word 
 you say — not one single word!" And she looks infi- 
 nitely pleased as she speaks. 
 
 "Oh!" cries Lady Baker, "my good Mrs. Bonning- 
 ton, you are always match-making — don't contradict me. 
 You know you thought — " 
 
 " Oh, please don't," cries Mrs. B. 
 
 " I will. She thought, Mr. Batchelor, she actually 
 thought that our son, that my CeciHa's husband, was 
 smitten by the governess. I should like to have seen 
 him dare!" and her flashing eyes turn towards the late 
 Mrs. Lovel's portrait, with its faded simper leering over 
 the harp. " The idea that any woman could succeed 
 that angel, indeed!" 
 
 " Indeed, I don't envy her," I said. 
 
 "You don't mean, Batchelor, that my Frederick 
 would not make any woman happy? " cries the Bonning- 
 ton. " He is only seven-and-thirty, very young for his 
 age, and the most affectionate of creatures. I am sur- 
 prised, and it's most cruel, and most unkind of you, to 
 say that you don't envy any woman that marries my 
 boy!"
 
 352 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 " My dear good Mrs. Bonnlngton, you quite misap- 
 prehend me," I remark. 
 
 "Why, when his late wife was alive," goes on Mrs. 
 B , sobbing, *' j^ou know with what admirable sweet- 
 ness and gentleness he bore her — her — bad temper — ex- 
 cuse me. Lady Baker!" 
 
 "Oh, pray, abuse my departed angel!" cries the 
 Baker; " say that your son should marry and forget her 
 — say that those darlings should be made to forget their 
 mother. She was a woman of birth, and a woman of 
 breeding, and a woman of family, and the Bakers came 
 in with the Conqueror, Mrs. Bonnington — " 
 
 " I think I heard of one in the court of Pharaoh," I 
 interposed. 
 
 " And to say that a Baker is not worthy of a Lovel is 
 pretty news indeed! Do you hear tJiat^ Clarence?" 
 
 "Hear what, ma'am?" says Clarence, who enters at 
 this juncture. " You're speakin' loud enough — though 
 blesht if I hear two sh-shyllables." 
 
 "You wretched boy, you have been smoking!" 
 
 " Shmoking— haven't I? " says Clarence with a laugh; 
 " and I've been at the ' Five Bells,' and I've been having 
 a game of billiards with an old friend of mine," and he 
 lurches towards a decanter. 
 
 "Ah! don't drink any more, my child!" cries the 
 mother. 
 
 " I'm as sober as a judge, I tell you. You leave so 
 precious little in the bottle at dinner, that I must get it 
 when I can, mustn't I, Batchelor, old boy? We had a 
 row yesterday, hadn't we? No, it was sugar-baker. 
 I'm not angry— you're not angry. Bear no malish. 
 Here's your health, old boy!"
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 353 
 
 The unhappy gentleman drank his bumper of sherry, 
 and, tossing his hair off his head, said— "Where's the 
 governess — where's Bessy Bellenden? Who's that 
 kickin' me under the table, I say?" 
 
 "Where is who?" asks his mother. 
 
 " Bessy Bellenden— the governess— that's her real 
 name. Known her these ten years. Used to dansh at 
 Prinsh's Theatre. Remember her in the corps-de-bal- 
 let. Ushed to go behind the shenes. Dooshid pretty 
 girl! " maunders out the tipsy j^outh; and as the uncon- 
 scious subject of his mischievous talk enters the room, 
 again he cries out, " Come and sit by me, Bessy Bellen- 
 den, I say!" 
 
 The matrons rose with looks of horror in their faces. 
 " A ballet-dancer! " cries Mrs. Bonnington. " A ballet- 
 dancer!" echoes Lady Baker. "Young woman, is this 
 true?" 
 
 " The Bulbul and the Roshe— hay?" laughs the Cap- 
 tain. "Don't you remember you and Fosbery in blue 
 and shpangles? Always all right, though, Bellenden 
 was. Fosbery washn't: but Bellenden was. Give you 
 every credit for that, Bellenden. Boxsh my earsh. Bear 
 no malish — no — no — malish! Get some more sherry, 
 you — whatsh your name — Bedford, butler — and I'll pay 
 you the money I owe you." And he laughs his wild 
 laugh, utterly unconscious of the effect he is producing. 
 Bedford stands staring at him as pale as death. Poor 
 Miss Prior is as white as marble. Wrath, terror, and 
 wonder are in the countenances of the dowagers. It is 
 an awful scene! 
 
 " JNIr. Batchelor knows that it was to help my family 
 I did it," says the poor governess.
 
 354 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 " Yes, by George! and nobody can say a word against 
 her," bursts in Dick Bedford, with a sob ; " and she is 
 as honest as any woman here." 
 
 "Pray, who told you to put your oar in?" cries the 
 tipsy Captain. 
 
 " And you knew that this person was on the stage, 
 and you introduced her into my son's family? Oh, Mr. 
 Batchelor, Mr. Batchelor, I didn't think it of you! 
 Don't speak to me. Miss!" cries the flurried Bon- 
 nington. 
 
 " You brought this woman to the children of my 
 adored Cecilia?" calls out the other dowager. "Ser- 
 pent, leave the room! Pack your trunks, viper! and quit 
 the house this instant. Don't touch her, Cissy. Come 
 to me, my blessing. Go away, you horrid wretch!" 
 
 "She ain't a horrid wretch; and when I was ill she 
 was very good to us," breaks in Pop, with a roar of 
 tears: " and you shan't go. Miss Prior— my dear, pretty 
 Miss Prior. You shan't go!" and the child rushes up 
 to the governess, and covers her neck with tears and 
 kisses. 
 
 "Leave her, Popham my darling blessing!— leave 
 that woman!" cries Lady Baker. 
 
 "I won't, you old beast!— and she sha-a-an't go. 
 And I wish you was dead— and, my dear, you shan't go, 
 and Pa shan't let you!"— shouts the boy. 
 
 " Oh, Popham, if Miss Prior has been naughty, Miss 
 Prior must go! " says Cecilia, tossing up her head. 
 
 "Spoken like my daughter's child!" cries Lady 
 Baker: and little Cissy, having flung her little stone, 
 looks as if she had performed a very virtuous action. 
 
 " God bless you, Master Pop,— you are a trump, you 
 are!" says Mr, Bedford.
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 355 
 
 "Yes, that I am, Bedford; and she shan't go, shall 
 she?" cries the boy. 
 
 But Bessy stooped down sadly, and kissed him. " Yes, 
 I must, dear," she said. 
 
 "Don't touch him! Come away, sir! Come away 
 from her this moment!" shrieked the two mothers. 
 
 " I nursed him through the scarlet fever, when his 
 own mother would not come near him," says Elizabeth, 
 gently. 
 
 "I'm blest if she didn't," sobs Bedford — "and — bub 
 — bub — bless you, Master Pop! " 
 
 " That child is wicked enough, and headstrong enough, 
 and rude enough already!" exclaims Lady Baker. " I 
 desire, young woman, you will not pollute him further! " 
 
 " That's a hard word to say to an honest woman, 
 ma'am," says Bedford. 
 
 "Pray, Miss, are you engaged to the butler, too?" 
 hisses out the dowager. 
 
 " There's very little the matter with Barnet's child — 
 
 only teeth What on earth has happened? 
 
 My dear Lizzy — my dear JNIiss Prior — what is it?" 
 cries the Doctor, who enters from the garden at this 
 juncture. 
 
 " Nothing has happened, only this young woman has 
 appeared in a new character" says Lady Baker. " My 
 son has just informed us that Miss Prior danced upon 
 the stage, Mr. Drencher ; and if you think such a person 
 is a fit companion for your mother and sisters, who at- 
 tend a place of Christian worship, I believe— I wish you 
 
 joy." 
 
 " Is this — is this — true? " asks the Doctor, wdth a look 
 of bewilderment. 
 
 " Yes, it is true," sighs the girl.
 
 356 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 "And you never told me, Elizabeth?" groans the 
 Doctor. 
 
 " She's as honest as any woman here," calls out Bed- 
 ford. " She gave all the money to her family." 
 
 *' It wasn't fair not to tell me. It wasn't fair," sobs 
 the Doctor. And he gives her a ghastly parting look, 
 and turns his back. 
 
 " I say, you— Hi! What-d'you-call-'im? Sawbones! " 
 shrieks out Captain Clarence. " Come back, I saj'-. 
 She's all right, I say. Upon my honour, now, she's all 
 right." 
 
 " Miss P shouldn't have kept this from me. My 
 
 mother and sisters are Dissenters, and very strict. I 
 couldn't ask a party into my family who has been— who 
 has been— I wish you good morning," says the Doctor, 
 and stalks away. 
 
 "And now, will you please to get your things ready, 
 and go, too?" continues Lady Baker. "My dear Mrs. 
 Bonnington, you think — " 
 
 " Certainly, certainly, she must go!" cries Mrs. Bon- 
 nington. 
 
 " Don't go till Lovel comes home, Miss. These ain't 
 your mistresses. Lady Baker don't pay j^our salary. 
 If you go, I go, too. There!" calls out Bedford, and 
 mumbles something in her ear about "the end of the 
 world." 
 
 "You go, too; and a good riddance, you insolent 
 brute! " exclaims the dowager. 
 
 "Oh, Captain Clarence! you have made a pretty 
 morning's work," I say. 
 
 " I don't know what the dooce all the sherrj^- all the 
 shinty's about," says the Captain, playing with the empty 
 decanter. " Gal's a very good gal— pretty gal. If she
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 357 
 
 clioosesh dansh shport her family, why the doosh 
 shouldn't she dansh shport a family ? " 
 
 " That is exactly what I recommend this person to 
 do," says Lady Baker, tossing up her head. "And now 
 I will thank you to leave the room. Do you hear? " 
 
 As poor Elizabeth obeyed this order, Bedford darted 
 after her ; and I know ere she had gone five steps he had 
 offered her his savings and everything he had. She 
 might have had mine yesterday. But she had deceived 
 me. She had played fast and loose with me. She had 
 misled me about this Doctor. I could trust her no more. 
 My love of yesterday was dead, I say. That vase was 
 broken, which never could be mended. She knew all was 
 over between us. She did not once look at me as she left 
 the room. 
 
 The two dowagers— one of them, I think, a little 
 alarmed at her victory — left the house, and for once went 
 away in the same barouche. The young maniac who had 
 been the cause of the mischief staggered away, I know 
 not whither. 
 
 About four o'clock, poor little Pinhorn, the children's 
 maid, came to me, well nigh choking with tears, as she 
 handed me a letter. " She's goin' away — and she saved 
 both them children's lives, she did. And she've wrote to 
 you, sir. And Bedford's a-goin'. And I'll give warnin', 
 I will, too ! " And the weeping handmaiden retires, leav- 
 ing me, perhaps somewhat frightened, with the letter in 
 my hand. 
 
 "Dear sir," she said— "I may write you a line of 
 thanks and farewell. I shall go to my mother. I shall 
 soon find another place. Poor Bedford, who has a gen- 
 erous heart, told me that he had given you a letter of 
 mine to JNIr. D . I saw this morning that you knew
 
 358 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 everything. I can only say now that for all your long 
 kindnesses and friendship to my family I am always 
 your sincere and grateful — E. P." 
 
 Yes: that was all. I think she w«^ grateful. But she 
 had not been candid with me, nor with the poor surgeon. 
 I had no anger : far from it : a great deal of regard and 
 goodwill, nay admiration, for the intrepid girl who had 
 played a long, hard part very cheerfully and bravely. 
 But my foolish little flicker of love had blazed up and 
 gone out in a day ; I knew that she never could care for 
 me. In that dismal, wakeful night, after reading the 
 letter, I had thought her character and story over, and 
 seen to what a life of artifice and dissimulation necessity 
 had compelled her. I did not blame her. In such cir- 
 cumstances, with such a famil3% how could she be frank 
 and open ? Poor thing ! poor thing ! Do we know any- 
 body? Ah! dear me, we are most of us very lonely in 
 the world. You who have any who love you, cling to 
 them, and thank God. I went into the hall towards 
 evening: her poor trunks and packages were there, and 
 the little nurserymaid weeping over them. The sight 
 unmanned me; and I believe I cried myself. Poor 
 Elizabeth ! And with these small chests you recommence 
 your life's lonely voyage! I gave the girl a couple of 
 sovereigns. She sobbed a God bless me! and burst out 
 crying more desperately than ever. Thou hast a kind 
 heart, little Pinhorn ! 
 
 *' ' Miss Prior— to be called for.' Whose trunks are 
 these?" says Lovel, coming from the city. The dow- 
 agers drove up at the same moment. 
 
 "Didn't you see us from the omnibus, Frederick?" 
 cries her ladyship, coaxingly. " We followed behind you 
 all the way!"
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 359 
 
 "We were in the barouche, my dear," remarks JMrs. 
 Bonnington, rather nervoush\ 
 
 "Whose trunks are these? — what's the matter? — and 
 what's the girl crying for? " asks Lovel. 
 
 " Miss Prior is a-going away," sobs Pinhorn. 
 
 "Miss Prior going? Is this your doing, my Lady 
 Baker? — or yours, mother?" the master of the house 
 
 t 
 
 says, sternly. 
 
 " She is going, my love, because she cannot stay in this 
 family," says mamma. 
 
 " That woman is no fit companion for my angel's chil- 
 dren, Frederick! " cries Lady B. 
 
 "That person has deceived us all, my love!" says 
 mamma. 
 
 " Deceived? — how? Deceived whom? " continues Mr. 
 Lovel, more and more hotly. 
 
 "Clarence, love! come down, dear! Tell Mr. Lovel 
 everything. Come down and tell him this moment," cries 
 Lady Baker to her son, who at this moment appears on 
 the corridor which was round the hall. 
 
 "What's the row now, pray?" And Captain Clar- 
 ence descends, breaking his shins over poor Elizabeth's 
 trunks, and calling down on them his usual maledic- 
 tions. 
 
 " Tell Mr. Lovel where you saw that— that person, 
 Clarence? Now, sir, listen to my Cecilia's brother! " 
 
 " Saw her — saw her in blue and spangles, in the ' Rose 
 and the Bulbul,' at the Prince's Theatre— and a doosid 
 nice-looking girl she was too!" says the Captain. 
 
 "There, sir!" 
 
 "There, Frederick!" cry the matrons in a breath. 
 
 "And what then? " asks Lovel. 
 
 "Mercy! you ask, What then, Frederick? Do you 
 know what a theatre is? Tell Frederick what a theatre
 
 360 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 is, Mr. Batchelor, and that my grandchildren must not 
 be educated by — " 
 
 "My grandchildren— my Cecilia's children," shrieks 
 the other, "must not be pol-luted by—" 
 
 " Silence! " I say. " Have you a word against her — 
 have you, pray. Baker?" 
 
 " No. 'Gad ! I never said a word against her," says 
 the Captain. " No, hang me, you know— but — " 
 
 " But suppose I knew the fact the whole time? " asks 
 Lovel, with rather a blush on his cheek. " Suppose I 
 knew that she danced to give her family bread? Sup- 
 pose I knew that she toiled and laboured to support her 
 parents, and brothers and sisters? Suppose I know that 
 out of her pittance she has continued to support them? 
 Suppose I know that she watched my own children 
 through fever and danger? For these reasons I must 
 turn her out of doors, must I? No, by heaven!— No!— 
 Elizabeth! — Miss Prior! — Come down! — Come here, I 
 beg you ! " 
 
 The governess, arrayed as for departure, at this mo- 
 ment appeared on the corridor running round the hall. 
 As Lovel continued to speak very loud and resolute, she 
 came down looking deadly pale. 
 
 Still much excited, the widower went up to her and 
 took her hand. "Dear Miss Prior!" he said — "dear 
 Elizabeth! you have been the best friend of me and 
 mine. You tended my wife in illness, you took care of 
 my children in fever and danger. You have been an 
 admirable sister, daughter in your own family — and for 
 this, and for these benefits conferred upon us, my rela- 
 tives — my mother-in-law — would drive you out of my 
 doors! It shall not be! — by heavens, it shall not be! " 
 
 You should have seen little Bedford sitting on the
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 361 
 
 governess's box, shaking his fist, and crying "Hurrah!" 
 as his master spoke. By this time the loud voices and the 
 altercation in the hall had brought a half-dozen of ser- 
 vants from their quarters into the hall. " Go awaj^, all 
 of you!" shouts Lovel; and the domestic yosse retires, 
 Bedford being the last to retreat, and nodding approval 
 at his master as he backs out of the room. 
 
 " You are very good, and kind, and generous, sir," 
 says the pale Elizabeth, putting a handkerchief to her 
 eyes. "But without the confidence of these ladies, 
 I must not stay, Mr. Lovel. God bless you for your 
 goodness to me. I must, if you please, return to my 
 mother." 
 
 The worthy gentleman looked fiercely round at the 
 two elder women, and again seizing the governess's hand, 
 said — "Elizabeth! dear Elizabeth! I implore you not 
 to go! If you love the children — " 
 
 " Oh, sir! " (A cambric veil covers Miss Prior's emo- 
 tion, and the expression of her face, on this ejaculation.) 
 
 " If you love the children," gasps out the widower, 
 "stay with them. If you have a regard for— for their 
 father "— (Timanthes, where is thy pocket-handker- 
 chief?) — " remain in this house, with such a title as none 
 can question. Be the mistress of it." 
 
 " His mistress— and before me! " screams Lady Baker. 
 "Mrs. Bonnington, this depravity is monstrous!" 
 
 " Be my wife, dear Elizabeth! " the widower continues. 
 " Continue to watch over the children, who shall be 
 motherless no more." 
 
 " Frederick! Frederick! haven't they got us?" shrieks 
 one of the old ladies. 
 
 "Oh, my poor dear Lady Baker!" says Mrs. Bon- 
 nington.
 
 362 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 "Oh, my poor dear ISlis. Bonnington!" says Lady 
 Baker. 
 
 " Frederick, listen to your mother," implores Mrs. 
 Bonnington. 
 
 " To your mothers," sobs Lady Baker. 
 
 And they both go down on their knees, and I heard a 
 boohoo of a guffaw behind the green-baized servants' 
 door, where I have no doubt Mons. Bedford w^as posted. 
 
 "Ah, Batchelor! dear Batchelor, speak to him!" cries 
 good Mrs. Bonn5^ " We are praying this child, Batch- 
 elor — this child whom you used to know at college, and 
 when he was a good, gentle, obedient boy. You have 
 influence with my poor Frederick. Exert it for his 
 heart-broken mother's sake ; and you shall have my bub- 
 ble-uble-essings, you shall." 
 
 " My dear good lady," I exclaim— not liking to see 
 the kind soul in grief. 
 
 " Send for Doctor Straightwaist! Order him to pause 
 in his madness," cries Baker; "or it is I, Cecilia's mo- 
 ther, the mother of that murdered angel, that shall go 
 mad." 
 
 "Angel? Allons!" I say. "Since his widowhood, 
 you have never given the poor fellow any peace. You 
 have been for ever quarrelling with him. You took pos- 
 session of his house; bullied his servants; spoiled his 
 children — yoxi did. Lady Baker." 
 
 " Sir," cries her ladyship, " you are a low, presuming, 
 vulgar man! Clarence, beat this rude man! " 
 
 " Nay," I say, " there must be no more quarrelling to- 
 day. And I am sure Captain Baker will not molest me. 
 Miss Prior, I am delighted that my old friend should 
 have found a woman of good sense, good conduct, good 
 temper— a woman who has had many trials, and borne
 
 Lovel'3 Mothers
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 363 
 
 them with very great patience— to take charge of him, 
 and make him happy. I congratulate you both. Miss 
 Prior has borne poverty so well that I am certain she 
 will bear good fortune, for it is good fortune to become 
 the wife of such a loyal, honest, kindly gentleman as 
 Frederick Lovel." 
 
 After such a speech as that, I think I may say, liberavi 
 animam. Not one word of complaint, j^ou see, not a hint 
 about " Edward," not a single sarcasm, though I might 
 have launched some terrific shots out of mj^ quiver, and 
 have made Lovel and his bride-elect WTithe before me. 
 But what is the need of spoihng sjjort? Shall I growd 
 out of my sulky manger, because my comrade gets the 
 meat? Eat it, happy dog! and be thankful. Would 
 not that bone have choked me if I had tried it? Besides, 
 I am accustomed to disappointment. Other fellows get 
 the prizes which I try for. I am used to run second in 
 the dreary race of love. Second ? Psha ! Third, Fourth. 
 Que sfais-je? There was the Bombay captain in Bess's 
 early days. There was Edward. Here is Frederick. 
 Go to, Charles Batchelor; repine not at fortune: but 
 be content to be Batchelor still. ]My sister has children. 
 I will be an uncle, a parent to them. Isn't Edward of 
 the scarlet whiskers distanced? Has not poor Dick Bed- 
 ford lost the race — poor Dick, who never had a chance, 
 and is the best of us all? Besides, what fun it is to see 
 Lady Baker deposed: think of Mrs. Prior coming in 
 and reigning over her! The purple-faced old fury of a 
 Baker, never will she bully, and rage, and trample more. 
 She must pack up her traps and be off. I know she 
 must. I can congratulate Lovel sincerely, and that's 
 the fact. 
 
 And here at this very moment, and as if to add to the
 
 364 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 comicality of the scene, who should appear but mother- 
 in-law No. 2, Mrs. Prior, with her Bluecoat boy, and two 
 or three of her children, who had been invited, or had in- 
 vited themselves, to drink tea with Lovel's young ones, 
 as their custom was whenever they could procure an in- 
 vitation. Master Prior had a fine " copy " under his arm, 
 which he came to show to his patron Lovel. His mamma, 
 entirely ignorant of what had happened, came fawning 
 in with her old poke-bonnet, her old pocket, that vast 
 depository of all sorts of stores, her old umbrella, and 
 her usual drear}^ smirk. She made her obeisance to the 
 matrons, — she led up her Bluecoat boy to Mr. Lovel, in 
 whose office she hoped to find a clerk's place for her lad, 
 on whose very coat and waistcoat she had designs whilst 
 they were j^et on his back: and she straightway began 
 business with the dowagers — 
 
 "My lady, I hope your ladyship is quite well?" (a 
 curtsey.) "Dear, kind Mrs. Bonnington! I came to 
 pay my duty to you, mum. This is Louisa, my lady, the 
 great girl for whom your ladyship so kindly promised 
 the gown. And this is my little girl, Mrs. Bonnington, 
 mum, please ; and this is my big Blue. Go and speak to 
 dear, kind ]Mr. Lovel, Gus, our dear good friend and 
 protector, — the son and son-in-law of these dear ladies. 
 Look, sir, he has brought his copy to show you ; and it's 
 creditable to a boy of his age, isn't it, Mr. Batchelor? 
 You can say, who know so well what writing is, and 
 my kind services to you, sir— and— Elizabeth, Lizzy, my 
 dear! where's your spectacles, you — you — " 
 
 Here she stopped, and looking alarmed at the group, 
 at the boxes, at the blushing Lovel, at the pale counte- 
 nance of the governess, " Gracious goodness! " she said, 
 " what has happened? Tell me, Lizzy, what is it? "
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 365 
 
 " Is this collusion, pray? " says ruffled Mrs. Bonning- 
 ton. 
 
 " Collusion, dear Mrs. Bonnington?" 
 
 " Or insolence? " bawls out my Lady Baker. 
 
 " Insolence, your ladyship? What— what is it? What 
 are these boxes — Lizzy's boxes ? Ah ! " the mother broke 
 out with a scream, "you've not sent the poor girl away? 
 Oh! my poor child — my poor children!" 
 
 " The Prince's Theatre has come out, Mrs. Prior," 
 here said I. 
 
 The mother clasps her meagre hands. " It wasn't the 
 darling's fault. It w^as to help her poor father in pov- 
 erty. It was I who forced her to it. Oh, ladies ! ladies ! 
 — don't take the bread out of the mouth of these poor 
 orphans!" — and genuine tears rained down her yellow 
 cheeks. 
 
 " Enough of this," says ^Ir. Lovel, haughtily. " Mrs. 
 Prior, your daughter is not going away. Elizabeth has 
 promised to stay with me, and never to leave me — as 
 governess no longer, but as — " and here he takes Miss 
 Prior's hand. 
 
 " His wife! Is this— is this true, Lizzy? " gasped the 
 mother. 
 
 " Yes, mamma," meekly said Miss Elizabeth Prior. 
 
 At this the old woman flung down her umbrella, and 
 uttering a fine scream, folds Elizabeth in her arms, and 
 then runs up to Lovel: "My son! my son!" says she 
 (Lovel's face was not bad, I promise you, at this saluta- 
 tion and salute). "Come here, children!— come, Au- 
 gustus, Fanny, Louisa, kiss your dear brother, children! 
 And where are yours, Lizzy? Where are Pop and Cissy? 
 Go and look for your little nephew and niece, dears : Pop 
 and Cissy in the schoolroom, or in the garden, dears.
 
 366 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 They will be your nephew and niece now. Go and fetch 
 them, I say." 
 
 As the young Priors filed off, Mrs. Prior turned to 
 the two other matrons, and spoke to them with much 
 dignity: "Most hot weather, your ladyship, I'm sure! 
 Mr. Bonnington must find it very hot for preaching, 
 Mrs. Bonnington ! Lor' ! there's that little wretch beat- 
 ing my Johnny on the stairs. Have done. Pop, sir! 
 How ever shall we make those children agree, Eliza- 
 beth?" 
 
 Quick, come to me, some skilful delineator of the Brit- 
 ish dowager, and draw me the countenances of Lady 
 Baker and Mrs. Bonnington ! 
 
 " I call this a jolly game, don't you, Batchelor, old 
 boy?" remarks the Captain to me. "Lady Baker, my 
 dear, I guess your ladyship's nose is out of joint." 
 
 "O Ceciha— Cecilia! don't you shudder in your 
 grave?" cries Lady B. "Call my people, Clarence- 
 call Bulkeley — call my maid! Let me go, I say, from 
 this house of horror!" and the old lady dashed into the 
 drawing-room, where she uttered I know not what in- 
 coherent shrieks and appeals before that calm, glazed, 
 simpering portrait of the departed Cecilia. 
 
 Now this is a truth, for which I call Lovel, his lady, 
 Mrs. Bonnington, and Captain Clarence Baker, as wit- 
 nesses. Well, then, whilst Lady B. was adjuring the por- 
 trait, it is a fact that a string of Cecilia's harp— which 
 has always been standing in the corner of the room under 
 its shroud of Cordovan leather— a string, I say, of Ce- 
 cilia's harp cracked, and went off with a loud hong, which 
 struck terror into all beholders. Lady Baker's agitation 
 at the incident was awful; I do not like to describe it— 
 not having any wish to say anything tragic in this nar-
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 367 
 
 rative— though that I can write tragedy, plays of mine 
 ( of which envious managers never could be got to see the 
 merit) I think will prove, when they appear in my post- 
 humous works. 
 
 Baker has always averred that at the moment when 
 the harp-string broke, her heart broke too. But as she 
 lived for many years, and may be alive now for what I 
 know; and as she borrowed money repeatedly from 
 Lovel— he must be acquitted of the charge which she 
 constantly brings against him of hastening her own 
 death, and murdering his first wife Cecilia. " The harp 
 that once in Tara's Halls " used to make such a piteous 
 feeble thrumming, has been carted oiF I know not whi- 
 ther ; and Cecilia's portrait, though it has been removed 
 from the post of honour (where, you conceive, under 
 present circumstances it would hardly be aproims) , oc- 
 cupies a very reputable position in the pink room up- 
 stairs, which that poor young Clarence inhabited dur- 
 ing my visit to Shrublands. 
 
 All the house has been altered. There's a fine organ 
 in the hall, on which Elizabeth performs sacred music 
 very finely. As for my old room, I will trouble j^ou to 
 smoke there under the present government. It is a li- 
 brary now, with many fine and authentic pictures of the 
 Lovel family hanging up in it, the English branch of 
 the house with the wolf crest, and Gare a la louve for the 
 motto, and a grand posthumous portrait of a Portuguese 
 officer (Gandish), Elizabeth's late father. 
 
 As for dear old Mrs. Bonnington, she, you may be 
 sure, would be easily reconciled to any live mortal who 
 was kind to her, and any plan which should make her son 
 happy; and Elizabeth has quite won her over. Mrs. 
 Prior, on the deposition of the other dowagers, no doubt
 
 368 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 expected to reign at Shrublands, but in this object I am 
 not very sorry to say was disappointed. Indeed, I was 
 not a little amused, upon the very first day of her in- 
 tended reign— that eventful one of which we have been 
 describing the incidents— to see how calmly and grace- 
 fully Bessy pulled the throne from under her, on which ' 
 the old lady was clambering. 
 
 Mrs. P. knew the house very well, and everything which 
 it contained; and when Lady Baker drove off with her 
 son and her suite of domestics. Prior dashed through the 
 vacant apartments gleaning what had been left in the 
 flurry of departure — a scarlet feather out of the dowa- 
 ger's room, a shirt-stud and a bottle of hair-oil, the Cap- 
 tain's property. "And now they are gone, and as you 
 can't be alone with him, my dear, I must be with you," 
 says she, coming down to her daughter. 
 
 " Of course, mamma, I must be with you," says obe- 
 dient Elizabeth. 
 
 "And there is the pink room, and the blue room, and 
 the yellow room for the boys — and the chintz boudoir 
 for me — I can put them all away, oh, so comfortably! " 
 
 " I can come and share Louisa's room, mamma," says 
 Bessy. " It will not be proper for me to stay here at all 
 — until afterwards, you know. Or I can go to my uncle 
 at St. Boniface. Don't you think that will be best, eh, 
 Frederick?" 
 
 " Whatever you wish, my dear Lizzy! " says Lovel. 
 
 "And I dare say there will be some little alterations 
 made in the house. You talked, you know, of painting, 
 Mr. Lovel: and the children can go to their grand- 
 mamma Bonnington. And on our return when the al- 
 terations are made we shall always be delighted to see
 
 CECILIA'S SUCCESSOR 369 
 
 iJou, Mr. Batchelor— our kindest old friend. Shall we 
 not, Frederick?" 
 
 "Always, always," said Frederick. 
 
 *' Come, children, come to your teas," calls out Mrs. 
 P., in a resolute voice. 
 
 "Dear Pop, I'm not going away— that is, only for a 
 few days, dear," says Bessy, kissing the boy; " and you 
 will love me, won't you? " 
 
 "All right," says the boy. But Cissy said, when the 
 same appeal was made to her: "I shall love my dear 
 mamma! " and makes her new mother-in-law a very po- 
 lite curtsey. 
 
 " I think you had better put off those men you expect 
 to dinner to-morrow, Fred," I say to Lovel. 
 
 " I think I had. Batch," says the gentleman. 
 
 " Or you can dine with them at the club, you know? " 
 remarks Elizabeth. 
 
 " Yes, Bessy." 
 
 "And when the children have had their tea I will go 
 with mamma. My boxes are ready, you know," says arch 
 Bessy. 
 
 "And you will stay and dine with Mr. Lovel, won't 
 you, Mr. Batchelor?" asks the lady. 
 
 It was the dreariest dinner I ever had in my life. No 
 undertaker could be more gloomy than Bedford, as he 
 served us. We tried to talk politics and literature. We 
 drank too much, purposely. Nothing would do. 
 " Hang me, if I can stand this, Lovel," I said, as we sat 
 mum over our third bottle. " I will go back and sleep at 
 my chambers. I was not a little soft upon her myself, 
 that's the truth. Here's her health, and happiness to 
 both of you, with all my heart." And we drained a great
 
 370 LOVEL THE WIDOWER 
 
 bumper apiece, and I left him. He was very happy I 
 should go. 
 
 Bedford stood at the gate, as the little pony-carriage 
 came for me in the dusk. " God bless you, sir," says he. 
 " I can't stand it; I shall go too." And he rubbed his 
 hands over his eyes. 
 
 He married Mary Pinhorn, and they have emigrated 
 to Melbourne; whence he sent me, three years ago, an 
 affectionate letter, and a smart gold pin from the dig- 
 gings. 
 
 A month afterwards, a cab might have been seen driv- 
 ing from the Temple to Hanover Square : and a month 
 and a day after that drive, an advertisement might have 
 been read in the Post and Times: "Married, on Thurs- 
 day, 10th, at St. George's, Hanover Square, by the Rev- 
 erend the Master of St. Boniface College, Oxbridge, 
 uncle of the bride, Frederick Lovel, Esquire, of Shrub- 
 lands, Roehampton, to Elizabeth, eldest daughter of the 
 late Captain Montagu Prior, K.S.F." 
 
 We may hear of Lovei. Married some other day, but 
 here is an end of Lo\^l the Widower. Valete et plau- 
 ditCj 5''ou good people, who have witnessed the little com- 
 edy. Down with the curtain; cover up the boxes; pop 
 out the gas-lights. Ho! cab. Take us home, and let us 
 have some tea, and go to bed. Good-night, my little 
 players. We have been merry together, and we part 
 with soft hearts and somewhat rueful countenances, 
 don't we?
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Mr. Horace Milliken, a Widower, a wealthy City Merchant. 
 
 George Milliken, a Child, his Son. 
 
 Captain Touchit, his Friend. 
 
 Clarence Kicklebury, brother to Milliken^s late Wife. 
 
 John Howell, M.^s Butler and confidential Servant. 
 
 Charles Page, Foot-boy. 
 
 BuLKELEY, Lady Kicklebury^s Servant. 
 
 Mr. BONNINGTON. 
 
 Coachman, Cabman; a Bluecoat Boy, another Boy {Mrs. Prior's 
 Sons ) . 
 
 Lady Kicklebury, Mother-in-law to Milliken. 
 Mrs. BoNNiNGTON, MHUken's Mother {married again). 
 Mrs. Prior. 
 
 Miss Prior, her Daughter, Governess to Milliken's Children. 
 Arabella Milliken, a Child. 
 Mary Barlow, School-room Maid. 
 
 A grown-up Girl and Child of Mrs. Prior's, Lady K.'s Maid, 
 Cook.
 
 THE 
 
 WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene.— Milliken's villa at Richmond; two drawing- 
 rooms opening into one another. The late Mrs. 
 Milliken's portrait over the mantelpiece; book- 
 cases, writing-tables, piano, newspapers, a hand- 
 somely furnished saloon. The back-room opens, 
 with very large windows, on the lawn and pleasure- 
 ground; gate, and wall — over which the heads of a 
 cab and a carriage are seen, as persons arrive. 
 Fruit, and a ladder on the walls. A door to the 
 dining-room, another to the sleeping-apartments, 
 
 John. — Everybody out; governor in the city; gover- 
 ness (heigh-ho!) walking in the Park with the children; 
 ladyship gone out in the carriage. Let's sit down and 
 have a look at the papers. Buttons! fetch the Morning 
 Post out of Lady Kicklebury's room. Where's the 
 Daily News, sir? 
 
 Page.— Think it's in ^lilliken's room. 
 
 John.— Milliken! you scoundrel! What do you mean 
 by Milliken? Speak of your employer as your governor 
 if you like; but not as simple Milliken. Confound your 
 impudence ! you'll be calling me Howell next. 
 
 3T3
 
 374 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 Page.— Well! I didn't know. You call him Milliken. 
 
 John. — Because I know him, because I'm intimate 
 with him, because there's not a secret he has but I may 
 have it for the asking; because the letters addressed to 
 Horace Milliken, Esq., might as well be addressed John 
 Howell, Esq., for I read 'em, I put 'em away and docket 
 'em, and remember 'em. I know his affairs better than 
 he does : his income to a shilling, pay his tradesmen, wear 
 his coats if I like. I may call Mr. Milliken what I 
 please ; but not yoUj, you little scamp of a clod-hopping 
 ploughboy. Know your station and do your business, 
 or you don't wear them buttons long, I promise you. 
 [Emt Page.] 
 
 Let me go on with the paper [^readsl. How brilliant 
 this writing is! Tiines, Chronicle, Daily News, they're 
 all good, blest if they ain't. How much better the nine 
 leaders in them three daily papers is, than nine speeches 
 in the House of Commons! Take a very best speech in 
 the 'Ouse now, and compare it with an article in The 
 Times ! I say, the newspaper has the best of it for phi- 
 losophy, for wit, novelty, good sense too. And the party 
 that writes the leading article is nobody, and the chap 
 that speaks in the House of Commons is a hero. Lord, 
 Lord, how the world is 'umbugged! Pop'lar represen- 
 tation! what is pop'lar representation? Dammy, it's a 
 farce. Hallo! this article is stole! I remember a pas- 
 sage in Montesquieu uncommonly like it. [^Goes and 
 gets the book. Ashe is standing upon sofa to get it, and 
 sitting down to read -it. Miss Prior and the Children 
 have come in at the garden. Children jJass across stage. 
 ]Miss Prior enters by open window, bringing flowers 
 into the room.~\ 
 
 John.— It is like it. [He slaps the book, and seeing
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 375 
 
 Miss Prior who enters^ tlien jumps up from sofa, say- 
 ing very respectfully ,1 
 
 John.— I beg your pardon, Miss. 
 
 Miss P. [sarcastically].— T)o I disturb you, Howell? 
 
 John. — Disturb! I have no right to say — a servant 
 has no right to be disturbed, but I hope I may be par- 
 doned for venturing to look at a volume in the libery. 
 Miss, just in reference to a newspaper harticle— that's 
 all, Miss. 
 
 Miss P. — You are very fortunate in finding anything 
 to interest you in the paper, I'm sure. 
 
 John.— Perhaps, Miss, you are not accustomed to 
 political discussion, and ignorant of — ah — I beg your 
 pardon : a servant, I know, has no right to speak. [Eant 
 into dining-room, making a low how.] 
 
 Miss Prior.— The coolness of some people is really 
 quite extraordinary! the airs they give themselves, the 
 way in which they answer one, the books they read! 
 Montesquieu: " Esprit des Lois!" [takes book up which 
 J. has left on sofa.] I believe the man has actually 
 taken this from the shelf. I am sure Mr. Milliken, or 
 her ladyship, never would. The other day " Helvetius " 
 was found in Mr. Howell's pantry, forsooth! It is 
 wonderful how he picked up French whilst we were 
 abroad. "Esprit des Lois!" what is it? it must be 
 dreadfully stupid. And as for reading " Helvetius " 
 (who, I suppose, was a Roman general), I really can't 
 understand how — Dear, dear! what airs these persons 
 give themselves! What will come next? A footman — 
 I beg Mr. Howell's pardon — a butler and confidential 
 valet lolls on the drawing-room sofa, and reads Mon- 
 tesquieu! Impudence! And add to this, he follows me 
 for the last two or three months with eyes that are quite
 
 376 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 horrid. What can the creature mean? But I forgot— 
 I am only a governess. A governess is not a lady — a 
 governess is but a servant— a governess is to work and 
 walk all day with the children, dine in the school-room, 
 and come to the drawing-room to play the man of the 
 house to sleep. A governess is a domestic, only her 
 place is not the servants' hall, and she is paid not quite 
 so well as the butler who serves her her glass of wine. 
 Odious! George! Arabella! there are those little 
 wretches quarrelling again ! [Ecvit, Children are heard 
 calling out, and seen quarrelling in garden.^ 
 
 John [re-enteringl. — See where she moves! grace is 
 in all her steps. 'Eaven in her high — no— a-heaven in her 
 heye, in every gesture dignity and love — ah, I wish I 
 could say it ! I wish you may procure it, poor fool ! She 
 passes by me— she tr-r-amples on me. Here's the chair 
 she sets in [kisses it]. Here's the piano she plays on. 
 Pretty keys, them fingers outhivories you! When she 
 plays on it, I stand and listen at the drawing-room door, 
 and my heart thr-obs in time ! Fool, fool, fool ! why did 
 you look on her, John Howell! why did you beat for 
 her, busy heart! You were tranquil till you knew her! 
 I thought I could have been a-happy with Mary till 
 then. That girl's affection soothed me. Her conver- 
 sation didn't amuse me much, her ideers ain't exactly ele- 
 vated, but they are just and proper. Her attentions 
 pleased me. She ever kep' the best cup of tea for me. 
 She crisped my buttered toast, or mixed my quiet tum- 
 bler for me, as I sat of hevenings and read my news- 
 paper in the kitching. She respected the sanctaty of my 
 pantry. When I was a-studying there, she never inter- 
 rupted me. She darned my stockings for me, she 
 starched and folded my chokers, and she sowed on the
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 377 
 
 habsent buttons of which time and chance had bereft my 
 hnning. She has a good heart, INIary has. I know she'd 
 get up and black the boots for me of the coldest winter 
 mornings. She did when we was in humbler life, she 
 did. 
 
 Enter Mary. 
 
 You have a good heart, Mary! 
 
 Mary.— Have I, dear John? [sadly. 1 
 
 John. — Yes, child — ves. I think a better never beat 
 in woman's bosom. You're good to everybody — good 
 to your parents whom you send half your wages to: 
 good to your employers whom you never robbed of a 
 halfpenny. 
 
 Mary [whimpering].— Yes, I did, John. I took the 
 jelly when you were in bed with the influenza; and 
 brought you the pork-wine negus. 
 
 John.— Port, not pork, child. Pork is the hanimal 
 which Jews ab'or. Port is from Oporto in Portugal. 
 
 Mary [still crying]. — Yes, John; you know every- 
 thing a'most, John. 
 
 John.— And you, poor child, but little! It's not 
 heart you want, you little trump, it's education, Mary: 
 it's information: it's head, head, head! You can't learn. 
 You never can learn. Your ideers ain't no good. You 
 never can hinterchange 'em with mine. Conversation 
 between us is impossible. It's not your fault. Some 
 people are born clever; some are born tall, I ain't 
 tall. 
 
 Mary. — Ho! you're big enough for me, John. [Of- 
 fers to take his hand.] 
 
 John.— Let go my 'and— my a-hand, Mary! I say, 
 some people are born with brains, and some with big
 
 378 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 figures. Look at that great ass, Bulkeley, Lady K.'s 
 man— the besotted, stupid beast! He's as big as a Hfe- 
 guardsman, but he ain't no more education nor ideers 
 than the ox he feeds on. 
 
 Mary. — Law, John, whathever do you mean? 
 
 John. — Hm! j^ou know not, httle one! you never can 
 know. Have you ever felt the pangs of imprisoned 
 genius? have you ever felt what 'tis to be a slave? 
 
 Mary.— Not in a free country, I should hope, John 
 Howell— no such a thing. A place is a place, and I 
 know mine, and am content with the spear of life in 
 which it pleases heaven to place me, John: and I wish 
 you were, and remembered what we learned from our 
 parson when we went to school together in dear old 
 Pigeoncot, John — when you used to help little Mary 
 with her lessons, John, and fought Bob Brown, the big 
 butcher's boy, because he was rude to me, John, and he 
 gave you that black hi. 
 
 John.— Say eye, Mary, not heye [gently~\. 
 
 Mary.— Eye; and I thought you never looked better 
 in all your life than you did then : and we both took ser- 
 vice at Squire Milliken's — me as dairy-girl, and you as 
 knife-boy; and good masters have they been to us from 
 our youth hup: both old Squire INIilliken and Mr. 
 Charles as is master now, and poor Mrs. as is dead, 
 though she had her tantrums— and I thought we should 
 save up and take the "Milliken Arms"— and now we 
 have saved up — and now, now, now — oh, you are a stone, 
 a stone, a stone! and I wish you were hung round my 
 neck, and I were put down the well! There's the hup- 
 stairs bell. [She starts, changing her manner as she 
 hears the hell, and exit.'] 
 
 John {looking after /i(?r].— It's all true. Gospel-
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 879 
 
 true. We were children in the same village— sat on the 
 same form at school. And it was for her sake that Bob 
 Brown the butcher's boy whopped me. A black eye ! I'm 
 not handsome. But if I were ugly, ugly as the Saracen's 
 'Ead, ugly as that beast Bulkeley, I know it would be 
 all the same to Mary. She has never forgot the boy she 
 loved, that brought birds'-nests for her, and spent his 
 halfpenny on cherries, and bought a fairing with his 
 first half-crown — a brooch it was, I remember, of two 
 billing doves a-hopping on one twig, and brought it 
 home for little yellow-haired, blue-eyed, red-cheeked 
 Mary. Lord, Lord! I don't like to think how I've kissed 
 'em, the pretty cheeks! they've got quite pale now with 
 crying — and she has never once reproached me, not once, 
 the trump, the little tr-rump ! 
 
 Is it my fault [^stamping'] that Fate has separated 
 us? Why did my young master take me up to Oxford, 
 and give me the run of his libery and the society of the 
 best scouts in the University? Why did he take me 
 abroad? Why have I been to Italy, France, Jummany 
 with him — their manners noted and their realms sur- 
 veyed, by jingo! I've improved myself, and IMary has 
 remained as you was. I try a conversation, and she can't 
 respond. She's never got a word of jioetrj^ beyond 
 Watt's Ims, and if I talk of Byron or Moore to her, 
 I'm blest if she knows anything more about 'em than 
 the cook, who is as hignorant as a pig, or that beast 
 Bulkeley, Lady Kick's footman. Above all, why, why 
 did I see the woman upon whom my wretched heart 
 is fixed for ever, and who carries away my soul with 
 her— prostrate, I say, prostrate, through the mud at 
 the skirts of her gownd ! Enslaver ! why did I ever come 
 near you? O enchantress Kelipso! how you have got
 
 380 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 hold of me! It was Fate, Fate, Fate. When Mrs. 
 Milhken fell ill of scarlet fever at Naples, Milliken was 
 away at Petersborough, Rooshia, looking after his prop- 
 erty. Her foring woman fled. Me and the governess 
 remained and nursed her and the children. We nursed 
 the little ones out of the fever. We buried their mother. 
 We brought the children home over Halp and Hap- 
 penine. I nursed 'em all three. I tended 'em all three, 
 the orjihans, and the lovely gu-gu-governess. At Rome, 
 where she took ill, I waited on her; as we went to Flor- 
 ence, had we been attacked by twenty thousand brig- 
 ands, this little arm had courage for them all! And if 
 I loved thee, Julia, was I wrong? and if I basked in 
 thy beauty day and night, Julia, am I not a man? and 
 if, before this Peri, this enchantress, this gazelle, I for- 
 got poor little Mary Barlow, how could I help it? I 
 say, how the doose could I help it? 
 
 Enter Lady Kicklebury, Bulkeley following with 
 
 parcels and a spaniel. 
 
 Lady K.— Are the children and the governess come 
 home? 
 
 John.— Yes, my lady [in a perfectly altered tone']. 
 
 Lady K.— Bulkeley, take those parcels to my sitting- 
 room. 
 
 John. — Get up, old stoopid. Push along, old daddy- 
 longlegs [aside to Bulkeley]. 
 
 Lady K.— Does any one dine here to-day, Howell? 
 
 John. — Captain Touchit, my lady. 
 
 Lady K. — He's always dining here. 
 
 John. — My master's oldest friend. 
 
 Lady K.— Don't tell me. He comes from his club.
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 381 
 
 He smells of smoke; he is a low, vulgar person. Send 
 Pinhorn up to me when you go downstairs. [Emt Lady 
 K.] 
 
 John. — I know. Send Pinhorn to me, means, 
 Send my bonny brown hair, and send my beautiful com- 
 plexion, and send my figure — and, O Lord! O Lord! 
 what an old tigress that is! What an old Hector! 
 How she do twist Milliken round her thumb! He's born 
 to be bullied by women : and I remember him henpecked 
 ■ — let's see, ever since — ever since the time of that little 
 gloveress at Woodstock, whose picter poor Mrs. IVI. 
 made such a noise about when she found it in the lum- 
 ber-room. Heh! her picter will be going into the 
 lumber-room some day. M. must marry to get rid of 
 his mother-in-law and mother over him: no man can 
 stand it, not M. himself, who's a Job of a man. Isn't 
 he, look at him! [As he has been speaking, the hell has 
 rung, the Page has rim to the garden-door, and Mil- 
 liken enters through the garden, laden nith a hamper, 
 hand-hooc, and cricket-hat.^ 
 
 Milliken.— Why was the carriage not sent for me, 
 Howell? There was no cab at the station, and I have 
 had to toil all the way up the hill with these confounded 
 parcels of my lady's. 
 
 John. — I suppose the shower took off all the cabs, 
 sir. When did a man ever git a cab in a shower?— or a 
 policeman at a pinch— or a friend when you wanted 
 him— or anything at the right time, sir? 
 
 Milliken.— But, sir, why didn't the carriage come, 
 I say? 
 
 John. — Fow know. 
 
 Milliken.— How do you mean I know? confound 
 your impudence. 
 
 John.— Lady Kicklebury took it— your mother-in-
 
 382 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 law took it— went out a-visiting— Ham Common, Pe- 
 tersham, Twick'nam— doose knows where. She, and her 
 footman, and her span'l dog. 
 
 MiLLiKEN. — Well, sir, suppose her ladyship did take 
 the carriage? Hasn't she a perfect right? And if the 
 carriage was gone, I want to know, John, why the devil 
 the pony-chaise wasn't sent with the groom? Am I 
 to bring a bonnet-box and a hamper of fish in my own 
 hands, I should like to know? 
 
 John.— Heh! \_laughs.~\ 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Why do you grin, you Cheshire cat? 
 
 John. — Your mother-in-law had the carriage; and 
 your mother sent for the pony-chaise. Your Pa wanted 
 to go and see the Wicar of Putney. Mr. Bonnington 
 don't like walking when he can ride. 
 
 Mtlliken.— And why shouldn't Mr. Bonnington 
 ride, sir, as long as there's a carriage in my stable? Mr. 
 Bonnington has had the gout, sir! Mr. Bonnington is 
 a clergyman, and married to my mother. He has every 
 title to my respect. 
 
 John.— And to your pony-chaise— yes, sir. 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— And to everything he likes in this house, 
 
 sir. 
 
 John.— What a good fellow you are, sir! You'd 
 give your head off your shoulders, that you would. Is 
 the fish for dinner to-day? Band-box for my lady, I 
 suppose, sir? [Looks m]— Turban, feathers, bugles, 
 marabouts, spangles— doose knows what. Yes, it's for 
 her ladyship. [To Page.] Charles, take this band- 
 box to her ladyship's maid. [To his master.'] What 
 sauce would you like Math the turbot? Lobster sauce 
 or Hollandaise? Hollandaise is best— most wholesome 
 for you. Anybody besides Captain Touchit coming to 
 dinner ?
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 383 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— No one that I know of. 
 
 John. — Very good. Bring up a bottle of the brown 
 hock? Pie likes the brown hock, Touchit does. \_Eivit 
 John.] 
 
 Enter Children. They run to ^Milliken. 
 
 Both.— How d'you do, Papa! How do you do. 
 Papa! 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Kiss your old father, Arabella. Come 
 here, George — What? 
 
 George.— Don't care for kissing — kissing's for gals. 
 Have you brought me that bat from London? 
 
 MiLLiKEN. — Yes. Here's the bat ; and here's the ball 
 \_takes one from pocketl — and — 
 
 George. — Where's the wickets. Papa. O-o-o— 
 where's the wickets? Ihowls.'] 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— My dear, darling boy! I left them at 
 the office. What a silly papa I was to forget them! 
 Parkins forgot them. 
 
 George.— Then turn him away, I say! Turn him 
 away! \^He stamps.~\ 
 
 MiLLiKEN. — What! an old, faithful clerk and servant 
 of your father and grandfather for thirty years past? 
 An old man, who loves us all, and has nothing but our 
 j)ay to live on? 
 
 Arabella. — Oh, you naughty boy! 
 
 George.— I ain't a naughty boy. 
 
 Arabella. — You are a naughty boy. 
 
 George. — He! he! he! he! [Grins at }ier.~\ 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Hush, children! Here, Arabella dar- 
 ling, here is a book for you. Look — aren't they pretty 
 pictures ? 
 
 Arabella. — Is it a story. Papa? I don't care for
 
 384 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 stories in general. I like something instructive and 
 serious. Grandmamma Bonnington and grandpapa 
 say— 
 
 George. — He's not j^our grandpapa. 
 
 Arabella.— He is my grandpapa. 
 
 George. — Oh, you great story! Look! look! there's 
 a cab. \_Runs out. The head of a Hansom cab is seen 
 over the garden- gate. Bell rings. Page comes. Alter- 
 cation between Cabman and Captain Touchit appears 
 to go on, during whichl 
 
 IMiLLiKEN.- Come and kiss your old father, Ara- 
 bella. He's hungry for kisses. 
 
 Arabella. — Don't. I want to go and look at the 
 cab; and to tell Captain Touchit that he mustn't use 
 naughty words. ^Runs towards garden. Page is seen 
 carrying a carpet-bag.^ 
 
 Enter Touchit through the open window smoking 
 
 a cigar. 
 
 Touchit.— How d'ye do, Milliken? How are tal- 
 lows, hey, my noble merchant? I have brought my 
 bag, and intend to sleep— 
 
 George. — I say, godpapa— 
 
 ToL^CHiT.— Well, godson! 
 
 George. — Give us a cigar! 
 
 Touchit. — Oh, 3^ou enfant terrible! 
 
 Milliken [wheezily].— Ah— ahem— George Touch- 
 it! you wouldn't mind— a— smoking that cigar in the 
 garden, would you? Ah— ah! 
 
 Touchit. — Hullo! What's in the wind now? You 
 used to be a most inveterate smoker, Horace. 
 
 Milliken.— The fact is— my mother-in-law— Lady
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 385 
 
 Kicklebury — doesn't like it, and while she's with us, 
 you know — 
 
 ToucHiT. — Of course, of course [throivs away cigarl. 
 I beg her ladyship's pardon. I remember when you 
 were courting her daughter she used not to mind it. 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Don't— don't allude to those times. 
 [He looks up at Jiis wife's picture.'] 
 
 George. — My mamma was a Kicklebury. The 
 Kickleburys are the oldest family in all the world. IMy 
 name is George Kicklebury JNIilliken, of Pigeoncot, 
 Hants; the Grove, Richmond, Surrey; and Portland 
 Place, London, Esquire — my name is. 
 
 ToucHiT. — You have forgotten Billiter Street, hemp 
 and tallow merchant. 
 
 George. — Oh, bother! I don't care about that. I 
 shall leave that when I'm a man: when I'm a man and 
 come into my property. 
 
 MiLLiKEN. — You come into your property? 
 
 George. — I shall, you know, when you're dead, 
 papa. I shall have this house, and Pigeoncot; and the 
 house in town — no, I don't mind about the house 
 in town — and I shan't let Bella live with me — no, I 
 won't. 
 
 Bella.— No; I won't live with you. And Til have 
 Pigeoncot. 
 
 George.— You shan't have Pigeoncot. I'll have it: 
 and the ponies: and I won't let you ride them — and the 
 dogs, and you shan't have even a puppy to play with — 
 and the dairy— and won't I have as much cream as I 
 like — that's all! 
 
 ToucHiT.— What a darling boy! Your children are 
 brought up beautifully, Milliken. It's quite delightful 
 to see them together.
 
 386 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 George.— And I shall sink the name of Milliken, I 
 shall. 
 
 Milliken. — Sink the name? why, George? 
 
 George. — Because the Millikens are nobodies — 
 grandmamma says they are nobodies. The Kickleburys 
 are gentlemen, and came over with William the Con- 
 queror. 
 
 Bella. — I know when that was. One thousand one 
 hundred and one thousand one hundred and onety- 
 one! 
 
 George. — Bother when they came over! But I know 
 this, when I come into the property I shall sink the name 
 of :Milliken. 
 
 Milliken. — So you are ashamed of your father's 
 name, are you, George, my boy? 
 
 George.— Ashamed! No, I ain't ashamed. Only 
 Kicklebury is sweller. I know it is. Grandmamma 
 says so. 
 
 Bella. — My grandmamma does not say so. My dear 
 grandmamma says that family pride is sinful, and all 
 belongs to this wicked world; and that in a very few 
 years what our names are will not matter. 
 
 George. — Yes, she says so because her father kept a 
 shop; and so did Pa's father keep a sort of shop— only 
 Pa's a gentleman now. 
 
 ToucHiT. — Darling child! How I wish I were mar- 
 ried! If I had such a dear boy as you, George, do you 
 know what I would give him? 
 
 George [quite pleased].— Wh?it would you give 
 him, godpapa? 
 
 ToucHiT.— I would give him as sound a flogging as 
 ever boy had, my darling. I would whip this nonsense 
 out of him. I would send him to school, where I would
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 387 
 
 pray that he might be well thrashed: and if when he 
 came home he was still ashamed of his father, I would 
 put him apprentice to a chimney-sweep — that's what I 
 would do. 
 
 George.— I'm glad you're not my father, that's all. 
 
 Bella.— And Tm glad you're not my father, be- 
 cause you are a wicked man ! 
 
 MiLLiKEN. —Arabella ! 
 
 Bella.— Grandmamma says so. He is a worldly 
 man, and the world is wicked. And he goes to the play : 
 and he smokes, and he says— 
 
 ToucHiT.— Bella, what do I say? 
 
 Bella. — Oh, something dreadful! You know you 
 do ! I heard you say it to the cabman. 
 
 TouCHiT.— So I did, so I did! He asked me fifteen 
 shillings from Piccadilly, and I told him to go to— to 
 somebody whose name begins with a D. 
 
 Children. — Here's another carriage passing. 
 
 Bella. — The Lady Rumble's carriage. 
 
 George.— No, it ain't: it's Captain Boxer's carriage 
 [tliey run into the garden^. 
 
 ToucHiT.— And this is the pass to which you have 
 brought yourself, Horace ]\Iilliken! Why, in your 
 wife's time, it was better than this, my poor fellow! 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Don't speak of her in that way, George 
 
 Touchit! 
 
 ToucHiT.— What have I said? I am only regretting 
 
 her loss for your sake. She tyrannized over you ; turned 
 
 your friends out of doors; took your name out of your 
 
 clubs; dragged you about from party to party, though 
 
 you can no more dance than a bear, and from opera to 
 
 opera, though you don't know " God Save the Queen " 
 
 from " Rule Britannia." You don't, sir ; you know you
 
 388 THE AVOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 don't. But Arabella was better than her mother, who 
 has taken possession of you since your widowhood. 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— My dear fellow! no, she hasn't. There's 
 my mother. 
 
 ToucHiT. — Yes, to be sure, there's Mrs. Bonnington, 
 and they quarrel over you like the two ladies over the 
 baby before King Solomon. 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Play the satirist, my good friend! laugh 
 at my weakness ! 
 
 ToucHiT.— I know you to be as plucky a fellow as 
 ever stepped, Milliken, when a man's in the case. I 
 know you and I stood up to each other for an hour and 
 a half at Westminster. 
 
 Milliken. — Thank you! We were both dragons of 
 war! tremendous champions! Perhaps I am a little 
 soft as regards women. I know my weakness well 
 enough ; but in my case what is my remedy ? Put your- 
 self in my position. Be a widower with two young 
 children. What is more natural than that the mother 
 of my poor wife should come and superintend my 
 family? My own mother can't. She has a half-dozen 
 of little half brothers and sisters, and a husband of her 
 own to attend to. I dare say Mr. Bonnington and my 
 mother will come to dinner to-day. 
 
 ToucHiT.— Of course they will, my poor old Milli- 
 ken, you don't dare to dine without them. 
 
 Milliken.— Don't go on in that manner, George 
 Touchit! Why should not my stepfather and my 
 mother dine with me? I can afford it. I am a domes- 
 tic man and like to see my relations about me. I am in 
 the city all day. 
 
 Touchit.— Luckily for you. 
 
 Milliken.— And my pleasure of an evening is to sit
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 389 
 
 under my own vine and under my own fig-tree with my 
 own olive-branches round about me; to sit by my fire 
 with my children at my knees ; to coze over a snug bot- 
 tle of claret after dinner with a friend like you to share 
 it; to see the young folks at the breakfast-table of a 
 morning, and to kiss them and so off to business with 
 a cheerful heart. This was my scheme in marrying, had 
 it pleased heaven to prosper my plan. When I was a 
 boy and came from school and college, I used to see Mr. 
 Bonnington, my father-in-law, with his young ones 
 clustering round about him, so happy to be with him! 
 so eager to wait on him! all down on their little knees 
 round my mother before breakfast or jumping up on 
 his after dinner. It was who should reach his hat, and 
 who should bring his coat, and who should fetch his um- 
 brella, and who should get the last kiss. 
 
 TouCHiT. — What? didn't he kiss you? Oh, the hard- 
 hearted old ogre! 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Dorz/'f^ Touchit! Don't laugh at Mr. 
 Bonnington! He is as good a fellow as ever breathed. 
 Between you and me, as my half brothers and sisters 
 increased and multiplied year after year, I used to feel 
 rather lonely, rather bowled out, you understand. But 
 I saw them so happy that I longed to have a home of 
 my own. When my mother proposed Arabella for me 
 (for she and Lady Kicklebury were immense friends at 
 one time ) , I was glad enough to give up clubs and bach- 
 elorhood, and to settle down as a married man. My 
 mother acted for the best. My poor wife's character, 
 my mother used to say, changed after marriage. I was 
 not as happy as I hoped to be; but I tried for it. 
 George, I am not so comfortable now as I might be. A 
 house without a mistress, with two mothers-in-law reign-
 
 390 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 ing over it — one worldly and aristocratic, another what 
 you call serious, though she don't mind a rubber of 
 whist: I give you my honour my mother plays a game 
 at whist, and an uncommonly good game too — each 
 woman dragging over a child to her side : of course such 
 a family cannot be comfortable. [Bell rings. ^ There's 
 the first dinner-bell. Go and dress, for heaven's sake. 
 
 ToucHiT.— Why dress? There is no company! 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Why? ah! her ladyship likes it, you see. 
 And it costs nothing to humour her. Quick, for she 
 don't like to be kept waiting. 
 
 ToucHiT.— Horace Milliken! what a pity it is the 
 law declares a widower shall not marry his wife's 
 mother! She would marry you else,— she would, on my 
 word. 
 
 Enter John. 
 
 John. — I have took the Captain's things in the blue 
 room, sir. [Exeunt gentlemen, John arranges tables. 
 
 Ha! Mrs. Prior! I ain't partial to Mrs. Prior. I 
 think she's an artful old dodger, Mrs. Prior. I think 
 there's mystery in her unfathomable pockets, and 
 schemes in the folds of her umbrella. But— but she's 
 Julia's mother, and for the beloved one's sake I am civil 
 to her. 
 
 Mrs. Prior.— Thank you, Charles [to the Page, who 
 has been seen to let her in at the garden- gate'], I am so 
 much obliged to you! Good afternoon, Mr. Howell. 
 Is my daughter— are the darling children well? Oh, I 
 am quite tired and weary! Three horrid omnibuses 
 were full, and I have had to walk the whole weary long 
 way. Ah, times are changed with me, Mr. Howell.
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 391 
 
 Once when I was young and strong, I had my husband's 
 carriage to ride in. 
 
 John [aside^. — His carriage! his coal-waggon! I 
 know well enough who old Prior was. A merchant? 
 yes, a pretty merchant! kep' a lodging-house, share in 
 a barge, touting for orders, and at last a snug little place 
 in the Gazette. 
 
 Mrs. Prior. — How is your cough, Mr. Howell? I 
 have brought you some lozenges for it [takes number- 
 less articles from her pocket^, and if you would take 
 them of a night and morning — oh, indeed, you would 
 get better! The late Sir Henry Halford recommended 
 them to ]Mr. Prior. He was his late Majesty's physi- 
 cian and ours. You know we have seen happier times, 
 Mr. Howell. Oh, I am quite tired and faint. 
 
 John. — Will you take anything before the school- 
 room tea, ma'am? You will stop to tea, I hope, with 
 Miss Prior, and our young folks? 
 
 Mrs. Prior. — Thank you: a little glass of wine when 
 one is so faint — a little crumb of biscuit when one is so 
 old and tired! I have not been accustomed to want, 
 you know; and in my poor dear Mr. Prior's time — 
 
 John.— I'll fetch some wine, ma'am. [Exit to the 
 dining-room.'] 
 
 Mrs. Prior. — Bless the man, how abrupt he is in his 
 manner! He quite shocks a poor lady who has been 
 used to better days. What's here? Invitations— ho! 
 Bills for Lady Kicklebury! They are not paid. Where 
 is Mr. M. going to dine, I wonder? Captain and Mrs. 
 Hopkinson, Sir John and Lady Tomkinson, request 
 the pleasure. Request the pleasure! Of course they do. 
 They are always asking Mr. M. to dinner. They have 
 daughters to marry, and Mr. M. is a widower with three
 
 392 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 thousand a year, every shilling of it. I must tell Lady 
 Kicklebury. He must never go to these places — never, 
 never — mustn't be allowed. [}Vhile talking, she opens 
 all the letters on the table, rummages the portfolio and, 
 writing-box, looks at cards on mantelpiece, work in 
 work-basket, tries tea-box^ and shows the greatest activ- 
 ity and curiosity.'] 
 
 Re-enter John, bearing a tray with cakes, a 
 decanter, 8^c. 
 
 Thank you, thank you, Mr. Howell! Oh, oh, dear 
 me, not so much as that! Half a glass, and one bis- 
 cuit, please. What elegant sherry! [^sips a little, and 
 puts down glass on tray]. Do you know, I remem- 
 ber in better days, Mr. Howell, when my poor dear 
 husband — ? 
 
 John.— Beg your pardon. There's Milliken's bell 
 going like mad. [Exit John.] 
 
 Mrs. Prior.— What an abrupt person! Oh, but it's 
 comfortable, this wine is! And— and I think how my 
 poor Charlotte would like a little — she so weak, and 
 ordered wine by the medical man! And when dear 
 Adolphus comes home from Christ's Hospital, quite 
 tired, poor boy, and hungry, wouldn't a bit of nice cake 
 do him good! Adolphus is so fond of plum-cake, the 
 darling child! And so is Frederick, little saucy rogue; 
 and I'll give them my piece, and keep my glass of wine 
 for my dear delicate angel Shatty! [Takes bottle and 
 paper out of her pocket, cuts off a great slice of cake, 
 and pours wine from wine-glass and decanter into 
 bottle.]
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 393 
 
 Enter Page. 
 
 Page.— Master George and Miss Bella is going to 
 have their teas down here with Miss Prior, Mrs. Prior, 
 and she's up in the school-room, and my lady says you 
 may stay to tea. 
 
 ^Irs. Prior. — Thank you, Charles! How tall you 
 grow! Those trousers would fit my darling Frederick 
 to a nicety. Thank you, Charles. I know the way to 
 the nursery. [Exit Mrs. P.] 
 
 Page.— Know the way! I believe she do know the 
 way. Been a having cake and wine. Howell always 
 gives her cake and wine— jolly cake, ain't it! and wine, 
 oh, my! 
 
 Re-enter John. 
 
 John.— You young gormandizing cormorant! What! 
 five meals a day ain't enough for you! What? beer 
 ain't good enough for you, hey? [Pulls hoy's ears.~\ 
 
 Page Icrying]. — Oh, oh, do-o-n't, Mr. Howell. I 
 only took half a glass, upon my honour. 
 
 John.— Your a-honour, you lying young vagabond! 
 I wonder the ground don't open and swallow you. Half 
 a glass! [holds up decanter.] You've took half a bot- 
 tle, you young Ananias ! Mark this, sir ! When I was 
 a boy, a boy on my promotion, a child kindly took in 
 from charity-school, a horphan in buttons like you, I 
 never hed; no, nor never stole, and you've done both, 
 you little scoundrel. Don't tell me, sir! there's plums 
 on your coat, crumbs on your cheek, and you smell 
 sherry, sir ! I ain't time to whop you now, but come to 
 my pantry to-night after you've took the tray down.
 
 394 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 Come without your jacket on, sir, and then I'll teach 
 you what it is to lie and steal. There's the outer bell. 
 Scud, you vagabond! 
 
 Enter Lady K. 
 
 Lady K.— What was that noise, pray? 
 
 John.— A difference between me and young Page, 
 my lady. I was instructing him to keep his hands from 
 picking and stealing. I was learning him his lesson, 
 my lady, and he was a-crying it out. 
 
 Lady K.— It seems to me you are most unkind to 
 that boy, Howell. He is my boy, sir. He comes from 
 my estate. I will not have him ill-used. I think you 
 presume on your long services. I shall speak to my son- 
 in-law about you. [" Yes, my lady; no, my lady; very 
 good, my lady." John has answered each sentence as 
 she is speaking, and exit gravely bowing.'] That man 
 must quit the house. Horace says he can't do without 
 him, but he inust do without him. My poor dear Ara- 
 bella was fond of him, but he presumes on that defunct 
 angel's partiality. Horace says this person keeps all 
 his accounts, sorts all his letters, manages all his affairs, 
 may be trusted with untold gold, and rescued little 
 George out of the fire. Now I have come to live with 
 my son-in-law, I will keep his accounts, sort his letters, 
 and take charge of his money : and if little Georgy gets 
 into the grate, I will take him out of the fire. What is 
 here? Invitation from Captain and Mrs. Hopkinson. 
 Invitation from Sir John and Lady Tomkinson, who 
 don't even ask me! Monstrous! he never shall go— he 
 shall not go! [Mrs. Prior has re-entered, she drops a 
 very low curts&y to Lady K., as the latter^ perceivirig 
 her, lays the cards down.]
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 395 
 
 Mrs. Prior. — All, dear madam! how kind your lady- 
 ship's message was to the poor lonely widowwoman! 
 Oh, how thoughtful it was of your ladyship to ask me 
 to stay to tea ! 
 
 Lady K. — With your daughter and the children? 
 Indeed, my good Mrs. Prior, you are very wel- 
 come ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Prior. — All! hut isn't it a cause of thankful- 
 ness to be made welcome? Oughtn't I to be grateful 
 for these blessings? — yes, I say blessings. And I am — 
 I am, Lady Kicklebury — to the mother — of — that angel 
 who is gone [points to the picturel . It was your sainted 
 daughter left us — left my child to the care of Mr. Milli- 
 ken, and — and you, who are now his guardian angel I 
 may say. You are^ Lady Kicklebury — you are. I say 
 to my girl, Julia, Lady Kicklebury is Mr. Milliken's 
 guardian angel, is youi' guardian angel — for without 
 you could she keep her place as governess to these dar- 
 ling children? It would tear her heart in two to leave 
 them, and yet she would be forced to do so. You know 
 that some one — shall I hesitate to say whom I mean? — 
 that Mr. Milliken's mother, excellent lady though she 
 is, does not love my child because you love her. You 
 do love her. Lady Kicklebury, and oh ! a mother's fond 
 heart pays you back! But for you, my poor Julia must 
 go — go, and leave the children whom a dying angel 
 confided to her! 
 
 Lady K. — Go! no, never! not whilst I am in this 
 house, Mrs. Prior. Your daughter is a well-behaved 
 young woman: you have confided to me her long en- 
 gagement to Lieutenant — Lieutenant What-d'you- 
 call'im, in the Indian service. She has been very, very 
 good to my grandchildren — she brought them over from
 
 396 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 Naples when my — my angel of an Arabella died there, 
 and I will protect Miss Prior. 
 
 Mrs. Prior.— Bless you, bless you, noble, admirable 
 woman! Don't take it away! I must, I tvill kiss your 
 dear, generous hand ! Take a mother's, a widow's bless- 
 ings. Lady Kicklebury— the blessings of one who has 
 known misfortune and seen better days, and thanks 
 heaven — yes, heaven! — for the protectors she has found! 
 
 Lady K. — You said— you had— several children, I 
 think, my good Mrs. Prior? 
 
 Mrs. Prior. — Three boys— one, my eldest blessing, is 
 in a wine-merchant's office— ah, if Mr. Milliken would 
 but give him an order! an order from this house! an 
 order from Lady Kicklebury 's son-in-law! — 
 
 Lady K. — It shall be done, my good Prior — we will 
 see. 
 
 Mrs. Prior.— Another, Adolphus, dear fellow! is in 
 Christ's Hospital. It was dear, good Mr. Milliken's 
 nomination. Frederick is at Merchant Taylor's: my 
 darling Julia pays his schooling. Besides, I have two 
 girls — Amelia, quite a little toddler, just the size, though 
 not so beautiful — but in a mother's eyes all children are 
 lovely, dear Lady Kicklebury — just the size of your 
 dear granddaughter, whose clothes would fit her, I am 
 sure. And my second, Charlotte, a girl as tall as your 
 ladyship, though not with so fine a figure. " Ah, no, 
 Shatty!" I say to her, "you are as tall as our dear 
 patroness. Lady Kicklebury, whom you long so to see; 
 but you have not got her ladyship's carriage and figure, 
 child." Five children have I, left fatherless and penni- 
 less by my poor dear husband — but heaven takes care 
 of the widow and orphan, madam — and heaven's best 
 creatures feed iheml— you know whom I mean.
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 397 
 
 Lady K.— Should you not like, would you object to 
 take— a frock or two of little Arabella's to your child? 
 and if Pinhorn, my maid, will let me, Mrs. Prior, I will 
 see if I cannot find something against winter for your 
 second daughter, as you say we are of a size. 
 
 Mrs. Prior.— The widow's and orphans' blessings 
 upon you ! I said my Charlotte was as tall, but I never 
 said she had such a figure as yours— who has? 
 
 Charles announces— 
 
 Charles. — Mrs. Bonnington. [Enter Mrs. Bon- 
 
 NINGTON.] 
 
 Mrs. B.— How do you do, Lady Kicklebury? 
 
 Lady K.— My dear Mrs. Bonnington! and you come 
 to dinner of course ? 
 
 Mrs. B. — To dine with my own son, J may take the 
 liberty. How are my grandchildren? my darling little 
 Emily, is she well, Mrs. Prior? 
 
 Lady K. [aside]. — Emily? why does she not call the 
 child by her blessed mother's name of Arabella? [To 
 Mrs. B.] Arabella is quite well, Mrs. Bonnington. 
 Mr. Squillings said it was nothing; only her grand- 
 mamma Bonnington spoiling her as usual. Mr. Bon- 
 nington and all your numerous young folk are well, I 
 hope? 
 
 Mrs. B. — My family are all in perfect health, I thank 
 you. Is Horace come home from the city? 
 
 Lady K. — Goodness! there's the dinner-bell, — I must 
 run to dress. 
 
 Mrs. Prior. — Shall I come with you, dear Lady 
 Kicklebury ? 
 
 Lady K.— Not for worlds, my good Mrs. Prior. 
 [Ea^it Lady K.]
 
 398 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 Mrs. Prior.— How do you do, my dear madam? Is 
 dear Mr. Bonnington quite well? What a sweet, sweet 
 sermon he gave us last Sunday. I often say to my girl, 
 I must not go to hear Mr. Bonnington, I really must 
 not, he makes me cry so. Oh! he is a great and gifted 
 man, and shall I not have one glimpse of him? 
 
 Mrs. B. — Saturday evening, my good Mrs. Prior. 
 Don't you know that my husband never goes out on 
 Saturday, having his sermon to compose? 
 
 Mrs. p. — Oh, those dear, dear sermons! Do you 
 know, madam, that my little Adolphus, for whom your 
 son's bounty procured his place at Christ's Hospital, was 
 very much touched indeed, the dear child, with Mr. Bon- 
 nington's discourse last Sunday three weeks, and refused 
 to play marbles afterwards at school? The wicked, 
 naughty boys beat the poor child ; but Adolphus has his 
 consolation! Is Master Edward well, ma'am, and Mas- 
 ter Robert, and Master Frederick, and dear little funny 
 Master William? 
 
 Mrs. B. — Thank you, Mrs. Prior; you have a good 
 heart, indeed! 
 
 ]Mrs. p. — Ah, what blessings those dears are to you! 
 I wish your dearest little grandson — 
 
 JNIrs. B. — The little naughty wretch! Do you know, 
 Mrs. Prior, my grandson, George Milliken, spilt the ink 
 over my dear husband's bands, which he keeps in his 
 great dictionary; and fought with my child, Frederick, 
 who is three years older than George — actually beat his 
 own uncle! 
 
 Mrs. p. — Gracious mercy! Master Frederick was 
 not hurt, I hope? 
 
 Mrs. B. — No; he cried a great deal; and then Robert 
 came up, and that graceless little George took a stick;
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 399 
 
 and then my husband came out, and do you know 
 George Milhken actually kicked ^Ir. Bonnington on his 
 shins, and butted him like a little naughty ram? 
 
 Mrs. p. — ]\Iercy! mercy! what a little rebel! He is 
 spoiled, dear madam, and you know by wlioin. 
 
 ]Mrs. B. — By his grandmamma Kicklebury. I know 
 it. I want my son to whip that child, but he refuses. 
 He will come to no good, that child. 
 
 Mrs. p.— Ah, madam! don't say so! Let us hope 
 for the best. ]\Iaster George's high temper will subside 
 when certain persons who pet him are gone away. 
 
 Mrs. B. — Gone away! they never will go away! No, 
 mark my words, Mrs. Prior, that woman will never go 
 away. She has made the house her own : she commands 
 everything and everybodj'- in it. She has driven me— 
 me— Mr. Milliken's own mother— almost out of it. She 
 has so annoyed my dear husband, that Mr. Bonnington 
 will scarcely come here. Is she not always sneering at 
 private tutors, because Mr. Bonnington was my son's 
 private tutor, and greatly valued by the late Mr. Milli- 
 ken? Is she not making constant allusions to old women 
 marrying young men, because Mr, Bonnington happens 
 to be younger than me? I have no words to express my 
 indignation respecting Lady Kicklebury. She never 
 pays any one, and runs up debts in the whole town. Her 
 man Bulkeley's conduct in the neighbourhood is quite 
 — quite — 
 
 Mrs. B.— Gracious goodness, ma'am, you don't say 
 so ! And then what an appetite the gormandizing mon- 
 ster has! Mary tells me that what he eats in the ser- 
 vants' hall is something perfectty frightful. 
 
 Mrs. B.— Everybody feeds on my poor son! You 
 are looking at my cap, Mrs. Prior? [During this ti7ne
 
 400 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 Mrs. Prior has been peering into a parcel which Mrs. 
 BoNNiNGTON brought in her hand.'] I brought it with 
 me across the Park. I could not walk through the Park 
 in my cap. Isn't it a pretty ribbon, IMrs. Prior? 
 
 Mrs. p. — Beautiful! beautiful! How blue becomes 
 you! Who w^ould think you were the mother of Mr. 
 Milliken and seven other darling children? You can 
 afford what Lady Kicklebury cannot. 
 
 Mrs. B.— And what is that, Prior? A poor clergy- 
 man's wife, with a large family, cannot afford much. 
 
 Mrs. p.— He! he! You can afford to be seen as you 
 are, which Lady K. cannot. Did you not remark how 
 afraid she seemed lest I should enter her dressing-room? 
 Only Pinhorn, her maid, goes there, to arrange the roses, 
 , and the lilies, and the figure— he! he! Oh, what a 
 sweet, sweet cap-ribbon! When you have worn it, and 
 are tired of it, you will give it me, won't you? It will 
 be good enough for poor old Martha Prior! 
 
 Mrs. B.— Do you really like it? Call at Greenwood 
 Place, Mrs. Prior, the next time you pay Richmond a 
 visit, and bring your little girl with you, and we will see. 
 
 Mrs. p. — Oh, thank you! thank you! Nay, don't be 
 offended! I must! I must! [Kisses Mrs. Bonning- 
 
 TON.] 
 
 Mrs. B. — There, there! We must not stay chatter- 
 ing! The bell has rung. I must go and put the cap 
 on, Mrs. Prior. 
 
 Mrs. p.— And I may come, too? You are not afraid 
 of my seeing your hair, dear Mrs. Bonnington! Mr. 
 Bonnington too young for you! Why, you don't look 
 twenty ! 
 
 Mrs. B. — Oh, Mrs. Prior! 
 
 Mrs. p.— Well, five-and-twenty, upon my word—
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 401 
 
 not more than iive-and-twenty — and that is the very 
 prime of life! [Eojeunt INIrs. B. and ^Irs. P. hand in 
 hand. As Captain Touchit enters, dressed for dinner, 
 he bows and passes on.~\ 
 
 Touchit. — So, we are to wear our white cravats, and 
 our varnished boots, and dine in ceremony. What is 
 the use of a man being a widower, if he can't dine in his 
 shooting-jacket? Poor Mill! He has the slavery now 
 without the wife. [He speaks sarcastically to the pic- 
 ture.]— WeW, well! Mrs. Milliken! You, at any rate, 
 are gone; and, with the utmost respect for you, I like 
 your picture even better than the original. Miss Prior ! 
 
 Enter Miss Prior. 
 
 Miss Prior.— I beg pardon. I thought you were 
 gone to dinner. I heard the second bell some time since. 
 \_She is draxicing back.] 
 
 Touchit. — Stop! I say, Julia! [She returns, he 
 looks at her, takes her hand.] Why do you dress your- 
 self in this odd poky way? You used to be a very 
 smartly dressed girl. Why do you hide your hair, and 
 wear such a dowdy, high gown, Julia? 
 
 Julia. — You mustn't call me Julia, Captain Touchit. 
 
 Touchit.— Why? when I lived in your mother's 
 lodging, I called you Julia. When you brought up 
 the tea, you didn't mind being called Julia. When we 
 used to go to the play with the tickets the Editor gave 
 us, who lived on the second floor — 
 
 Julia.— The wretch!— don't speak of him! 
 
 Touchit. — Ah! I am afraid he was a sad deceiver, 
 that Editor. He was a very clever fellow. What droll 
 songs he used to sing I What a heap of play-tickets,
 
 402 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 diorama-tickets, concert-tickets, he used to give you! 
 Did he touch your heart, Juha? 
 
 Julia. — Fiddlededee! No man ever touched my 
 heart, Captain Touchit. 
 
 ToucHiT.— What! not even Tom Fhght, who had 
 the second floor after the Editor left it — and who cried 
 so bitterly at the idea of going out to India without you ? 
 You had a tendre for him — a little passion — you know 
 you had. Why, even the ladies here know it. Mrs. 
 Bonnington told me that you were waiting for a sweet- 
 heart in India, to whom you were engaged; and Lady 
 Kicklebury thinks you are dying in love for the absent 
 swain. 
 
 Julia. — I hope — I hope— you did not contradict 
 them, Captain Touchit. 
 
 Touchit.— Why not, my dear? 
 
 Julia. — May I be frank with you? You were a 
 kind, very kind friend to us— to me, in my youth. 
 
 Touchit. — I paid my lodgings regularly, and my 
 bills without asking questions. I never weighed the tea 
 in the caddy, or counted the lumps of sugar, or heeded 
 the rapid consumption of my liqueur — 
 
 Julia. — Hush, hush! I know they were taken. I 
 know you were very good to us. You helped my poor 
 papa out of many a difficulty. 
 
 Touchit [aside~\. — Tipsy old coal-merchant! I did, 
 and he helped himself too. 
 
 Julia. — And you were always our best friend. Cap- 
 tain Touchit. When our misfortunes came, you got me 
 this situation with Mrs. Milliken — and, and — don't you 
 see? — 
 
 Touchit.— Well— what? 
 
 Julia [laughing^, — I think it is best, under the cir-
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAINIB 403 
 
 cumstances, that the ladies here should suppose I am 
 engaged to be married— or— or, they might be— might 
 be jealous, you understand. Women are sometimes 
 jealous of others,— especially mothers and mothers-in- 
 law. 
 
 ToucHiT.— Oh, you arch-schemer! And it is for 
 that you cover up that beautiful hair of yours, and wear 
 that demure cap? 
 
 Julia [slyly].— 1 am subject to rheumatism in the 
 head, Captain Touchit. 
 
 ToucHiT. — It is for that you put on the spectacles, 
 and make yourself look a hundred years old? 
 
 Julia.— My eyes are weak. Captain Touchit. 
 
 Touchit.— Weak with weeping for Tom Flight. 
 You hypocrite! Show me your eyes? 
 
 Miss P.— Nonsense! 
 
 Touchit. — Show me your eyes, I say, or I'll tell 
 about Tom Flight, and that he has been married at 
 Madras these two years. 
 
 Miss P.— Oh, you horrid man! [takes glasses off.] 
 There. 
 
 Touchit.— Translucent orbs! beams of flashing 
 light! lovely lashes veiling celestial brightness! No, 
 they haven't cried much for Tom Flight, that faithless 
 captain! nor for Lawrence O'Reilly, that killing Edi- 
 tor. It is lucky you keep the glasses on them, or they 
 would transfix Horace Milliken, my friend the widower 
 here. Do you always wear them when you are alone 
 with him? 
 
 Miss P. — I never am alone with him. Bless me! If 
 Lady Kicklebury thought my eyes were— well, well — 
 you know what I mean,— if she thought her son-in-law 
 looked at me, I should be turned out of doors the next
 
 404 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 day, I am sure I should. And then, poor Mr. Milhken ! 
 he never looks at m^— heaven help him! Why, he can't 
 see me for her ladyship's nose and awful caps and rib- 
 bons! He sits and looks at the portrait yonder, and 
 sighs so. He thinks that he is lost in grief for his wife 
 at this very moment. 
 
 ToucHiT.— What a woman that was— eh, Julia— 
 that departed angel! What a temper she had before 
 her departure! 
 
 Miss P.— But the wind was tempered to the lamb. 
 If she was angry— the lamb was so very lamblike, and 
 meek, and fleecy. 
 
 ToucHiT.— And what a desperate flirt the departed 
 angel was! I knew half-a-dozen fellows, before her 
 marriage, whom she threw over, because Milliken was 
 so rich. 
 
 Miss P. — She was consistent at least, and did not 
 change after marriage, as some ladies do; but flirted, 
 as you call it, just as much as before. At Paris, young 
 Mr. Verney, the attache, was never out of the house: 
 at Rome, Mr. Beard, the artist, was always drawing 
 pictures of her: at Naples, when poor Mr. M. went 
 away to look after his afl*airs at St. Petersburg, little 
 Count Posihppo was for ever coming to learn English 
 and practise duets. She scarcely ever saw the poor chil- 
 dren—lchanging her manner as Lady Kicklebury 
 cnters~\ Hush— my lady! 
 
 ToucHiT. — You may well say, "poor children," de- 
 prived of such a woman! Miss Prior, whom I knew in 
 very early days— as your ladyship knows— was speak- 
 ing—was speaking of the loss our poor friend sustained. 
 
 Lady K.— Ah, sir, what a loss! [looking at the pic- 
 ture. '\
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 405 
 
 ToucHiT. — What a woman she was— what a superior 
 creature ! 
 
 Lady K. — A creature — an angel! 
 
 ToucHiT.— Mercy upon us! how she and my lady 
 used to quarrel! [aside.] What a temper! 
 
 Lady K.— Hm— oh, yes— what a temper [rather 
 doubtfully at first~\. 
 
 ToucHiT.— What a loss to Milliken and the darling 
 children ! 
 
 Miss Prior.— Luckily they have you with them, 
 madam. 
 
 Lady K.— And I will stay with them. Miss Prior; I 
 will stay with them! I will never part from Horace, I 
 am determined. 
 
 Miss P.— Ah! I am very glad you stay, for if I had 
 not you for a protector I think you know I must go, 
 Lady Kicklebury. I think you know there are those 
 who would forget my attachment to these darling chil- 
 dren, my services to — to her — and dismiss the poor gov- 
 erness. But while you stay I can stay, dear Lady 
 Kicklebury! With you to defend me from jealousy I 
 need not quite be afraid. 
 
 Lady K.— Of ]Mrs. Bonnington? Of Mr. Milliken's 
 mother; of the parson's wife who writes out his stupid 
 sermons, and has half-a-dozen children of her own? I 
 should think not indeed ! I am the natural protector of 
 these children. I am their mother. I have no husband ! 
 You stay in this house, Miss Prior. You are a faithful, 
 attached creature — though you were sent in by some- 
 body I don't like very much [pointing to Touchit, wJio 
 went off laughing when Julia began her speech, and is 
 now looking at prints, 8^c., in next room']. 
 
 Miss P. — Captain Touchit may not be in all things
 
 406 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 what one could wish. But his kindness has formed the 
 happiness of my hfe in making me acquainted with you, 
 ma'am: and I am sure you would not have me be un- 
 grateful to him. 
 
 Lady K. — A most highly principled young woman. 
 \_Goes out in garden and walks up and down with Cap- 
 tain TOUCHIT.] 
 
 Enter Mrs. Bonnington. 
 
 Miss P.— Oh, how glad I am you are come, Mrs. 
 Bonnington. Have you brought me that pretty hymn 
 you promised me? You always keep your promises, 
 even to poor governesses. I read dear Mr. Bonning- 
 ton's sermon! It was so interesting that I really could 
 not think of going to sleep until I had read it all 
 through; it was delightful, but oh! it's still better when 
 he preaches it! I hope I did not do wrong in copying 
 a part of it? I wish to impress it on the children. There 
 are some worldly influences at work with them, dear 
 madam [looking at Lady K. in the garden'], which I do 
 my feeble effort to — to modify. I wish you could come 
 oftener. 
 
 Mrs. B. — I will try, my dear— I will try. Emily has 
 sweet dispositions. 
 
 Mrs. p. — Ah, she takes after her grandmamma Bon- 
 nington ! 
 
 Mrs. B. — But George was sadly fractious just now 
 in the schoolroom because I tried him with a tract. 
 
 Miss P. — Let us hope for better times! Do be with 
 your children, dear Mrs. Bonnington, as constantly as 
 ever you can, for my sake as well as theirs ! I want pro- 
 tection and advice as well as they do. The governess.
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAJNIB 407 
 
 dear lady, looks up to you as well as the pupils; she 
 wants the teaching which you and dear Mr. Bonnington 
 can give her! Ah, why could not ^Ir. and Mrs. Bon- 
 nington come and live here, I often think? The chil- 
 dren would have companions in their dear young uncles 
 and aunts ; so pleasant it would be. The house is quite 
 large enough; that is, if her ladyship did not occupy 
 the three south rooms in the left wing. Ah, why, why 
 couldn't you come? 
 
 Mrs. B. — You are a kind, affectionate creature. Miss 
 Prior. I do not very much like the gentleman who 
 recommended you to Arabella, you know. But I do 
 think he sent my son a good governess for his children. 
 
 Two Ladies walk up and down in front garden. 
 
 ToucHiT enters. 
 
 ToucHiT. — Miss Julia Prior, you are a wonder! I 
 watch you with respect and surprise. 
 
 Miss P. — Me! what have I done? a poor friendless 
 governess — respect me ? 
 
 TouCHiT.— I have a mind to tell those two ladies 
 what I think of Miss Julia Prior. If they knew you 
 as I know you, O Julia Prior, what a short reign yours 
 would be ! 
 
 Miss P. — I have to manage them a little. Each sep- 
 arately it is not so difficult. But when they are to- 
 gether, oh, it is very hard sometimes. 
 
 Enter Milliken dressed, shakes hands with Miss P. 
 
 MiLLiKEN. — Miss Prior! are you well? Have the 
 children been good? and learned all their lessons? 
 Miss P. — The children are pretty good, sir. 
 Milliken.— Well, that's a great deal as times go.
 
 408 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 Do not bother them with too much learning, Miss Prior. 
 Let them have an easy life. Time enough for trouble 
 when age comes. 
 
 Enter John. 
 
 John.— Dinner, sir. [And exit.^ 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Dinner, ladies. My Lady Kicklebury 
 (gives arm to Lady K.). 
 
 Lady K.— My dear Horace, you shouldn't shake 
 hands with Miss Prior. You should keep people of 
 that class at a distance, my dear creature. [They go 
 in to dinner. Captain Touchit following with Mrs. 
 BoNNiNGTON. As they go out, enter Mary with chil- 
 dren s tea-tray, 8^c,, children following, and after them 
 Mrs, Prior. Mary gives her tea.'] 
 
 Mrs. Prior. — Thank you, Mary! You are so very 
 kind! Oh, what delicious tea! 
 
 Georgy. — I say, Mrs. Prior, I dare say you would 
 like to dine best, wouldn't you? 
 
 Mrs. p. — Bless you, my darling love, I had my din- 
 ner at one o'clock with my children at home. 
 
 Georgy. — So had we: but we go in to dessert very 
 often; and then don't we have cakes and oranges and 
 candied-peel and macaroons and things! We are not 
 to go in to-day; because Bella ate so many strawberries 
 she made herself ill. 
 
 Bella. — So did you. 
 
 Georgy. — I'm a man, and men eat more than women, 
 twice as much as women. When I'm a man I'll eat as 
 much cake as ever I like. I say, Mary, give us the 
 marmalade. 
 
 Mrs. p. — Oh, what nice marmalade! I know of 
 some poor children —
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 409 
 
 Miss P.— Mamma! don't, mamma [m an imploring 
 tone~\. 
 
 Mrs. p. — I know of two poor children at home, who 
 have very seldom nice marmalade and cake, young 
 people. 
 
 George. — You mean Adolphus and Frederick and 
 Amelia, youY children. Well, they shall have marma- 
 lade and cake. 
 
 Bella. — Oh, yes! I'll give them mine. 
 
 Mrs. p. — Darling, dearest child! 
 
 George (his mouth full). — I won't give 'em mine: 
 but they can have another pot, you know. You have 
 always got a basket with you, Mrs. Prior. I know you 
 have. You had it that day you took the cold fowl. 
 
 Mrs. p. — For the poor blind black man! oh, how 
 thankful he was! 
 
 George.— I don't know whether it was for a black 
 man. IMary, get us another pot of marmalade. 
 
 Mary.— I don't know. Master George. 
 
 George. — I will have another pot of marmalade. If 
 you don't, I'll — I'll smash everything — I will. 
 
 Bella. — Oh, you naughty, rude boy! 
 
 George.— Hold ?/owr tongue! I w/Z/ have it. Mary 
 shall go and get it. 
 
 Mrs. p. — Do humour him, Mary; and I'm sure mj^ 
 poor children at home will be the better for it. 
 
 George. — There's your basket! now put this cake in, 
 and this pat of butter, and this sugar. Hurray, hurray! 
 Oh, what jolly fun! Tell Adolphus and Amelia I sent 
 it to them — tell 'em they shall never want for anything 
 as long as George Kicklebury Milliken, Esq., can give 
 it 'em. Did Adolphus like my grey coat that I didn't 
 want ?
 
 410 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 Miss P. — You did not give him your new grey coat? 
 
 George.— Don't you speak to me; I'm going to 
 school — I'm not going to have no more governesses soon. 
 
 Mrs. p. — Oh, my dear Master George, what a nice 
 coat it is, and how well my poor boy looked in it! 
 
 Miss P.— Don't, mammal I pray and entreat you 
 not to take the things! 
 
 Enter John f?'07n dining-room with a tray. 
 
 John. — Some cream, some jelly, a little champagne, 
 Miss Prior ; I thought you might like some. 
 
 George.— Oh, jolly! give us hold of the jelly! give 
 us a glass of champagne. 
 
 John. — I will not give you any. 
 
 George. — I'll smash every glass in the room if you 
 don't; I'll cut my fingers; I'll poison myself — there! 
 I'll eat all this sealing-wax if you don't, and it's rank 
 poison, you know it is. 
 
 Mrs. p.— My dear Master George! [Exit John.] 
 
 George. — Ha, ha! I knew you'd give it me; another 
 boy taught me that. 
 
 Bella.— And a very naughty, rude boy. 
 
 George.— He, he, he! hold your tongue. Miss! And 
 said he always got wine so ; and so I used to do it to my 
 poor maimna, Mrs. Prior. Usedn't to like mamma 
 much. 
 
 Bella.— Oh, you wicked boy! 
 
 Georgy. — She usedn't to see us much. She used to 
 say I tried her nerves : what's nerves, Mrs. Prior ? Give 
 us some more champagne! Will have it. Ha, ha, ha! 
 ain't it jolly? Now I'll go out and have a run in the 
 garden. [Runs into garden.'] 
 
 Mrs. p.— And you, my dear?
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 411 
 
 Bella.— I shall go and resume the perusal of the 
 " Pilgrim's Progress," which my grandpapa, Mr. Bon- 
 nington, sent me. [Exit Arabella.] 
 
 Miss P.— How those children are spoilt! Goodness, 
 what can I do? If I correct one, he flies to grand- 
 manmia Kicklebury; if I speak to another, she appeals 
 to grandmamma Bonnington. When I was alone with 
 them, I had them in something like order. Now, be- 
 tween the one grandmother and the other, the children 
 are going to ruin, and so would the house too, but that 
 Howell — that odd, rude, but honest and intelligent crea- 
 ture, I must say— keeps it up. It is wonderful how a 
 person in his rank of life should have instructed himself 
 so. He really knows — I really think he knows more 
 than I do myself. 
 
 Mrs. p.— Julia dear! 
 
 Miss P.— What is it, mamma? 
 
 Mrs. p. — Your little sister wants some under-cloth- 
 ing sadly, Julia dear, and poor Adolphus's shoes are 
 quite worn out. 
 
 ]Miss P.— I thought so; I have given you all I could, 
 mamma. 
 
 Mrs. p.— Yes, my love! you are a good love, and 
 generous, heaven knows, to your poor old mother who 
 has seen better days. If we had not wanted, would I 
 have ever allowed you to be a governess — a poor de- 
 graded governess? If that brute O'Reilly who lived 
 on our second floor had not behaved so shamefully 
 wicked to you, and married JNIiss Flack, the singer, 
 might you not have been Editress of the Champion of 
 Liberty at this very moment, and had your Opera box 
 every night? [She drinks champagne while talking^ 
 and excites herself S\
 
 412 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 Miss P. — Don't take that, mamma. 
 
 Mrs. p.— Don't take it? why, it costs nothing; Mil- 
 liken can afford it. Do you suppose I get champagne 
 every day? I might have had it as a girl when I first 
 married your father, and we kep' our gig and horse, and 
 lived at Clapham, and had the best of everything. But 
 the coal-trade is not what it was, Julia. We met with 
 misfortunes, Julia, and we went into poverty: and your 
 poor father went into the Bench for twenty-three 
 months — two year all but a month he did — and my poor 
 girl was obliged to dance at the " Coburg Theatre" — 
 yes, you were, at ten shillings a week, in the Oriental 
 ballet of "The Bulbul and the Rose:" you were, my 
 poor darling child. 
 
 Miss P.— Hush, hush, mamma! 
 
 Mrs. p.— And we kep' a lodging-house in Bury 
 Street, St. James's, which your father's brother fur- 
 nished for us, who was an extensive oil-merchant. He 
 brought you up ; and afterwards he quarrelled with my 
 poor James, Robert Prior did, and he died, not leaving 
 us a shilling. And my dear eldest boy went into a wine- 
 merchant's office: and my poor darling Julia became a 
 governess, when you had had the best of education at 
 Clapham ; you had, Julia. And to think that you were 
 obliged, my blessed thing, to go on in the Oriental ballet 
 of " The Rose and the Bui—" 
 
 Miss P. — Mamma, hush, hush! forget that story. 
 
 Enter Page from dining-room. 
 
 Page. — Miss Prior! please, the ladies are coming 
 from the dining-room. Mrs. B. have had her two 
 glasses of port, and her ladyship is now a-telling the
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 413 
 
 story about the Prince of Wales when she danced with 
 him at Carlton House. ^Emt Page.] 
 
 Miss P.— Quick, quick! There, take j^our basket! 
 Put on your bonnet, and good-night, mamma. Here, 
 here is a half-sovereign and three shillings; it is all the 
 money I have in the world; take it, and buy the shoes 
 for Adolphus. 
 
 Mrs. p.— And the under-clothing, my love— little 
 Amelia's under-clothing? 
 
 Miss P.— We will see about it. Good-night [kisses 
 her}. Don't be seen here,— Lady K. doesn't like it. 
 
 Enter Gentlemen and Ladies from dining-room. 
 
 Lady K.— We follow the Continental fashion. We 
 don't sit after dinner, Captain Touchit. 
 
 Captain T.— Confound the Continental fashion! I 
 like to sit a little while after dinner [aside}. 
 
 Mrs. B. — So does my dear Mr. Bonnington, Captain 
 Touchit. He likes a little port-wine after dinner. 
 
 Touchit. — I'm not surprised at it, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. B.— When did you say your son was coming. 
 Lady Kicklebury? 
 
 Lady K. — My Clarence! He will be here immedi- 
 ately, I hope, the dear boy. You know my Clarence? 
 
 Touchit. — Yes, ma'am. 
 
 Lady K.— And like him, I'm sure. Captain Touchit! 
 Everybody does like Clarence Kicklebury. 
 
 Touchit. — The confounded young scamp! I say, 
 Horace, do you like your brother-in-law? 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Well— I— I can't say— I— like him — in 
 fact, I don't. But that's no reason why his mother 
 shouldn't. [During this, Howell^ preceded by Bulke-
 
 114 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 LEY, hands round coffee. The garden without has 
 darkened, as if evening. Bulkeley is going away 
 without offering coffee to Miss Prior. John stamps 
 on his foot, and points to her. Captain Touchit, 
 laughing, goes up and talks to her now the servants are 
 gone.~\ 
 
 INIrs. B.— Horace! I must tell you that the waste at 
 your table is shocking. What is the need of opening all 
 this wine? You and Lady Kicklebury were the only 
 persons who took champagne. 
 
 Touchit. — I never drink it— never touch the rub- 
 bish! Too old a stager! 
 
 Lady K.— Port, I think, is your favourite, Mrs. 
 Bonnington? 
 
 Mrs. B.— My dear lady, I do not mean that j^ou 
 should not haA^e champagne, if you like. Pray, pray, 
 don't be angry! But why on earth, for you, who take 
 so little, and Horace, who only drinks it to keep you 
 company, should not Howell open a pint instead of a 
 great large bottle? 
 
 Lady K. — Oh, Howell! Howell! We must not men- 
 tion Howell, my dear Mrs. Bonnington. Howell is 
 faultless ! Howell has the keys of everything ! Howell 
 is not to be controlled in anything! Howell is to be at 
 liberty to be rude to my servant! 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Is that all? I am sure I should have 
 thought your man was big enough to resent any rude- 
 ness from poor little Howell. 
 
 Lady K.— Horace! Excuse me for saying that you 
 don't know— the— the class of servant to whom Bulke- 
 ley belongs. I had him, as a great favour, from Lord 
 Toddleby. That class of servant is accustomed gener- 
 ally not to go out single.
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 415 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Unless they are two behind a carriage- 
 perch they pine away, as one love-bird does without his 
 mate! 
 
 Lady K.— No doubt! no doubt! I only say you are 
 not accustomed here — in this kind of establishment, you 
 understand — to that class of — 
 
 Mrs. B.— Lady Kicklebury! is my son's establish- 
 ment not good enough for any powdered monster in 
 England? Is the house of a British merchant—? 
 
 Lady K.— My dear creature! my dear creature! it is 
 the house of a British merchant, and a very comfortable 
 house. 
 
 Mrs. B.— Yes, as you find it. 
 
 Lady K.— Yes, as I find it, when I come to take care 
 of my departed angel's children, INlrs. Bonnington— 
 [pointing to picture^— of that dear seraph's orphans, 
 Mrs. Bonnington. You cannot. You have other duties 
 —other children— a husband at home in delicate health, 
 who— 
 
 Mrs. B.— Lady Kicklebury, no one shall say I don't 
 take care of my dear husband! 
 
 Milliken.— My dear mother! My dear Lady 
 Kicklebury! [To T., who has come forward.] They 
 spar so every night they meet, Touchit. Ain't it hard? 
 
 Lady K.— I say you do take care of Mr. Bonnington, 
 Mrs. Bonnington, my dear creature! and that is why you 
 can't attend to Horace. And as he is of a very easy 
 temper— except sometimes with his poor Arabella's 
 mother— he allows all his tradesmen to cheat him, all 
 his servants to cheat him, Howell to be rude to every- 
 body—to me amongst other people, and why not to my 
 servant Bulkeley, with whom Lord Toddleby's groom 
 of the chambers gave me the very highest character.
 
 416 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 Mrs. B. — I'm surprised that noblemen have grooms 
 in their chambers. I should think they were much bet- 
 ter in the stables. I am sure I always think so when we 
 dine with Doctor Clinker. His man does bring such a 
 smell of the stable with him. 
 
 Lady K. — He ! he ! you mistake, my dearest creature ! 
 Your poor mother mistakes, my good Horace. You 
 have lived in a quiet and most respectable sphere — but 
 not — not — 
 
 Mrs. B.— Not what. Lady Kicklebury? We have 
 lived at Richmond twenty years— in my late husband's 
 time — when we saw a great deal of company, and when 
 this dear Horace was a dear boj'^ at Westminster School. 
 And we have paid for everything we have had for 
 twenty years, and we have owed not a penny to any 
 tradesman, though M^e mayn't have had 'powdered foot- 
 men sice feet high, who were impertinent to all the maids 
 in the place — Don't! I will speak, Horace — but ser- 
 vants who loved us, and who lived in our families. 
 
 MiLLTKEN.— Mamma, now, my dear, good old 
 mother ! I am sure Lady Kicklebury meant no harm. 
 
 Lady K. — Me! my dear Horace! harm! What harm 
 could I mean? 
 
 MiLLiKEN. — Come! let us have a game at whist. 
 Touchit, will you make a fourth? They go on so every 
 night almost. Ain't it a pity, now? 
 
 Touchit.— Miss Prior generally plays, doesn't she? 
 
 MiLLiKEN. — And a very good player, too. But I 
 thought you might like it. 
 
 Touchit. — Well, not exactly. I don't like sixpenny 
 points, Horace, or quarrelling with old dragons about 
 the odd trick. I will go and smoke a cigar on the ter- 
 race, and contemplate the silver Thames, the darkling
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 417 
 
 woods, the starry hosts of heaven. I— I hke smoking 
 better than playing whist. [Millikex rings bell] 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Ah, George! you're not fit for domestic 
 fehcity. 
 
 ToucHiT.— No, not exactly. 
 
 Howell enters. 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Lights and a whist-table. Oh, I see 
 you bring 'em. You know everything I want. He 
 knows everything I want, Howell does. Let us cut. 
 Miss Prior, you and I are partners!
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene.— ^5 before. 
 
 Lady K. — Don't smoke, you naughty boy. I don't 
 like it. Besides it will encourage your brother-in-law to 
 smoke. 
 
 Clarence K. — Anything to oblige you, I'm sure. 
 But can't do without it, mother ; it's good for my health. 
 When I was in the plungers, our doctor used to say, 
 " You ought never to smoke more than eight cigars 
 a day" — an order, you know, to do it — don't you see? 
 
 Lady K. — Ah, my child! I am very glad you are not 
 with those unfortunate people in the East. 
 
 K. — So am I. Sold out just in time. Much better 
 fun being here, than having the cholera at Scutari. 
 Nice house, Milliken's. Snob, but good fellow — good 
 cellar, doosid good cook. Really, that salmi yesterday, — 
 couldn't liave it better done at the " Rag " now. You 
 have got into good quarters here, mother. 
 
 Lady K. — The meals are very good, and the house is 
 very good ; the manners are not of the first order. But 
 what can you expect of city people? I always told your 
 poor dear sister, when she married Mr. Milliken, that 
 she might look for everything substantial, — but not 
 manners. Poor dear Arabella would marry him. 
 
 K. — Would! that is a good one, mamma! Why, you 
 made her! It's a dozen years ago. But I recollect, 
 when I came home from Eton, seeing her crying be- 
 cause Charley Tufton — 
 
 418
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 419 
 
 Lady K. — Mr. Tiifton had not a shilling to bless 
 himself with. The marriage was absurd and impos- 
 sible. 
 
 K. — He hadn't a shilling then. I guess he has plenty 
 now. Elder brother killed, out hunting. Father dead. 
 Tuf a baronet, with four thousand a year if he's a shil- 
 ling. 
 
 Lady K. — Not so much. 
 
 K. — Four thousand if it's a shilling. Why, the prop- 
 erty adjoins Kicklebury's — I ought to know. I've shot 
 over it a thousand times. Heh! I remember, when I 
 was quite a young 'un, how Arabella used to go out into 
 Tuf ton Park to meet Charley — and he is a doosid good 
 fellow, and a gentlemanlike fellow, and a doosid deal 
 better than this city fellow. 
 
 Lady K. — If you don't like this city fellow, Clar- 
 ence, why do you come here? why didn't you stop with 
 your elder brother at Kicklebury? 
 
 K.— Why didn't I? Why didn't you stop at Kickle- 
 bury, mamma? Because you had notice to quit. Serious 
 daughter-in-law, quarrels about management of the 
 house — row in the building. My brother interferes, 
 and politely requests mamma to shorten her visit. 
 So it is with j^our other two daughters; so it was with 
 Arabella when she was alive. What shindies you used to 
 liave with her, Lady Kicklebury! Heh! I had a row 
 with my brother and sister about a confounded little 
 nursery-maid. 
 
 L.\DY K.— Clarence! 
 
 K. — And so I had notice to quit too. And I'm in 
 very good quarters here, and I intend to stay in 'em, 
 mamma. I say — 
 
 J^MiY K.— What do you say?
 
 420 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 K. — Since I sold out, you know, and the regiment 
 went abroad, confound me, the brutes at the " Rag " will 
 hardly speak to me! I was so ill, I couldn't go. Who 
 the doose can live the life I've led and keep health 
 enough for that infernal Crimea? Besides, how could I 
 help it? I was so cursedly in debt that I was obliged 
 to have the money, you know. You hadn't got any. 
 
 LxVDY K.— Not a halfpenny, my darling. I am 
 dreadfully in debt myself. 
 
 K. — I know you are. So am I. My brother wouldn't 
 give me any, not a dump. Hang him! Said he had his 
 children to look to. JNIilliken wouldn't advance me any 
 more — said I did him in that horse transaction. He! 
 he! he! so I did! What had I to do but to sell out? 
 And the fellows cut me, by Jove. Ain't it too bad? I'll 
 take my name oif the " Rag," I will, though. 
 
 Lady K.— We must sow our wild oats, and we must 
 sober down; and we must live here, where the living is 
 very good and very cheap, Clarence, you naughty boy! 
 And we must get you a rich wife. Did you see at 
 church yesterday that young woman in light green, with 
 rather red hair and a pink bonnet? 
 
 K.— I was asleep, ma'am, most of the time, or I was 
 bookin' up the odds for the Chester Cup. When I'm 
 bookin' up, I think of nothin' else, ma'am,— nothin'. 
 
 Lady K.— That was Miss Brocksopp— Briggs, 
 Brown anci Brocksopp, the great sugar-bakers. They 
 say she M'ill have eighty thousand pound. We will ask 
 her to dinner here. 
 
 K.— I say— why the doose do you have such old 
 w^omen to dinner here ? Why don't you get some pretty 
 girls? Such a set of confounded old frumps as eat Mil- 
 liken's mutton I never saw. There's you, and his old
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 421 
 
 mother Mrs. Bonnington, and old ]Mrs. Fogram, and 
 old iMiss What's-her-name, the woman with the squint 
 eye, and that immense ISlrs. Crowder. It's so stoopid, 
 that if it weren't for Touchit coming down sometimes, 
 and the billiards and boatin', I should die here — expire, 
 by gad! Why don't you have some pretty women into 
 the house, Lady Kicklebury? 
 
 Lady K. — Why! Do you think I want that picture 
 taken down: and another INIrs. Milliken? Wisehead! 
 If Horace married again, would he be your banker, 
 and keep this house, now that ungrateful son of mine 
 has turned me out of his ? No pretty woman shall come 
 into the house whilst I am here. 
 
 K. — Governess seems a pretty woman: weak eyes, bad 
 figure, poky, badly dressed, but doosid pretty woman. 
 
 Lady K. — Bah! There is no danger from he?'. She 
 is a most faithful creature, attached to me beyond every- 
 thing. And her eyes — her eyes are weak with crying 
 for some young man who is in India. She has his 
 miniature in her room, locked up in one of her drawers. 
 
 K. — Then how the doose did jou come to see it? 
 
 Lady K. — We see a number of things, Clarence. 
 Will you drive with me? 
 
 K. — Not as I knows on, thank you. No, Ma; drivin's 
 too slow: and you're goin' to call on two or three old 
 dowagers in the Park? Thank your ladyship for the 
 delightful offer. 
 
 Enter John. 
 
 JoHX. — Please, sir, here's the man with the bill for 
 the boats; two pound three. 
 
 K.— Damn it, pay it— don't bother 7ne! 
 John.— Haven't got the money, sir.
 
 422 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 L.VDY K.— Howell! I saw Mr. Milliken give you a 
 cheque for twenty-five pounds before he went into town 
 this morning. Look, sir [ruiis^ opens drawer, takes out 
 cheque-hook^. There it is, marked, "Howell, 25l." 
 
 John.— Would your ladyship like to step down into 
 my pantry and see what I've paid with the twenty-five 
 j)ounds? Did my master leave any orders that your 
 ladyship was to inspect my accounts? 
 
 Lady K. — Step down into the pantry! inspect your 
 accounts? I never heard such impertinence. What do 
 you mean, sir? 
 
 K.— Dammy, sir, what do you mean? 
 
 John. — I thought as her ladyship kept a heye over 
 my master's private book, she might like to look at mine 
 too. 
 
 Lady K. — Upon my word, this insolence is too much. 
 
 John. — I beg your ladyship's pardon. I am sure I 
 have said nothing. 
 
 K. — Said, sir! your manner is mutinous, by Jove, 
 sir! if I had you in the regiment! — 
 
 John. — I understood that you had left the regiment, 
 sir, just before it went on the campaign, sir. 
 
 K. — Confound you, sir! [Starts up.~\ 
 
 Lady K. — Clarence, my child, my child! 
 
 John. — Your ladyship needn't be alarmed; I'm a 
 little man, my lady, but I don't think Mr. Clarence was 
 a-goin' for to hit me, my lady; not before a lady, I'm 
 sure. I suppose, sir, that you wont pay the boatman? 
 
 K. — TsTo, sir, I won't pay him, nor any man who uses 
 this sort of damned impertinence! 
 
 John. — I told Rullocks, sir, I thought it was jest 
 possible you wouldn't. [^Ecvit.'l 
 
 K.— That's a nice man, that is— an impudent villain!
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 423 
 
 Lady K.— Ruined by Horace's weakness. He ruins 
 everybody, poor good-natured Horace! 
 
 K.— Why don't you get rid of the blackguard? 
 
 Lady K.— There is a time for all things, my dear. 
 This man is very convenient to Horace. Mr. Milliken 
 is exceedingly lazy, and Howell spares him a great deal 
 of trouble. Some day or other I shall take all this 
 domestic trouble oiF his hands. But not yet : j^our poor 
 brother-in-law is restive, like many weak men. He is 
 subjected to other influences: his odious mother thwarts 
 me a great deal. 
 
 K. — Why, 5^ou used to be the dearest friends in the 
 world. I recollect when I was at Eton — 
 
 Lady K. — Were; but friendship don't last for ever. 
 Mrs. Bonnington and I have had serious differences 
 since I came to live here: she has a natural jealousy, 
 perhaps, at my superintending her son's affairs. When 
 she ceases to visit at the house, as she very possibly will, 
 things will go more easily ; and Mr. Howell will go too, 
 you may depend upon it. I am always sorry when my 
 temper breaks out, as it will sometimes. 
 
 K.— Won't it, that's all! 
 
 Lady K. — At his insolence, mj^ temper is high; so 
 is yours, my dear. Calm it for the present, especially 
 as regards Howell. 
 
 K. — Gad! d'you know I was very nearly pitching 
 into him? But once, one night in the Haymarket, at 
 a lobster-shop, where I was with some fellows, we 
 chaffed some other fellows, and there was one fellah 
 — quite a little fellah — and I pitched into him, and he 
 gave me the most confounded lickin' I ever had in my 
 life, since my brother Kicklebury licked me Avhen we 
 were at Eton; and that, you see, was a lesson to me,
 
 42J< THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 ma'am. Never trust those little fellows, never chaff 
 'em: dammy, they may be boxers. 
 
 Lady K.— You quarrelsome boy! I remember you 
 coming home with your naughty head so bruised. 
 [LooJxS at watch.^ I must go now to take my drive. 
 [Ecvit Lady K.] 
 
 K. — I owe a doose of a tick at that billiard-room; I 
 shall have that boatman dunnin' me. Why hasn't Mil- 
 liken got any horses to ride? Hang him! suppose he 
 can't ride— suppose he's a tailor. He ain't my tailor 
 though, though I owe him a doosid deal of money. 
 There goes mamma with that darling nephew and niece 
 of mine. [Enter Bulkeley.] Why haven't you gone 
 with my lady, you, sir? [to Bulkeley]. 
 
 Bulkeley.— My lady have a-took the pony-carriage, 
 sir; Mrs. Bonnington have a-took the hopen carriage 
 and 'orses, sir, this mornin', which the Bishop of Lon- 
 don is 'olding a confirmation at Teddington, sir, and 
 Mr. Bonnington is attending the serimony. And I have 
 told Mr. 'Owell, sir, that my lady would prefer the 
 hopen carriage, sir, which I like the hexercise myself, 
 sir, and that the pony-carriage was good enough for 
 Mrs. Bonnington, sir; and Mr. 'Owell was very hin- 
 solent to me, sir; and I don't think I can stay in the 
 'ouse with him. 
 
 K.— Hold your jaw, sir. 
 
 Bulkeley.— Yes, sir. [Eait Bulkeley.] 
 
 K.— I wonder who that governess is?— sang rather 
 prettily last night— wish she'd come and sing now— 
 wish she'd come and amuse me— I've seen her face before 
 —where have I seen her face?— it ain't at all a bad one. 
 What shall I do? dammy, I'll read a book: I've not read 
 a book this ever so long. What's here? [looks amongst
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 425 
 
 hooks, selects one, sinks down in easy chair so as quite 
 to be lost J. 
 
 Enter Miss Prior. 
 
 Miss Prior. — There's peace in the house! those noisy 
 children are away with their grandmamma. The 
 weather is beautiful, and I hope they will take a long 
 drive. Now I can have a quiet half -hour, and finish 
 that dear pretty "Ruth"— oh, how it makes me cry, 
 that pretty story. [Lays down her bonnet on table— 
 goes to glass— takes off cap and spectacles— arranges 
 her hair— Clarence has got on chair looking at her.^ 
 
 K. — By Jove! I know who it is now! Remember her 
 as well as possible. Four years ago, w^hen little Fox- 
 bury used to dance in the ballet over the water. Don't 
 I remember her! She boxed my ears behind the scenes, 
 by jingo. [^Coming forward.^ IVIiss Pemberton! Star 
 of the ballet ! Light of the harem ! Don't you remember 
 the grand Oriental ballet of the " Bulbul and the Peri? " 
 
 Miss P. — Oh! [^screams.'] No, n — no, sir. You are 
 mistaken: my name is Prior. I — never was at the " Co- 
 burg Theatre." I — 
 
 K. [sei:::ing her hand.~\—^o, you don't, though! 
 What ! don't you remember well that little hand slapping 
 this face? which nature hadn't then adorned with whis- 
 kers, by gad! You pretend you have forgotten little 
 Foxbury, whom Charley Calverley used to come after, 
 and who used to drive to the " Coburg " every night in 
 her brougham. How did j^ou know it was the " Co- 
 burg?" That is a good one! Had you there, I think. 
 
 Miss P. — Sir, in the name of heaven, pity me ! I have 
 to keep my mother and my sisters and my brothers. 
 When— when you saw me, we were in great poverty;
 
 426 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 and almost all the wretched earnings I made at that 
 time were given to my poor father then lying in the 
 Queen's Bench hard by. You know there was nothing 
 against my character — you know there was not. Ask 
 Captain Touchit whether I was not a good girl. It 
 was he who brought me to this house. 
 
 K. — Touchit! the old villain! 
 
 Miss P. — I had your sister's confidence. I tended 
 her abroad on her death-bed. I have brought up your 
 nephew and niece. Ask any one if I have not been 
 honest? As a man, as a gentleman, I entreat you to 
 keejD my secret ! I implore you for the sake of my poor 
 mother and her children! [kneeling.~\ 
 
 K. — By Jove! how handsome you are! How crying 
 becomes your eyes! Get up; get up. Of course I'll 
 keep your secret, but — 
 
 Miss P. — Ah! ah! [She screams as he tries to em- 
 brace her. Howell rushes in.'] 
 
 Howell. — Hands off, you little villain! Stir a step, 
 and I'll kill you, if you were a regiment of captains! 
 What! insult this lady who kept watch at your sister's 
 death-bed and has took charge of her children! Don't 
 be frightened, Miss Prior. Julia — dear, dear Julia — 
 I'm b}^ you. If the scoundrel touches you, I'll kill him. 
 I — I love you — there— it's here— love you madly— with 
 all my 'art — my a-heart! 
 
 Miss P.— Howell— for heaven's sake, Howell! 
 
 K. — Pooh— ooh! [bursting "with laughter]. Here's 
 a novel, by jingo! Here's John in love with the gov- 
 erness. Fond of plush, Miss Pemberton— ey? Gad, 
 it's the best thing I ever knew. Saved a good bit, ey, 
 Jeames? Take a public-house? By Jove! I'll buy my 
 beer there.
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 427 
 
 John.— Owe for it, you mean. I don't think your 
 tradesmen profit much b}^ your custom, ex-Cornet 
 Kickleburv. 
 
 K.— By Jove! I'll do for you, j^ou villain! 
 
 John. — No, not that way. Captain. \_Struggles with 
 and throws him.~\ 
 
 K. [screams.l — Hallo, Bulkeley! [Bulkeley is seen 
 strolling in the garden.^ 
 
 Enter Bulkeley. 
 
 Bulkeley.— What is it, sir? 
 
 K. — Take this confounded villain off me, and pitch 
 him into the Thames — do you hear? 
 
 John. — Come here, and I'll break every bone in your 
 hulking body. [To Bulkeley.] 
 
 Bulkeley. — Come, come! what hever his hall this 
 year row about? 
 
 Miss P.— For heaven's sake, don't strike that poor 
 man. 
 
 Bulkeley. — You be quiet. What's he a-hittin' about 
 my master for? 
 
 John.— Take off your hat, sir, when you speak to a 
 lady. [Takes up a poker. ~\ And now come on both of 
 you, cowards! [Rushes at Bulkeley and knocks his 
 hat off his head.l 
 
 Bulkeley [stepping back^.—lf you'll put down 
 that there poker, you know, then I'll pitch into you fast 
 enough. But that there poker ain't fair, you know. 
 
 Iv. — You villain! of course you will leave this house. 
 And, Miss Prior, I think you understand that you will 
 go too. I don't think my niece wants to learn danciii , 
 you understand. Good-by. Here, Bulkeley! [Gets 
 behind footman and exit.~\
 
 428 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 Miss P.— Do you know the meaning of that threat, 
 Mr. Howell? 
 
 John.— Yes, Miss Prior. 
 
 Miss P. — I was a dancer once, for three months, four 
 years ago, when my poor father was in prison. 
 
 John. — Yes, Miss Prior, I knew it. And I saw you 
 a many times. 
 
 Miss P. — And you kept my secret? 
 
 John. — Yes, Ju— Jul— Miss Prior. 
 
 INIiss P. — Thank you, and God bless you, John 
 Howell. There, there. You mustn't! indeed, you 
 mustn't ! 
 
 John. — You don't remember the printer's boy who 
 used to come to ]Mr. O'Reilly, and sit in your 'all in Bury 
 Street, Miss Prior? I was that boy. I was a country- 
 bred boy — that is if you call Putney country, and 
 Wimbledon Common and that. I served the Milliken 
 family seven year. I went with Master Horace to col- 
 lege, and then I revolted against service, and I thought 
 I'd be a man and turn printer like Doctor Frankling. 
 And I got in an office: and I went with proofs to Mr. 
 O'Reilly, and I saw you. And though I might have 
 been in love with somebody else before I did — yet it 
 was all hup when I saw you. 
 
 Miss P. Ikindhj].— You must not talk to me in 
 that way, John Howell. 
 
 John. — Let's tell the tale out. I couldn't stand the 
 newspaper night-work. I had a mother and brothers 
 and sisters to keep, as you had. I went back to Horace 
 JNIilliken and said. Sir, I've lost my work. I and mine 
 want bread. Will you take me back again? And he 
 did. He's a kind, kind soul is my master. 
 
 Miss P.— He is a kind, kind soul.
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 429 
 
 John.— He's good to all the poor. His hand's in his 
 pocket for everybody. Everybody takes advantage of 
 him. His mother-in-lor rides over him. So does his 
 Ma. So do I, I may say; but that's over now; and you 
 and I have had our notice to quit, ^liss, I should say. 
 
 Miss P.— Yes. 
 
 John.— I have saved a bit of money— not much— a 
 hundred pound. INIiss Prior— Julia— here I am— look 
 — I'm a poor feller— a poor servant— but I've the heart 
 of a man— and— I love you— oh! I love you! 
 
 Mary.— Oh— ho— ho! [Mary has entered from gar- 
 den, and bursts out cry in g.^ 
 
 Miss P.— It can't be, John Howell— my dear, brave, 
 kind John Howell. It can't be. I have watched this 
 for some time past, and poor Clary's despair here. 
 [Kisses Mary, who cries ijlentifully.'] You have the 
 heart of a true, brave man, and must show it and prove 
 it now. I am not— am not of your— i^ardon me for 
 saying so— of your class in life. I was bred by my 
 uncle, away from my poor parents, though I came back 
 to them after his sudden death ; and to poverty, and to 
 this dependent life I am now leading. I am a servant, 
 like you, John, but in another sphere— have to seek an- 
 other place now; and heaven knows if I shall procure 
 one, now that that unlucky passage in my life is known. 
 Oh, the coward to recall it! the coward! 
 
 Mary.— But John whopped him, jMiss! that he did. 
 He gave it him well, John did. [Crying.'] 
 
 Miss P.— You can't— you ought not to forego an at- 
 tachment like that, John Howell. A more honest and 
 true-hearted creature never breathed than Mary Bar- 
 low. 
 
 John.— No, indeed.
 
 430 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 Miss P. — She has loved you since she was a httle 
 child. And you loved her once, and do now, John. 
 
 Mary. — Oh, Miss! you hare a hangel,— I hallways 
 said you were a hangel. 
 
 Miss P. — You are better than I am, my dear — much, 
 much better than I am, John. The curse of my pov- 
 erty has been that I have had to flatter and to dissemble, 
 and hide the faults of those I wanted to help, and to 
 smile when I was hurt, and laugh when I was sad, and 
 to coax, and to tack, and to bide my time, — not with 
 Mr. Milliken: he is all honour, and kindness, and sim- 
 plicity. Who did he ever injure, or what unkind word 
 did he ever say? But do you think, with the jealousy 
 of those j)oor ladies over his house, I could have stayed 
 here without being a hypocrite to both of them? Go, 
 John. My good, dear friend, John Howell, marry 
 Mary. You'll be happier with her than with me. There ! 
 There! [They embrace.'] 
 
 Mary.— O— o— o! I think I'll go and hiron hout Miss 
 Harabella's frocks now. [Exit Mary.] 
 
 Enter Milliken with Clarence— w/io is explaining 
 
 things to him. 
 
 Clarence. — Here they are, I give you my word of 
 honour. Ask 'em, damn 'em. 
 
 Milliken.— What is this I hear? You, John How- 
 ell, have dared to strike a gentleman under my roof! 
 Your master's brother-in-law? 
 
 John.— Yes, by Jove! and I'd do it again. 
 
 Milliken. — Are you drunk or mad, Howell? 
 
 John. — I'm as sober and as sensible as ever I was 
 in my life, sir — I not only struck the master, but I struck
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAINIB 431 
 
 the man, who's twice as big, only not quite as big a 
 coward, I think. 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Hold your scurrilous tongue, sir! My 
 good nature ruins everybody about me. Make up your 
 accounts. Pack your trunks — and never let me see your 
 face again. 
 
 John. — Very good, sir. 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— I suppose, Miss Prior, you will also be 
 disposed to— to follow Mr. Howell? 
 
 Miss P. — To quit you, now you know what has 
 passed? I never supposed it could be otherwise — I 
 deceived you, JNIr. JNIilliken — as I kept a secret from 
 you, and must pay the penalty. It is a relief to 
 me, the sword has been hanging over me. I wish 
 I had told your poor wife, as I was often minded 
 to do. 
 
 MiLLiKEN. — Oh, you were minded to do it in Italy, 
 were you? 
 
 Miss P. — Captain Touchit knew it, sir, all along: and 
 that my motives and, thank God, my life were hon- 
 ourable. 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Oh, Touchit knew it, did he? and thought 
 it honourable — honourable. Ha! ha! to marry a foot- 
 man — and keep a public-house? I — I beg your pardon, 
 John Plowell— I mean nothing against you, you know. 
 You're an honourable man enough, except that you have 
 been damned insolent to my brother-in-law. 
 
 John. — Oh, heaven! [John strikes his forehead j 
 and walks away.l 
 
 Miss P.— You mistake me, sir. What I wished to 
 speak of was the fact which this gentleman has no 
 doubt communicated to you— that I danced on the stage 
 for three months.
 
 432 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Oh, yes. Oh, damme, yes. I forgot. I 
 wasn't thinking of that. 
 
 KiCKLEBURY. — You scc shc owns it. 
 
 Miss P.— We were in the depths of poverty. Our 
 furniture and lodging-house under execution— from 
 which Captain Touchit, when he came to know of our / 
 difficulties, nobly afterwards released us. My father 
 was in prison, and wanted shillings for medicine, and I 
 — I went and danced on the stage. 
 
 MiLLIKEN. — Well ? 
 
 Miss P.— And I kept the secret afterwards; knowing 
 that I could never hope as governess to obtain a place 
 after having been a stage-dancer. 
 
 MiLLIKEN.— Of course you couldn't,— it's out of the 
 question; and may I ask, are you going to resume that 
 delightful profession when you enter the married state 
 with INIr. Howell? 
 
 Miss P.— Poor John! it is not I who am going to— 
 that is, it's Mary, the school-room maid. 
 
 MiLLIKEN.— Eternal blazes! Have you turned Mor- 
 mon, John Howell, and are you going to marry the 
 whole house? 
 
 John.— I made a hass of myself about Miss Prior. 
 I couldn't help her being 1—1— lovely. 
 
 Kick. — Gad, he proposed to her in my presence. 
 
 John.— What I proposed to her, Cornet Clarence 
 Kicklebury, was my heart and my honour, and my best, 
 and my everything— and you— you wanted to take ad- 
 vantage of her secret, and you offered her indignities, 
 and you laid a cowardly hand on her— a cowardly hand! 
 —and I struck you, and I'd do it again. 
 
 MiLLIKEN.— What? Is this true? [Turning round 
 very fiercely to K.I
 
 THE WOLVES AXD THE LAMB 433 
 
 KiCK.-Gad! Well-I only- 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— You only what? You only insulted a 
 lady under my roof —the friend and nurse of your dead 
 sister— the guardian of my children. You only took ad- 
 vantage of a defenceless girl, and would have extorted 
 your infernal pay out of her fear. You miserable sneak 
 and coward! 
 
 Kick.— Hallo! Come, come! I say I won't stand 
 this sort of chaff. Dammy, I'll send a friend to you! 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Go out of that window, sir. March! or 
 I will tell my servant, John Howell, to kick you out, you 
 wretched little scamp ! Tell that big brute,— what's-his- 
 name?— Lady Kicklebury's man, to pack this young 
 man's portmanteau and bear's-grease pots; and if ever 
 you enter these doors again, Clarence Kicklebury, by 
 the heaven that made me!— by your sister who is dead! 
 — I will cane your life out of j^our bones. Angel in 
 heaven! Shade of my Arabella— to think that j^our 
 brother in your house should be found to insult the guar- 
 dian of your children! 
 
 John.— By jingo, you're a good-plucked one! I 
 knew he was, Miss, — I told you he was. [Eojit, shak- 
 ing hands with his master, and with Miss P., and dancing 
 for joy. Exit Clarence^ scared, out of window.^ 
 
 John [^withouf]. — Bulkeley! pack up the CajDting's 
 luggage ! 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— How can I ask your pardon, ^liss 
 Prior? In my wife's name I ask it — in the name of that 
 angel whose dying-bed you watched and soothed — of the 
 innocent children whom }^ou have faithfully tended 
 since. 
 
 Miss P.— Ah, sir! it is granted when you speak so to 
 me.
 
 134 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Eh, eh— d— don't call me sir! 
 
 Miss P. — It is for me to ask pardon for hiding what 
 you know now: but if I had told you — you— you never 
 would have taken me into your house — j^our wife never 
 would. 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— No, no. [Weejnng.'] 
 
 Miss P.— My dear, kind Caj^tain Touchit knows it 
 all. It was by his counsel I acted. He it was who re- 
 lieved our distress. Ask him whether my conduct was 
 not honourable — ask him whether my life was not de- 
 voted to my parents — ask him when — when I am gone. 
 
 MiixiKEN.— When you are gone, Julia! Why are 
 you going? Why should you go, my love — that is — why 
 need you go, in the devil's name? 
 
 Miss P. — Because, when your mother — when your mo- 
 ther-in-law come to hear that your children's governess 
 has been a dancer on the stage, they will send me away, 
 and you will not have the power to resist them. They 
 ought to send me away, sir; but I have acted honestly 
 by the children and their poor mother, and you'll think 
 of me kindly when — I — am — gone? 
 
 Milliken. — Julia, my dearest — dear — noble — dar — 
 the devil! here's old Kicklebury. 
 
 Enter Lady K., Children, and Clarence. 
 
 Lady K. — So, JNIiss Prior! this is what I hear, is it? 
 A dancer in my house! a serpent in my bosom — poison- 
 ing — yes, poisoning those blessed children! occasioning 
 quarrels between my own son and my dearest son-in- 
 law; flirting with the footman! When do you intend 
 to leave, madam, the house which you have po — poll — 
 luted?
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 435 
 
 Miss P.— I need no hard language, Lady Kicklebury: 
 and I will reply to none. I have signified to Mr. Milli- 
 ken my wish to leave his house. 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Not, not, if you will stay. [To Miss P.] 
 
 Lady K.— Stay, Horace! she shall never stay as gov- 
 erness in this house! 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Julia! will you stay as mistress? You 
 have known me for a year alone — before, not so well — 
 when the house had a mistress that is gone. You know 
 what my temper is, and that my tastes are simple, and 
 my heart not unkind. I have watched you, and have 
 never seen you out of temper, though you have been 
 tried. I have long thought you good and beautiful, but 
 I never thought to ask the question which I put to you 
 now:— come in, sir! [to Clarence at ^oor] :— now 
 that you have been persecuted by those who ought 
 to have upheld you, and insulted by those who owed 
 you gratitude and respect. I am tired of their domi- 
 nation, and as weary of a man's cowardly impertinence 
 [to Clarence] as of a woman's jealous tyranny. They 
 have made what was my Arabella's home miserable by 
 their oppression and their quarrels. Julia! my wife's 
 friend, my children's friend! be mine, and make me 
 happy! Don't leave me, Julia! say you won't — say you 
 won't — dearest — dearest girl! 
 
 Miss P. — I won't — leave — you. 
 
 George [without~\. — Oh, I say! Arabella, look 
 here: here's papa a-kissing Miss Prior! 
 
 Lady K. — Horace — Clarence my son! Shade of my 
 Arabella! can you behold this horrible scene, and not 
 shudder in heaven! Bulkeley! Clarence! go for a doc- 
 tor — go to Doctor Straitwaist at the Asylum — Horace 
 Milliken, who has married the descendant of the Kickle-
 
 436 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 burys of the Conqueror, marry a dancing-girl off the 
 stage! Horace MiUiken! do you wish to see me die in 
 convulsions at your feet? I writhe there, I grovel there. 
 Look ! look at me on my knees ! your own mother-in-law ! 
 drive away this fiend! 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Hem! I ought to thank you. Lady 
 Kicklebury, for it is you that have given her to me. 
 
 Lady K.— He won't listen! he turns away and kisses 
 her horrible hand. This will never do: help me up, 
 Clarence, I must go and fetch his mother. Ah, ah! 
 there she is, there she is! [Lady K. rushes out, as the 
 top of a barouche^ with Mr. and Mrs. Bonnington and 
 Coachman, is seen over the gate.~\ 
 
 Mrs. B.— What is this I hear, my son, my son? You 
 are going to marry a— a stage-dancer? you are driving 
 me mad, Horace! 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Give me my second chance, mother, to 
 be happy. You have had yourself two chances. 
 
 Mrs. B.— Speak to him, Mr. Bonnington. [Bon- 
 nington makes dumb show.'] 
 
 Lady K.— Implore him, Mr. Bonnington. 
 
 Mrs. B.— Pray, pray for him, Mr. Bonnington, my 
 love— my lost, abandoned boy! 
 
 Lady K.— Oh, my poor dear Mrs. Bonnington! 
 
 Mrs. B.— Oh, my poor dear Lady Kicklebury. [They 
 embrace each other.] 
 
 Lady K.— I have been down on my knees to him, 
 dearest Mrs. Bonnington. 
 
 Mrs. B.— Let us both— both go down on our knees— 
 I will [to her husband]. Edward, I will! [Both ladies 
 on their knees. Bonnington with outstretched hands 
 behind them.] Look, unhappy boy! look, Horace! two 
 mothers on their wretched knees before you, imploring
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 437 
 
 you to send away this monster! Speak to him, INIr. Bon- 
 nington. Edward! use authority with him, if he will 
 not listen to his mother— 
 Lady K. — To his mothers! 
 
 Enter Touchit. 
 
 ToucHiT. — What is this comedy going on, ladies and 
 gentlemen? The ladies on their elderly knees — Miss 
 Prior with her hair down her back. Is it tragedy or 
 comedy — is it a rehearsal for a charade, or are we acting 
 for Horace's birthday? or, oh!— I beg your Reverence's 
 pardon— you were perhaps going to a professional 
 duty? 
 
 ISIrs. B. — It's xice who are praying this child, Touchit. 
 This child, with whom you used to come home from 
 Westminster when you were boys. You have influence 
 with him ; he listens to you. Entreat him to pause in his 
 madness. 
 
 Touchit. — What madness? 
 
 Mrs. B. — That — that woman — that serpent j^onder 
 —that— that dancing-woman, whom you introduced to 
 Arabella INIilliken,- ah! and I rue the day:— Horace is 
 going to mum— mum— marry her! 
 
 Touchit. — Well! I always thought he would. Ever 
 since I saw him and her playing at whist together, w^hen 
 I came down here a month ago, I thought he would do 
 it. 
 
 Mrs. B. — Oh, it's the whist, the w^iist! Why did I 
 ever play at whist, Edw^ard? My poor ^Ir. Milliken 
 used to like his rubber. 
 
 Touchit. — Since he has been a widower — 
 
 Lady K.— A widower of that angel! [Points to pic- 
 ture. 1
 
 438 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 ToucHiT.— Pooh, pooh, angel! You two ladies have 
 never given the poor fellow any peace. You were al- 
 ways quarrelling over him. You took possession of his 
 house, bullied his servants, spoiled his children ; you did, 
 Lady Kicklebury. 
 
 Lady K. — Sir, you are a rude, low, presuming, vulgar 
 man. Clarence ! beat this rude man ! 
 
 Touch IT. — From what I have heard of your amiable 
 son, he is not in the warlike line, I think. My dear 
 Julia, I am delighted with all my heart that my old 
 friend should have found a woman of sense, good con- 
 duct, good temper — a woman who has had many trials, 
 and borne them with great patience— to take charge of 
 him and make him happy. Horace, give me your hand ! 
 I knew Miss Prior in great poverty. I am sure she will 
 bear as nobly her present good fortune; for good 
 fortune it is to any woman to become the wife of such 
 a loyal, honest, kindly gentleman as j^ou are! 
 
 Enter John. 
 
 John. — If j^ou please, my lady — if you please, sir— 
 Bulkeley — 
 
 Lady K.— What of Bulkeley, sir? 
 
 John.— He has packed his things, and Cornet Kick- 
 lebury's things, my lady. 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Let the fellow go. 
 
 John.— He won't go, sir, till my lady have paid him 
 his book and wages. Here's the book, sir. 
 
 Lady K. — Insolence! quit my presence! And I, Mr. 
 Milliken, will quit a house — 
 
 John. — Shall I call your ladyship a carriage? 
 
 Lady K.— Where I have met with rudeness, cruelty,
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 439 
 
 and fiendish [to Miss P., tcJio smiles and curtsiesl—yesy 
 fiendish ingratitude. I will go, I say, as soon as I have 
 made arrangements for taking other lodgings. You 
 cannot expect a lady of fashion to turn out like a ser- 
 vant. 
 
 John.— Hire the "Star and Garter" for her, sir. 
 Send down to the " Castle; " anything to get rid of her. 
 I'll tell her maid to pack her traps. Pinhorn! [Beckons 
 maid and gives orders.~\ 
 
 ToucHiT. — You had better go at once, my dear Lady 
 Kicklebury. 
 
 Lady K.— Sir! 
 
 ToucHiT. — The other mother-in-law is coming! I 
 met her on the road with all her family. He! he! he! 
 lScrea7?is.^ 
 
 Enter Mrs. Prior and Children. 
 
 Mrs. p.— JVIy lady! I hope your ladyship is quite 
 well! Dear, kind IVIrs. Bonnington! I came to pay my 
 duty to you, ma'am. This is Charlotte, my lady — the 
 great girl whom your ladyship so kindly promised the 
 gown for; and this is my little girl, Mrs. Bonnington, 
 ma'am, please; and this is my Bluecoat boy. Go and 
 speak to dear, kind Mr. Milliken — our best friend and 
 protector — the son and son-in-law of these dear ladies. 
 Look, sir! He has brought his copy to show you. [Boy 
 shows copy.^ Ain't it creditable to a boy of his age, 
 Captain Touchit? And my best and most grateful ser- 
 vices to you, sir. Julia, Julia, my dear, where's your 
 cap and spectacles, you stupid thing? You've let your 
 hair drop down. What! what! — [Begins to he puz- 
 zled,']
 
 440 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 Mrs. B. — Is this collusion, madam? 
 
 Mrs. p. — Collusion, dear Mrs. Bonnington! 
 
 Lady K. — Or insolence, Mrs. Prior? 
 
 Mrs. p. — Insolence, your ladyship! What— what is 
 it? what has happened? What's Julia's hair down for? 
 Ah! you've not sent the poor girl away? the poor, poor 
 child, and the poor, poor children! 
 
 ToucHiT. — That dancing at the " Coburg" has come 
 out, Mrs. Prior. 
 
 Mrs. p.— Not the darling's fault. It w^as to help her 
 poor father in prison. It was I who forced her to do it. 
 Oh! don't, don't, dear Lady Kicklebury, take the bread 
 out of the mouths of these poor orphans! ICrying.l 
 
 IMiLLiKEN.— Enough of this, Mrs. Prior; your 
 daughter is not going away. Julia has promised to stay 
 with me — and — never to leave me — as governess no 
 longer, but as wife to me. 
 
 Mrs. p. — Is it— is it true, Julia? 
 
 Miss P. — Yes, mamma. 
 
 ]Mrs. p. — Oh! oh! oh! [Flhigs dotcn her umbrella , 
 kisses Julia, and running to ISIilliken,] My son, my 
 son! Come here, children. Come, Adolphus, Amelia, 
 Charlotte — kiss your dear brother, children. What, my 
 dears! How do you do, dears? [to Milliken's chil- 
 dre7i~\. Have they heard the news? And do you know 
 that my daughter is going to be your mamma? There 
 — there — go and play with your little uncles and aunts, 
 that's good children! [She motions off the Children, 
 ■2x7^0 ?'etire totcards garden. Her manner changes to 
 one of great j^atronage and intense satis f action. ~\ Most 
 hot weather, your ladyship, I'm sure. INIr. Bonnington, 
 you must find it hot weather for preachin' ! Lor' ! there's 
 that little wretch beatin' Adolphus! George, sir! have
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 441 
 
 done, sir! [Runs to separate tliem.^ How ever shall 
 we make those children agree, Julia? 
 
 Miss P.— They have been a little spoiled, and I think 
 Mr. Milliken will send George and Arabella to school, 
 mamma: will you not, Horace? 
 
 Mr. Milliken.— I think school will be the very best 
 thing for them. 
 
 Mrs. p.— And [Mrs. P. whispers^ pointing to her 
 own children^ the blue room, the green room, the rooms 
 old Lady Kick has — plenty of room for us, my dear! 
 
 Miss P. — Xo, mamma, I think it will be too large a 
 party, — Mr. Milliken has often said that he would like 
 to go abroad, and I hope that now he will be able to 
 make his tour. 
 
 Mrs. p. — Oh, then! we can live in the house, you 
 know: what's the use of payin' lodgin', my dear? 
 
 Miss P. — The house is going to be painted. You had 
 best live in your own house, mamma; and if you want 
 anything, Horace, Mr. Milliken, I am sure, will make 
 it comfortable for you. He has had too many visitors 
 of late, and will like a more quiet life, I think. Will 
 you not? 
 
 INIiLLiKEN. — I shall like a life with you^ Julia. 
 
 John. — Cab, sir, for her ladj^ship! 
 
 Lady K. — This instant let me go! Call my people. 
 Clarence, your arm! Bulkelev, Pinhorn! Mrs. Bon- 
 nington, I wish you good-morning! Arabella, angel! 
 \_looks at picture~\ I leave you. I shall come to you ere 
 long. [E^it, refusing Milliken's hand, passes up gar- 
 den, tvith her servants folloxscing her. INIary and other 
 servants of the house are collected together, whom Lady 
 K. waves off. Bluecoat boy on wall eating plums. 
 Page, as she goes, cries, Hurray, hurray! Bluecoat
 
 442 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 boy cries. Hurray! When Lady K. is gone, John ad- 
 vance s.~\ 
 
 John.— I think I heard you say, sir, that it was your 
 intention to go abroad? 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Yes; oh, yes! Are we going abroad, my 
 Juha? 
 
 Miss P.— To settle matters, to have the house painted, 
 and clear [pointing to children, mother, 8^c.~\ Don't you 
 think it is the best thing that we can do? 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Surely, surely: we are going abroad. 
 Howell, you will come with us of course, and with your 
 experiences you will make a capital courier. Won't 
 Howell make a capital courier, Julia? Good, honest 
 fellow, John Howell. Beg your pardon for being so 
 rude to you just now. But my temper is very hot, ver}^! 
 
 John [laughing'].— Yon are a Tartar, sir. Such a 
 tyrant! isn't he, ma'am? 
 
 Miss P.— Well, no; I don't think you have a very bad 
 temj^er, Mr. Milliken, a — Horace. 
 
 John.— You must— take care of him— alone, Miss 
 Prior— Julia— I mean ^Irs. ^lilliken. Man and boy 
 I've waited on him this fifteen year: with the exception 
 of that trial at the printing-office, which— which I won't 
 talk of now, madam. I never knew him angry; though 
 many a time I have known him provoked. I never knew 
 him say a hard word, though sometimes perhaps we've 
 deserved it. Not often— such a good master as that is 
 pretty sure of getting a good servant— that is, if a man 
 has a heart in his bosom; and these things are found both 
 in and out of livery. Yes, 1 have been a honest servant 
 to him,— haven't I, Mr. Milliken? 
 
 Milliken.— Indeed, j^es, John. 
 
 John.— And so has Mary Barlow. Mary, my dear!
 
 THE WOLVES AND I'HE LAMB 443 
 
 \_Mary comes forward.^ Will you allow me to intro- 
 duce you, sir, to the futur' Mrs. Howell?— if Mr. Bon- 
 nington does your little business for you, as I dare say 
 [turning to Mr. B.], hold gov'nor, you will! — Make it 
 up with your poor son, Mrs. Bonnington, ma'am. You 
 have took a second 'elpmate, why shouldn't Master Hor- 
 ace? [to Mrs. B.] He— he wants somebody to help 
 him, and take care of him, more than you do. 
 
 ToucHiT. — You never spoke a truer word in your 
 life, Howell. 
 
 John.— It's my general 'abit, Capting, to indulge in 
 
 them sort of statements. A ti-ue friend I have been to 
 
 my master, and a true friend I'll remain when he's my 
 
 master no more. 
 
 MiLLiKEN.— Why, John, you are not going to leave me? 
 
 John.— It's best, sir, I should go. I— I'm not fit 
 to be a servant in this house any longer. I wish to sit 
 in my own little home, with my own little wife by vay 
 side. Poor dear! you've no conversation, Mary, but 
 you're a good little soul. We've saved a hundred pound 
 apiece, and if we want more, I know who won't grudge 
 it us, a good feller— a good master— for whom I've 
 saved many a hundred pound myself, and will take the 
 "Milliken Arms" at old Pigeoncot— and once a year 
 or so, at this hanniversary, we will pay our respects to 
 you, sir, and madam. Perhaps we will bring some chil- 
 dren with us, perhaps we will find some more in this 
 villa. Bless 'em beforehand ! Good-by, sir, and madam 
 — come away, Mary! [goingl. 
 
 Mrs. v.— [entering with clothes ^ (§c.] — She has not 
 left a single thing in her room. Amelia, come here ! this 
 cloak will do capital for you, and this— this garment is 
 the very thing for Adolphus. Oh, John! eh, Howell!
 
 444 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 
 
 will you please to see that my children have something 
 to eat, immediately! The Milliken children, I suppose, 
 have dined already? 
 
 John. — Yes, ma'am; certainly, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. p. — I see he is inclined to be civil to me now! 
 
 Miss P. — John Howell is about to leave us, mamma. 
 He is engaged to ]Mary Barlow, and when we go away, 
 he is going to set up housekeeping for himself. Good- 
 by, and thank you, John Howell [gives her hand to 
 John, hut with great reserve of manner^. You have 
 been a kind and true friend to us — if ever we can serve 
 you, count upon us— may he not, Mr. Milliken? 
 
 Milliken.— Always, always. 
 
 Miss P. — But you will still wait upon us — upon Mr. 
 Milliken, for a day or two, won't you, John? until we 
 — until Mr. Milliken has found some one to replace you. 
 He will never find any one more honest than you, and 
 good, kind little Mary. Thank you, Mary, for your 
 goodness to the poor governess. 
 
 Mary. — Oh, miss! oh, mum! [Miss P. kisses Mary 
 2)atronizingly.~\ 
 
 Miss P. [to John].— And after they have had some 
 refreshment, get a cab for my brothers and sisters, if you 
 please, John. Don't you think that will be best, my — 
 my dear? 
 
 Milliken. — Of course, of course, dear Julia! 
 
 Miss P.— And, Captain Touchit, you will stay, I 
 hope, and dine with Mr. Milliken? And, Mrs. Bon- 
 nington, if you will receive as a daughter one who has 
 always had a sincere regard for you, I think you will 
 aid in making your son happy, as I promise you with 
 all my heart and all my life to endeavour to do. [Miss 
 P. and M. go up to Mrs. Bonnington.
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB 445 
 
 Mrs. Bonnington.— Well, there then, since it must 
 be so, bless you, my children. 
 
 ToucHiT.— Spoken like a sensible woman! And 
 now, as I do not wish to interrupt this felicity, I will go 
 and dine at the " Star and Garter." 
 
 Miss P.— My dear Captain Touchit, not for worlds! 
 Don't you know I mustn't be alone with Mr. Milliken 
 until— until— ? 
 
 Milliken.— Until I am made the happiest man alive! 
 And you will come down and see us often, Touchit, 
 won't you ? And we hope to see our friends here often. 
 And we will have a little life and spirit and gaiety in 
 the place. Oh, mother! oh, George! oh, Julia! what a 
 comfort it is to me to think that I am released from 
 the tyranny of that terrible mother-in-law! 
 
 Mrs. Prior. — Come in to your teas, children. Come 
 this moment, I say. [The Children pass, quarrelling, 
 behind the characters, INIrs. Prior summoning them; 
 John a7id Mary standing on each side of the dining- 
 room door, as the curtain falls.1
 
 THE 
 
 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 BY MICHAEL ANGELO TITMAESH
 
 THE 
 
 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 ON THE DISINTERMENT OF NAPOLEON AT 
 
 ST. HELENA 
 
 My Dear , — It is no easy task in this world to dis- 
 tinguish between what is great in it, and what is mean; 
 and many and many is the puzzle that I have had in 
 reading History (or the works of fiction which go by 
 that name), to know whether I should laud up to the 
 skies, and endeavour, to the best of my small capabili- 
 ties, to imitate the remarkable character about whom I 
 was reading, or whether I should fling aside the book 
 and the hero of it, as things altogether base, unworthy, 
 laughable, and get a novel, or a game of billiards, or a 
 pipe of tobacco, or the report of the last debate in the 
 House, or any other employment which would leave the 
 mind in a state of easy vacuity, rather than pester it 
 with a vain set of dates relating to actions which are in 
 themselves not worth a fig, or with a parcel of names of 
 people whom it can do one no earthly good to remember. 
 It is more than probable, my love, that you are 
 acquainted with what is called Grecian and Roman his- 
 tory, chiefly from perusing, in very early youth, the lit- 
 tle sheepskin-bound volumes of the ingenious Dr. Gold- 
 smith, and have been indebted for your knowledge of 
 
 449
 
 450 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 our English annals to a subsequent study of the more 
 voluminous works of Hume and Smollett. The first 
 and the last-named authors, dear Miss Smith, have writ- 
 ten each an admirable history,— that of the Reverend 
 Dr. Primrose, Vicar of Wakefield, and that of Mr. 
 Robert Bramble, of Bramble Hall — in both of which 
 works you will find true and instructive pictures of 
 human life, and which you may always think over with 
 advantage. But let me caution you against putting any 
 considerable trust in the other works of these authors, 
 which were placed in your hands at school and after- 
 wards, and in which you were taught to believe. Mod- 
 ern historians, for the most part, know very little, and, 
 secondly, only tell a little of what they know. 
 
 As for those Greeks and Romans whom you have 
 read of in "sheepskin," were you to know really what 
 those monsters were, you would blush all over as red as 
 a hollyhock, and put down the history-book in a fury. 
 Many of our English worthies are no better. You are 
 not in a situation to know the real characters of any one 
 of them. They appear before you in their public capac- 
 ities, but the individuals you know not. Suppose, for 
 instance, your mamma had purchased her tea in the Bor- 
 ough from a grocer living there by the name of Green- 
 acre: suppose you had been asked out to dinner, and 
 the gentleman of the house had said: "Ho! Francois! 
 a glass of champagne for Miss Smith; "—Courvoisier 
 would have served you just as any other footman 
 would; you would never have known that there was 
 anything extraordinary in these individuals, but would 
 have thought of them only in their respective public 
 characters of Grocer and Footman. This, Madam, is 
 History, in which a man always appears dealing with
 
 THE DISINTERMENT AT ST. HELENA 451 
 
 the world in his apron, or his laced livery, but which has 
 not the power or the leisure, or, perhaps, is too high and 
 mighty to condescend to follow and study him in his 
 privacy. Ah, my dear, when big and little men come to 
 be measured rightly, and great and small actions to be 
 weighed properly, and people to be stripped of their 
 roj'al robes, beggars' rags, generals' uniforms, seedy 
 out-at-elbowed coats, and the like — or the contrary say, 
 when souls come to be strijDj^ed of their wicked deceiving 
 bodies, and turned out stark naked as they were before 
 they were born — what a strange startling sight shall we 
 see, and what a pretty figure shall some of us cut! 
 Fancy how we shall see Pride, with his Stultz clothes 
 and padding pulled off, and dwindled down to a forked 
 radish! Fancy some Angelic Virtue, whose white rai- 
 ment is suddenly whisked over his head, showing us 
 cloven feet and a tail! Fancy Humility, eased of its 
 sad load of cares and want and scorn, walking up to the 
 very highest place of all, and blushing as he takes it! 
 Fancy, — but we must not fancy such a scene at all, 
 which would be an outrage on public decency. Should 
 we be any better than our neighbours? No, certainly. 
 And as we can't be virtuous, let us be decent. Fig- 
 leaves are a very decent, becoming wear, and have been 
 now in fashion for four thousand years. And so, my 
 dear, History is written on fig-leaves. Would you 
 have anything further? O fie! 
 
 Yes, four thousand years ago, that famous tree was 
 planted. At their very first lie, our first parents made 
 for it, and there it is still the great Humbug Plant, 
 stretching its wide arms, and sheltering beneath its 
 leaves, as broad and green as ever, all the generations 
 of men. Thus, my dear, coquettes of your fascinating
 
 452 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 sex cover their persons with figgery, fantastically ar- 
 ranged, and call their masquerading, modesty. Cow- 
 ards fig themselves out fiercely as " salvage men," and 
 make us believe that they are warriors. Fools look very 
 solemnly out from the dusk of the leaves, and we fancy 
 in the gloom that they are sages. And many a man sets 
 a great wreath about his pate and struts abroad a hero, 
 whose claims we would all of us laugh at, could we but 
 remove the ornament and see his numskull bare. 
 
 And such— (excuse my sermonizing) —such is the con- 
 stitution of mankind, that men have, as it were, entered 
 into a compact among themselves to pursue the fig-leaf 
 system a Voutrancej and to cry down all who oppose it. 
 Humbug they will have. Humbugs themselves, they 
 will respect humbugs. Their daily victuals of life must 
 be seasoned with humbug. Certain things are there in 
 the world that they will not allow to be called by their 
 right names, and will insist upon our admiring, whether 
 we will or no. Woe be to the man who would enter too 
 far into the recesses of that magnificent temple where 
 our Goddess is enshrined, peep through the vast em- 
 broidered curtains indiscreetly, penetrate the secret of 
 secrets, and expose the Gammon of Gammons! And 
 as you must not peer too curiously within, so neither 
 must you remain scornfully without. Humbug-wor- 
 shippers, let us come into our great temple regularly 
 and decently: take our seats, and settle our clothes de- 
 cently ; open our books, and go through the service with 
 decent gravity; listen, and be decently affected by the 
 expositions of the decent priest of the place ; and if by 
 chance some straggling vagabond, loitering in the sun- 
 shine out of doors, dares to laugh or to sing, and disturb 
 the sanctified dulness of the faithful;— quick! a couple
 
 THE DISINTERMENT AT ST. HELENA 453 
 
 of big beadles rush out and belabour the wretch, and 
 his yells make our devotions more comfortable. 
 
 Some magnificent religious ceremonies of this nature 
 are at present taking place in France; and, thinking 
 that you might perhaps while away some long winter 
 evening with an account of them, I have compiled the 
 following pages for your use. Newspapers have been 
 filled, for some days past, with details regarding the 
 Saint Helena expedition, many pamphlets have been 
 published, men go about crying little books and broad- 
 sheets filled with real or sham particulars; and from 
 these scarce and valuable documents the following pages 
 are chiefly compiled. 
 
 We must begin at the beginning; premising, in the 
 first place, that Monsieur Guizot, when French Ambas- 
 sador at London, waited upon Lord Palmerston with a 
 request that the body of the Emperor Napoleon should 
 be given up to the French nation, in order that it might 
 find a final resting-place in French earth. To this de- 
 mand the English Government gave a ready assent ; nor 
 was there any particular explosion of sentiment upon 
 either side, only some pretty cordial expressions of 
 mutual good- will. Orders were sent out to St. Helena 
 that the corpse should be disinterred in due time, when 
 the French expedition had arrived in search of it, and 
 that every respect and attention should be paid to those 
 who came to carry back to their country the body of the 
 famous dead w^arrior and sovereign. 
 
 This matter being arranged in very few words (as in 
 England, upon most points, is the laudable fashion), 
 the French Chambers began to debate about the place 
 in which they should bury the body when they got it; 
 and numberless pamphlets and newspapers out of doors
 
 454 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 joined in the talk. Some people there were who had 
 fought and conquered and been beaten with the great 
 Napoleon, and loved him and his memory. INIany more 
 were there who, because of his great genius and valour, 
 felt excessively proud in their own particular persons, 
 and clamoured for the return of their hero. And if 
 there were some few individuals in this great hot-headed, 
 gallant, boasting, sublime, absurd French nation, who 
 had taken a cool view of the dead Emperor's character; 
 if, perhaj^s, such men as Louis Philippe, and Monsieur 
 A. Thiers, INIinister and Deputy, and JNIonsieur Fran- 
 9ois Guizot, Deputy and Excellency, had, from interest 
 or conviction, opinions at all differing from those of the 
 majority; why, they knew what was what, and kept 
 their oj)inions to themselves, coming with a tolerably 
 good grace and flinging a few handf uls of incense upon 
 the altar of the popular idol. 
 
 In the succeeding debates, then, various opinions were 
 given with regard to the place to be selected for the Em- 
 peror's sepulture. " Some demanded," says an eloquent 
 anonymous Captain in the Navy who has written an 
 " Itinerary from Toulon to St. Helena," " that the coffin 
 should be deposited under the bronze taken from the 
 enemy by the French army — under the Column of the 
 Place Vendome. The idea was a fine one. This is the 
 most glorious monument that was ever raised in a con- 
 queror's honour. This column has been melted out of 
 foreign cannon. These same cannons have furrowed 
 the bosoms of our braves with noble cicatrices ; and this 
 metal — conquered by the soldier first, by the artist after- 
 wards — has allowed to be imprinted on its front its own 
 defeat and our glory. Napoleon might sleep in peace 
 under this audacious trophy. But, would his ashes find
 
 THE DISINTERMENT AT ST. HELENA 455 
 
 a shelter sufficiently vast beneath this pedestal? And 
 his puissant statue dominating Paris, beams with suffi- 
 cient grandeur on this place : whereas the wheels of car- 
 riages and the feet of passengers would profane the 
 funereal sanctity of the spot in trampling on the soil so 
 near his head." 
 
 You must not take this description, dearest Amelia, 
 " at the foot of the letter," as the French phrase it, but 
 you will here have a masterly exposition of the argu- 
 ments for and against the burial of the Emperor under 
 the Column of the Place Vendome. The idea was a 
 fine one, granted; but, like all other ideas, it was open 
 to objections. You must not fancy that the cannon, or 
 rather the cannon-balls, were in the habit of furrowing 
 the bosoms of French braves, or any other braves, with 
 cicatrices: on the contrary, it is a known fact that can- 
 non-balls make wounds, and not cicatrices (which, my 
 dear, are wounds partially healed) ; nay, that a man 
 generally dies after receiving one such projectile on his 
 chest, much more after having his bosom furrowed by a 
 score of them. No, my love ; no bosom, however heroic, 
 can stand such applications, and the author only means 
 that the French soldiers faced the cannon and took them. 
 Nor, my love, must you suppose that the column was 
 melted: it was the cannon was melted, not the column; 
 but such phrases are often used by orators when they 
 wish to give a particular force and emphasis to their 
 opinions. 
 
 Well, again, although Napoleon might have slept in 
 peace under " this audacious trophy," how could he do 
 so and carriages go rattling by all night, and people 
 with great iron heels to their boots pass clattering over 
 the stones ? Nor indeed could it be expected that a man
 
 456 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 whose reputation stretches from the Pyramids to the 
 Kremhn, should find a column of which the base is only 
 five-and-twenty feet square, a shelter vast enough for 
 his bones. In a word, then, although the proposal to 
 bury Napoleon under the column was ingenious, it was 
 found not to suit; whereupon somebody else proposed 
 the Madelaine. 
 
 " It was proposed," says the before-quoted author 
 with his usual felicity, " to consecrate the IMadelaine to 
 his exiled manes " — that is, to his bones when they were 
 not in exile any longer. " He ought to have, it was 
 said, a temple entire. His glory fills the world. His 
 bones could not contain themselves in the coffin of a man 
 — in the tomb of a king! " In this case what was Mary 
 Magdalen to do? "This proposition, I am happy to 
 say, was rejected, and a new one — that of the President 
 of the Council— adopted. Napoleon and his braves 
 ought not to quit each other. Under the immense gilded 
 dome of the Invalides he would find a sanctuary worthy 
 of himself. A dome imitates the vault of heaven, and 
 that vault alone" (meaning of course the other vault) 
 "should dominate above his head. His old mutilated 
 Guard shall watch around him: the last veteran, as he 
 has shed his blood in his combats, shall breathe his last 
 sigh near his tomb, and all these tombs shall sleep under 
 the tattered standards that have been won from all the 
 nations of Europe." 
 
 The original words are " sous les lambeaux cribles des 
 drapeaux cueillis chez toutes les nations;" in English, 
 *' under the riddled rags of the flags that have been 
 culled or plucked " (like roses or buttercups) " in all the 
 nations." Sweet, innocent flowers of victory! there they 
 are, my dear, sure enough, and a pretty considerable
 
 THE DISINTERMENT AT ST. HELENA 457 
 
 liortus siccus may any man examine who chooses to walk 
 to the InvaKdes. The burial-place being thus agreed 
 on, the expedition was prepared, and on the 7th July 
 the " Belle Poule " frigate, in company with " La Favor- 
 ite " corvette, quitted Toulon harbour. A couple of 
 steamers, the " Trident " and the " Ocean," escorted the 
 ships as far as Gibraltar, and there left them to pursue 
 their voyage. 
 
 The two ships quitted the harbour in the sight of a 
 vast concourse of people, and in the midst of a great 
 roaring of cannons. Previous to the departure of the 
 " Belle Poule," the Bishop of Frejus went on board, and 
 gave to the cenotaph, in which the Emperor's remains 
 were to be deposited, his episcopal benediction. Napo- 
 leon's old friends and followers, the two Bertrands, 
 Gourgaud, Emanuel Las Cases, " companions in exile, 
 or sons of the companions in exile of the prisoner of the 
 infajne Hudson," says a French writer, were passengers 
 on board the frigate. Marchand, Denis, Pierret, No- 
 varet, his old and faithful servants, were likewise in the 
 vessel. It was commanded by his Royal Highness 
 Francis Ferdinand Philip Louis Marie d' Orleans, 
 Prince de Joinville, a young prince two-and-twenty 
 years of age, who was already distinguished in the ser- 
 vice of his country and king. 
 
 On the 8th of October, after a voyage of six-and-sixty 
 daj^s, the " Belle Poule " arrived in James Town har- 
 bour; and on its arrival, as on its departure from 
 France, a great firing of guns took place. First, the 
 " Oreste " French brig-of-war began roaring out a sal- 
 utation to the frigate; then the "Dolphin" English 
 schooner gave her one-and-twenty guns; then the 
 frigate returned the compliment of the "Dolphin"
 
 458 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 schooner ; then she blazed out with one-and-twenty guns 
 more, as a mark of particular politeness to the shore — 
 which kindness the forts acknowledged by similar deto- 
 nations. 
 
 These little compliments concluded on both sides, 
 Lieutenant Middlemore, son and aide-de-camp of the 
 Governor of St. Helena, came on board the French 
 frigate, and brought his father's best respects to his 
 Royal Highness. The Governor was at home ill, and 
 forced to keep his room; but he had made his house at 
 James Town ready for Captain Joinville and his suite, 
 and begged that they would make use of it during their 
 stay. 
 
 On the 9th, H. R. H. the Prince of Joinville put on 
 his full uniform and landed, in company with Generals 
 Bertrand and Gourgaud, Baron Las Cases, M. March- 
 and, M. Coquereau, the chaplain of the expedition, 
 and M. de Rohan Chabot, who acted as chief mourner. 
 All the garrison were under arms to receive the illus- 
 trious Prince and the other members of the expedition — 
 who forthwith repaired to Plantation House, and had a 
 conference with the Governor regarding their mission. 
 
 On the 10th, 11th, 12th, these conferences continued: 
 the crews of the French ships were permitted to come on 
 shore and see the tomb of Napoleon. Bertrand, Gour- 
 gaud, Las Cases wandered about the island and revisited 
 the spots to which they had been partial in the lifetime 
 of the Emperor. 
 
 The 15th October was fixed on for the day of the 
 exhumation: that day five-and-twenty years, the Em- 
 peror Napoleon first set his foot upon the island. 
 
 On the day previous all things had been made ready: 
 the grand coffins and ornaments brought from France,
 
 THE DISINTERMENT AT ST. HELENA 459 
 
 and the articles necessary for the operation were carried 
 to the valley of the Tomb. 
 
 The operations commenced at midnight. The well- 
 known friends of Napoleon before named and some 
 other attendants of his, the chaplain and his acolytes, 
 the doctor of the " Belle Poule," the captains of the 
 French ships, and Captain Alexander of the Engineers, 
 the English Commissioner, attended the disinterment. 
 His Royal Highness Prince de Joinville could not be 
 present because the workmen were under English com- 
 mand. 
 
 The men worked for nine hours incessantlj^, when at 
 length the earth was entirely removed from the vault, 
 all the horizontal strata of masonry demolished, and the 
 large slab which covered the place where the stone sar- 
 cophagus lay, removed by a crane. This outer coffin of 
 stone was perfect, and could scarcely be said to be damp. 
 
 "As soon as the Abbe Coquereau had recited the 
 prayers, the coffin was removed with the greatest care, 
 and carried by the engineer-soldiers, bareheaded, into a 
 tent that had been prepared for the' purpose. After 
 the religious ceremonies, the inner coffins were opened. 
 The outermost coffin was slightly injured: then came 
 one of lead, which was in good condition, and enclosed 
 two others— one of tin and one of wood. The last coffin 
 was lined inside with white satin, which, having become 
 detached by the effect of time, had fallen upon the bodj^ 
 and enveloped it like a winding-sheet, and had become 
 slightly attached to it. 
 
 " It is difficult to describe with what anxiety and emo- 
 tion those who were present waited for the moment 
 which was to expose to them all that death had left of 
 Napoleon. Notwithstanding the singular state of pres-
 
 460 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 ervation of the tomb and coffins, we could scarcely hope 
 to find anything but some misshapen remains of the least 
 perishable part of the costume to evidence the identity 
 of the body. But when Doctor Guillard raised the 
 sheet of satin, an indescribable feeling of surprise and 
 affection was expressed by the spectators, many of whom 
 burst into tears. The Emperor was himself before their 
 eyes! The features of the face, though changed, were 
 perfectly recognized; the hands extremely beautiful; 
 his well-known costume had suffered but little, and the 
 colours were easily distinguished. The attitude itself 
 was full of ease, and but for the fragments of the satin 
 lining which covered, as with a fine gauze, several parts 
 of the uniform, we might have believed we still saw Na- 
 poleon before us lying on his bed of state. General 
 Bertrand and M. Marchand, who were both present at 
 the interment, quickly pointed out the different articles 
 which each had deposited in the coffin, and remained in 
 the precise position in which they had previously de- 
 scribed them to be. 
 
 " The two inner coffins were carefully closed again ; 
 the old leaden coffin was strongly blocked up with 
 wedges of wood, and both were once more soldered up 
 with the most minute precautions, under the direction 
 of Dr. Guillard. These different operations being ter- 
 minated, the ebony sarcophagus was closed as well as its 
 oak case. On delivering the key of the ebony sarcopha- 
 gus to Count de Chabot, the King's Commissioner, Cap- 
 tain Alexander declared to him, in the name of the Gov- 
 ernor, that this coffin, containing the mortal remains of 
 the Emperor Napoleon, was considered as at the dis- 
 posal of the French Government from that day, and 
 from the moment at which it should arrive at the place
 
 THE DISINTERMENT AT ST. HELENA 461 
 
 of embarkation, towards which it was about to be sent 
 under the orders of General Middlemore. The King's 
 Commissioner repHed that he was charged by his Gov- 
 ernment, and in its name, to accept the coffin from the 
 hands of the British authorities, and that he and the 
 other persons composing the French mission were ready 
 to follow it to James Town, where the Prince de Join- 
 ville, superior commandant of the expedition, would be 
 ready to receive it and conduct it on board his frigate. 
 A car drawn by four horses, decked with funereal em- 
 blems, had been prepared before the arrival of the ex- 
 pedition, to receive the coffin, as well as a pall, and all 
 the other suitable trappings of mourning. When the 
 sarcophagus was placed on the car, the whole was 
 covered with a magnificent imperial mantle brought 
 from Paris, the four corners of which were borne by 
 Generals Bertrand and Gourgaud, Baron Las Cases 
 and M. Marchand. At half-past three o'clock the 
 funeral car began to move, preceded by a chorister bear- 
 ing the cross, and by the Abbe Coquereau. M. de 
 Chabot acted as chief mourner. All the authorities of 
 the island, all the principal inliabitants, and the whole 
 of the garrison, followed in procession from the tomb 
 to the quay. But with the exception of the artillerymen 
 necessary to lead the horses, and occasionally support 
 the car when descending some steep parts of the way, 
 the places nearest the coffin were reserved for the French 
 mission. General Middlemore, although in a weak state 
 of health, persisted in following the whole way on foot, 
 together with General Churchill, chief of the staff in 
 India, who had arrived only two days before from Bom- 
 bay. The immense weight of the coffins, and the un- 
 evenness of the road, rendered the utmost carefulness
 
 462 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 necessary throughout the whole distance. Colonel Tre- 
 lawney commanded in person the small detachment of 
 artillerymen who conducted the car, and, thanks to his 
 great care, not the slightest accident took place. From 
 the moment of departure to the arrival at the quay, the 
 cannons of the forts and the ' Belle Poule ' fired minute- 
 guns. After an hour's march the rain ceased for the 
 first time since the commencement of the operations, and 
 on arriving in sight of the town we found a brilliant sky 
 and beautiful w^eather. From the morning the three 
 French vessels of war had assumed the usual signs of 
 deep mourning: their yards crossed and their fl^ags 
 lowered. Two French merchantmen, ' Bonne Amie ' 
 and ' Indien,' which had been in the roads for two days, 
 had put themselves under the Prince's orders, and fol- 
 lowed during the ceremony all the manoeuvres of the 
 'Belle Poule.' The forts of the town, and the houses 
 of the consuls, had also their flags half-mast high. 
 
 " On arriving at the entrance of the town, the troops 
 of the garrison and the militia formed in two lines as far 
 as the extremity of the quay. According to the order 
 for mourning prescribed for the English army, the men 
 had their arms reversed and the officers had crape on 
 their arms, with their swords reversed. All the inhabi- 
 tants had been kept away from the line of march, but 
 they lined the terraces commanding the town, and the 
 streets were occupied only by the troops, the 91st Regi- 
 ment being on the right and the militia on the left. The 
 cortege advanced slowly between two ranks of soldiers 
 to the sound of a funeral march, while the cannons of 
 the forts were fired, as well as those of the ' Belle Poule ' 
 and the ' Dolphin; 'the echoes being repeated a thousand 
 times by the rocks above James Town. After two
 
 THE DISINTERMENT AT ST. HELENA 463 
 
 hours' march the cortege stopped at the end of the quay, 
 where the Prince de Joinville had stationed himself at 
 the head of the officers of the three French ships of war. 
 The greatest official honours had been rendered by the 
 English authorities to the memory of the Emperor — the 
 most striking testimonials of respect had marked the 
 adieu given by St. Helena to his coffin; and from this 
 moment the mortal remains of the Emperor were about 
 to belong to France. When the funeral-car stopped, 
 the Prince de Joinville advanced alone, and in presence 
 of all around, who stood Avith their heads uncovered, re- 
 ceived, in a solemn manner, the imperial coffin from the 
 hands of General Middlemore. His Royal Highness 
 then thanked the Governor, in the name of France, for 
 all the testimonials of sympathy and respect with which 
 the authorities and inhabitants of St. Plelena had sur- 
 rounded the memorable ceremonial. A cutter had been 
 expressly prepared to receive the coffin. During the 
 embarkation, which the Prince directed himself, the 
 bands played funeral airs, and all the boats were sta- 
 tioned round with their oars shipped. The moment the 
 sarcophagus touched the cutter, a magnificent royal flag, 
 which the ladies of James Town had embroidered for 
 the occasion, was unfurled, and the ' Belle Poule ' imme- 
 diately squared her masts and unfurled her colours. All 
 the manoeuvres of the frigate were immediately fol- 
 lowed by the other vessels. Our mourning had ceased 
 with the exile of Napoleon, and the French naval divi- 
 sion dressed itself out in all its festal ornaments to re- 
 ceive the imperial coffin under the French flag. The 
 sarcophagus was covered in the cutter with the imperial 
 mantle. The Prince de Joinville placed himself at the 
 rudder. Commandant Guyet at the head of the boat;
 
 464 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 Generals Bertrand and Gourgaud, Baron Las Cases, M. 
 Marchand, and the Abbe Coquereau occupied the same 
 places as during the march. Count Chabot and Com- 
 mandant Hernoux were astern, a little in advance of 
 the Prince. As soon as the cutter had pushed off from 
 the quay, the batteries ashore fired a salute of twenty- 
 one guns, and our ships returned the salute with all their 
 artillery. Two other salutes were fired during the pas- 
 sage from the quay to the frigate ; the cutter advancing 
 very slowly, and surrounded by the other boats. At 
 half-past six o'clock it reached the ' Belle Poule,' all the 
 men being on the yards with their hats in their hands. 
 The Prince had had arranged on the deck a chapel, 
 decked with flags and trophies of arms, the altar being 
 placed at the foot of the mizenmast. The coffin, car- 
 ried by our sailors, passed between two ranks of officers 
 with drawn swords, and was placed on the quarter-deck. 
 The absolution was pronounced by the Abbe Coquereau 
 the same evening. Next day, at ten o'clock, a solemn 
 mass was celebrated on the deck, in presence of the offi- 
 cers and part of the crews of the ships. His Royal 
 Highness stood at the foot of the coffin. The cannon 
 of the ' Favorite ' and ' Oreste ' fired minute-guns dur- 
 ing this ceremony, which terminated by a solemn abso- 
 lution; and the Prince de Joinville, the gentlemen of 
 the mission, the officers, and the premiers maitres of the 
 ship, sprinkled holy water on the coffin. At eleven, all 
 the ceremonies of the church were accomplished, all the 
 honours done to a sovereign had been paid to the mortal 
 remains of Napoleon. The coffin was carefully lowered 
 between decks, and placed in the chapelle ardente which 
 had been prepared at Toulon for its reception. At this 
 moment, the vessels fired a last salute with all their artil-
 
 THE DISINTERMENT AT ST. HELENA 465 
 
 leiy, and the frigate took in her flags, keeping up only 
 her flag at the stern and the royal standard at the main- 
 topgallant-mast. On Sunday, the 18th, at eight in the 
 morning, the ' Belle Poule ' quitted St. Helena with her 
 precious deposit on board. 
 
 " During" the whole time that the mission remained at 
 James Town, the best understanding never ceased to 
 exist between the population of the island and the 
 French. The Prince de Joinville and his companions 
 met in all quarters and at all times with the great- 
 est goodwill and the warmest testimonials of sympathy. 
 The authorities and the inhabitants must have felt, no 
 doubt, great regret at seeing taken away from their 
 island the cofRn that had rendered it so celebrated; but 
 they repressed their feelings with a courtesy that does 
 honour to the frankness of their character."
 
 II 
 
 ON THE VOYAGE FROM ST. HELENA TO PARIS 
 
 On the 18th October the French frigate quitted the is- 
 land with its precious burden on board. 
 
 His Royal Highness the Captain acknowledged cor- 
 dially the kindness and attention which he and his crew 
 had received from the English authorities and the in- 
 habitants of the Island of St. Helena; nay, promised 
 a pension to an old soldier who had been for many years 
 the guardian of the imperial tomb, and went so far as 
 to take into consideration the petition of a certain lodg- 
 ing-house keeper, who prayed for a compensation for 
 the loss which the removal of the Emperor's body would 
 occasion to her. And although it was not to be ex- 
 pected that the great French nation should forego its 
 natural desire of recovering the remains of a hero so 
 dear to it for the sake of the individual interest of the 
 landlady in question, it must have been satisfactory to 
 her to find that the peculiarity of her position was so 
 delicately appreciated by the august Prince who com- 
 manded the expedition, and carried awaj^ with him 
 animce diinidium suce — the half of the genteel indepen- 
 dence wliich she derived from the situation of her hotel. 
 In a word, politeness and friendship could not be car- 
 ried farther. The Prince's realm and the landlady's 
 were bound together by the closest ties of amity. M. 
 Thiers was Minister of France, the great patron of the 
 
 466
 
 THE VOYAGE FROM ST. HELENA 467 
 
 English alliance. At London M. Guizot was the 
 worthy representative of the French goodwill towards 
 the British j)eople; and the remark frequently made by 
 our orators at public dinners, that " France and Eng- 
 land, while united, might defy the world," was consid- 
 ered as likely to hold good for many years to come, — 
 the union that is. As for defying the world, that was 
 neither here nor there; nor did English politicians ever 
 dream of doing any such thing, except perhaps at the 
 tenth glass of port at " Freemason's Tavern." 
 
 Little, however, did INIrs. Corbett, the Saint Helena 
 landlady, little did his Royal Highness Prince Ferdi- 
 nand Philip JVIarie de Joinville know what was going 
 on in Europe all this time (when I say in Europe, I 
 mean in Turkey, Syria, and Egypt) ; how clouds, in 
 fact, were gathering upon what you call the political 
 horizon; and how tempests were rising that were to 
 blow to pieces our Anglo-Gallic temple of friendship. 
 Oh, but it is sad to think that a single wicked old Turk 
 should be the means of setting our two Christian nations 
 by the ears ! 
 
 Yes, my love, this disreputable old man had been for 
 some time past the object of the disinterested attention 
 of the great sovereigns of Europe. The Emperor Nic- 
 olas (a moral character, though following the Greek 
 superstition, and adored for his mildness and benevo- 
 lence of disposition) , the Emperor Ferdinand, the King 
 of Prussia, and our own gracious Queen, had taken such 
 just offence at his conduct and disobedience towards a 
 young and interesting sovereign, whose authority he had 
 disregarded, whose fleet he had kidnapped, whose fair 
 provinces he had pounced upon, that they determined 
 to come to the aid of Abdul INIedjid the First, Em-
 
 468 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 peror of the Turks, and bring his rebellious vassal to 
 reason. In this project the French nation was invited 
 to join; but they refused the invitation, saying, that it 
 was necessary for the maintenance of the balance of 
 power in Europe that his Highness ]VIehemet Ali should 
 keep possession of what by hook or by crook he had got- 
 ten, and that they would have no hand in injuring him. 
 But why continue this argument, which you have read 
 in the newspapers for many months past? You, my 
 dear, must know as well as I, that the balance of power 
 in Europe could not possibly be maintained in any such 
 way; and though, to be sure, for the last fifteen j^ears, 
 the progress of the old robber has not made much dif- 
 ference to us in the neighbourhood of Russell Square, 
 and the battle of Nezib did not in the least affect our 
 taxes, our homes, our institutions, or the price of 
 butcher's meat, yet there is no knowing what might have 
 happened had JNIehemet Ali been allowed to remain 
 quietly as he was: and the balance of power in Europe 
 might have been — the deuce knows where. 
 
 Here, then, in a nutshell, you have the whole matter 
 in dispute. While JSIrs. Corbett and the Prince de 
 Joinville were innocently interchanging compliments at 
 Saint Helena,— bang! bang! Commodore Napier was 
 pouring broadsides into Tyre and Sidon; our gallant 
 navy was storming breaches and routing armies; Colo- 
 nel Hodges had seized upon the green standard of Ibra- 
 him Pacha; and the powder-magazine of St. John of 
 Acre was blown up sky-high, with eighteen hundred 
 Egyptian soldiers in company with it. The French 
 said that For Anglais had achieved all these successes, 
 and no doubt believed that the poor fellows at Acre were 
 bribed to a man.
 
 THE VOYAGE FROM ST. HELENA 409 
 
 It must have been particularly unpleasant to a high- 
 minded nation like the French — at the very moment 
 when the Egyptian affair and the balance of Europe 
 had been settled in this abrupt way — to find out all of 
 a sudden that the Pasha of Egypt was their dearest 
 friend and ally. They had suffered in the person of 
 their friend; and though, seeing that the dispute was 
 ended, and the territory out of his hand, thej^ could not 
 hope to get it back for him, or to aid him in anj^ sub- 
 stantial way, yet INIonsieur Thiers determined, just as 
 a mark of politeness to the Pasha, to fight all Europe 
 for maltreating him, — all Europe, England included. 
 He was bent on. war, and an immense majority of the 
 nation went with him. He called for a million of sol- 
 diers, and would have had them too, had not the King 
 been against the project and delayed the completion of 
 it at least for a time. 
 
 Of these great European disputes Captain Joinville 
 received a notification while he was at sea on board his 
 frigate: as we find by the official account which has 
 been published of his mission. 
 
 *' Some days after quitting Saint Helena," says that 
 document, " the expedition fell in with a ship coming 
 from Europe, and w^as thus made acquainted with the 
 warlike rumours then afloat, by which a collision wdth the 
 English marine was rendered possible. The Prince de 
 Joinville immediately assembled the officers of the 
 ' Belle Poule,' to deliberate on an event so unexpected 
 and important. 
 
 " The council of war having expressed its opinion that 
 it was necessary at all events to prepare for an energetic 
 defence, preparations were made to place in battery all 
 the guns that the frigate could bring to bear against the
 
 470 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 enemy. The provisional cabins that had been fitted up 
 in the battery were demoHshed, the partitions removed, 
 and, with all the elegant furniture of the cabins, flung 
 into the sea. The Prince de Joinville was the first ' to 
 execute himself,' and the frigate soon found itself 
 armed with six or eight more guns. 
 
 " That part of the shij) where these cabins had previ- 
 ously been, went by the name of Lacedgemon; every- 
 thing luxurious being banished to make way for what 
 was useful. 
 
 " Indeed, all persons who were on board agree in say- 
 ing that Monseigneur the Prince de Joinville most 
 worthily acquitted himself of the great and honourable 
 mission which had been confided to him. All affirm not 
 only that the commandant of the expedition did every- 
 thing at St. Helena which as a Frenchman he was bound 
 to do in order that the remains of the Emperor should 
 receive all the honours due to them, but moreover that 
 he accomplished his mission with all the measured solem- 
 nity, all the pious and severe dignity, that the son of the 
 Emperor himself would have shown upon a like occa- 
 sion. The commandant had also comprehended that 
 the remains of the Emperor must never fall into the 
 hands of the stranger, and being himself decided rather 
 to sink his ship than to give up his precious deposit, he 
 had inspired every one about him with the same energetic 
 resolution that he had himself taken ' against an extreme 
 eventuality.' " 
 
 Monseigneur, my dear, is really one of the finest 
 young fellows it is possible to see. A tall, broad- 
 chested, slim-waisted, brown-faced, dark-eyed young 
 prince, with a great beard (and other martial qualities 
 no doubt) beyond his years. As he strode into the
 
 THE VOYAGE FROINI ST. HELENA 471 
 
 Chapel of the Invahdes on Tuesday at the head of his 
 men, he made no small impression, I can tell you, upon 
 the ladies assembled to witness the ceremony. Nor are 
 the crew of the " Belle Poule " less agreeable to look at 
 than their commander. A more clean, smart, active, 
 well-limbed set of lads never " did dance " upon the deck 
 of the famed " Belle Poule " in the days of her mem- 
 orable combat with the " Saucy Arethusa." " These 
 five hundred sailors," says a French newspaper, speak- 
 ing of them in the proper French way, " sword in hand, 
 in the severe costume of board-ship [la severe tenue du 
 bord), seemed proud of the mission that they had just 
 accomplished. Their blue jackets, their red cravats, the 
 turned-down collars of blue shirts edged with white, 
 above all their resolute appearance and martial air, gave 
 a favourable specimen of the present state of our marine 
 — a marine of which so much might be expected and 
 from which so little has been required." — Le Commerce: 
 16th December. 
 
 There they were, sure enough; a cutlass upon one 
 hip, a pistol on the other — a gallant set of young men 
 indeed. I doubt, to be sure, whether the severe tenue 
 du bord requires that the seaman should be always fur- 
 nished with these ferocious weapons, which in sundry 
 maritime manoeuvres, such as going to sleep in your 
 hammock for instance, or twinkling a binnacle, or luf- 
 fing a marlinspike, or keelliauling a maintopgallant (all 
 naval operations, my dear, which any seafaring novelist 
 will explain to you ) — I doubt, I say, whether these 
 weapons are always worn by sailors, and have heard that 
 they are commonly, and very sensibly too, locked up 
 until they are wanted. Take another example: sup- 
 pose artillerymen were incessantly compelled to walk
 
 472 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 about with a pyramid of twenty-four-pound shot in one 
 pocket, a lighted fuse and a few barrels of gunpowder 
 in the other — these objects would, as you may imagine, 
 greatly inconvenience the artilleryman in his peaceful 
 state. 
 
 The newspaper writer is therefore most likely mis- 
 taken in saying that the seamen were in the severe tenue 
 du hord, or by ''hord" meaning " ahordage" — which 
 operation they were not, in a harmless church, hung 
 round with velvet and wax-candles, and filled with 
 ladies, surely called upon to perform. Nor indeed can 
 it be reasonably supposed that the picked men of the 
 crack frigate of the French navy are a " good speci- 
 men " of the rest of the French marine, any more than a 
 cuirassed colossus at the gate of the Horse Guards can 
 be considered a fair sample of the British soldier of the 
 line. The sword and pistol, however, had no doubt their 
 effect — the former was in its sheath, the latter not 
 loaded, and I hear that the French ladies are quite in 
 raptures with these charming loups-de-mer. 
 
 Let the warlike accoutrements then pass-. It was 
 necessary, perhaps, to strike the Parisians with awe, and 
 therefore the crew was armed in this fierce fashion; but 
 why should the Captain begin to swagger as well as his 
 men? and why did the Prince de Joinville lug out 
 sword and pistol so early? or why, if he thought fit to 
 make preparations, should the official journals brag of 
 them afterwards as proofs of his extraordinary courage? 
 
 Here is the case. The English Government makes 
 him a present of the bones of Napoleon : English work- 
 men work for nine hours without ceasing, and dig the 
 coffin out of the ground: the English Commissioner 
 hands over the key of the box to the French representa-
 
 THE VOYAGE FROM ST. HELENA 473 
 
 live, Monsieur Chabot: English horses carry the funeral- 
 car down to the sea-shore, accompanied by the English 
 Governor, who has actually left his bed to walk in the 
 procession and to do the French nation honour. 
 
 After receiving and acknowledging these politenesses, 
 the French captain takes his charge on board, and the 
 first thing we afterwards hear of him is the determina- 
 tion " quil a su faire passer'' into all his crew, to sink 
 rather than yield up the body of the Emperor aux mains 
 de Vetranger — into the hands of the foreigner. My 
 dear JNIonseigneur, is not this jmr trop fort? Suppose 
 " the foreigner " had wanted the coffin, could he not have 
 kept it? Why show this uncalled-for valour, this 
 extraordinary alacrity at sinking? Sink or blow your- 
 self up as much as you please, but your Royal Highness 
 must see that the genteel thing Mould have been to wait 
 until you were asked to do so, before you offended good- 
 natured, honest people, who — heaven help them! — have 
 never shown themselves at all murderously inclined 
 towards you. A man knocks up his cabins forsooth, 
 throws his tables and chairs overboard, runs guns into 
 the portholes, and calls le quartier du bord oil existaient 
 ces chamhres, LacedcBinon. Lacedamon! there is a 
 province, O Prince, in your royal father's dominions, a 
 fruitful parent of heroes in its time, which would have 
 given a much better nickname to your quartier du hord: 
 you should have called it Gascony. 
 
 "Sooner than strike we'll all ex-pi-er 
 On board of the Bell-e Pou-le." 
 
 Such fanfaronnading is very well on the part of Tom 
 Dibdin, but a person of your Royal Highness's " j^ious 
 and severe dignity " should have been above it. If you
 
 474 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 entertained an idea that war was imminent, would it not 
 have been far better to have made your preparations in 
 quiet, and when you found the war-rumour blown over, 
 to have said nothing about what you intended to do? 
 Fie upon such cheap Laced£emonianism ! There is no 
 poltroon in the world but can brag about what he would 
 have done : however, to do your Royal Highness's nation 
 justice, they brag and fight too. 
 
 This narrative, my dear Miss Smith, as you will have 
 remarked, is not a simple tale merely, but is accom- 
 panied by many moral and pithy remarks which form 
 its chief value, in the writer's eyes at least, and the above 
 account of the sham Lacedeemon on board the "Belle 
 Poule" has a double-barrelled morality, as I conceive. 
 Besides justly reprehending the French propensity 
 towards braggadocio, it proves very strongly a j^oint 
 on which I am the only statesman in Europe who has 
 strongly insisted. In the " Paris Sketch Book " it was 
 stated that the French hate us. They hate us, my dear, 
 profoundly and desperately, and there never was such 
 a hollow humbug in the world as the French alliance. 
 Men get a character for patriotism in France merely by 
 hating England. Directly they go into strong opposi- 
 tion (where, you know, people are always more patriotic 
 than on the ministerial side), they appeal to the people, 
 and have their hold on the people by hating England in 
 common with them. Why? It is a long story, and the 
 hatred may be accounted for by many reasons, both 
 political and social. Any time these eight hundred 
 years this ill-will has been going on, and has been trans- 
 mitted on the French side from father to son. On the 
 French side, not on ours : we have had no, or few, defeats 
 to complain of, no invasions to make us angry ; but you
 
 THE VOYAGE FROM ST. HELENA 475 
 
 see that to discuss such a period of time would demand 
 a considerable number of pages, and for the present we 
 will avoid the examination of the question. 
 
 But they hate us, that is the long and short of it ; and 
 you see how this hatred has exploded just now, not upon 
 a serious cause of difference, but upon an argument : for 
 what is the Pasha of Egypt to us or them but a mere 
 abstract opinion? For the same reason the Little- 
 endians in Lilliput abhorred the Big-endians ; and I beg 
 you to remark how his Royal Highness Prince Ferdi- 
 nand Mary, upon hearing that this argument was in the 
 course of debate between us, straightway flung his fur- 
 niture overboard and expressed a preference for sinking 
 his ship rather than yielding it to the Stranger. No- 
 thing came of this w^ish of his, to be sure ; but the inten- 
 tion is everything. Unlucky circumstances denied him 
 the power, but he had the will. 
 
 Well, beyond this disappointment, the Prince de Join- 
 ville had nothing to complain of during the voyage, 
 which terminated happily by the arrival of the " Belle 
 Poule " at Cherbourg, on the 30th of November, at five 
 o'clock in the morning. A telegraph made the glad 
 news known at Paris, where the Minister of the Interior, 
 Tanneguy-Duchatel (you will read the name, Madam, 
 in the old Anglo-French wars) , had already made " im- 
 mense preparations" for receiving the body of Napo- 
 leon. 
 
 The entry was fixed for the 15th of December. 
 
 On the 8th of December at Cherbourg the body w^as 
 transferred from the "Belle Poule" frigate to the 
 " Normandie " steamer. On which occasion the mayor 
 of Cherbourg deposited, in the name of his town, a gold 
 laurel branch upon the coffin— which was saluted by the
 
 476 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 forts and dikes of the place with one thousand guns! 
 There was a treat for the inhabitants. 
 
 There was on board the steamer a splendid receptacle 
 for the coffin: " a temple with twelve pillars and a dome 
 to cover it from the wet and moisture, surrounded with 
 velvet hangings and silver fringes. At the head was a 
 gold cross, at the foot a gold lamp: other lamps were 
 kept constantly burning within, and vases of burning 
 incense were hung around. An altar, hung with velvet 
 and silver, was at the mizenmast of the vessel, and four 
 silver eagles at each corner of the altar." It was a com- 
 pliment at once to Napoleon and— excuse me for saying 
 so, but so the facts are— to Napoleon and to God 
 Almighty. 
 
 Three steamers, the " Normandie," the " Veloce," and 
 the " Courrier," formed the expedition from Cherbourg 
 to Havre, at which place they arrived on the evening of 
 the 9th of December, and where the " Veloce " was re- 
 placed by the Seine steamer, having in tow one of the 
 state-coasters, which was to fire the salute at the moment 
 when the body was transferred into one of the vessels 
 belonging to the Seine. 
 
 The expedition passed Havre the same night, and 
 came to anchor at Val de la Haye on the Seine, three 
 leagues below Rouen. 
 
 Here the next morning (10th), it was met by the 
 flotilla of steamboats of the Upper Seine, consisting of 
 the three " Dorades," the three " Etoiles," the " Elbeu- 
 vien," the " Parisien," the " Parisienne," and the 
 *' Zampa." The Prince de Joinville, and the persons of 
 the expedition, embarked immediately in the flotilla, 
 which arrived the same day at Rouen. 
 
 At Rouen salutes were fired, the National Guard on
 
 THE VOYAGE FROM ST. HELENA 477 
 
 both sides of the river paid mihtary honours to the bod}^ ; 
 and over the middle of the suspension-bridge a mag- 
 nificent cenotaph was erected, decorated with flags, 
 fasces, violet hangings, and the imperial arms. Before 
 the cenotaph the expedition stopped, and the absolution 
 was given by the archbishop and the clergy. After a 
 couple of hours' stay, the expedition proceeded to Pont 
 de I'Arche. On the 11th it reached Vernon, on the 12th 
 Mantes, on the 13th ^laisons-sur-Seine. 
 
 " Everywhere," saj^s the official account from which 
 the above particulars are borrowed, " the authorities, the 
 National Guard, and the people flocked to the passage 
 of the flotilla, desirous to render the honours due to his 
 glory, which is the glory of France. In seeing its hero 
 return, the nation seemed to have found its Palladium 
 again,— the sainted relics of victory." 
 
 At length, on the 14th, the coffin was transferred from 
 the " Dorade " steamer on board the imperial vessel 
 arrived from Paris. In the evening, the imperial ves- 
 sel arrived at Courbevoie, which was the last stage of 
 the journey. 
 
 Here it was that M. Guizot went to examine the 
 vessel, and was very nearly flung into the Seine, as re- 
 port goes, by the patriots assembled there. It is now 
 lying on the river, near the Invalides, amidst the drift- 
 ing ice, whither the people of Paris are flocking out to 
 see it. 
 
 The vessel is of a very elegant antique form, and I 
 can give you on the Thames no better idea of it than by 
 requesting you to fancy an immense wherry, of which 
 the stern has been cut straight off*, and on which a tem- 
 ple on steps has been elevated. At the figure-head is 
 an immense gold eagle, and at the stern is a little ter-
 
 478 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 race, filled with evergreens and a profusion of banners. 
 Upon pedestals along the sides of the vessel are tripods 
 in which incense was burned, and underneath them are 
 ffarlands of flowers called here " immortals." Four 
 eagles surmount the temple, and a great scroll or gar- 
 land, held in their beaks, surrounds it. It is hung with 
 velvet and gold ; four gold caryatides support the entry 
 of it; and in the midst, upon a large platform hung 
 with velvet, and bearing the imperial arms, stood the 
 coflin. A steamboat, carrying two hundred musicians 
 playing funereal marches and military symphonies, pre- 
 ceded this magnificent vessel to Courbevoie, where a 
 funereal temple was erected, and " a statue of Notre 
 Dame de Grace, before which the seamen of the ' Belle 
 Poule ' inclined themselves, in order to thank her for 
 having granted them a noble and glorious voyage." 
 
 Early on the morning of the 15th December, amidst 
 clouds of incense, and thunder of cannon, and innumer- 
 able shouts of people, the coflin was transferred from 
 the barge, and carried by the seamen of the " Belle 
 Poule" to the Imperial Car. 
 
 And now having conducted our hero almost to the 
 gates of Paris, I must tell you what preparations were 
 made in the capital to receive him. 
 
 Ten days before the arrival of the body, as you walked 
 across the Deputies' Bridge, or over the Esplanade of 
 the Invalides, you saw on the bridge eight, on the es- 
 planade thirty-two, mysterious boxes erected, wherein a 
 couple of score of sculptors were at work night and 
 day. 
 
 In the middle of the Invalid Avenue, there used to 
 stand, on a kind of shabby fountain or pump, a bust
 
 THE VOYAGE FROM ST. HELENA 479 
 
 of Lafayette, crowned with some dirty wreaths of " im- 
 mortals," and looking down at the little streamlet which 
 occasionally dribbled below him. The spot of ground 
 was now clear, and Lafayette and the pump had been 
 consigned to some cellar, to make way for the mighty 
 procession that was to pass over the place of their habi- 
 tation. 
 
 Strange coincidence! If I had been Mr. Victor 
 Hugo, my dear, or a poet of any note, I would, in 
 a few hours, have made an impromptu concerning that 
 Lafayette-crowned pump, and compared its lot now 
 to the fortune of its patron some fifty years back. From 
 him then issued, as from his fountain now, a feeble 
 dribble of pure words; then, as now, some faint circle 
 of disciples were willing to admire him. Certainly in the 
 midst of the war and storm without, this pure fount of 
 eloquence went dribbling, dribbling on, till of a sudden 
 the revolutionary workmen knocked down statue and 
 fountain, and the gorgeous imperial cavalcade trampled 
 over the spot where they stood. 
 
 As for the Champs Elysees, there was no end to the 
 preparations : the first day you saw a couple of hundred 
 scaffoldings erected at intervals between the handsome 
 gilded gas-lamps that at present ornament that avenue; 
 next day, all these scaffoldings were filled with brick and 
 mortar. Presently, over the bricks and mortar rose pedi- 
 ments of statues, legs of urns, legs of goddesses, legs and 
 bodies of goddesses, legs, bodies, and busts of goddesses. 
 Finally, on the 13th December, goddesses complete. On 
 the 14th, they were painted marble-colour; and the base- 
 ments of wood and canvas on which they stood were 
 made to resemble the same costly material. The fu- 
 nereal urns were ready to receive the frankincense and
 
 480 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 precious odours which were to burn in them. A vast 
 number of white columns stretched down the avenue, 
 each bearing a bronze buckler on which was written, in 
 gold letters, one of the victories of the Emperor, and 
 each decorated with enormous imperial flags. On these 
 columns golden eagles were placed ; and the newspapers 
 did not fail to remark the ingenious position in which 
 the royal birds had been set : for while those on the right- 
 hand side of the way had their heads turned towards 
 the procession, as if to watch its coming, those on the 
 left were looking exactly the other way, as if to regard 
 its progress. Do not fancy I am joking: this point was 
 gravely and emj^hatically urged in many newspapers; 
 and I do believe no mortal Frenchman ever thought it 
 anything but sublime. 
 
 Do not interrupt me, sweet ISIiss Smith. I feel that 
 you are angry. I can see from here the pouting of your 
 lips, and know what you are going to say. You are 
 going to say, " I will read no more of this Mr. Tit- 
 marsh; there is no subject, however solemn, but he treats 
 it with flippant irreverence, and no character, however 
 great, at whom he does not sneer." 
 
 Ah, my dear! you are young now and enthusiastic; 
 and your Titmarsh is old, very old, sad, and grey- 
 headed. I have seen a poor mother buy a halfpenny 
 wreath at the gate of Montmartre burying-ground, and 
 go with it to her little child's grave, and hang it there 
 over the little humble stone; and if ever you saw me 
 scorn the mean- ofl'ering of the poor shabby creature, 
 I will give you leave to be as angry as you will. They 
 say that on the passage of Napoleon's coflin down the 
 Seine, old soldiers and country people walked miles 
 from their villages just to catch a sight of the boat which
 
 THE VOYAGE FROM ST. HELENA 481 
 
 carried his body, and to kneel down on the shore and 
 pray for him. God forbid that we should quarrel with 
 such prayers and sorrow, or question their sincerity. 
 Something great and good must have been in this man, 
 something loving and kindly, that has kept his name 
 so cherished in the popular memory, and gained him 
 such lasting reverence and affection. 
 
 But, INIadam, one may respect the dead without feel- 
 ing awe-stricken at the plumes of the hearse; and I see 
 no reason why one should sympathize with the train of 
 mutes and undertakers, however deep may be their 
 mourning. Look, I pray you, at the manner in which the 
 French nation has performed Napoleon's funeral. Time 
 out of mind, nations have raised, in memory of their 
 heroes, august mausoleums, grand pyramids, splendid 
 statues of gold or marble, sacrificing whatever they had 
 that was most costly and rare, or that Avas most beautiful 
 in art, as tokens of their respect and love for the dead 
 person. What a fine example of this sort of sacrifice 
 is that (recorded in a book of which Simplicity is the 
 great characteristic) of the poor woman who brought 
 her pot of precious ointment — her all, and laid it at the 
 feet of the Object which, upon earth, she most loved and 
 respected. " Economists and calculators " there were 
 even in those days who quarrelled with the manner in 
 which the poor woman lavished so much " capital; " but 
 you will remember how nobly and generously the sac- 
 rifice was appreciated, and how the economists were 
 put to shame. 
 
 With regard to the funeral ceremony that has just 
 been performed here, it is said that a famous public 
 personage and statesman, Monsieur Thiers indeed, 
 spoke with the bitterest indignation of the general style
 
 482 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 of the preparations, and of their mean and tawdry char- 
 acter. He would have had a pomp as magnificent, he 
 said, as that of Rome at the triumph of Aurehan: he 
 would have decorated the bridges and avenues through 
 which the procession was to pass, with the costliest mar- 
 bles and the finest works of art, and have had them to 
 remain there for ever as monuments of the great 
 funeral. 
 
 The economists and calculators might here interpose 
 with a great deal of reason; for, indeed, there was no 
 reason why a nation should impoverish itself to do 
 honour to the memory of an individual for whom, after 
 all, it can feel but a qualified enthusiasm: but it surely 
 might have employed the large sum voted for the pur- 
 pose more wisely and generously, and recorded its 
 respect for Napoleon by some worthy and lasting me- 
 morial, rather than have erected yonder thousand vain 
 heaps of tinsel, paint, and plaster, that are already 
 cracking and crumbling in the frost, at three days old. 
 
 Scarcely one of the statues, indeed, deserves to last a 
 month: some are odious distortions and caricatures, 
 which never should have been allowed to stand for a mo- 
 ment. On the very day of the fete, the wind was shak- 
 ing the canvas pedestals, and the flimsy wood-work had 
 begun to gape and give way. At a little distance, to 
 be sure, you could not see the cracks; and pedestals and 
 statues looked like marble. At some distance you could 
 not tell but that the wreaths and eagles were gold em- 
 broidery, and not gilt paper— the great tricolour flags 
 damask, and not striped calico. One would think that 
 these sham splendours betokened sham respect, if one 
 had not known that the name of Napoleon is held in 
 real reverence, and observed somewhat of the character
 
 THE VOYAGE FROM ST. HELENA 483 
 
 of the nation. Real feelings they have, but they distort 
 them by exaggeration; real courage, which they render 
 ludicrous by intolerable braggadocio; and I think the 
 above official account of the Prince de Joinville's pro- 
 ceedings, of the manner in which the Emperor's remains 
 have been treated in their voyage to the capital, and of 
 the preparations made to receive him in it, will give my 
 dear Miss Smith some means of understanding the social 
 and moral condition of this worthy people of France.
 
 Ill 
 
 ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY 
 
 Shall I tell you, my dear, that when Fran9ois woke 
 me at a very early hour on this eventful morning, while 
 the keen stars were still glittering overhead, a half- 
 moon, as sharp as a razor, beaming in the frosty sky, 
 and a wicked north wind blowing, that blew the blood 
 out of one's fingers and froze your leg as you put it out 
 of bed;— shall I tell you, my dear, that when Fran9ois 
 called me, and said, " Via vot' cafe. Monsieur Titemasse, 
 buvez-le, tiens, il est tout chaud," I felt myself, after 
 imbibing the hot breakfast, so comfortable under three 
 blankets and a mackintosh, that for at least a quarter- 
 of-an-hour no man in Europe could say whether Tit- 
 marsh would or would not be present at the burial of the 
 Emperor Napoleon. 
 
 Besides, my dear, the cold, there was another reason 
 for doubting. Did the French nation, or did they not, 
 intend to offer up some of us English over the imperial 
 grave? And were the games to be concluded by a mas- 
 sacre? It was said in the newspapers that Lord Gran- 
 ville had despatched circulars to all the English resident 
 in Paris, begging them to keep their homes. The 
 French journals announced this news, and warned us 
 charitably of the fate intended for us. Had Lord 
 Granville written? Certainly not to me. Or had he 
 written to all except me? And was I the victim— ihe 
 
 484
 
 ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY 483 
 
 doomed one? — to be seized directly I showed my face in 
 the Champs Elysees, and torn in pieces by French Pa- 
 triotism to the frantic chorus of the "Marseillaise?" 
 Depend on it, Madam, that high and low in this city on 
 Tuesday were not altogether at their ease, and that the 
 bravest felt no small tremor! And be sure of this, that 
 as his Majesty Louis Philippe took his night-cap off his 
 royal head that morning, he prayed heartily that he 
 might, at night, put it on in safety. 
 
 Well, as my companion and I came out of doors, 
 being bound for the Church of the Invalides, for which a 
 Deputy had kindly furnished us with tickets, we saw 
 the very prettiest sight of the whole day, and I can't 
 refrain from mentioning it to my dear, tender-hearted 
 Miss Smith. 
 
 In the same house where I live (but about five storeys 
 nearer the ground), lodges an English family, con- 
 sisting of — 1. A great-grandmother, a hale, handsome 
 old lady of seventy, the very best-dressed and neatest 
 old lady in Paris. 2. A grandfather and grandmother, 
 tolerably young to bear that title. 3. A daughter. And 
 4. Two little great-grand, or grand-children, that may 
 be of the age of three and one, and belong to a son and 
 daughter w^ho are in India. The grandfather, who is 
 as proud of his wife as he was thirty years ago when he 
 married, and pays her compliments still twice or thrice 
 in a day, and when he leads her into a room looks round 
 at the persons assembled, and says in his heart, " Here, 
 gentlemen, here is my wife— show me such another 
 woman in England,"— this gentleman had hired a room 
 on the Champs Elysees, for he would not have his wife 
 catch cold by exposing her to the balconies in the open 
 air. 4
 
 486 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 When I came to the street, I found the family 
 assembled in the following order of march:— 
 
 No. 1, the great-grandmother walking daintily along, 
 
 supported by No. 3, her granddaughter. 
 
 A nurse carrying No. 4 junior, who was sound asleep: 
 
 and a huge basket containing saucepans, bottles of 
 milk, parcels of infants' food, certain dimity napkins, 
 a child's coral, and a little horse belonging to No. 4 
 senior. 
 
 A servant bearing a basket of condiments. 
 
 No. 2, grandfather, spick and span, clean shaved, hat 
 
 brushed, white buckskin gloves, bamboo cane, brown 
 great-coat, walking as upright and solemn as may be, 
 having his lady on his arm. 
 
 No. 4, senior, with mottled legs and a tartan costume, 
 
 who was frisking about between grandpapa's legs, 
 who heartily wished him at home. 
 
 " My dear," his face seemed to say to his lady, " I 
 think you might have left the little things in the nursery, 
 for we shall have to squeeze through a terrible crowd in 
 the Champs Elysees." 
 
 The lady was going out for a day's pleasure, and her 
 face was full of care : she had to look first after her old 
 mother who was walking ahead, then after No. 4 junior 
 with the nurse — he might fall into all sorts of danger, 
 wake up, cry, catch cold; nurse might slip down, or 
 heaven knows what. Then she Iiad to look her husband 
 in the face, who had gone to such expense and been so 
 kind for her sake, and make that gentleman believe she 
 was thoroughly happy; and, finally, she had to keep an 
 eye upon No. 4 senior, who, as she was perfectly certain, 
 was about in two minutes to be lost for ever, or trampled 
 to pieces in the crowd.
 
 ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY 487 
 
 These events took place in a quiet little street leading 
 into the Champs Elysees, the entry of which we had 
 almost reached by this time. The four detachments 
 above described, which had been straggling a little in 
 their passage down the street, closed up at the end of it, 
 and stood for a moment huddled together. No. 3, Miss 
 X — , began speaking to her companion the great-grand- 
 mother. 
 
 " Hush, my dear," said that old lady, looking round 
 alarmed at her daughter. "Speak French/' And she 
 straightway began nervously to make a speech which 
 she supposed to be in that language, but wliich was 
 as much like French as Iroquois. The whole secret was 
 out: you could read it in the grandmother's face, who 
 was doing all she could to keep from crying, and 'looked 
 as frightened as she dared to look. The two elder ladies 
 had settled between them that there was going to be a 
 general English slaughter that day, and had brought 
 the children with them, so that they might all be mur- 
 dered in company. 
 
 God bless you, O women, moist-eyed and tender- 
 hearted! In those gentle silly tears of yours there is 
 something touches one, be they never so foolish. I don't 
 think there were many such natural drops shed that day 
 as those which just made their appearance in the grand- 
 mother's eyes, and then went back again as if they had 
 been ashamed of themselves, while the good lady and her 
 little troop walked across the road. Think how happy 
 she will be when night comes, and there has been no 
 murder of English, and the brood is all nestled under 
 her wings sound asleep, and she is lying awake thanking 
 God that the day and its pleasures and pains are over. 
 Whilst we were considering these things, the grand-
 
 488 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 father had suddenly elevated No. 4 senior upon his left 
 shoulder, and I saw the tartan hat of that young gentle- 
 man, and the bamboo-cane which had been transferred 
 to him, high over the heads of the crowd on the opposite 
 side through which the party moved. 
 
 After this little procession had passed away — you 
 may laugh at it, but upon my word and conscience. Miss 
 Smith, I saw nothing in the course of the day which 
 affected me more — after this little jDrocession had passed 
 away, the other came, accompanied by gun-banging, 
 flag-waving, incense-burning, trumpets pealing, drums 
 rolling, and at the close, received by the voice of six 
 hundred choristers, sweetly modulated to the tones of 
 fifteen score of fiddlers. Then jou saw horse and foot, 
 jack-boots and bearskin, cuirass and bayonet, national 
 guard and line, marshals and generals all over gold, smart 
 aides-de-camp galloping about like mad, and high in 
 the midst of all, riding on his golden buckler, Solomon 
 in all his glory, forsooth — Imperial Caesar, with his 
 crown over his head, laurels and standards waving about 
 his gorgeous chariot, and a million of people looking on 
 in wonder and awe. 
 
 His Majesty the Emperor and King reclined on his 
 shield, with his head a little elevated. His Majesty's 
 skull is voluminous, his forehead broad and large. We 
 remarked that his Imperial Majesty's brow was of a 
 yellowish colour, which appearance was also visible about 
 the orbits of the eyes. He kept his eyelids constantly 
 closed, by which we had the opportunity of observing 
 that the upper lids were garnished with eyelashes. 
 Years and climate have affected upon the face of this 
 great monarch only a trifling alteration; we may say,
 
 ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY 489 
 
 indeed, that Time has touched his Imperial and Royal 
 Majesty with the lightest feather in his wing. In the 
 nose of the Conqueror of Austerlitz we remarked very 
 little alteration: it is of the beautiful shape which we 
 remember it possessed five-and-twenty years since, ere 
 unfortunate circumstances induced him to leave us for 
 a while. The nostril and the tube of the nose appear to 
 have undergone some slight alteration, but in examin- 
 ing a beloved object the eye of affection is perhaps too 
 critical. Vive VEmpereur! the soldier of Marengo is 
 among us again. His lips are thinner, perhaps, than 
 they were before! how white his teeth are! you can just 
 see three of them pressing his under lip; and pray re- 
 mark the fulness of his cheeks and the round contour 
 of his chin. Oh, those beautiful white hands! many a 
 time have they patted the cheek of poor Josephine, and 
 played with the black ringlets of her hair. She is dead 
 now, and cold, poor creature; and so are Hortense and 
 bold Eugene, " than whom the world never saw a curtier 
 knight," as was said of King Arthur's Sir Lancelot. 
 What a day would it have been for those three could 
 they but have lived until now, and seen their hero re- 
 turning ! Where's Ney ? His wife sits looking out from 
 M. Flahaut's window yonder, but the bravest of the 
 brave is not with her. Murat too is absent: honest 
 Joachim loves the Emperor at heart, and repents that 
 he was not at Waterloo : who knows but that at the sight 
 of the handsome swordsman those stubborn English 
 "canaille" would have given way? A king. Sire, is, 
 you know, the greatest of slaves — State aifairs of con- 
 sequence—his Majesty the King of Naples is detained 
 no doubt. When we last saw the King, however, and 
 his Highness the Prince of Elchingen, they looked to
 
 490 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 have as good health as ever they had in then* hves, and 
 we heard each of them calmly calling out "Fire!" as 
 they have done in numberless battles before. 
 
 Is it possible? can the Emperor forget? We don't 
 like to break it to him, but has he forgotten all about 
 the farm at Pizzo, and the garden of the Observatory? 
 Yes, truly: there he lies on his golden shield, never 
 stirring, never so much as lifting his eyelids, or opening 
 his lips any wider. 
 
 O vanitas vanitaUim! Here is our Sovereign in all 
 his glory, and they fired a thousand guns at Cherbourg 
 and never woke him! 
 
 However, we are advancing matters by several 
 hours, and you must give just as much credence as you 
 please to the subjoined remarks concerning the Pro- 
 cession, seeing that your humble servant could not 
 possibly be present at it, being bound for the church 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Programmes, however, have been published of the 
 aif air, and your vivid fancy will not fail to give life to 
 them, and the whole magnificent train will pass before 
 you. 
 
 Fancy then, that the guns are fired at Neuilly: the 
 body landed at daybreak from the funereal barge, and 
 transferred to the car ; and fancy the car, a huge Jugger- 
 naut of a machine, rolling on four wheels of an antique 
 shape, which supported a basement adorned with golden 
 eagles, banners, laurels, and velvet hangings. Above 
 the hangings stand twelve golden statues with raised 
 arms supporting a huge shield, on which the coffin lay. 
 On the coffin was the imperial crown, covered with 
 violet velvet crape, and the whole vast machine was
 
 ON THE' FUNERAL CEREMONY 491 
 
 drawn by horses in superb housings, led by valets in the 
 imperial livery. 
 
 Fancy at the head of the procession first of all — 
 
 The Gendarmerie of the Seine, with their trumpets and Colonel. 
 
 The Municipal Guard (horse), with their trumpets, standard, 
 and ColoncL 
 
 Two squadrons of the 7th Lancers, with Colonel, standard, and 
 music. 
 
 The Commandant of Paris and his Staff. 
 
 A battahon of Infantry of the Line, with their flag, sappers, 
 drums, music, and ColoneL 
 
 The Municipal Guard (foot), with flag, drums, and Colonel. 
 
 The Sapper-pumpers, with ditto. 
 
 Then picture to yourself more squadrons of Lancers and Cuiras- 
 siers. The General of the Division and his Staff; all officers 
 of all arms employed at Paris, and unattached; the Military 
 School of Saint Cyr, the Polytechnic School, the School of the 
 Etat-Major; and the Professors and Staff of each. Go on 
 imagining more battaliorts of Infantry, of Artillery, com- 
 panies of Engineers, squadrons of Cuirassiers, ditto of the 
 Cavalry, of the National Guard, and the first and second 
 legions of ditto. 
 
 Fancy a carriage, containing the Chaplain of the St. Helena ex- 
 pedition, the only clerical gentleman that formed a part of 
 the procession. 
 
 Fancy you hear the funereal music, and then figure in your 
 mind's eye — 
 
 The Emperor's Charger, that is. Napoleon's own saddle and 
 bridle (when First Consul) upon a white horse. The saddle 
 (which has been kept ever since in the Garde Meuble of the 
 Crown) is of amaranth velvet, embroidered in gold: the hol- 
 sters and housings are of the same rich material. On them 
 you remark the attributes of War, Commerce, Science and 
 Art. The bits and stirrups are silver-gilt chased. Over the
 
 492 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 stirrups, two eagles were placed at the time of the empire. 
 The horse was covered with a violet crape embroidered with 
 golden bees. 
 
 After this, came more Soldiers, General Officers, Sub-Officers, 
 Marshals, and what was said to be the prettiest sight almost 
 of the whole, the banners of the eighty-six Departments of 
 France. These are due to the invention of M. Thiers, and 
 were to have been accompanied by federates from each De- 
 partment. But the Government very wisely mistrusted this 
 and some other proj ects of Monsieur Thiers ; and as for a 
 federation, my dear, it has been tried. Next comes — 
 
 His Royal Highness the Prince de Jolnville. 
 
 The 500 sailors of the " Belle Poule " marching in double file on 
 each side of 
 
 THE CAR. 
 
 [Hush ! the enormous crowd thrills as it passes, and only some 
 few voices cry Vive V Einpereur! Shining golden in the frosty 
 sun — with hundreds of thousands of e3^es upon it, from houses 
 and housetops, from balconies, black, purple, and tricolour, from 
 tops of leafless trees, from behind long lines of glittering bay- 
 onets under schakos and bearskin caps, from behind the Line 
 and the National Guard again, pushing, struggling, heav- 
 ing, panting, eager, the heads of an enormous multi- 
 tude stretching out to meet and follow it, amidst 
 long avenues of columns and statues gleam- 
 ing white, of standards rainbow-col- 
 oured, of golden eagles, of pale 
 funereal urns, of discharging 
 odours amidst huge vol- 
 umes of pitch-black 
 smoke, 
 
 THE GREAT IMPERIAL CHARIOT 
 
 ROLLS MAJESTICALLY ON. 
 
 The cords of the pall are held by two Marshals, an Admiral and 
 General Bertrand; who are followed by —
 
 ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY 493 
 
 The Prefects of the Seine and Pohce, &c. 
 
 The Mayors of Paris, &c. 
 
 The Members of the Old Guard, &c. 
 
 A Squadron of Light Dragoons, &c. 
 
 Lieutenant-General Schneider, &c. 
 
 More cavalry, more infantry, more artillery, more everybody ; 
 and as the procession passes, the Line and the National Guard 
 forming line on each side of the road fall in and follow it, until 
 it arrives at the Church of the Invalides, where the last honours 
 are to be paid to it.] 
 
 Among the company assembled under the dome of 
 that edifice, the casual observer would not perhaps have 
 remarked a gentleman of the name of Michael Angelo 
 Titmarsh, who nevertheless was there. But as, my dear 
 Miss Smith, the descriptions in this letter, from the 
 words in page 410, line 17— the party moved — up to the 
 words 2^(iid to it, on this page, have purely emanated 
 from your obedient servant's fancy, and not from his 
 personal observation (for no being on earth, except a 
 newspaper reporter, can be in two places at once), per- 
 mit me now to communicate to you what little circum- 
 stances fell under my own particular view on the day 
 of the 15th of December. 
 
 As we came out, the air and the buildings round about 
 were tinged with purple, and the clear sharp half -moon 
 before-mentioned was still in the sky, where it seemed 
 to be lingering as if it would catch a peep of the com- 
 mencement of the famous procession. The Ai'c de 
 Triomphe was shining in a keen frosty sunshine, and 
 looking as clean and rosy as if it had just made its 
 toilette. The canvas or pasteboard image of Napoleon, 
 of which only the gilded legs had been erected the night 
 previous, was now visible, body, head, crown, sceptre
 
 494 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 and all, and made an imposing show. Long gilt banners 
 were flaunting about, with the imperial cipher and eagle, 
 and the names of the battles and victories glittering in 
 gold. The long avenues of the Champs Elysees had been 
 covered with sand for the convenience of the great pro- 
 cession that was to tramp across it that day. Hundreds 
 of people were marching to and fro, laughing, chatter- 
 ing, singing, gesticulating as happy Frenchmen do. 
 There is no pleasanter sight than a French crowd on the 
 alert for a festival, and nothing more catching than 
 their good-humour. As for the notion which has been 
 put forward by some of the opposition newspapers that 
 the populace were on this occasion unusually solemn or 
 sentimental, it would be paying a bad compliment to the 
 natural gaiety of the nation, to say that it was, on the 
 morning at least of the 15th of December, affected in 
 any such absurd way. Itinerant merchants were shouting 
 out lustily their commodities of segars and brandy, and 
 the weather was so bitter cold, that they could not fail 
 to find plenty of customers. Carpenters and workmen 
 were still making a huge banging and clattering among 
 the sheds which were built for the accommodation of the 
 visitors. Some of these sheds were hung with black, 
 such as one sees before churches in funerals; some were 
 robed in violet, in compliment to the Emperor whose 
 mourning they put on. Most of them had fine tricolour 
 hangings with appropriate inscriptions to the glory of 
 the French arms. 
 
 All along the Champs Elysees were urns of plaster- 
 of -Paris destined to contain funereal incense and flames ; 
 columns decorated with huge flags of blue, red, and 
 white, embroidered with shining crowns, eagles, and N's 
 in gilt paper, and statues of plaster representing
 
 ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY 495 
 
 Nymphs, Triumphs, Victories, or other female person- 
 ages, painted in oil so as to represent marble. Real 
 marble could have had no better effect, and the appear- 
 ance of the whole was lively and picturesque in the ex- 
 treme. On each pillar was a buckler of the colour of 
 bronze, bearing the name and date of a battle in gilt 
 letters: you had to walk through a mile-long avenue 
 of these glorious reminiscences, telling of spots where, 
 in the great imperial days, throats had been victoriously 
 cut. 
 
 As we passed down the avenue, several troops of 
 soldiers met us: the garde-municijjale a cheval, in brass 
 helmets and shining jack-boots, noble-looking men, 
 large, on large horses, the pick of the old army, as I 
 have heard, and armed for the special occupation of 
 peace-keeping: not the most glorious, but the best part 
 of the soldier's duty, as I fancy. Then came a regiment 
 of Carabineers, one of Infantry — little, alert, brown- 
 faced, good-humoured men, their band at their head 
 playing sounding marches. These were followed by a 
 regiment or detachment of the Municipals on foot — 
 two or three inches taller than the men of the Line, and 
 conspicuous for their neatness and discipline. By-and- 
 by came a squadron or so of dragoons of the National 
 Guards: they are covered with straps, buckles, aiguil- 
 lettes, and cartouche-boxes, and made under their tri- 
 colour cock's-plumes a show sufficiently warlike. The 
 point which chiefly struck me on beholding these mili- 
 tary men of the National Guard and the Line, was the 
 admirable manner in which they bore a cold that seemed 
 to me as sharp as the weather in the Russian retreat, 
 through which cold the troops were trotting without 
 trembling and in the utmost cheerfulness and good-
 
 496 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 humour. An aide-de-camp galloped past in white pan- 
 taloons. By heavens! it made me shudder to look at him. 
 
 With this profound reflection, we turned away to the 
 right towards the hanging-bridge (where we met a de- 
 tachment of young men of the Ecole de I'Etat Major, 
 fine-looking lads, but sadly disfigured by the wearing 
 of stays or belts, that make the waists of the French 
 dandies of a most absurd tenuity) , and speedily passed 
 into the avenue of statues leading up to the Invalides. 
 All these were statues of warriors from Ney to Char- 
 lemagne, modelled in clay for the nonce, and placed 
 here to meet the corpse of the greatest warrior of all. 
 Passing these, we had to walk to a little door at the 
 back of the Invalides, where was a crowd of persons 
 plunged in the deepest mourning, and pushing for 
 places in the chapel within. 
 
 The chapel is spacious and of no great architectural 
 pretensions, but was on this occasion gorgeously deco- 
 rated in honour of the great person to whose body it was 
 about to give shelter. 
 
 We had arrived at nine: the ceremony was not to 
 begin, they said, till two: we had five hours before us 
 to see all that from our places could be seen. 
 
 We saw the roof, up to the first lines of architecture, 
 was hung with violet ; beyond this with black. We saw 
 N's, eagles, bees, laurel wreaths, and other such imperial 
 emblems, adorning every nook and corner of the edifice. 
 Between the arches, on each side of the aisle, were 
 painted trophies, on which were written the names of 
 some of Napoleon's Generals and of their principal 
 deeds of arms — and not their deeds of arms alone, pardi, 
 but their coats of arms too. O stars and garters! but 
 this is too much. What was Ney's paternal coat,
 
 ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY 497 
 
 prithee, or honest Junot's quarterings, or the venerable 
 escutcheon of King Joachim's father, the innkeeper? 
 
 You and I, dear Miss Smith, know the exact value of 
 heraldic bearings. We know that though the greatest 
 pleasure of all is to act like a gentleman, it is a pleasure, 
 nav a merit, to he one — to come of an old stock, to have 
 an honourable pedigree, to be able to say that centuries 
 back our fathers had gentle blood, and to us transmitted 
 the same. There is sl good in gentility: the man who 
 questions it is envious, or a coarse dullard not able to 
 perceive the difference between high breeding and low. 
 One has in the same way heard a man brag that he did 
 not know the difference between wines, not he— give 
 him a good glass of port and he w^ould pitch all your 
 claret to the deuce. JNIy love, men often brag about their 
 own dulness in this way. 
 
 In the matter of gentlemen, democrats cry, "Psha! 
 Give us one of Nature's gentlemen, and hang your aris- 
 tocrats." And so indeed Nature does make some gen- 
 tlemen—a few here and there. But Art makes most. 
 Good birth, that is, good handsome well-formed fathers 
 and mothers, nice cleanly nursery-maids, good meals, 
 good physicians, good education, few^ cares, pleasant 
 easy habits of life, and luxuries not too great or ener- 
 vating, but only refining — a course of these going on 
 for a few generations are the best gentleman-makers 
 in the world, and beat Nature hollow. 
 
 If, respected Madam, you say that there is something 
 better than gentility in this wicked world, and that hon- 
 esty and personal worth are more valuable than all the 
 politeness and high-breeding that ever wore red-heeled 
 pumps, knights' spurs, or Hoby's boots, Titmarsh for 
 one is never going to say you nay. If you even go so
 
 498 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 far as to say that the very existence of this super- 
 genteel society among us, from the slavish respect that 
 we pay to it, from the dastardly manner in which we 
 attempt to imitate its airs and ape its vices, goes far to 
 destroy honesty of intercourse, to make us meanly 
 ashamed of our natural affections and honest, harmless 
 usages, and so does a great deal more harm than it is 
 possible it can do good by its example — perhaps, Mad- 
 am, you speak with some sort of reason. Potato 
 myself, I can't help seeing that the tulip yonder has 
 the best place in the garden, and the most sunshine, 
 and the most water, and the best tending— and not lik- 
 ing him over well. But I can't help acknowledging 
 that Nature has given him a much finer dress than ever 
 I can hope to have, and of this, at least, must give him 
 the benefit. 
 
 Or say, we are so many cocks and hens, my dear (sans 
 arriere pensee) , with our crops pretty full, our plumes 
 pretty sleek, decent picking here and there in the straw- 
 yard, and tolerable snug roosting in the barn: yonder 
 on the terrace, in the sun, walks Peacock, stretching his 
 proud neck, squealing every now and then in the most 
 pert fashionable voice and flaunting his great supercil- 
 ious dandified tail. Don't let us be too angry, my dear, 
 with the useless, haughty, insolent creature, because he 
 despises us. Something is there about Peacock that we 
 don't possess. Strain your neck ever so, you can't 
 make it as long or as blue as his — cock your tail as much 
 as you please, and it will never be half so fine to look at. 
 But the most absurd, disgusting, contemptible sight in 
 the world would you and I be, leaving the barn-door 
 for my lady's flower-garden, forsaking our natural 
 sturdy walk for the peacock's genteel rickety stride, and
 
 ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY 499 
 
 adopting the squeak of his voice in the place of our gal- 
 lant lusty cock-a-doodle-dooing. 
 
 Do you take the allegory? I love to speak in such, 
 and the above types have been presented to my mind 
 while sitting opposite a gimcrack coat-of-arms and cor- 
 onet that are painted in the Invalides Church, and as- 
 signed to one of the Emperor's Generals. 
 
 Ventrehleu! Madam, what need have they of coats- 
 of-arms and coronets, and wretched imitations of old ex- 
 ploded aristocratic gewgaws that they had flung out of 
 the country— with the heads of the owners in them some- 
 times, for indeed they were not particular— a score of 
 years before? What business, forsooth, had they to be 
 meddUng with gentility and aping its ways, who had 
 courage, merit, daring, genius sometimes, and a pride 
 of their own to support, if proud they were inclined to 
 be? A clever young man (who was not of high family 
 himself, but had been bred up genteelly at Eton and the 
 university) —young Mr. George Canning, at the com- 
 mencement of the French Revolution, sneered at " Ro- 
 land the Just, with ribbons in his shoes," and the dandies, 
 who then wore buckles, voted the sarcasm monstrous 
 killing. It was a joke, my dear, worthy of a lackey, 
 or of a silly smart parvenu, not knowing the society 
 into which his luck had cast him ( God help him ! in later 
 years, they taught him what they were!), and fancying 
 in his silly intoxication that simplicity was ludicrous 
 and fashion respectable. See, now, fifty years are gone, 
 and where are shoebuckles? Extinct, defunct, kicked 
 into the irrevocable past off the toes of all Europe! 
 
 How fatal to the parvenu, throughout history, has 
 been this respect for shoebuckles. Where, for instance, 
 would the Empire of Napoleon have been, if Ney and
 
 500 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 Lannes had never sported such a thing as a coat-of- 
 arms, and had only written their simple names on their 
 shields, after the fashion of Desaix's scutcheon yonder? 
 —the bold Republican who led the crowning charge at 
 I^Iarengo, and sent the best blood of the Holy Roman 
 Empire to the right-about, before the wTetched misbe- 
 gotten imperial heraldry was born, that was to prove 
 so disastrous to the father of it. It has always been so. 
 They won't amalgamate. A country must be governed 
 by the one principle or the other. But give, in a repub- 
 lic, an aristocracy ever so little chance, and it works and 
 plots and sneaks and bullies and sneers itself into place, 
 and you find democracy out of doors. Is it good that 
 the aristocracy should so triumph?— that is a question 
 that you may settle according to your own notions and 
 taste ; and permit me to say, I do not care twopence how 
 you settle it. Large books have been written upon the 
 subject in a variety of languages, and coming to a 
 variety of conclusions. Great statesmen are there in 
 our country, from Lord Londonderry down to Mr. Vin- 
 cent, each in his degree maintaining his different opin- 
 ion. But here, in the matter of Napoleon, is a simple 
 fact: he founded a great, glorious, strong, potent re- 
 public, able to cope with the best aristocracies in the 
 world, and perhaps to beat them all; he converts his 
 republic into a monarchy, and surrounds his monarchy 
 with what he calls aristocratic institutions; and you 
 know what becomes of him. The people estranged, the 
 aristocracy faithless (when did they ever pardon one 
 who was not of themselves?) —the imperial fabric 
 tumbles to the ground. If it teaches nothing else, my 
 dear, it teaches one a great point of pohcy— namely, to 
 stick by one's party.
 
 ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY 501 
 
 While these thoughts (and sundry others relative to 
 the horrible cold of the place, the intense dulness of de- 
 lay, the stupidity of leaving a warm bed and a break- 
 fast in order to witness a procession that is much better 
 performed at a theatre) — while these thoughts were 
 passing in the mind, the church began to fill apace, and 
 you saw that the hour of the ceremony was drawing 
 near. 
 
 Imprimis, came men with lighted staves, and set fire 
 to at least ten thousand wax-candles that were hanging 
 in brilliant chandeliers in various parts of the chapel. 
 Curtains were dropped over the upper windows as these 
 illuminations were effected, and the church was left only 
 to the funereal light of the spermaceti. To the right 
 was the dome, round the cavity of which sparkling 
 lamps were set, that designed the shape of it brilliantly 
 against the darkness. In the midst, and where the altar 
 used to stand, rose the catafalque. And why not ? Who 
 is God here but Napoleon? and in him the sceptics have 
 already ceased to believe ; but the people does still some- 
 what. He and Louis XIV. divide the worship of the 
 place between them. 
 
 As for the catafalque, the best that I can say for it is 
 that it is really a noble and imposing-looking edifice, with 
 tall pillars supporting a grand dome, with innumerable 
 escutcheons, standards, and allusions military and fu- 
 nereal. A great eagle of course tops the whole : tripods 
 burning spirits of wine stand round this kind of dead 
 man's throne, and as we saw it (by peering over the heads 
 of our neighbours in the front rank), it looked, in the 
 midst of the black concave, and under the effect of half- 
 a-thousand flashing cross-lights, properly grand and 
 tall. The effect of the whole chapel, however (to speak
 
 502 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 the jargon of the painting-room), was spoiled by being 
 cut up: there were too many objects for the eye to rest 
 upon: the ten thousand wax-candles, for instance, in 
 their numberless twinkling chandeliers, the raw tran- 
 cliant colours of the new banners, wreaths, bees, N's, 
 and other emblems dotting the place all over, and in- 
 cessantly puzzling, or rather bothering the beholder. 
 
 Lligh overhead, in a sort of mist, with the glare of 
 their original colours worn down by dust and time, hung 
 long rows of dim ghostly-looking standards, captured 
 in old days from the enemy. They were, I thought, the 
 best and most solemn part of the show. 
 
 To suppose that the people w^re bound to be solemn 
 during the ceremony is to exact from them something 
 quite needless and unnatural. The very fact of a 
 squeeze dissipates all solemnity. One great crowd is 
 always, as I imagine, pretty much like another. In the 
 course of the last few years I have seen three: that at- 
 tending the coronation of our present sovereign, that 
 which went to see Courvoisier hanged, and this which 
 witnessed the Napoleon ceremony. The people so as- 
 sembled for hours together are jocular rather than sol- 
 emn, seeking to pass away the weary time with the best 
 amusements that will offer. There was, to be sure, in 
 all the scenes above alluded to, just one moment — one 
 particular moment— when the universal people feels a 
 shock and is for that second serious. 
 
 But except for that second of time, I declare I saw 
 no seriousness here beyond that of ennui. The church 
 began to fill with personages of all ranks and condi- 
 tions. First, opposite our seats came a company of fat 
 grenadiers of the National Guard, who presently, at 
 the word of command, put their muskets down against
 
 ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY 503 
 
 benches and wainscots, until the arrival of the procession. 
 For seven hours these men formed the object of the 
 most anxious solicitude of all the ladies and gentlemen 
 seated on our benches: they began to stamp their feet, 
 for the cold was atrocious, and we were frozen where we 
 sat. Some of them fell to blowing their fingers; one 
 executed a kind of dance, such as one sees often here in 
 cold weather — the individual jumps repeatedly upon 
 one leg, and kicks out the other violently, meanwhile 
 his hands are flapping across his chest. Some fellows 
 opened their cartouche-boxes, and from them drew eat- 
 ables of various kinds. You can't think how anxious we 
 were to know the qualities of the same. " Tiens, ce gros 
 qui mange une cuisse de volaille!" — "II a du jambon, 
 celui-la." " I should like some, too," growls an Eng- 
 lishman, " for I hadn't a morsel of breakfast," and so 
 on. This is the way, my dear, that we see Napoleon 
 buried. 
 
 Did you ever see a chicken escape from clown in a 
 pantomime, and hop over into the pit, or amongst the 
 fiddlers? and have you not seen the shrieks of enthusi- 
 astic laughter that the wondrous incident occasions? 
 We had our chicken, of course : there never was a public 
 crowd without one. A poor unhappy woman in a 
 greasy plaid cloak, with a battered rose-coloured plush 
 bonnet, was seen taking her place among the stalls al- 
 lotted to the grandees. " Voyez done I'Anglaise," said 
 everybody, and it was too true. You could swear that 
 the wretch was an Englishwoman: a bonnet was never 
 made or worn so in any other country. Half-an-hour's 
 delightful amusement did this lady give us all. She 
 was whisked from seat to seat by the huissiers, and at 
 every change of place woke a peal of laughter. I was
 
 504 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 glad, however, at the end of the day to see the old pink 
 bonnet over a very comfortable seat, which somebody 
 had not claimed and she had kept. 
 
 Are not these remarkable incidents? The next won- 
 der we saw was the arrival of a set of tottering old In- 
 valids, who took their places under us with drawn sabres. 
 Then came a superb drum-major, a handsome smiling 
 good-humoured giant of a man, his breeches astonish- 
 ingly embroidered with silver lace. Him a dozen little 
 drummer-boys followed— "the little darlings!" all the 
 ladies cried out in a breath: they were indeed pretty 
 little fellows, and came and stood close under us: the 
 huge drum-major smiled over his little red-capped 
 flock, and for many hours in the most perfect content- 
 ment twiddled his moustaches and played with the tas- 
 sels of his cane. 
 
 Now the company began to arrive thicker and thicker. 
 A whole covey of Conseillers-d'Etat came in, in blue 
 coats, embroidered with blue silk, then came a crowd 
 of lawyers in toques and caps, among whom were sun- 
 dry venerable Judges in scarlet, purple velvet, and er- 
 mine—a kind of Bajazet costume. Look there! there 
 is the Turkish Ambassador in his red cap, turning his 
 solemn brown face about and looking preternaturally 
 wise. The Deputies walk in in a body. Guizot is not 
 there: he passed by just now in full ministerial costume. 
 Presently little Thiers saunters back: what a clear, 
 broad, sharp-eyed face the fellow has, with his grey 
 hair cut down so demure! A servant passes, pushing 
 through the crowd a shabby wheel-chair. It has just 
 brought old Monkey the Governor of the Invalids, the 
 honest old man who defended Paris so stoutly in 1814. 
 He has been very ill, and is worn down almost by in-
 
 ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY 505 
 
 firmities: but in his illness he was perpetually asking, 
 "Doctor, shall I live till the 15th? Give me till then, 
 and I die contented." One can't help believing that the 
 old man's wish is honest, however one ma)^ doubt the 
 piety of another illustrious Marshal, who once carried a 
 candle before Charles X. in a procession, and has been 
 this morning to Neuilly to kneel and pray at the foot of 
 Napoleon's coffin. He might have said his prayers at 
 home, to be sure; but don't let us ask too much: that 
 kind of reserve is not a Frenchman's characteristic. 
 
 Bang — bang! At about half -past two a dull sound 
 of cannonading was heard without the church, and sig- 
 nals took place between the Commandant of the In- 
 valids, of the National Guards, and the big drum- 
 major. Looking to these troops (the fat Nationals were 
 shuffling into line again ) the two Commandants uttered, 
 as nearly as I could catch them, the following words — 
 
 " Harrum Hump! " 
 
 At once all the National bayonets were on the pre- 
 sent, and the sabres of the old Invalids up. The big 
 drum-major looked round at the children, who began 
 very slowly and solemnly on their drums. Rub-dub-dub 
 — rub-dub-dub — (count two between each) — rub-dub- 
 dub, and a great procession of priests came down from 
 the altar. 
 
 First, there was a tall handsome cross-bearer, bearing 
 a long gold cross, of which the front was turned towards 
 his grace the Arclibishop. Then came a double row of 
 about sixteen incense-boys, dressed in white surplices: 
 the first boy, about six years old, the last with whiskers 
 and of the height of a man. Then followed a regiment 
 of priests in black tippets and white gowns: they had 
 black hoods, like the moon when she is at her third quar-
 
 506 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 ter, wherewith those who were bald (many were, and 
 fat too) covered themselves. All the reverend men held 
 their heads meekly down, and affected to be reading in 
 their breviaries. 
 
 After the Priests came some Bishops of the neigh- 
 bouring districts, in purple, with crosses sparkling on 
 their episcopal bosoms. 
 
 Then came, after more priests, a set of men whom I 
 have never seen before— a kind of ghostly heralds, 
 young and handsome men, some of them in stiff tabards 
 of black and silver, their eyes to the ground, their hands 
 placed at right angles with their chests. 
 
 Then came two gentlemen bearing remarkable tall 
 candlesticks, with candles of corresponding size. One 
 was burning brightly, but the wind (that chartered lib- 
 ertine) had blown out the other, which nevertheless kept 
 its place in the procession — I wondered to myself 
 w^hether the reverend gentleman who carried the ex- 
 tinguished candle, felt disgusted, humiliated, mortified 
 — perfectly conscious that the eyes of many thou- 
 sands of people were bent upon that bit of refrac- 
 tory wax. We all of us looked at it with intense interest. 
 
 Another cross-bearer, behind whom came a gentle- 
 man carrying an instrument like a bed-room candle- 
 stick. 
 
 His Grandeur Monseigneur Affre, Archbishop of 
 Paris: he was in black and white, his eyes were cast to 
 the earth, his hands were together at right angles from 
 his chest: on his hands were black gloves, and on the 
 black gloves sparkled the sacred episcopal — what do I 
 say?— archiepiscopal ring. On his head was the mitre. 
 It is unlike the godly coronet that figures upon the 
 coach-panels of our own Right Reverend Bench. The
 
 ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY 507 
 
 Archbishop's mitre may be about a yard high: formed 
 within probably of consecrated pasteboard, it is without 
 covered by a sort of watered silk of white and silver. On 
 the two peaks at the top of the mitre are two very little 
 spangled tassels, that frisk and twinkle about in a very 
 agreeable manner. 
 
 Monseigneur stood opposite to us for some time, 
 when I had the opportunity to note the above remark- 
 able phenomena. He stood opposite me for some time, 
 keeping his eyes steadily on the ground, his hands before 
 him, a small clerical train following after. Why didn't 
 they move? There was the National Guard keeping on 
 presenting arms, the little drummers going on rub-dub- 
 dub— rub-dub-dub— in the same steady, slow way, and 
 the Procession never moved an inch. There was evi- 
 dently, to use an elegant phrase, a hitch somewhere. 
 \_Enter a fat priest, who hustles up to the drum-ma j or. '\ 
 
 Fat priest—" Taisez-vous." 
 
 Little Drummer — Rub-dub-dub — rub-dub-dub — rub- 
 dub-dub, ^c. 
 
 Drum-major— '' Qu'est-ce done?" 
 
 Fat priest—'' Taisez-vous, vous dis-je; ce n'est pas le 
 corps. II n'arrivera pas— pour une heure." 
 
 The little drums were instantly hushed, the proces- 
 sion turned to the right about, and walked back to the 
 altar again, the blown-out candle that had been on the 
 near side of us before was now on the off side, the Na- 
 tional Guards set down their muskets and began at their 
 sandwiches again. We had to wait an hour and a half 
 at least before the great procession arrived. The guns 
 without went on booming all the while at intervals, and 
 as we heard each, the audience gave a kind of '' ahahah! " 
 such as you hear when the rockets go up at Vauxhall.
 
 508 SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 
 
 At last the real Procession came. 
 
 Then the drums began to beat as formerly, the Na- 
 tionals to get under arms, the clergymen were sent for 
 and went, and presently — yes, there was the tall cross- 
 bearer at the head of the procession, and they came back! 
 
 They chanted something in a weak, snuffling, lugu- 
 brious manner, to the melancholy bray of a serpent. 
 
 Crash ! however, Mr. Habeneck and the fiddlers in the 
 organ-loft pealed out a wild shrill march, which stopped 
 the reverend gentlemen, and in the midst of this music — 
 
 And of a great trampling of feet and clattering. 
 
 And of a great crowd of Generals and Officers in fine 
 clothes. 
 
 With the Prince de Joinville marching quickly at the 
 head of the procession. 
 
 And while everj^body's heart was thumping as hard 
 as possible. 
 
 Napoleon's coffin passed. 
 
 It was done in an instant. A box covered with 
 a great red cross — a dingy-looking crown lying on the 
 top of it — Seamen on one side and Invalids on the 
 other— they had passed in an instant and were up the 
 aisle. 
 
 A faint snuffling sound, as before, was heard from the 
 officiating priests, but we knew of nothing more. It is 
 said that old Louis Philippe was standing at the cata- 
 falque, whither the Prince de Joinville advanced and 
 said, " Sire, I bring you the body of the Emperor Na- 
 poleon." 
 
 Louis Philippe answered, " I receive it in the name 
 of France." Bertrand put on the body the most glorious 
 victorious sword that ever has been forged since the apt 
 descendants of the first murderer learned how to ham-
 
 ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY 509 
 
 mer steel; and the coffin was placed in the temple pre- 
 pared for it. 
 
 The six hundred singers and the fiddlers now com- 
 menced the playing and singing of a piece of music; 
 and a part of the crew of the " Belle Poule " skipped 
 into the places that had been kept for them under us, 
 and listened to the music, chewing tobacco. While the 
 actors and fiddlers were going on, most of the spirits- 
 of-wine lamps on altars went out. 
 
 When we arrived in the open air we passed through 
 the court of the Invalides, where thousands of people 
 had been assembled, but where the benches were now 
 quite bare. Then we came on to the terrace before the 
 place: the old soldiers were firing oiF the great guns, 
 which made a dreadful stunning noise, and frightened 
 some of us, who did not care to pass before the cannon 
 and be knocked down even by the wadding. The guns 
 were fired in honour of the King, who was going home 
 by a back door. All the forty thousand people who 
 covered the great stands before the Hotel had gone 
 away too. The Imperial Barge had been dragged up 
 the river, and was lying lonely along the Quay, ex- 
 amined by some few shivering people on the shore. 
 
 It was five o'clock when we reached home: the stars 
 were shining keenly out of the frosty sky, and Francois 
 told me that dinner was just ready. 
 
 In this manner, my dear Miss Smith, the great Na- 
 poleon was buried. 
 
 Farewell.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.
 
 PR 
 
 DUl 
 1911 
 
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